Yes, it's possible to be hurting and happy

A few minutes ago, Dick said to me, "It's good to see you smiling." I said to him, "It's amazing. I'm in a lot of pain and I'm in a great mood."

He jokingly responded, "Well, if you can package that, you've got something to sell."

Maybe I do have something to sell, but I'm giving it away free. That's right, folks. Step right up and get it free. Today only! Free tips on happiness! Get them while they last!

What I could sell is a book, but it's a book that has been written many times before, and by people who are far more qualified than me (or is it I?) You see? I need an editor or a good book on grammar.

Sheesh. I'm really putting off getting to the point, aren't I? This subject is just too big, and I've been having some trouble writing lately. I used to be perfectly fine with my beating around the bush style of writing, but in spite of my being in a good mood, my lack of ability to distill my thoughts into terse sound bites is starting to annoy me. I know what I feel, but it's almost pre-verbal. That makes it quite hard to put into words.

If you've been following my blog, you know I have chronic pain problems, and suffer from moderate-to-severe depression. Right now, I can't even imagine being depressed. Everything feels perfectly fine. But it isn't.

Last week, I started to tell someone that one reason I was in a good mood is that I was feeling better physically. Then I realized that simply wasn't true. Not only is it not true, I'm feeling physically worse than I was when I was depressed. Every single depressive episode I've had in my adult life has been preceded by an increase in pain or a new ailment. So, why aren't I depressed?

That question makes it sound like I want to be. I can assure you that I do not.

Veering off course for a moment, the other day I was thinking about how most people are quite attached to their problems. It's not a criticism, but an observation. Our neuroses and quirks are part of our personalities, or so we think. Or perhaps we don't think that, but resistance to change is a major impediment for most folks. Somewhere inside, we think we'd disappear without the problems that make us who were are, even if they cause us pain.

Now, my physical pain has not disappeared, but my attitude towards it has changed. I finally stopped trying to run away from it. I don't like it, but I no longer rebel against it. This is not the same thing as complacency. I go to physical therapy, do the exercises they tell me to do, and spend quite a bit of time attending to my own care. But, I'm not unhappy while doing these things. Nor am I particularly bothered when, like earlier today, I discover that there is something I simply can't do. Once, I would have been very upset, maybe even cried a bit, when I saw that I was "disabled."

Today, as I limped and lurched into the house after foolishly carrying a heavy bucket of maple sap, I sat down, tried to massage my feet, discovered my thumbs hurt too much to do that, and then pulled on a pair of tighter compression socks. That helped. I had a cup of tea and relaxed for a while before doing some work.

Why am I re-telling this boring little bit of my day? Well, once, all of the above minor events would have caused me grief, but today they did not. It was the same yesterday, the day before, and the day before that, for the last month or so.

Something in me has essentially shifted. Every time I think a negative thought, a positive one pops up to follow it. At the same time, I tend not to see any thought as actually "negative" or "positive." They're just thoughts. It's the meaning I give them that makes them toxic or not. Thinking "I can't do a lot of things I used to do" has no inherent feeling attached to it.

You may think that's not true. How could one not feel bad about that? Well, I say, why should I feel bad? What good would it do me? None. Absolutely none at all. There's plenty I can still do. More than enough for a couple of lifetimes, in fact. Why should I add to my own suffering?

It all sounds very logical, but emotions don't often listen to logic. Yet, I've been practicing refuting my own bad logic, and this refutation has finally become a habit. It's as good for me as exercise, maybe even better.

There's so many things that one could be upset about. Every day is filled with problems and annoyances. I seem to have stopped seeing the cup as half empty. But, believe me, it's taken a very long time to get to this point. I generally don't even like to use the word "very", but not only have I done so, I've italicized it, for I don't want to give anyone the impression that any of this attitude changing stuff is easy. It's not. When I wrote I have practiced, I meant it. It takes practice, just like learning an instrument, or learning to read. You can't snap your fingers and change - poof! - and sorry, no, you can't just pop a pill and have everything be all right. Antidepressants don't stop the bills from landing in your mailbox, though I'm sure many wish they would.

It takes work to get over one's problems. Lots of it. It also takes faith. Not faith in something larger than oneself, but faith in the idea that one can change. Unfortunately, from what I can tell, a good majority of people think that if you're over 21 to 30 years of age, it's too late to change a thing. This is simply not so. We change every single day, whether we like it or not. When does it stop? When we die.

So, we can change simply by breathing, or we can participate in our lives more fully. Old thinking patterns are hard to break, but if I can quit smoking, I can do anything. Really. And so can you.

I'll continue this lecture another time. I want to do some knitting.

Image note: John James Audubon "Common Blue Bird" (probably an Eastern Bluebird)

On the old tv show, "Laugh-in", someone used to say "May the bluebird of happiness fly up your nose." I have no idea why.

The miseducation of youth

I should be studying right now, but there's something on my mind, and it won't go away. I feel like I have a growling, angry dog pulling on the leg of my pants. He won't let go until I address him, but I have no idea what to say. "Go away, you rotten doggie!" just won't do.

Lately, I've been taking care of two girls, ages 9 and 11, once a week. I've known these girls for about four years, and love them dearly. So, when I was asked to care for them on a regular basis, I was happy to do it. Now, I've got a dilemma.

This morning, while sitting in my kitchen, the younger girl suddenly noticed that I had an Obama sign on the wall. It's been there since November, but it finally caught her attention. Perhaps it caught her attention because she's been learning new things from Mom's new boyfriend. She scrunched up her face and said, "Why do you like Obama?!" Unfortunately, I was bleary with sleep and unprepared to deal with this question, so I said, "It's too early in the morning to give you a good answer." She didn't like that, and said, "Well, I hate him." I bet if I had looked under the table, she might have been stamping her feet.

"Why do you hate the President?" I asked. "Oh, I don't. know", she said. "Well, you should know why you hate someone" was my response. She got very serious and announced, "He's giving free health care to little kids who don't deserve it and. . ." I cut her off. I then said that sometimes people decide not to talk about politics and religion because they have very different ideas and that it leads to problems. How about we try that? And so, the discussion was over.

I drove them to school, all the while thinking I had copped out. Her words about little kids echoed in my mind, making me upset and angry. Someone's been feeding this kid Rush Limbaugh-ian ideas, and it pisses me off. But to make matters worse, I know that these children are on all sorts of government aid. WIC, AFDC, Section 8 housing, and who knows what else. And here she is, spouting off nonsense about "little kids who don't deserve it." She should know that her family is exactly the type of family that Limbaugh-loving folks despise. Shouldn't she?

But, if I say something, it's highly likely that I'll never take care of these kids again. So, I said that talking about religion and politics are off limits, and I do not feel good about it.

I need to figure out what to say. I don't want to refute or shame her. The latter, sadly, would be quite easy to do. I need to say positive things that might open up their quickly closing minds. But, the thing of it is, I don't know what to say. I haven't a clue. I know how to speak to adults about these things, but kids? My mind is an unhappy blank.

The youngest girl has already pronounced me a "weirdo." However, I know they both like me, but I'm some sort of alien amongst the adults they know. If you have any suggestions, please leave a comment. I need help, and so do two little girls.

Image note: I didn't know what image to use. Did you know Dr. Seuss was also a political cartoonist?

Faith Hill photo gallery

Second Evening Gown Clothes

Second Evening Gown Clothes

I found my second evening gown and its by Jovani Beyond. I saw the short version of this Jovani gown at Windsor last weekend. I did a quick search online and I found the long version of this gown. I was lucky enough to find a near by bridal shop that carries this gown. I quickly went to try it on and my bear was telling me that’s the one! The gown looks very sparkling and shining in person.

Long Evening Gown Clothes

Long Evening Gown Clothes

Miko's new chair

Sitting in meditation has become increasingly more painful for my back. Now, the abbott of a monastery I once stayed at had told me, "When you become the pain, there is no pain", but the truth is, I've learned the lesson that phrase teaches, and now it's time to do things to ameliorate whatever pain I have. That isn't the same as running away from pain. If one steps on a nail, one pulls it out of the foot.

So, I went on a search to find an affordable back rest to supplement my zafu (round sitting cushion). In Japan, there are countless styles of zaisu or floor chairs, but here in America, this is truly a specialty item. I found about a half a dozen, ranging from $130 to $400 and up. And then, there is the Back Jack:


I've sat on a Back Jack before, and I remembered thinking it wasn't particularly comfortable. In spite of this, I ordered one. I saw I could get an additional pillow for it, and added that to my order, thinking that it might make a difference.

On Thursday, the Back Jack arrived. I set it up in my yoga/meditation room. I confess I didn't meditate on Thursday night or any time on Friday, so when Saturday morning rolled around, and I was to go to the Zendo, I hadn't tried the chair yet. I went into my room to get it, and saw that the seat was heavily covered in cat hair. I got a roll of tape, cleaned it up, and left the house.

The chair was a flop. It caused me to slump. It was too short, and I kept pushing the added cushion up the back until it fell off. I tried using it backwards, and that seemed a bit better. In the end, I decided that it was not only a dud for meditation, but a waste of money. I would return it and find something more suitable.

Nowadays, most companies have quite liberal return policies, but the company I bought it from does not. I have nothing against them, so I am not naming them here. But, I didn't read the fine print. A chair can be returned for a full refund if it's in perfect condition. If it's not, there's a re-stocking fee of up to 25% of the purchase price. I was surprised, but it was okay because I had only used it for an hour. All I had to do was work a little harder with the tape to remove the remaining cat hair. But no, after one use, it looked a little scuffed up. I got out a sponge and tried to remove what looked like dust, but it just spread around more. I felt fed up, stupid for buying something I had doubts about, so I put it aside.

This morning I noticed that Miko was sitting on the chair. She had wedged herself deep into the back angle and was fast asleep. I felt a pang of something akin to guilt. My cat loves this chair. How could I return it? Coming back to the reality of wasting my money, another thought quickly followed: Now I would have to work even harder to remove her Siamese silver fur.

When I came home this afternoon, there was Miko, again, sleeping in the crook of the chair. I put away the groceries and she stirred a little. She woke up, stretched, and then laid back down. Miko usually is hiding when I get home. I'm lucky if I get a glimpse of her. Now, she was happily sitting in the kitchen, content in her new spot. On her new black Back Jack.

I'm thinking of ways to make that chair work for me. I was thinking about it yesterday, too, but now I've just got to. I'm not taking that chair away from my cat. I once felt rather cool in relation to her, but those days are gone. If Miko has found a chair that makes her spend more time with us, I'm keeping it. As for my back, I'll figure something out.

Photo note: Read what Geekologie has to say about 2007's most expensive chair. I doubt Miko would like it. Nor would I, but at over a million dollars, I should hope not.

Friday night update: Miko sat on "her" chair all through dinner tonight. We even had a guest. She has never sat through an entire meal with us, and if someone is over, one minute of visiting is about all she can handle. That black Back Jack must have some kind of cat hoodoo.

Brown Evening Gown Clothes

Brown Evening Gown Clothes

Sexy Evening Gown 2009 Design

Sexy Evening Gown 2009 Design

Professing to know

A writing teacher (or perhaps a professor) gave a friend of mine a book about writing. Since I am not a professional writer, I probably have no business assessing this book. And since I am not a professional writer, I'll put this bluntly: That "professional" book? It sucked.

If you peruse this blog, you will probably have a hard time finding the expression "it sucked" anywhere. I tend not to write about things I have any critique of (excluding politics, social phenomena, bad products, service, and advertising). Okay, so I do critique.

But, when it comes to books, music, and art, I tend to keep mum. My opinion is that it's all opinion. Now, that's one heck of an awkward sentence, but I'll let it stay.

When I was in art school, I was taught how and why to critique art. I've forgotten all of it. For each professor professed to know exactly what was good and bad, and in every decade it was something different. So, I came to dismiss criticism. I loathe the expression, "I may not know anything, but I know what I like." I may know something and I know what I like is more to my taste.

I don't feel badly when others don't like the same things I do, and I hope you feel likewise.

Now, what was I writing about? I forget.

Oh, the book about writing.

First of all, the author has absolutely no sense of humor. I suspect anyone who doesn't have a sense of humor. But still, I had to give my friend a reason why I didn't think this book was good besides that "it sucked" and the author didn't seem to find humor in anything.

He did have a rule for everything. No long sentences (hear that, Monsieur Proust?) No curse words (fuck that). There were so many rules for no this or that and very few rules for what makes for good writing. If there were, I don't remember.

But the kicker was a chapter of writing examples from his sad students. My friend read some of them out loud (and then e-mailed them to me). Here, he gives examples of terrible, pathetic, and unknowing imbecilic sentences involving the dreaded and no-no word "like". Some of these were the best sentences in the book:

"McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup."

I burst out loud when I heard this. I think it's great. It's a perfect description. I don't see pictures in my mind with ease, but I can see this, and I can hear it, too. Mr. Professor, if you think this is terrible, I almost feel sorry for you.

"Her vocabulary was as bad as . . . like . . . whatever."

Almost perfect. No, I take that back. It's perfect. I thought that the word "like" might be best left out, but it serves a dual purpose here. The word "like" is interjected into so many people's vocabularies, like, I don't know, like that, y'know? Whatever. You know what I'm talking about, like, right?

Another rule - never use dashes:

"The hailstones leaped from the pavement - the same way that maggots do when you fry them in hot grease."

I admire the person who came up with this image. How on earth did that leap into their mind? Had they actually seen maggots fried in hot grease? I somehow doubt that, and so, I am impressed. It's good fun and a hell of a lot better than any description of a hailstone I've ever heard, especially since it leaves out their size. Why are hailstones always described as peas or golf balls when one can use a real form of measurement?*

"He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells - as if she were a garbage truck backing up."

The sound trucks make when backing up aren't exactly bell-like, but using that image and sound as a descriptor of the love-struck individual works beautifully. It shows the absurdity of blind love in a fresh way. Sorry, Mr. Professor, you need to lighten up. I am also afraid your classes and book may be squelching young talent's creativity.

I do hope my friend doesn't follow a word of advice in it (including "never use contractions").

Image note: Arthur Rackham
'The Professor Can't Stand that Sort of Thing' 1932

*This reminds me that when I tattooed, people would frequently call and ask, "How much would a half dollar sized tattoo be?" I got sick of it. I started asking folks, "Have you ever seen a half dollar?" Yes, that was obnoxious of me, but the truth is, I don't recall ever seeing a half dollar in my life. And, even if I had (which I suppose I must have), the price of a "half dollar sized" tattoo depends on many more factors than it's size.

Lacing my shoes

Today I got a temporary handicapped parking placard. My feet were very happy about this. I love to walk, but right now, my feet get so tired, I start sweating. Aren't you glad I told you this?

I presume the doctor thinks that within 90 days, things will get better. Otherwise, he would have given me a form for a new license plate. Part of my right foot will not get better, but since it's numb, it doesn't bother me at all.

After I got the placard, as I was driving out of the mall (yes, the Department of Motor Vehicles is in a mall), I realized that I needed some other things that might make my life a bit less painful. A pair of scissors for arthritic hands. Cooking utensils with rubber handles. An orange polka dot shopping bag with wheels and telescoping handle. Two more "PenAgain" ergonomic pens. I'd like a latex or memory foam bed, but I couldn't fit that in the car, and besides, it's a huge (HUGE) expense.

When I got home, my feet were aching quite badly. I've got a pair of new orthopedic shoes, but I haven't gotten my custom orthotic inserts yet. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered seeing something about how lacing your shoes properly can make a big difference. So, I googled it. Indeed, there was a lot about this topic. Ian's Shoelace Site has 33 different ways to lace up your footwear (and more to come). The American Orthopaedic Foot & Ankle Society has only four suggestions, but they are all different than the standard way that most of us lace our shoes.

Ian's Shoelace Site has more information on shoelaces than I could ever digest fully. Who knew? But I suspect if you scratch under the surface of anything, there's an obsession waiting to be discovered.

Meanwhile, I'm armed with new red shoelaces, laced up using the "Lock Lacing" method. My shoelaces were made by me, using the red cotton twill tape that held together the new tablecloth and napkins I purchased along with all my handicapped person gear.All I did to "make them" was to tightly wrap some clear packing tape on the ends and then snip them cleanly.

My, I went on a mini-shopping spree today. Thank goodness for Marshall's and TJ Maxx. Sorry, but if I had bought locally, that would have been an impossibly expensive bunch of purchases. Yesterday, I bought some Kinesiotape in a small local medical supply shop, and I spent ten dollars more than if I had bought it on line. That kind of difference really adds up. It's a shame, but the local store has just lost my business. I know they have to make a living, but it's important for stores to be aware when their prices are so drastically different than what's online.

This is getting to be too dry a post, so I'll wrap things up. Today, I finally started getting serious about accepting my physical problems. But, as Dick picked up my new scissors and said, "Everyone should have these", I thought, if everyone did, maybe we all wouldn't be visiting chiropractors and physical therapists by the age of fifty. And, perhaps if I hadn't worn impossibly high heels all through my late teens and twenties, my feet wouldn't be the way they are now. Ah well.

The thing is, though, I can't imagine not having worn those thigh-high black boots. Was it worth it?

Image note: Lock Lacing.

Underground Model Clothes Show

Underground Model Clothes Show

Going Underground festival, which brought culture and the arts to all of the city's subway stations. One of the events was a fashion show on the people movers in the Buchanan Street station.

Anchul Fashion Show Model

Anchul Fashion Show Model Image

Glasgow Model Clothes

Glasgow Model Clothes Image Gallery

Sidebar update

My sidebar is getting unwieldy and overly long. I'm guessing most of you don't even notice when I add anything to it. Last night, I put "Library Thing" on it. I'm not quite sure what this Library Thing is yet, but here's a link to my library. On it are books I've loved and books I'm reading. The list is not complete, not by a long shot!

Good Morning, Mr. Pain

As many of you know, I've been living with chronic pain for a long time. In the last couple of months, I've been doing quite well with it. It's not been better, but my attitude has been. I've been more accepting and self-caring.

I just deleted a re-telling of my morning thus far. You don't need to hear a blow-by-blow. It's boring.

Suffice it to say, I'm overwhelmed. My pain is about an 8 on the pain scale, which is high, but my ability to deal with it is close to zero. I need to talk to someone, but there's no one to talk to right now, so blogging is what I'm doing. It helps, somehow. I also need to see a doctor, and part of my feeling of overwhelm is due to the impersonal way in which the doctor's office responded to my call. I'm sure they get lots of emotional people in pain calling first thing in the morning, especially on a Monday.

Yesterday morning I thought I might need to go the emergency room. I was feeling what I call "I-can't-stand-itis." I could stand it, and I did with aplomb. Armed with three sizes of bandages and three types of soothing creams and gels, Dick and went to watch a curling tournament. It was exciting, and got my mind off how I was feeling. From "I can't stand it" to simply enjoying myself is a big leap, one that seems impossible to make, but pain is a slithery thing.

This morning, I had planned on doing schoolwork and taking care of my neighbor's kids from 3:30 to 9:30. I can't imagine doing either. So, here I am, just waiting for a phone call from the doc's office and hoping it'll come soon (fat chance). I need to make arrangements if I can't take care of those kids. I'm projecting into the future about my schoolwork - "If I keep feeling like this, I'll never finish." All of the machinations in my mind are the big problem, not the pain.

I'm sure if I had a friend over and I was engaged in a meaty discussion or smelling an array of perfume, I'd be feeling much better. If I didn't have obligations, I could just attend to myself. This tells me that I should just attend to myself and forget about the rest. That is the world of chronic, oppressive pain. Living on that slim edge between total disability and taking care of oneself is difficult.

I write this not for pity, but for therapy, and also, with a bit of hope that others who struggle in this way might feel better when reading it. Most of the time, my life is fine, pain or no pain. I had said pain was a slithery thing. It's a slippery thing, a thing that morphs and constantly changes. It's hold on a person varies with a stealthy cruelty. One moment everything is fine. The next, screaming pain tears through a leg, settles down to a dull ache. The mind is confused and wants to both run away and be hypervigilant at the same time. It's exhausting.

I called my morning pain "Mister", and then thought how pain is often dressed in leather, latex and high heels. Not my pain. This is no "she." Mr. Pain is really devoid of gender. And I realize, the minute I see this pain as "not me", it gets much worse. The minute I push away something that is part of myself, it cries out "I'm you! Don't push me away!" Okay, pain, I'll try to accept you and nurture you. I know you need some help. Maybe pain is my baby, and I wouldn't let my baby keep crying out of need without some attention.

Ah, the heating pad feels lovely. Now, what shall I do while I wait for the doctor's call? And should I be the wretched squeaky wheel who keeps calling the doctor's office. I know how much they hate patients who do that, but still. . .

I just don't know. After all this time, I just don't know.

Image note: I wanted use a painting from the Pain Exhibit, but the "save" function has been disabled. Instead, here's the cover of Bob Flanagan's book. He turned his lifelong struggle with Cystic Fibrosis into performance art and wound up leading the longest life of anyone with CF.

Clothes Trend Fall Winter

Clothes Trend Fall Winter

Fall Winter Fashion Trends

Fall Winter Fashion Trends