This time of year often passes me by in a blur. Travel, cookies, family visits and work all conspire to keep me dazed. Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of my life. Then I’m spit out next year.

Lately we are redoubling our efforts to thin out stuff, gift it away, and recommit to our very favorites. My eyeglasses broke and not only did I order the exact same replacements but also stockpiled parts from all the half broken or just plain ugly ones I’m letting go of.

I imagine one possible future for myself, on a remote island setting up an eyeglasses repair shop with my very tiny screwdrivers.

There’s a book called Sailing the Farm that we are in danger of becoming disciples of. It outlines a post-currency lifestyle where goods and services are bartered and it all boils down to how prepared you are. How prepared we are.

All things being coincidental, we very recently met a pair of sailors on a fully handmade wooden boat, with a greenhouse built into the v-berth and a perfect zero waste nutrient cycle on board. We spent a lovely evening poking around their boat and sampling from their pantry, the whole small space full of laughter and music.

Foredeck greenhouse

Meta with her mini harp

Greens taking a breather

I have turned a corner almost fully regarding scarsity. Its now a great joyful game where it was once my greatest fear. Having less and less, but more of what I need, I’m spring-loaded. Lighter and more prepared.

This day in sailing history, we assembled a fleet of pizzas, convened our motley crew of New England friends and family, and threw ourselves a going away party in Fairhaven, Massachusetts.

At this time we were just starting to develop what would become our most valuable form of social currency: homemade pizza. A sailor’s budget is restrictive, especially if you are on land. The normal ways that people communicate friendship – exchanging gifts, picking up a tab, etc. – are a bit out of our grasp (at least on a regular basis). Compound that with the fact that as travelers, we are destined to be the new kids on the block again and again, and it seemed at first we would be spending a lot of time by ourselves.

At least until we fully understood the power of Pizzas As Far as the Eye Can See.

This morning I thought I was going to finally sift a rational diagnosis from the pile of symptoms that have dogged me for the past few years. I have been in this spot before, a half dozen times now – thisclose. Sitting in the waiting room, with my fattening medical file, waiting for my turn and reviewing in my mind how I can most efficiently and clearly recap everything I know about my own body.

An hour later I was in tears. Fat crocodile tears that dropped onto my shirt, leaving big splashes. Concerned looks from the office staff. Tissues offered and apologies applied.

I’m tired of this malarkey, and I’m sad for all the other people in the waiting rooms too. I often check with my husband to tell me if I’m being mean to office staff, but sometimes politeness is trumped by a need to make myself heard. I rely on him to not let me become too much of a jerk.

I’m tired. Of mishaps, mixups and filing errors. I’m tired of no eye contact and a laissez faire exam room policy. I’m tired of being handled as a suspicious person for speaking the word “chronic” next to the word “pain”. I’m tired of full spectrum drug tests without consent. I’m tired of mansplaining. I’m tired of making myself small so as not to offend. I’m tired of waiting my turn while the drug rep finishes their meeting. I’m tired of the money falling from my pockets.

I’m tired of knowing, KNOWING, from my own Dad and brother and my old PCP, Dr. Patel, what its like to have a doctor collaborate with you, and knowing – KNOWING! – that type of care doesn’t exist for so many people. Including me, today.

Yes, I checked about the Mayo Clinic, and no, they do not accept my insurance.

[sad-face emoji] <- too tired to insert