DAY

A few days back, I fell and scraped my knee bloody and twisted an ankle. It's still pretty bad, and healing it may be diverting all my body's resources; at least I feel drained and my joints ache. So I just lie around and read. Evening comes, and I'm still exhausted, borderline ill. I have to skip Andrew's party. Disappointed with myself, but I'm not well enough. AND...

I believe that bitter voice saying "nothing'll come of it anyway; I'll just flee anyone I'm attracted to; still can't stop myself." A recent dream, Critters of the Montana Front, personified my reasons--abuse, then long isolation and illness. I learned solitary habits that kept me safe and fairly productive while chronically ill. Now that I'm just intermittently ill, I can be more social--when well. But right now...

DREAM

I dream I live in the NW corner of San Francisco: the Outer Richmond District. Sandy dusty streets; the beach is near, and the prevailing winds blow fine sand all over the neighborhood. I've felt guilty for never sweeping our walk clean, but I try it now, and the sand just puffs around and comes back with the first breeze. Sweeping's not enough; I need to anchor the grit. For that I need organic matter, plants and regular watering. If I put in the time, the land will build up rather quickly, perhaps even outpacing the rising, warming sea. If not, I fear this house will go under in the end.

I walk east from "my home". Ahead on a corner, silhouetted on the sky (the street abruptly drops away), is a dense round crowd. I near it and find the circle's an illusion--just the head of a long crowd stretching blocks down the hill. Most sit crosslegged. Here at the head, a woman lectures on meditation. A popular guru!

I'm naked. Feel embarrassed and vulnerable. So I crawl away from the crowd, south along the edge of a field of simple green blades a yard tall. Leeks, edible reeds?

I hide in the reeds. Bend a few down to make a nest and lie there in the sun. Feel a bit better immediately. But only a bit. Healing will take time.

• Rising sea level; slowly build up land: my real home's on a hill, so this isn't literal fear of sea-level rise. In my dreams, floods often mean allergies and inflammation.
• Raise home by slowly building up soil: the medical industry hasn't helped me (my illness is rare; no profit in research or drugs). I'm on my own. I can only build my health gradually, from small choices--each just a grain of sand.
• Big crowd, female spiritual leader: in The Constant Rabbit by Jasper Fforde, the rabbit minority has a matriarchal nature-based religion, one I rather liked. (I just disliked the characters. All spies and secret agents; too much deceit for an innocent geek like me.)
• Nude: 1: I feel unable to clothe myself in social norms right now. Too damn tired. 2: Vulnerable, no insulation, scraped raw.
• Sunbathing: literal. Sunbathing speeds my healing, but my family's prone to skin cancer. I suspected I needed unusually high levels of vitamin D, took 2500 IU a day, and suddenly healed faster without blasts of sun--and cancer risk.
• Hide in reeds: pun! I hide and read. Slow, but solitude works. I do build health--slow as a sand dune.
• ACTION: take my vitamins, hide and read. That's all. Because slow healing beats NO healing.

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