Category Archives: Science

I Am Not a Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bomb*

I took the three-hour glucose test and…

I passed!! My fasting baseline was 90, which I was told is very good. I didn’t bother getting the rest of the scores; I’m pleased enough to know I passed. I can assume my scores at each hour fell below the maximums listed (from BabyCenter.com):

Abnormal Scores
Fasting: 95 mg/dl or higher
One hour: 180 mg/dl or higher
Two hours: 155 mg/dl or higher
Three hours: 140 mg/dl or higher

The nurse said if even one score had been abnormal they would have diagnosed me with gestational diabetes. The doctor still requires I watch my intake of sugar and carbohydrates (makes sense), which I’ve done all along. This means, however, I will give up the one thing I crave and have permitted myself up until now: Concord grape juice (100% no sugar added). I was drinking one 8 ounce glass a day; the combination of sweet and tart, and that particular taste of Concord grape, is like the Nectar of Life to me. As cravings go, it’s not a particularly bad one. Even so, I’ll be curtailing consumption.

The woman I chatted with yesterday was four months pregnant. She’d had gestational diabetes with her first child, so they were testing her early. Talking with her brought the point home that it’s not a woman’s “fault” if she has it (although poor diet surely has an effect): she’s very slim, professes to hate sugar and sweet foods (which I believe, as she’s Indian; over the years, a lot of folks I’ve met from Asia have been puzzled by the American obsession with desserts and sweets), and is a vegetarian. And yet she still had it once and might again.

I’m glad I decided to tough it out and take the test.

*One of my favorite comic strips, Calvin and Hobbes, featured a fictional cereal called Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs. From the website:

Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes fame has been known to eat Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs which Calvin says are “tasty, lip-smacking, crunchy-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside, and they don’t have a single natural ingredient or essential vitamin to get in the way of that rich, fudgy taste.” Hobbes says the cereal makes his heart skip and likens this cereal to “eating a bowl of milk duds”.

Pincushion

I decided to act like the grown up I am and get the glucose testing done alone. Husband has to earn money, after all. I got to the lab at 8:15 this morning after having fasted for 10 hours. I was starving. They drew blood to establish my fasting baseline, and then I drained an eight ounce bottle containing 100 grams of glucose. Then once an hour for the next three hours they took more blood. They said I could drink water, and I sure did; it was one way to subdue the hunger pangs.

The last hour went very quickly, as I struck up a conversation with another pregnant woman who’d come in for the same test a few minutes after me. We smiled at each other a few times, and then, bored and restless, I initiated contact. After the last blood draw (14 hours without eating), I hied myself home to eat some real food. And now, I’m drooping. I want to stay awake, but I think my body’s had it with the extreme blood sugar changes and wants to recuperate. I guess I earned a nap. 🙂

Odd tidbit: Husband watched a short video the other day and is struck me as something weird and fun to do. If you’re feeling creative in a mad scientist sort of way, and if you’re a big kid (or have a child), you can learn how to make your own flubber at home.

Wow, I’m Normal (Mostly)

Husband and I attended the standard appointment with the OB yesterday. In the past five weeks I’ve gained three pounds, which brings my total weight gain for this pregnancy to only nine pounds. My blood pressure is just right. The baby’s heartbeat was in the 150s, which is perfect.

I poured my concerns out to the nurse and doctor, and I received validation that all I’m experiencing is completely normal and not a sign that I’m a falling-apart-fat-middle-aged woman.

They affirmed I’m doing the right thing by wearing wrist braces (mostly when I sleep). I was advised not to walk even a mile at one time, but to walk shorter distances more often to help avoid stress on joints. I was given a brochure for the Prenatal Cradle; this will help with back pain, leg and ankle swelling, hip separation and pubic symphysis, and vulvar varicosities. (Whew! This childbearing stuff is tough on the body.) Water exercise was suggested, and our complex has a nice pool I haven’t tried out yet.

I confided that I felt upset over failing the first glucose test. My doctor asked why, and I said I’d been trying so hard to eat right. She immediately clarified that gestational diabetes is induced by the placenta, something that’s hard to control, and that it’s not my fault. She agreed that I could just go directly to the nutritionist. However, after she described what’s involved — writing down everything I eat daily and pricking my finger four times a day to test blood sugar for a month — I decided maybe I could slog through the second glucose test. Who knows, maybe I’ll pass. Husband said he’ll come along and try to keep other people safe from me as I turn into a hungry raving monster.

Overall, my doctor said I’m doing very very well; she has patients younger than me on complete bedrest for pre-eclampsia for the remainder of their pregnancies. I asked her when I’ll really start to show, and she said about 34 weeks. She said in my situation I look proportional because my breast development has kept pace with the uterus, but soon I should “pop.” (One day a woman in the grocery store recognized I’m pregnant and let me go ahead of her; I beamed. Then I got a haircut and mentioned I’m 27 weeks along, and the hairdresser said, “You don’t look pregnant.” I assume she meant well, but my hormonal perspective heard, “You don’t look pregnant, you just look like an obese woman.”) The doctor’s assurance made me feel much better.

Then I went home and did a half hour of gentle prenatal yoga. I’m still cumbersome and slow, but I feel a bit better about this. And Little One, well, she’s wriggling and dancing to her heart’s content.

Avoidance

I’m not in the mood to write. The last couple weeks have been a little challenging. First I could have no contact with Husband until he proved immune to chicken pox, since I am not. And of course the blood test took time, so we avoided each other for a week.

My wrists are sore, my fingers often numb from pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel. When I knit, hold a book, hold a phone, or do anything repetitive for very long my hands tingle and go numb. I even have trouble spreading peanut butter on toast. I don’t have much strength in my hands and have trouble picking up grocery bags and such.

I took a one mile, slow-paced walk on Saturday and my knee has hurt since. It hurts to put weight on it, to bend it, or to turn it. I haven’t walked again since I don’t want to worsen the injury. I experience a sharp pain in another area when I get up from the dining room chair; it’s either (or both) the Pubofemoral Ligament or the Iliofemoral Ligament in my right hip. It feels as though my leg will collapse under me or I’ll tear something. I’m huge and fat and cumbersome and slow.

I lose my breath easily just going up a couple flights of stairs. My heart beats heavily.

And on top of all this, I failed the glucose blood test for gestational diabetes by four points. To check and see if this isn’t a fluke, they want me to fast for 12 hours and then take another dose of glucose and then poke me three four times over three hours. This means fasting for a total of 15 hours (at least). I cannot physically tolerate this. The other option is to skip the test, just assume I have diabetes, and see the nutritionist. I know how to eat well. I’ve been careful to do so. I’ve gained little weight. Diet and exercise are the treatment, and I’m vexed because the exercise is compromised by the risk of injury.

My hormones are doing their pregnancy waltz, so I’m an emotional wreck on and off. I cry over the slightest provocation sometimes. I feel un-lovely and worn.

And there’s three more months of this. Yay.

Imagine My Surprise

Husband may have been exposed to a coworker with chicken pox. Although he had it as a child and has immunity, if he was exposed he may be shedding the virus. I had chicken pox — barely — at five months of age. I’ve always assumed I had immunity. I had a two-part blood test last week; the first result is in and shows that I do not have immunity. Whatever immunity I had probably kept me from getting a stronger case of it as a child but wore off. I must wait to see what the second test results are and keep myself away from places of exposure. It’s pretty unnerving to learn this!

Here is information on chicken pox during pregnancy.

I kind of want to go live in a bubble now. Remember The Boy in the Bubble? There was a 1970s movie starring John Travolta too.

Scars on St. Helens

This photo captures part of the north face of the mountain that blew off laterally in the 1980 eruption. It was a hazy day (pollution?); the late afternoon sun lit the mountain, and the profile looked beautifully desolate.

mount st. helens, wa

The volcano is still active, simmering but potent. The report from May 19, 2007 (27 years plus one day after the last eruption):

Growth of the new lava dome inside the crater of Mount St. Helens continues, accompanied by low rates of seismicity, low emissions of steam and volcanic gases, and minor production of ash. During such eruptions, changes in the level of activity can occur over days to months. The eruption could intensify suddenly or with little warning and produce explosions that cause hazardous conditions within several miles of the crater and farther downwind. Small lahars could suddenly descend the Toutle River if triggered by heavy rain or by interaction of hot rocks with snow and ice. These lahars pose a negligible hazard below the Sediment Retention Structure (SRS) but could pose a hazard along the river channel upstream.

—Mount St. Helens Current Update

Fake Food

In a land known for producing counterfeit DVDs and brand name apparel, food for humans and other animals is not exempt from tampering. Melamine is a coal derivative often used to make dishware; it is safe to eat off, but it cannot be heated in a microwave. It certainly is not nutritious.

For years, producers of animal feed all over China have secretly supplemented their feed with the substance, called melamine, a cheap additive that looks like protein in tests, even though it does not provide any nutritional benefits, according to melamine scrap traders and agricultural workers here. …

The pet food case is also putting China’s agricultural exports under greater scrutiny because the country has had a terrible food safety record.

In recent years, for instance, China’s food safety scandals have involved everything from fake baby milk formulas and soy sauce made from human hair to instances where cuttlefish were soaked in calligraphy ink to improve their color and eels were fed contraceptive pills to make them grow long and slim.

–David Barboza and Alexei Barrionuevo, Filler in Animal Feed is Open Secret in China

And So It Goes

We took Sophie to the vet Tuesday. It turns out that she died of heart disease called Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. It usually affects cats in middle age (which she was) and is believed to have a genetic component, and it results in sudden heart failure. She did not suffer. I want to write a longer post about the kind of companion Sophie was, but I haven’t felt up to it. We miss her. I keep looking for her out of the corner of my eye. Stella realizes an absence, though I don’t notice any distress in her. She’s always been affectionate, and she seems more affectionate now (needier of petting), though that may simply be me projecting human cognition of loss on her.

Instead I’ve been sleeping a lot, and when I’m not asleep I’ve been knitting. I finished up a felted handbag that I started making March 29. We also had another doctor appointment, the second trimester ultrasound. The baby is doing well. Oh, and we decided on a name for when people ask if we’ve named her yet. I’ve told people her name is Fait Accompli Harper. Then I enjoy the look on their faces when they’ve processed this and realize I’m teasing them.

I also realized that my long hair, which Husband loves, was driving me batty. When you’re pregnant you stop shedding hair, and I already have a lot of it, which makes it heavy and thick. Oh sure, when it’s long you can brush it and pull it back; no styling required. But it takes forever to dry and is a pain to comb out. I’m feeling more ungainly these days, and I wanted some part of my body to feel lighter and more svelte. I got a new style which I love (much to Husband’s dismay), and I’ll take a photo at some point. In the meantime, I’ve posted a photo of me in my 20th week of pregnancy (before haircut). Click to see it. Continue reading →

A Penny For Their Thoughts

Winston, who writes at Nobody Asked, honored me with the Thinking Blogger Award. Apparently I am among the many blogs that tickle his gray matter. Now it falls to me to inform the world of five blogs that make me think. Here they are (there are many more, and it was difficult to choose):

Dating God: Kate Turner writes soulful, deeply authentic posts about her journey through the world. She’s unique, and I’d prefer to use her words to present her. From her “about” page:

I no longer believe that I have any answers. And I’m now even suspicious of my questions. But more will be revealed and I am dang skippy surrendered to whatever occurrs in the meantime.

I have lived in 70+ places in seven states and held at least that many different jobs including feng shui consultant, actor, corporate recruiter, bartender, limo driver, truck driver, personal assistant, psychic, holistic practitioner, dancer, yogini, weight loss instructor, strip club waitress, cat wrangler, and currently, public health intern. I write this here blog as a form of Life-as-jigsaw-puzzle, shove 6.2 billion scholarly facts daily into my sweet brain, and drive my car around the snowy streets of Albany as training for my future career in NASCAR on Ice.

I have had over forty soulmates and have discovered there is no such thing.

I have overturned a hundred thousand stones and moments searching for proof of god and I have discovered that god is Nothing.

I believe in love, Life, and creative expression as a path to salvation. I believe that we are all already saved but are too consumed by all the shiny things to realize it. I believe that all the love we need is inside of us. I believe that any love experienced in this world is better seen as a verb in motion rather than a stationary noun.

I recently discovered Memoirs of a Skepchick, which has as the tagline: Critical Thinking for the Masses. A lot of the books I see published about skepticism, culture, and religion tend to be written by men: Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, George Smith, David Mills, etc. So it’s refreshing to hear (i.e., read) a woman’s perspective. There are several authors for this blog; here are some of the categories used in organizing posts: Science, Anti-Science, Literature, Random Asides, Current Events, Religious Rants, and Skepchick-ism. I’ve only begun reading this blog and devour what they write.

Gerry Rosser is a fairly new blogger, and he posts at TwoBlueDay. I enjoy Gerry’s ruminations, and I especially appreciate the photography he posts. His eye for extraordinary shots is excellent, and I savor them. He reminds me to look at the world at all there is to see. I hope he decides to sell prints of his work. They really are that good.

Another new blog to me, Quiet Little Life is a gem. Kay Pere describes herself as “a multi-dimensional performing songwriter, visual artist, writer, educator and activist whose work embodies a message of hope, healing and humanity. When she isn’t traveling to perform, present workshops or show her artwork, Kay lives a quiet little life in a Mystical corner of southern New England.” I enjoy her mix of whimsy (an ode to Peeps, for example) and reflection (a post on experiencing creative blockage).

My dear friend Leah Piken is the author of Creative Every Day, another blog with soul. I’ve been reading Leah since I first began blogging in early 2002 and have been a witness to her journey into a new career, an engagement, and many other avenues for growth. She is an artist, and it was her blog that really inspired me to begin playing with art, which resulted in me embracing the identity of “artist.” Leah writes about creative synchronicities and unearths interesting tidbits (books, quotes, inspirations) that get my creative juices flowing.

The awardees are invited to participate and post a list of five bloggers whose writing makes you think. The original rules suggested:

  • Create your own post of five blogs that make you think.
  • Link to this place so that people know where the meme is from.
  • Display the award, if you like, linking to the post that you wrote.

Happy Thinking!

The Off-Chance

Two years ago on April 2nd, my father-in-law died of mantle cell lymphoma that had metastasized to his brain and stomach. He was diagnosed in February 2004, fought hard to win remission, and was consumed by the cancer a mere 13 months later. Mantle cell lymphoma is a rare form of blood cancer, and it has a grim prognosis.

The April 9 issue of Newsweek features an article by Jonathan Alter describing his battle with the exact same cancer, diagnosed one month after my father-in-law March 2004. He’s in remission. It’s so poignant to read the article and wonder why he survives and my father-in-law didn’t. It’s just how the odds played out. Alter wrote:

The only constant in cancer is inconstancy; the only certainty is a future of uncertainty, a truism for all of modern life but one made vivid by life-threatening illness. According to the latest projections, a third of all Americans will be diagnosed with cancer at some point during their lifetimes, most likely when they’re old. Many will never achieve remission at all, while the lucky ones like me get to live with a sword of Damocles hanging over our heads. A friend compares his semiannual scans to visiting a parole officer. When the scans are clean, it’s worth another six months of freedom, though with no guarantee of extra time for good behavior.

–Jonathan Alter, My Life With Cancer

These words strike me at the core. Cancer is a treatable disease, but at the same time there is so much about it we don’t know that it’s impossible to say it’s curable. Alter described the treatment plan he created to supplement the medical interventions. Worth noting.

By this time I had fashioned my own daily recovery plan, which I dubbed Herman. The H stood for humor, a few minutes each day with “Curb Your Enthusiasm” or Will Ferrell or an Ian Frazier story or a friend who would make me laugh. E was—and is—for exercise, which may not fight cancer but clears my head. R represented religion. At the depths, I tried to read something about Judaism or talk to God a little every day, though like a soldier escaped from the foxhole, I’ve backslid since. (Religion often morphed into superstition, as I avoided the sweater I had worn on the day of a bad test result and refused, long after remission, to refer to my cancer in the past tense for fear of tempting a recurrence.) M was for meditation, which with the help of my friend Barbara helped calm me for a time. A was for attitude. Studies show no connection between a good attitude and reducing tumor size and I can’t stand the way our therapeutic society makes people feel that cancer is their own fault because they weren’t more chipper. But mind-set is important. By chance, I was already at work on a book about Franklin D. Roosevelt, and the writing offered a useful distraction from cancer. His upbeat attitude after being stricken with polio was inspirational for me, and made me wonder, What Would Franklin Do? N stood for niceness to my family. They bore the brunt of my irritability, which I tried to reduce, not always successfully.

I wish Mr. Alter many years of remission.

One Good Egg

Many of you have probably deduced from my vague mentions about health that something is up with me, and it is: I’m pregnant!

The test for which I was not-so-patiently awaiting results was the amniocentesis. At my age there is a 1:23 chance of a chromosomal abnormality that can cause serious birth defects, and even death. Being pregnant hasn’t been the absolute radiantly happy time I wanted. Until now. They called this morning to tell me the tests results are normal, and that my baby is a girl. She’s due to arrive August 27. On Easter Day I’ll be 20 weeks pregnant — halfway through.

Here’s the back story. In mid-November we saw the fertility specialist to discuss our options. Because of my age he strongly encouraged us to consider oocyte donation (getting an egg from a much younger woman), because the chances of my producing enough viable eggs and conceiving in a given month via in vitro were about 10 percent. On our own, the chances of conceiving in a given month were about 2 or 3 percent.

We went home and talked. I made my peace with the idea, because I really want a child, and I really wanted to carry a pregnancy to term. My uber-stressful job was over, so I relaxed and got to working out. (I even lost 12 pounds by mid-December!)

On December 13 (one month after visiting the doc) I noticed I felt puffy, tired, and had an increased need to use the bathroom. The next day I decided to use my one home pregnancy test left over, assuming it would be a waste, but what the heck. Imagine my fragile amazement when the test showed a slightly anemic but positive result. I told Husband and we agreed we shouldn’t tell, that we should just play it down, since I’d never made it past 8 weeks before. (Of course I took another home test, and the results were even stronger the next time. We joked that the fertility specialist must be really good at what he does; all we needed was to talk with him.)

On December 14 we got the news that our landlords were giving the house to their son and were requested to move by mid-February. On December 19 we went to Syracuse for the holidays. We didn’t officially mention it, but you know families; they have radar. They knew something was up, and they inferred what. Mostly I was exhausted, but I had insomnia at my parents’.

On December 29 we returned home, and on the 30th, on schedule, the morning sickness began. Except that mine lasted all day for six weeks. I didn’t vomit often, but I often wished I would; I feel better after. And you might think that feeling nauseous would be a good weight-loss method, that no food would appeal, that you wouldn’t even want to think about food. Not me. In my experience, hunger made the nausea worse, and yet so many odors (including food) also made me feel worse. So for six weeks I thought about food more than ever as I tried to find something I could stand to eat that would nourish my body. Add to that the fact that I slept 12 hours a day, and I was pretty much useless.

Except that’s when we had to find a place to live and pack our home. So we’d go out, me with my ginger beer and Saltines, drive by properties and go in some. I’d go home and collapse into bed. Once we found a rental, the packing began. I could only manage a box or two a day. If our friends M & K had not come three weekends in a row to help, we’d have been in big trouble. All through this time I tried to take it easy on my body and not to stress mentally about the move. I was successful at that, too.

By mid-February that misery abated and I felt like a new woman. We saw the doctor February 1 and had the first ultrasound. There was a heart, beating strongly. We called the baby Little One. Little One was very wiggly. A good sign. At the March visit we heard the heartbeat by Doppler technology. Then came the amnio, which they cannot do until four months into the pregnancy. By four months, I was deeply invested emotionally and physically in this child. It’s a long time to wait for such information. (A different test could be done at 12 weeks but had a higher risk of miscarriage, which we didn’t want to take.)

While I realize there is no absolute certainty or safety, I feel confident enough to share this news with the world. Actually, pregnancy is just the beginning of realizing how vulnerable one is to the world. The gestation and birth might be fine, but there’s a big world of risk out there, and anything can happen to one’s child. As I once heard, “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”

Yet I couldn’t be more pleased.

[cross-posted at Knit Together]

Our Life’s Prayer

blood art

Our Life’s Prayer

Carnal syrup which flows within,
why not make it art?
It has been spilled
enough to fill
the gloomy pit of Tartarus.
Ferry to us the draught of life.
Preserve us from dissolution,
for our gene codes fight dauntlessly,
against this.
Be not used to segregate others,
for humanity is one tribe.
Thou art the mystery, the
sinew, and the richness
that makes our lives worth living. Yes.

–Kathryn Harper

—
For Poetry Thursday. This poem is based on a Poetry Thursday exercise using a style called ekphrasis. The photograph is of a piece by René de Guzman and is titled Blood Color Theory. His artworks allude to current issues such as the HIV/AIDS crisis in the early 1990s. In this piece, de Guzman sandwiched his own blood, mixed with preservatives, between two Plexiglass sheets. The work’s impact lies partly in the shock value to convey the message, and the work takes on the formal qualities of a minimalist painting. What I find intriguing are the images reflected. This poem, which echoes The Lord’s Prayer, is the result.

Spirituality and Science

“Spirit” comes from the Latin word “to breathe.” What we breathe is air, which is certainly matter, however thin. Despite usage to the contrary, there is no necessary implication in the word “spiritual” that we are talking of anything other than matter (including the matter of which the brain is made), or anything outside the realm of science. …Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality. When we recognize our place in the immensity of light-years and in the passage of ages, when we grasp the intricacy, beauty, and subtlety of life, then that soaring feeling, that sense of elation and humility combined, is surely spiritual. So are our emotions in the presence of great art or music or literature, or of acts of exemplary selfless courage such as those of Mohandas Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr. The notion that science and spirituality are somehow mutually exclusive does a disservice to both.

–Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark

My Spiritual Sojourn

This post is essentially an outline of the encounters I’ve had in my journey; I’m posting it here for my reference, and also for your edification. There is much that can be fleshed out. If you’d like to read in-depth about any particular segment, leave a note in the comments specifying which one. I’m not certain I will be ready to oblige you, but it might give me a starting point. I’ve been told numerous times by those I’ve shared my story with that my experiences would make an interesting book. (I really enjoyed and was inspired by Karen Armstrong’s book, The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness.)

1963-1976: Roman Catholic, an earnest believer (as much as a child can understand); baptized, first commmunion, confirmation. Considered becoming a nun.

1977-1981: Attended a Roman Catholic weekend seminar for teens and discovered charismatic Catholicism, which included the concept of being “born again.” Began attending a weekly prayer group for teens called Reality. These were hosted by an adult couple and teens took turns facilitating discussion, prayer, and music. Was also depressed; starting at 16 I saw a psychologist at school (which kept me tethered to this world). Was an obnoxious proselytizer of my conservative religion.

1982-1983: Began having doubts about Catholicism and God. Struggled for independence and autonomy in a household where attending church was mandatory as long as I was under my parents’ roof. Explored sexuality, first with a man, later with a woman. Drew a “line in the sand” with my father while still living at home by refusing to attend church. Moved out of the house December 1983. Entered into a monogamous relationship with a woman that I fully intended to live in commitment with the rest of my life. Began therapy at the Onondaga Pastoral Counseling Center (depression).

1984-1988: Entered my angry anti-Christian phase. I threw myself into reading novels and non-fiction works about Judaism. Voraciously read books on anthropology and psychology. Came out to my family, friends, and co-workers as a lesbian. Attended a Passover Seder held by a friend and attended Shabbat service at Temple Adath Yeshurun with her. Visited Plymouth Congregational church (which had a female minister and was accepting of gays) but could not reconcile with Christianity. Continued to struggle with depression and received counseling. My first therapist (a female) had graduated and moved on. I chose to work with a male therapist next in order to deal with my distrust of men; I made it clear how I felt and that I was gay and would not brook any attempts to “cure” me of this. He was one of the best therapists I’ve ever worked with. (Note: let me make clear that I do not believe lesbians are such because they distrust men. For me, this was an aspect of my identity, but I think there is largely an inherent biological component to sexual orientation, and it’s not a dichotomy (gay or straight) but a spectrum.)

mid-1988-1990: After five years, unresolvable problems led to the mutual and amicable dissolution of my relationship with my significant other. I was invited to move home to my parents’ house for a short while so I could pay off a large debt and apply to colleges in order to finish my B.A. Until 1988 I had enormous difficulty settling on a major, but I experienced an epiphany in a particular class that led me to commit to studying psychology. Ended therapy with the male psychotherapist at OPCC in 1989 having come a very long way. When pressed to define my sexuality, I chose bisexual. I remained agnostic and non-practicing in any religion. Took a leave from my university job to attend college full-time in Oswego. Found myself deeply lonely for many reasons. Experienced a falling-out with my parents in spring 1990 that led me to put education on hold for financial reasons. Returned to work full-time at the university. Had an unstable housing situation for awhile. Was particularly mired in depression in 1990. In May 1989, began what would become a decade long penpal relationship with a Navajo man in prison for life in Arizona; the discourse between us became a type of journal exchange. (He shared his religious experiences as a Navajo, and I read about Native American religions.) A typical letter from me was 15-20 typed single-spaced pages, and we wrote between 100-200 letters each per year. This dialogue was challenging, educational, and healing.

1990-1991: Attended a local Methodist church and talked with the pastor. Attended a friend’s Christian & Missionary Alliance church, which was very conservative, and struggled with the doctrine. Could not accept this. Reconciled with my parents. Struggled still with loneliness. Bought my first car ever, which allowed me to return to college (commuting 100 miles round trip) while working — both full-time. This increased freedom and mobility opened my life.

1992-1994: Finished my B.A. in December 1992. In January, started attending a local Unitarian Universalist church and became involved in some of the groups there. Talked with the pastor extensively about my spiritual questions; if asked, I would have said I was agnostic. I also visited several Unity church services at a friend’s invitation. Went to a Powwow held near Binghamton, N.Y. Viewed a gallery of works by Native American artists, hosted by Golden Paints in Columbus, New York. In July 1994 I moved from Syracuse, NY, to Austin, Texas. In September 1994 I was raped. Shortly after, some neighbors befriended me; they were born-again, charismatic, fundamentalist Christians. Having called the rape crisis center but not receiving help (longer story), I turned to the safety of a conservative, rigid, rule-driven religion. I revealed my return to “born again” Christianity to my family. In particular this caused a rift between my brother and me (we both lived in Austin).

1995-1997: Depression resurfaced, and loneliness lurked. Continued on the conservative Christian path with increasing difficulty. I never truly felt at home with the speaking in tongues, the arm-waving during service, the naivete of the believers. I would not attest that my past relationship with a woman had been sinful. I did not see homosexuality as the sin and abomination they purported. I did not accept creationism. I did not believe the scriptures were literally true. I was uncomfortable with the “holier than thou” attitude the churches I attended had toward maintstream Christian denominations. I was not convinced Christianity was the one, true way. Grew uncomfortable with the mandate to “witness for the lord” so that others might “be saved” — this created more barriers than bridges with “nonbelievers.” I participated in small prayer groups but found them to be superficial; for the most part, the “friendship” did not extend beyond the group. Resisted the doctrine of original sin; found that defining humans by their flaws did not help release people from their egos. It simply turned them ego-centric and narcissistic in a negative way. Found the “born again” worldview glib and began to think of it as heaven insurance. Questioned what real belief is. Quit my full-time job. Entered graduate school for counseling and experienced further dissonance; saw the movie, Chasing Amy and experienced a pivotal realization about my identity. I left the church I was involved in and forsook Christianity altogether. Whatever social community I had went with it; a lonely season followed. I felt as though I had returned to myself in a fundamental way. My depression continued; I began getting therapy with another excellent therapist and began dealing with the long-neglected impact of the sexual assault.

1998-1999: My depression worsened. Continued therapy and worked with deep issues. I put all my energy into school and excelled but barely had anything left outside of that. Lack of income led me to getting a full-time job again, so I worked and attended classes full-time. My cat died in April 1998; grief compounded the depression. Had an ill-advised affair with a scholar working in the same department at university; it ended badly. I could not let go; seeing him daily was torture. Felt incredibly alone and vulnerable. While attending a Catholic university, began a dialogue with the priest there about Catholicism that was very healing (though ultimately did not lead to reconciliation). (Interestingly, the Catholic university was most receptive to discourse about religious and philosophical matters and to the search for truth and meaning. Their religion professor defined himself as a Buddhist Catholic.) Attended mass there because I found the chapel a refuge of peace. Began reading about Buddhism and occasionally joined a small group to practice Vipassana meditation. Also began reading about quantum physics (to the degree I could understand).

In late 1998 I was assessed and prescribed medication for depression. The improvement was notable, immediate, and felt miraculous. Graduated in May 1999; one of the happiest episodes of my life. My depression abated. Ended the writing relationship with my penpal for reasons I’m not ready to disclose here yet. Since I was not certain I would ever find one man or woman who could “handle” me (it had been suggested I was more than enough for a single person, that I was “too intense”), I explored polyamory briefly with a man who was involved in similar relationships. I examined the ways in which love can be expressed and received via reading and discussion. Met Husband in October 1999. Fell in love and felt immediately at home with him. Concluded that polyamory was viable for others, not for me. (If interested, a good book to start with is The Ethical Slut.) Came to understand that I will never return to Catholicism.

2000-present: At the invitation of a friend, attended Satsang at Barsana Dahm Hindu temple. Moved in with Husband. Completed my counseling internship and passed the licensing exam. Continued to read about and explore Buddhism and also Taoism. Began to read widely about Paganism as well. Irregularly practiced sitting meditation. Discovered making art as a spiritual practice and meditation; found knitting to be similar. Continued to take medication for depression; twice attempted to titrate off them with doctor’s supervision and found in each case the depression returned. Made peace with this and accepted that for me to be healthy, medication is necessary. Moved across country (then married in 2005). Over the years, as my life has become more stable (less struggle for basic financial survival, improved mental health, self-acceptance, a healthy loving relationship with Husband), pervasive loneliness evaporated.

I participated in several workshops by Alaya called Yoga for the Emotional Body; focus was on developing skill in working with feelings to channel and contain their energies; in this way, emotions become a source of enrichment in one’s life. The experiences were life-changing. In 2004, briefly attended a church in Austin that I found combined the best of esoteric Christianity, psychology, and mysticism. This unique church is called The Church of Conscious Harmony. It was a contemplative community; I found the reverence for spirit inspiring. There is nothing like it in the Bay Area. I fundamentally do not embrace the general concept of Christianity (though I do believe there are valuable wisdom teachings in the scriptures, as in other religious writings); nor do I believe in a god. I remain undefined and uncategorized as to a particular belief system or practice. When pressed to identify what religion I am most drawn to and feel compatible with, I name Buddhism and psychology.

As I review this post, it’s clear to me a I’ve read nothing about Islam, and for the purpose of being informed that strikes me as a topic to explore. I also plan to explore more topics like Carl Sagan’s latest book, The Varieties of Scientific Experience: A Personal View of the Search for God.

Sitting With the Unknown

Today I am undergoing a medical test that has some risk. Moreover, the results will have a significant impact on my and Husband’s life.

I am challenged to live in the present while making room in the back of my mind and heart for the unknown. I am scared; I acknowledge this, and then tuck it away while I live in the moment. This process is a difficult one, and it’s a basis for my spiritual practice. To ponder the possibilities is to avoid living now.

It will be two or three weeks before I have the test results. Living in the present will require diligence.

Religious Literacy

Last week at lunch with my friend, the topic of religion and politics came up, specifically evolution being taught in science class and the push to teach creationism or intelligent design in schools. I suggested that a comparative religions class would be a better venue to discuss matters of faith, and to explore the variety of its expressions. I also think an introductory philosophy course would be valuable. I saw the recent issue of Newsweek in which the same idea is advocated by Stephen Prothero.

The problem:

In a world where nearly every political conflict has a religious underpinning, Prothero writes that Americans are selling themselves short by remaining ignorant about basic religious history and texts, by not knowing the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite or the name of Mormonism’s holy book. “Given a political environment where religion is increasingly important, it’s increasingly important to know something about religion,” he says. “The payoff is a more involved [political] conversation.”

—The Gospel of Prothero: A Boston University professor argues that Americans, though ‘spiritual,’ are woefully ignorant about religion

The suggested solution:

The book proposes a solution that is at once controversial and familiar: teach religion in public schools. Prothero believes that before graduation from high school, every American should take a Bible course and a world-religions course—dispassionate humanities courses whose purpose is not to catechize or evangelize but to educate. In colleges, he argues, we have science requirements, so why not religion? When Harvard decided recently not to make religion part of its core curriculum, “it missed an opportunity,” he says.

—The Gospel of Prothero: A Boston University professor argues that Americans, though ‘spiritual,’ are woefully ignorant about religion

I would love to hear Stephen Prothero speak, but I’ll settle for reading his book, Religious Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know–And Doesn’t.