If we spend our lives dreaming, will we ever know when we reach our dream?

This issue of dreams is risky business. We're always told to dream, and to dream big. Nothing is out of our reach so long as we roll our sleeves back, our pants up, and get neck-deep in the process. We need to get dirty, stress, suffer - and with all the hard work, we'll get to that dream.

Trouble is, we tend to have many dreams. At least I know I do. It seems as with human nature, we're not content in reaching one destination. We're always pushing for more. I can think of a slew of cliched phrases that demonstrate this, starting with: "The grass is always greener on the other side." I say "starting with" because that's why we dream. We want something other than what we have in the present. I'm no exception. I'm always dreaming of something else. Fo example, I dream of leaving South Florida. I'm tired of the traffic, the rude (and highly volatile) drivers, the packed cement blocks. I'm tired of the fast-pace of the city. I dream of open land, pastures, green (that doesn't involved painted trash cans). I dream of friendly people, like those I met in Virginia, who, instead of saluting with the middle finger, gave friendly waves and hellos, even though we were outsiders. I also dream of writing full time. Dedicating the hours while my son is in school, to writing down all these characters and memories that plague my mind. Sometimes, I even dream of inventing some sort of time machine to go back to a healthier, livelier, more energized me.

The problem with these dreams is they interfere with my living today and now. I think there's a saying that says something akin to: the past already happened, the future is yet to come, but today is a gift. That's why it's called the present. In dreaming so much of tomorrow, and in working so much for a future (retirement, fame, whatever), we oftentimes neglect today. And in today lies family and friends. When it's all said and done (I'm just full of cliches today, aren't I?), what do we have to look back at in our lives? Will we be happy? Will we be satisfied that we did all we could do at each stage?

I find myself often at this point, stuck between the dreamer and the realist. I remember my godparents, who worked their behinds off (might as well keep at it with these trite expressions), saving up for an unsure future, only to die in a plane crash in Long Island, on their way back from Colombia after the Christmas and new year holidays in 1990. What was that worth? Then again, if no planning is done, no dreams to pursue, our future might be just as bleak. There's no denying that retiring here, with nothing but Social Security (if that) is simply not possible. What's the right answer? Is there one?

I don't have the answers. I am pretty sure, though, they lie somewhere between dreaming and planning, drifting and cementing roots. There's got to be some balance there.

Who's Eating My Cucumbers? Pickleworms, That's Who.

My humble vegetable garden is, of late, my pride and joy. Since I don't have a particularly green thumb, the mere fact that we were able to get seedlings to grow, and we were able to actually harvest what we planted, well, that was an accomplishment.

We harvested a total of six cucumbers before I encountered a nasty pest that has forced us take drastic measures to eradicate it (without having to turn to harsh chemicals or pesticides.) The culprits? Pickleworms.

In case you'd like to see what a pickleworm looks like, here's one I caught on my cucumber plant. I took the picture after I cut the stem off.

Apparently, pickleworms are larvae from a specific moth, and they attack mostly cucumber, squash, and other cucurbit plants. I spotted the eggs first this morning, though I didn't know what they were at the time. I just found a bunch of gooey, white blobs around my cucumbers. Then, early this evening, we were performing our normal rounds in our garden: watering, pruning, inspecting. My husband noticed two of the cucumbers were ready to cut, so I got the shears out and was getting ready to cut when I noticed the above critter on one of the cucumbers. It was on the outside, apparently munching on the skin. When I cut the other one, I noticed two minute holes on one side. After my initial gross-out, I gave the cucumber with the worm to my husband so he could take care of it, and I proceeded to dissect the other cucumber. Though it has those two holes, there is no evidence of pickleworm inside, much to my relief. However, I'm not sure if I can do anything with the butchered cucumber, nor do I know if I want to, especially since the holes means the pickleworm was inside that cucumber....that just doesn't sound very appetizing to me.

We busted out our organic pesticide, chopped off all remaining fruits (all which had pickleworm holes and egg residues) and damaged leaves. Instead of the immense foliage we had, we're now left with a bare-boned plant. I have no idea if we did the right thing, but after much consulting online, it seems as if there's little to do once these pests take hold. Very sad day for me.

I also discovered another possible pest: Vegetable leafminer. I've been wondering why the leaves of our plants (from the larger cucumber and squash leaves to the small basil ones) have these zigging and zagging lines on them that look like this:

Photo taken from http://www.sciencephoto.com.

Upon some "googling," I found my answer. 

I think I now understand why chemical pesticides are used; and why it costs more to grow organic.  

Chocolate Dreams

My son's sleeping has finally become regular over the last few months. This semester was certainly much better than last, with only two weeks of multiple wakings due to a cold, croup, and ear infection. By 8 PM he's in bed, and because he's pretty much given up on napping during the day, he only mumbles, sings, chats for a few seconds before his eyes shut, his breathing slows, and soft snores escape his lips. In the morning, he's up anywhere between 4-6 am, at which time he drowsily pit-pats his way into our room, climbs in bed with us and, if it's our weekend (meaning neither of us have to go to work), he'll keep sleeping until 7-8 am.

This morning was no exception.

His routine before settling himself back to sleep is as follows: Once in bed, he rolls from me to my husband. At each of us, he leans over, smacks a wet kiss on our cheek, and says, "Mommy [or daddy], I love you." We say I love you back, he smiles, sighs, and turns over. Sometimes he'll do that a few times before he goes back to what children dream of.

Occasionally, he'll talk in his sleep. We know he is prone to sleep disturbances, as he's had night terrors pretty badly, but on the smaller, less intrusive scale is the sleep talking.

This morning, after he'd fallen back asleep in our bed, he sighed, smiled, and whispered, "Mmmm, chocolate."

Oh how sweet his chocolate dreams must be!

Growing Gardens

In early March, a few month's after my son's school had planted a garden and my son came home excitedly talking nonstop about cabbage, broccoli, and carrots, I decided to try our hand at planting a vegetable garden. This was also around the same time that my health was pointing me towards healthier, organic alternatives. So son in hand, we headed to Home Depot and picked out a few seed packets, a greenhouse kit for kids (with cucumbers and tomatoes), and an herb set. We planted the cucumbers, tomatoes, lemon-basil, oregano, chives, and thyme first. In those first weeks, the herbs took off, as did the cucumbers. The tomatoes died.

As our "garden" started growing, we decided to invest in a larger area for the vegetable garden. In BJs, we found an inexpensive option for a raised bed, and converted a part of our backyard into our garden. We transplanted the four original herbs, and the cucumbers, and planted more seeds: summer squash, peas, lettuce, mixed greens, dill, spinach, and radishes.

The verdict? We've already harvested two cucumbers (and five more are growing), lettuce, and herbs. The peas are almost there. The radishes, well, those I had to replant because the first ones didn't yield anything. The squash plant is large and leafy and healthy, but I don't see any squash yet. I've already had amazing salad with my own lettuce and cucumber (and some organic carrots, nuts, seeds, raisins, cranberries, and chia seeds). I've already cooked meals with my thyme, oregano, basil, and chives. The dill is just getting ready to harvest, so I'll be using that soon.

I'll post some pictures soon. I've been feeling quite proud, as before this, neither my husband nor I have ever had a "green thumb" - this is certainly a step up!

Lazy Afternoons in the Backyard

I'm sitting in my backyard today with my husband and son, amidst a lazy afternoon. The smoke from nearby brushfires is, thankfully, not blowing in our direction, and we can enjoy the sunshine (or in my case, the shade). A small child's sprinkler - a kaleidoscope of greens, oranges, purples and blues - waves its arms relentlessly, spraying cool water as my son jumps and runs, squealing and giggling. My husband has fired up his grill, and the scent of the turkey burgers cooking reminds me I'm hungry. Our outdoor rock-inspired speakers sound off an eclectic array of tunes: 80's, Disney, country, and pop/alternative. The simple breeze adds a backdrop to the tunes, a soft whisper. I love lazy afternoons like this; they make me feel content.

They also remind me of my childhood. I lived most of my adventures in the backyard of my Westchester home, la casita de Westchester. Though it was a humble home on the inside, just right for a family of three, its backyard was what dreams were made of - or at least, dreams for a six-year-old or eight-year-old. Or an eleven-year-old.

I can't say exactly how big the backyard was; such exact measurements escaped my interest as a child. Instead, I was more interested in the ampleness of the grass, where I could try my headstands and cartwheels, falling laughing and laying there, arms stretched out, the soft prick of grass comforting as I stared out into the sky bright with the South Florida sun, imagining castles in the clouds and princesses waiting to be rescued.

Or, I was more interested in the two dips in the ground, one towards the center of the yard, the other towards the left, right outside my bedroom window. They became fortresses, lakes, obstacles. The one on the left became a pet-cemetary for my two parakeets when I was about seven.

Or, I would run with my dog, Lucky, waving an adult-sized full skirt, part of the traditional Colombian costume that my aunt (though which one, I don't remember now) had brought me. Though I loved that skirt and how it made me feel (like a princess, beautiful and delicate), it was much too large, and it was much more fun to wave it around and watching Lucky snap at it erratically until he finally caught the material in between his teeth. I'd tug and pull and he'd growl, and then I'd turn round and round until Lucky would lift slightly off the ground, teeth still attached to skirt. When we both let go, he'd run to me as I lay on the floor, and I'd laugh while he licked my face.

Or, I would sit on the outside air-conditioner unit after having a fight with my father, my face tear-streaked and my chest heaving. The hum, and Lucky's wet licks on my hands, would comfort me and there I'd imagine I lived somewhere else where "life wouldn't be so unfair."

That backyard was my haven, my domain. I could be anyone or anything.

At one time, my father said he'd build me a small house in the backyard and I could live there. I think I might have imagined that, but I remember the dreaming vividly: a small, wooden "house," just one room with a cot and a window with flowers. It would be right next to the dip in the center, and I could enter and exit into my backyard as I pleased. I would have the stars at night for company and the next-door-neighbor's banana tree for food. I really wanted that backyard house, like I wanted the Barbie doll house my father had started building me, but alas, neither became reality. The first was never started; the second, he destroyed half-way in a rage.

But sitting out here, in my own backyard now, watching my son play, I remember those afternoons in that backyard so many years ago. Much has changed since then, but the peace and possibility that arises from a simple backyard - that is still intact.

Remembering Papi

I've been remembering my father quite a bit lately. Not that I had forgotten him and somehow stumbled across his memory. No, it's more like I now have an inkling of the pain he must have felt, and I get it, or at least, I get some of it.

I still see him, in his later years, sitting at the dinning table in his wheelchair, a small glass of lukewarm water to his right (he sipped water all day), a bottle of tylenol to his left. He was always taking tylenol because of his headaches and my mother was always arguing with him that it was going to fry his liver. Or his kidneys. But he always took those small, white pills, in hopes of relieving a smidgen of the pain he was feeling, or maybe just in hopes of taking the edge off of the pain. His face was leathery, worn, and his eyebrows were more often than not scrunched up; he winced often. I imagine his whole body hurt, with deep aches and a never ending loneliness because of it. I imagine he missed his younger, healthier self. I do know he wished often to be taken in his sleep, so he could suffer no more.

Before the leg amputation that sentenced him to the wheelchair, his walk was slow, steady. He wouldn't drive; instead, he'd take it to walking from our apartment, eight blocks south to Publix or eight blocks north to Navarro. Those were his daily outings. I remember walking with him, I was in my mid-teens, and trying to have conversations. As judgmental as he could be, my father was a talker and he'd talk to anyone who'd listen to him. At times, on the bench outside of Navarro, my father would sit, and whoever was sitting there would soon find himself/herself in a tete-a-tete about current world affairs or the downward spiral this country was facing.

Immediately following his amputation and after he'd outlived his hospital stay, he was in a recovery home for several weeks. We'd visit him every day, bringing in chicken, rice and beans from the nearby Pollo Tropical. There, we'd find my father rolling around in his wheelchair from room to room, chatting up the little ol' ladies in the neighboring rooms. In between the groans and cries, you'd hear some laughter.

I do miss him. I see his character in my son, in his stubborn refusal for help or in his angry outbursts because something went wrong. I also see him in my son's eyes - dark, round and bright with mischief and imagination.

Key Largo Sunset in Pics

NCL Cruise in Pics

Nassau, Bahamas

Nassau, Bahamas

NCL Sky Docked

NCL's Private Island

Miami Skyline

Miami Skyline

Miami Skyline and Carnival Cruise Ship

Invisible Illnesses

The semester is finally over. Grades are in, and as I sit here, reveling in the resounding quiet that comes after the chaotic finish, I can hear the whispered chants of: freedom, freedom, freedom! It feels good.

This semester's end is punctuated, though, with a follow up with my rheumatologist. It's been a harrowing academic year, though more because of my health than because of any academic impositions. Back in March, my diagnosis expanded to include undifferentiated connective tissue disease (UCTD) in addition to the fibromyalgia. What does that mean? For those that don't know what UCTD is (or who might resist the urge to go off into space at the "undifferentiated"), UCTD is an auto-immune condition that is lupus-like. It's not lupus, and it might never get there, but it could. It basically means that right now, between symptoms and labs, there is enough to know there's "something auto-immune" going on, but not enough to really be able to classify it into one disease.

I've taken to the web-waves to find more information. I've visited (and joined) online forums, filled with questions that I forget to ask when I'm at my doctor's office. I've heard these auto-immune diseases labeled as "invisible" illnesses and I found that so fitting. They're invisible because we don't generally have any outward showings of any illness. Sometimes we might limp, or we'll look tired, but from the outside, there's not much seemingly different than those who've just had some bad nights of sleep. And people who don't know we have an illness might label us as lazy because we don't take the stairs or carry boxes or say "no" to late night gatherings.

But inwardly - oh my. The pain. That's the worst. Sometimes it's a burning deep in the bones or muscles, like lava has temporarily taken over my extremities. Or, like I like to call it: growing pains on steroids. Other times it's a throbbing in the joints, my fingers, my toes, my knees, my hips, my elbows. Sometimes it hurts when I breathe in, and other times my head starts pounding in an attempt at a migraine. Every day, I hurt. Sometimes less, sometimes more, but every day.  And my memory - it's mush often. Part of the fibromyalgia is the "fibro fog." It sucks. I'll forget simple things, like words, or something that happened recently. I have to write down everything now because there's a very good chance I will forget by the time I need to remember.

I've had to make some decisions, prioritize, so I don't stress myself and trigger an anxiety attack, and more pain. Writing has had to fall a few places down on that list, during the regular terms, so that I can be an effective mom, wife, daughter, and teacher. I have to make peace with that. During the main semesters I will have to resign myself to a few scribbled notes, a few Facebook poetics, and an overabundance of mental notes that, ironically, I might forget. But now that summer starts, oh, now I will  redeem myself.

I have my moments when I want to cry. Usually, it's when the pain is the worst (and these last 4-5 weeks have been on a particularly bad, active "flare-up" of symptoms). Or when the medication I'm prescribed back-fires with the side-effects (apparently, I'm extra sensitive to medication) and withdrawal-like symptoms (I never have and will NEVER EVER do drugs - knowing that what I felt for four days and nights is similar to what those on addictive drugs can feel during a detox is enough for me to say this, with certainty.) Or when I want so badly to run with my son, kick the ball, enjoy a sunny afternoon in the park, but I can't because I'm exhausted, fatigued, in pain, or simply because I have to avoid the sun (the sun triggers inflammation, and since UCTD is an inflammatory disease, the sun will trigger flare-ups). I grieve my health then. At thirty-one, I feel ancient. And it sucks. These are my moments for grieving because I am grieving the loss of my health.

But more often, I am optimistic. One of the "silver linings" is that this invisible illness is not life-threatening, especially with the proper medication that helps halt the progression of this disease (thankfully, this medication, Plaquenil, I've been able to tolerate well, and the side-effects are relatively few). I am forced to slow down, and enjoy the time I have with my family more. It fuels my creativity. It makes me want to reach out to those that have similar diseases, these so called invisible diseases, because alone, it's hard to make sense of it all.

There's more that I want to say, but right now, my mind went blank - darn that fibro fog! Look for me more often, because I will be here. :) And don't feel sorry for me. I may complain and vent and grieve at times, but I don't feel sorry for myself. Behind each cross we carry, there's a blessing. And I certainly count my blessings.