If I were in a relationship, today would be the kind of day I'd call and ask him to come over and hold me for a while.
Mid-afternoon, Facebook activity increased. The word at the time was that a Congresswoman had been killed. Later we learned that while Gabrielle Giffords was shot in the head, she was actually alive. As of this evening as I'm typing, we're told six people were killed.
Among them are a 9-year-old girl who recently had been elected to her school's student council, a federal judge and one of Giffords' aides -- Gabe Zimmerman, her community outreach director who was engaged to be married.
Every loss today was senseless. Every life should be recognized and treasured. But I was particularly moved at the thought of Zimmerman.
As a former staffer for a state representative who organized plenty of town hall gatherings like the one that was scheduled for today, I could identify with his last moments. I know what it's like to get somewhere early, make sure the staging is set, greet the representative, ensure she has all she needs to be comfortable and then stay on the edge of activity, alert to who shows up, who looks friendly, and who might be trouble. Never did I ever think I would have to scan the crowd for a shooter. We did hire security on a couple of occasions but it was more for crowd control than actual fear of violence.
I have met so many young men like Gabe, believers who want to make a difference, who dedicate hours upon hours for little monetary reward, and who have so much potential you can almost see their future office-holding in their eyes. No one should die at the hand of a crazed gunman. Knowing just a little bit about one who has makes the loss so much more real.
I don't have a pithy comment about the U.S., about the demise of social decorum, or about how one side or the other might have brought this on. I have no clue why things like this happen or how we can keep it from happening again.
What I do have is a great sense of the void widening today. Dark, deep and wide it's kinda scary. And I could use a hug.
Saturday, January 08, 2011
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
In one day ...
-- Got a great email from a friend who reads this blog and likes it. Since she's a published writer, I was incredibly moved.
-- Had lunch with a friend who runs a coalition of organizations that focus on health and human services as well as education and after bemoaning how bad it's going to be for them in the 82nd Legislative Session, we mapped out what could be an education/awareness gig for me.
-- Opened a reply from a non-profit providing mammograms and breast cancer awareness for uninsured and undrerinsured that was advertising for a full-time communications person but was open to a part-timer with 25 years experience (that would be me) and have set up an interview on Thursday.
-- Connected with my client based in London but who is now in Alaska visiting her ailing mom and made plans for a communications overhaul
-- Remembered why I love my life . . .
-- Had lunch with a friend who runs a coalition of organizations that focus on health and human services as well as education and after bemoaning how bad it's going to be for them in the 82nd Legislative Session, we mapped out what could be an education/awareness gig for me.
-- Opened a reply from a non-profit providing mammograms and breast cancer awareness for uninsured and undrerinsured that was advertising for a full-time communications person but was open to a part-timer with 25 years experience (that would be me) and have set up an interview on Thursday.
-- Connected with my client based in London but who is now in Alaska visiting her ailing mom and made plans for a communications overhaul
-- Remembered why I love my life . . .
Friday, December 31, 2010
Creating new habits
I needed a bit of inspiration this morning. This week has been rough -- saw the reality of aging parents and the stupidity of hospital systems seemingly absent of both heart and mind plus got the news that my streak of being great at relationship building continues. The man I dated for a couple of years is now engaged. Since the last man I dated became engaged after we were a couple I'm thinking I may need to get the word out that if a man wants to marry he should date me first. I'm guaranteed gold in the "ring-on-someone-else's-finger" department. That way I would have a few dates and marriage stats would go up significantly.
My problem is that I couldn't quite figure how to launch a new blog entry that didn't sound like a bitter woman making light of her romantic woes. I'm not bitter but readers can't see me smiling as I type. I'm actually quite happy for the new couple. They are both getting what they wanted. And, since I didn't want to get married again, so am I.
That's why I went exploring. I googled "best blogs of 2010" and found Time's list. That took me to zenhabits.net. I think I'm going to like this one. I had to laugh though when I saw that while the writer emphasizes minimalism he still wrote that his blog had "helped the minimalist movement grow by leaps and bounds." Does anyone else see the humor? Wouldn't a "growing minimalist movement" be an oxymoron?
I checked out a few others on the list and discovered everything from tech toys to failures has a blog about it. Since I'm streamlining my purchases and giving up the daily paper, I bookmarked several options to check out.
Encouraging creativity in others is easy for me. I am passionate about creating and love to help others do so. Sometimes, though, I get stuck. Since I've been feeling a bit mired in the last year, I'm glad to be shedding baggage, looking around, and staying alert while waiting for the next big thing.
Perhaps I'll pick up a few zen habits of my own to blog about.
My problem is that I couldn't quite figure how to launch a new blog entry that didn't sound like a bitter woman making light of her romantic woes. I'm not bitter but readers can't see me smiling as I type. I'm actually quite happy for the new couple. They are both getting what they wanted. And, since I didn't want to get married again, so am I.
That's why I went exploring. I googled "best blogs of 2010" and found Time's list. That took me to zenhabits.net. I think I'm going to like this one. I had to laugh though when I saw that while the writer emphasizes minimalism he still wrote that his blog had "helped the minimalist movement grow by leaps and bounds." Does anyone else see the humor? Wouldn't a "growing minimalist movement" be an oxymoron?
I checked out a few others on the list and discovered everything from tech toys to failures has a blog about it. Since I'm streamlining my purchases and giving up the daily paper, I bookmarked several options to check out.
Encouraging creativity in others is easy for me. I am passionate about creating and love to help others do so. Sometimes, though, I get stuck. Since I've been feeling a bit mired in the last year, I'm glad to be shedding baggage, looking around, and staying alert while waiting for the next big thing.
Perhaps I'll pick up a few zen habits of my own to blog about.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Doc
My stepfather spent many decades as the town doctor. He was known for his ability to diagnose a problem. He also was recognized as one who would refer a patient elsewhere if he thought he lacked the needed expertise. I came into the world in the operating room of the four-bed clinic where my mother usually served as his nurse. After his wife died of cancer, they married and will celebrate a silver anniversary in 2011.
At least I hope they will.
Doc has been on dialysis for three years. He claimed 86 years of life on Christmas Eve but he wasn't celebrating much. He's got heart problems, prostate cancer, something's been wrong with his esophagus for years, his blood is thin and he's constantly "leaking" somewhere so that frequent transfusions are necessary.
Today as we struggled with getting him ready for a visit to the ER after a night of vomiting and diarrhea I was reminded of the portrait of Dorian Grey. Instead of age and past sins being visited upon a painting of himself, I visualized that all the diagnoses that he was famous for were somehow now manifesting themselves in his body.
I didn't cry then though. Nor did I at the thought of the indignities the sick and aging must endure such as Doc giving up a penchant for always wearing dress slacks and suspenders because sweats would make it easier to get to the bathroom. Or the independence ... like when, over expressed objections, others tell you that no matter what you have to go to the hospital to restore the fluids you lost.
Watching him moan in the van beside me as I drove he and my mother to the ER, seeing him clutch the bucket in his good hand in case he felt nauseous once again, wheeling him into the waiting area in a wheel chair ... these didn't prompt the flood gates.
It was walking away. After he was moved to a larger hospital, secured in ICU, color returning, and complaining about the order that would net him no food until the morning, I began to feel the weight of it all. As I exited the building with my mother safely tucked away in the family waiting/sleeping lounge and him monitored to the hilt, I cried.
Being the long-distance daughter has never been an issue for me or my mother. I think she reveled in my freedom and celebrated all my unorthodox choices as small victories of her own. But tonight when I hugged her small frame goodbye, I felt the magnitude of those miles. While tomorrow I will board a plane and return to Houston, she will be there, beside him, and still in the midst of his continuing and daily transformation from doctor to patient. In that hug, I traded places with her. I wasn't the little girl any more and she felt frail. She was tiny in my arms and the forces engulfing us both were so beyond our control that while I felt larger than life holding on to her, I knew we were too weak to stop the inevitable.
As soon as my eyes welled up, I walked away and reached out to friends and family. Thanking God for them, I updated each on Doc's status and asked for prayers. Of course, they quickly came.
Now, I'm waiting for life to go back to "normal." Yet, I know I passed through that door at the beginning of this trip. Those days of "normal" will never again exist because I've seen up close what day to day "life" is for Mom and Doc.
I'm sure I'll be back this way very soon.
At least I hope they will.
Doc has been on dialysis for three years. He claimed 86 years of life on Christmas Eve but he wasn't celebrating much. He's got heart problems, prostate cancer, something's been wrong with his esophagus for years, his blood is thin and he's constantly "leaking" somewhere so that frequent transfusions are necessary.
Today as we struggled with getting him ready for a visit to the ER after a night of vomiting and diarrhea I was reminded of the portrait of Dorian Grey. Instead of age and past sins being visited upon a painting of himself, I visualized that all the diagnoses that he was famous for were somehow now manifesting themselves in his body.
I didn't cry then though. Nor did I at the thought of the indignities the sick and aging must endure such as Doc giving up a penchant for always wearing dress slacks and suspenders because sweats would make it easier to get to the bathroom. Or the independence ... like when, over expressed objections, others tell you that no matter what you have to go to the hospital to restore the fluids you lost.
Watching him moan in the van beside me as I drove he and my mother to the ER, seeing him clutch the bucket in his good hand in case he felt nauseous once again, wheeling him into the waiting area in a wheel chair ... these didn't prompt the flood gates.
It was walking away. After he was moved to a larger hospital, secured in ICU, color returning, and complaining about the order that would net him no food until the morning, I began to feel the weight of it all. As I exited the building with my mother safely tucked away in the family waiting/sleeping lounge and him monitored to the hilt, I cried.
Being the long-distance daughter has never been an issue for me or my mother. I think she reveled in my freedom and celebrated all my unorthodox choices as small victories of her own. But tonight when I hugged her small frame goodbye, I felt the magnitude of those miles. While tomorrow I will board a plane and return to Houston, she will be there, beside him, and still in the midst of his continuing and daily transformation from doctor to patient. In that hug, I traded places with her. I wasn't the little girl any more and she felt frail. She was tiny in my arms and the forces engulfing us both were so beyond our control that while I felt larger than life holding on to her, I knew we were too weak to stop the inevitable.
As soon as my eyes welled up, I walked away and reached out to friends and family. Thanking God for them, I updated each on Doc's status and asked for prayers. Of course, they quickly came.
Now, I'm waiting for life to go back to "normal." Yet, I know I passed through that door at the beginning of this trip. Those days of "normal" will never again exist because I've seen up close what day to day "life" is for Mom and Doc.
I'm sure I'll be back this way very soon.
Feliz Navidad and Other Airport Adventures
When the news reported the security delays, weather delays, and holiday delays for flights, I determined that I would lessen my stress by getting to the airport in plenty of time. I figured that if I allowed an hour or more to make the 45 min trip to IAH, an hour to get through ticketing and security, I'd still have 90 min or more to grab a bite and read a book before boarding.
The drive took only 30 minutes. I got my bag checked and was through security in less than 10 minutes. When I was on the "other side" and finished with all my responsibilities, I was three hours early. One half-cooked personal deep dish pizza later, I was 2 hours and 45 minutes early.
So rather than bury myself in my book, I thought I'd see what living in the moment would net me.
Settling in a seat near my future gate, I watched the crowd. Parents were desperately trying to subdue children under the influence of Christmas candy and visions of Santa dancing in their heads. Weary souls seemed desperate to become under the influence with the next drink or two. Santa hats were askew. Teenagers were texting, listening to Ipods, and chatting live and in person all at the same time.
Soon a nice looking white haired man a few years my senior and casually well dressed motioned to the seat beside me. Attempting to not only let him know that it was available but also that I was not opposed to conversation, I nodded and replied, "Sure but I hope your pizza is better than the one I just had ..."
Before I completely finished the thought, he interrupted, "No English."
Hmmmm ... thinking that this revelation would test my in-the-moment-making skills, I asked, "Lingua?"
"Italiano or spana," he replied.
"Lo siento, me espanol is muy mal," I apologized for my lack of vast knowledge of his second language and indicated that I knew nothing of his first.
Then he told me in Spanish that I was doing fine, he was going to visit his daughter, his son lives in Chicago, and would I like a slice of pizza?
I asked in very broken Spanish if he was an abuelo (grandfather) and he feigned great shock that I would think so and declared this to be a complete falsehood. We laughed and chatted just a bit more about where I learned Spanish and whether he was on time and in the right location for his flight.
I assured him he had at least 20 minutes and then two minutes later they began a rush boarding of his plane.
"Ahora!" I pointed at the line and began to help him gather his things. He struggled with closing the pizza box and then stood searching the area and looking as though he thought he were forgetting something.
Suddenly, he looked at me, bent down, exclaimed, "Ciao!" and planted a kiss on me with more gusto than I've experienced in a while.
"Feliz Navidad!" I said with a smile.
"Feliz Navidad!" he shouted and was off.
And so goes the story of my Christmas kiss.
Enflamed by the sweetness of his gesture, I determined that I should reach out to a few other folks who by virtue of a recent loss could possibly be dreading the holidays. I called each one and either left a message or had an incredibly sweet conversation with each. One chat lasted 45 minutes! When it was all said and done my experiment of "the moment" had totaled several great conversations, touching texts, and numerous smiles as I determinedly walked the concourse with a grin and made the effort to actually make eye contact with my fellow travelers.
Now that's a secure way to beat the holiday stress blues!
Feliz Navidad indeed!
The drive took only 30 minutes. I got my bag checked and was through security in less than 10 minutes. When I was on the "other side" and finished with all my responsibilities, I was three hours early. One half-cooked personal deep dish pizza later, I was 2 hours and 45 minutes early.
So rather than bury myself in my book, I thought I'd see what living in the moment would net me.
Settling in a seat near my future gate, I watched the crowd. Parents were desperately trying to subdue children under the influence of Christmas candy and visions of Santa dancing in their heads. Weary souls seemed desperate to become under the influence with the next drink or two. Santa hats were askew. Teenagers were texting, listening to Ipods, and chatting live and in person all at the same time.
Soon a nice looking white haired man a few years my senior and casually well dressed motioned to the seat beside me. Attempting to not only let him know that it was available but also that I was not opposed to conversation, I nodded and replied, "Sure but I hope your pizza is better than the one I just had ..."
Before I completely finished the thought, he interrupted, "No English."
Hmmmm ... thinking that this revelation would test my in-the-moment-making skills, I asked, "Lingua?"
"Italiano or spana," he replied.
"Lo siento, me espanol is muy mal," I apologized for my lack of vast knowledge of his second language and indicated that I knew nothing of his first.
Then he told me in Spanish that I was doing fine, he was going to visit his daughter, his son lives in Chicago, and would I like a slice of pizza?
I asked in very broken Spanish if he was an abuelo (grandfather) and he feigned great shock that I would think so and declared this to be a complete falsehood. We laughed and chatted just a bit more about where I learned Spanish and whether he was on time and in the right location for his flight.
I assured him he had at least 20 minutes and then two minutes later they began a rush boarding of his plane.
"Ahora!" I pointed at the line and began to help him gather his things. He struggled with closing the pizza box and then stood searching the area and looking as though he thought he were forgetting something.
Suddenly, he looked at me, bent down, exclaimed, "Ciao!" and planted a kiss on me with more gusto than I've experienced in a while.
"Feliz Navidad!" I said with a smile.
"Feliz Navidad!" he shouted and was off.
And so goes the story of my Christmas kiss.
Enflamed by the sweetness of his gesture, I determined that I should reach out to a few other folks who by virtue of a recent loss could possibly be dreading the holidays. I called each one and either left a message or had an incredibly sweet conversation with each. One chat lasted 45 minutes! When it was all said and done my experiment of "the moment" had totaled several great conversations, touching texts, and numerous smiles as I determinedly walked the concourse with a grin and made the effort to actually make eye contact with my fellow travelers.
Now that's a secure way to beat the holiday stress blues!
Feliz Navidad indeed!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Shy Moon and a Heat Wave on the Winter Solstice
Never one to embrace "normal", Texas maintains its independent spirit on this first day of winter. The forecast suggests we're heading for a frosty 82 degrees today. Brrr ... may need to take a coverup for my swimsuit today as we "study" hydrotherapy at massage school.
A quick review of Facebook updates reveals that our perspective on the lunar eclipse last night was stymied by clouds. However, a few patient and sleep-deprived souls did report capturing a glimpse of the real thing.
I was playing hostess to Stan and Roger with a "cleaning-out-the-fridge-before-traveling" meal when the two community college instructors determined that with no school today they would head out of the city lights in order to catch a better view of the lunar activity. Passing, due to the actual strain a day of reading a textbook aloud can create, I packed up to-go bags and sent them on their way.
When I discovered the fact that their efforts may have been hindered, I was sad. I was counting on living vicariously through their playfulness today.
Educationally speaking, the presentation of the curriculum for my massage class is less than stimulating. I'm trying to hold on to as many story threads as I can so that I can entertain myself during the agonizing ordeal of poor teaching practices.
Today I'm going to ponder a shy dark moon, a balmy winter day, and friends over 50 who still have the spirit of adventure.
A quick review of Facebook updates reveals that our perspective on the lunar eclipse last night was stymied by clouds. However, a few patient and sleep-deprived souls did report capturing a glimpse of the real thing.
I was playing hostess to Stan and Roger with a "cleaning-out-the-fridge-before-traveling" meal when the two community college instructors determined that with no school today they would head out of the city lights in order to catch a better view of the lunar activity. Passing, due to the actual strain a day of reading a textbook aloud can create, I packed up to-go bags and sent them on their way.
When I discovered the fact that their efforts may have been hindered, I was sad. I was counting on living vicariously through their playfulness today.
Educationally speaking, the presentation of the curriculum for my massage class is less than stimulating. I'm trying to hold on to as many story threads as I can so that I can entertain myself during the agonizing ordeal of poor teaching practices.
Today I'm going to ponder a shy dark moon, a balmy winter day, and friends over 50 who still have the spirit of adventure.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
REK -- Another Texas Phenom
I know of Robert Earl Keen's persona more than I know his music. Poet/storyteller backed by a steel guitar and a steady beat, he's a Texas singer/songwriter. And with a couple of decades in the business, he more than earned the right to move beyond beer soaked stages at dimly lit honky tonks to the likes of the Verizon Theater in downtown Houston where I saw him last night with a few hundred of his closest friends.
'Course after an evening of hearing his work up close and personal, I wondered if he's not just as comfortable in some New Mexican cantina than in the well-lit venue (save for the shadow falling on his face due to the large cowboy hat) with the great sound. After he used the signage of a Idaho motel to pen one of his numbers and with topics ranging from the ghostly visitations of Hank Williams to a dysfunctional family Christmas, I was fairly convinced he didn't care where he was as long as he got to recreate his musical characters on a regular basis.
The crowd knew his music by heart. I relied on the good sound system and leaning toward my friend and one of the legion of his fans to ask, "What did he say?" But one line was crystal clear and took my breath with its purity and clarity:
"Feels so good feeling good again . . . "
Yeah.
I'm not sure if such a statement is wasted on the young. They may simply equate it with the day after the morning after. But for me and mine, the line holds the truth behind letting go of years of stress and strain, of releasing one's worries about what other people think, of living in the simple reality that everything isn't necessary and enough is truly enough.
Listening to an artist practicing his craft is just one more means of my own "feeling good again." So glad I did.
'Course after an evening of hearing his work up close and personal, I wondered if he's not just as comfortable in some New Mexican cantina than in the well-lit venue (save for the shadow falling on his face due to the large cowboy hat) with the great sound. After he used the signage of a Idaho motel to pen one of his numbers and with topics ranging from the ghostly visitations of Hank Williams to a dysfunctional family Christmas, I was fairly convinced he didn't care where he was as long as he got to recreate his musical characters on a regular basis.
The crowd knew his music by heart. I relied on the good sound system and leaning toward my friend and one of the legion of his fans to ask, "What did he say?" But one line was crystal clear and took my breath with its purity and clarity:
"Feels so good feeling good again . . . "
Yeah.
I'm not sure if such a statement is wasted on the young. They may simply equate it with the day after the morning after. But for me and mine, the line holds the truth behind letting go of years of stress and strain, of releasing one's worries about what other people think, of living in the simple reality that everything isn't necessary and enough is truly enough.
Listening to an artist practicing his craft is just one more means of my own "feeling good again." So glad I did.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Chronicling
I probably should have seen The Heidi Chronicles by now. As a woman sometimes called a "feminist", I find it hard to believe I haven't. I know that I at least thought about seeing it when the playwright Wendy Wasserstein died in 2006. But good intentions didn't purchase the ticket so I have been ignorant lo these many years.
Until tonight.
One of the smaller but nevertheless very substantial theaters in town is presenting it. Roger invited me to go and, never one to turn down a free night at the theater, I said yes.
As we journeyed back in time with this product of the 50s whose consciousness was raised in the 60s and who began to wonder about her choices in the 70s only to realize her unhappiness in the 80s I alternated between feeling somewhat cheated to great relief and finally deep satisfaction.
When I heard the dialogue between the women who were discovering their voices and shouting with great passion and solidarity at the obstacles in their path, I wanted to have been there, to have participated in something other than a small town's attempt at disco fever as I did in my formative years. But when the conversations of "what if" turned into "what else" and a whining quality crept in, I was pleased to have skipped that level of angst. Finally, when our heroine discovers that she may be living into the heroine of the 21st century as she coos at her newly adopted daughter, I found my ahhhhh.
For I truly am satisfied. I don't live in regret. I celebrate who I am and am ok with not having done what was socially prescribed for a woman of my age during the various decades of my evolution. Choices -- both those that were thoughtful and based in compassion as well as those that were selfish and could have caused pain -- have made me ... well, me. And I hold no sadness that I am somehow not what I set out to be. Having never had the capacity to dream bigger than my reality, I'm thrilled with what's happened to me thus far and anticipate what's next with almost a giddiness.
Seeing it with my dear friend made the play that much more meaningful. Heidi has her doctor and I have my Roger. When we exited the theater, I told him I would have to wait a few moments to say something because I knew when I started to speak I'd cry (as I had done numerous times in the play) and didn't want to be seen sobbing as we walked to the car. I finally found my words when I told him, "Seeing plays like this -- it's a play from the 80s, so someone has to have AIDS -- reminds me that I am so fortunate to have encountered the gay world after the decade that took so many. I am selfish and I can't imagine losing any of 'my boys.'" Having just heard one friend speak of that time as he told of going from six parties in one week to going to six funerals in one week, I hold close the fact that while some friends are positive (though actually very few) and deal with medications that are sometimes horrific, they are still here. They are alive and bring life to my world.
Also, seeing it with Roger was significant in that as I have reflected of late on my lack of a love life, I could honestly tell him that because of him, Stan, Geary, Jerry, Shane, and others I know I will never be lonely. I may be alone, but not lonely.
So now I'm glad to say I have seen The Heidi Chronicles but not lived it. My march may lack some of their fury but it is no less significant. And while I am grateful for the doors they broke down, the ceilings they crashed through, and the paths they forged, I am no slouch. I revel in being present with young women today, answering their questions when they arise, sharing a story or two when appropriate and listening.
The Karen Chronicles continue...
Until tonight.
One of the smaller but nevertheless very substantial theaters in town is presenting it. Roger invited me to go and, never one to turn down a free night at the theater, I said yes.
As we journeyed back in time with this product of the 50s whose consciousness was raised in the 60s and who began to wonder about her choices in the 70s only to realize her unhappiness in the 80s I alternated between feeling somewhat cheated to great relief and finally deep satisfaction.
When I heard the dialogue between the women who were discovering their voices and shouting with great passion and solidarity at the obstacles in their path, I wanted to have been there, to have participated in something other than a small town's attempt at disco fever as I did in my formative years. But when the conversations of "what if" turned into "what else" and a whining quality crept in, I was pleased to have skipped that level of angst. Finally, when our heroine discovers that she may be living into the heroine of the 21st century as she coos at her newly adopted daughter, I found my ahhhhh.
For I truly am satisfied. I don't live in regret. I celebrate who I am and am ok with not having done what was socially prescribed for a woman of my age during the various decades of my evolution. Choices -- both those that were thoughtful and based in compassion as well as those that were selfish and could have caused pain -- have made me ... well, me. And I hold no sadness that I am somehow not what I set out to be. Having never had the capacity to dream bigger than my reality, I'm thrilled with what's happened to me thus far and anticipate what's next with almost a giddiness.
Seeing it with my dear friend made the play that much more meaningful. Heidi has her doctor and I have my Roger. When we exited the theater, I told him I would have to wait a few moments to say something because I knew when I started to speak I'd cry (as I had done numerous times in the play) and didn't want to be seen sobbing as we walked to the car. I finally found my words when I told him, "Seeing plays like this -- it's a play from the 80s, so someone has to have AIDS -- reminds me that I am so fortunate to have encountered the gay world after the decade that took so many. I am selfish and I can't imagine losing any of 'my boys.'" Having just heard one friend speak of that time as he told of going from six parties in one week to going to six funerals in one week, I hold close the fact that while some friends are positive (though actually very few) and deal with medications that are sometimes horrific, they are still here. They are alive and bring life to my world.
Also, seeing it with Roger was significant in that as I have reflected of late on my lack of a love life, I could honestly tell him that because of him, Stan, Geary, Jerry, Shane, and others I know I will never be lonely. I may be alone, but not lonely.
So now I'm glad to say I have seen The Heidi Chronicles but not lived it. My march may lack some of their fury but it is no less significant. And while I am grateful for the doors they broke down, the ceilings they crashed through, and the paths they forged, I am no slouch. I revel in being present with young women today, answering their questions when they arise, sharing a story or two when appropriate and listening.
The Karen Chronicles continue...
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Let's Talk About Men
I used to offer a workshop on how men and women communicate differently. Given that I worked for a woman's organization with over a million members and most of them worked with pastors, the majority of which were male, that made for a popular topic. Rather than use the pop take of the time that "men were from Mars and women from Venus", I pulled from Deborah Tannen's linguistic studies about communication differences between genders.
For instance, her research showed an inordinate use of the phrase "I'm sorry" when females were speaking. The key is that while women sometimes used the phrase as a filler as in ... "I'm sorry. Since you were late we started without you but you can catch up during the break" was often consider a sign of weakness on the part of a female leader of a meeting. The speaker may not have felt any responsibility at all for her choice to move forward, in fact, usually didn't. The apologetic greeting was simply a way of softening the blow of what could have been seen as a reprimand. However, men often heard weakness rather than control and strength.
I'll never forget the time I taught the workshop and a woman well past 70 years of age walked up to me and said, "Thank you." Thinking I'd given her the key to work with her pastor, I said, "I hoped it helped." She responded, "Oh my, yes, after 55 years of marriage I finally get my husband!"
I bring this male/female difference to your attention because as I think about the men in my life I truly am sorry. I'm sorry that I have sometimes chosen men who I thought accepted me for me -- when in fact they accepted me for the moment. When "me" showed up with all my loyalties, passions, and diverse viewpoints, they ran. I'm sorry that I settle when it comes to male companionship. And most of all, I'm sorry that I don't always know how to reveal how much I appreciate the men who stick by me, no matter what.
"No matter what" can mean a lot of things. Divorce is probably the furtherest end of the spectrum. And yet, my ex-husband recently and absolutely showed why I had good taste in men once upon a time. He, who is from Houston and now lives in my home state of Tennessee, drove 2.5 hours with his preschooler son to visit my mother and ailing stepfather in Greenfield. He did so because he had learned of Doc's illness and wanted to check in on them. After asking me in brief emails as to whether it would be ok and receiving the needed contact info, he made the journey.
My mother fell in love. I have no idea what she and my ex may have discussed but after checking in with her I can tell you in detail what she and the curious but respectful preschooler did for the length of the visit. She went on and on about his enthusiasm for her Christmas Village (wall to wall display cases filled with replicas of the perfect little snow-covered wonderland), his gratitude for the books she gave him, and his desire to stay with "Miss Margarett" when his father said it was time to go.
I'm not writing this piece with any kind of regret. I know that my ex is in a better place as the result of the fact that he's with a woman who can be who he needs her to be in ways I could not. I also know that I am in a place of wonderment and excitement that probably wouldn't have been possible had we tried to endure. But I am absolutely filled to the brim and possibly running over with gratitude that this man was part of my life, helped to shape me into who I am, and is proving to be the minister he always wanted to be.
I know in one long car ride he proved it to me. Ministry isn't about sermons, graveside prayers, and great programs. Ministry is reaching out to people who need you and providing at least a moment's relief.
I get that on a regular basis from the male friends in my life who check in with me, have dinner with me, make sure I get out to as many fun events as we can endure, and overall provide me with a male perspective that a single woman could sometimes lack. And this week I also got it from my ex.
I thank God for the men in my life.
For instance, her research showed an inordinate use of the phrase "I'm sorry" when females were speaking. The key is that while women sometimes used the phrase as a filler as in ... "I'm sorry. Since you were late we started without you but you can catch up during the break" was often consider a sign of weakness on the part of a female leader of a meeting. The speaker may not have felt any responsibility at all for her choice to move forward, in fact, usually didn't. The apologetic greeting was simply a way of softening the blow of what could have been seen as a reprimand. However, men often heard weakness rather than control and strength.
I'll never forget the time I taught the workshop and a woman well past 70 years of age walked up to me and said, "Thank you." Thinking I'd given her the key to work with her pastor, I said, "I hoped it helped." She responded, "Oh my, yes, after 55 years of marriage I finally get my husband!"
I bring this male/female difference to your attention because as I think about the men in my life I truly am sorry. I'm sorry that I have sometimes chosen men who I thought accepted me for me -- when in fact they accepted me for the moment. When "me" showed up with all my loyalties, passions, and diverse viewpoints, they ran. I'm sorry that I settle when it comes to male companionship. And most of all, I'm sorry that I don't always know how to reveal how much I appreciate the men who stick by me, no matter what.
"No matter what" can mean a lot of things. Divorce is probably the furtherest end of the spectrum. And yet, my ex-husband recently and absolutely showed why I had good taste in men once upon a time. He, who is from Houston and now lives in my home state of Tennessee, drove 2.5 hours with his preschooler son to visit my mother and ailing stepfather in Greenfield. He did so because he had learned of Doc's illness and wanted to check in on them. After asking me in brief emails as to whether it would be ok and receiving the needed contact info, he made the journey.
My mother fell in love. I have no idea what she and my ex may have discussed but after checking in with her I can tell you in detail what she and the curious but respectful preschooler did for the length of the visit. She went on and on about his enthusiasm for her Christmas Village (wall to wall display cases filled with replicas of the perfect little snow-covered wonderland), his gratitude for the books she gave him, and his desire to stay with "Miss Margarett" when his father said it was time to go.
I'm not writing this piece with any kind of regret. I know that my ex is in a better place as the result of the fact that he's with a woman who can be who he needs her to be in ways I could not. I also know that I am in a place of wonderment and excitement that probably wouldn't have been possible had we tried to endure. But I am absolutely filled to the brim and possibly running over with gratitude that this man was part of my life, helped to shape me into who I am, and is proving to be the minister he always wanted to be.
I know in one long car ride he proved it to me. Ministry isn't about sermons, graveside prayers, and great programs. Ministry is reaching out to people who need you and providing at least a moment's relief.
I get that on a regular basis from the male friends in my life who check in with me, have dinner with me, make sure I get out to as many fun events as we can endure, and overall provide me with a male perspective that a single woman could sometimes lack. And this week I also got it from my ex.
I thank God for the men in my life.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Another Day in the Life of a Food Truck
The roads were rough ... the higher than average number of potholes suggested that pull with the city wasn't something anyone really pursued in this area of town. The failing economy was also evident as many of the warehouses were obviously unused and tagged with graffiti. Once upon a time, the number of wandering homeless folks and street corner deals going down would have been enough to turn the VW around and head for home.
But I was on a mission!
A local non-profit wanted and received a donated beginning to what they hoped would be an income-generating enterprise for the impoverished area of Houston they serve. In their dreams, a former high school concession stand would be transformed into a taqueria or food truck and women from the neighborhood would learn good business practices and earn cash for their families. While the dream became reality in the initial gift of the trailer, the transformation process was taking a while as the non-profit's staff was consumed with their ongoing activities that reach more than 80,000 annually.
Enter me.
After discovering that I was looking for additional income while going to massage school, the director contacted me about serving as a project manager. The gig sounded interesting and I love it when handouts are put aside in lieu of hand ups. So I committed to learning what I could about city requirements, food services, and refurbishing.
Since food trucks are an emerging trend in Houston, I was able to connect to some of my network and discover one of the best and most reliable groups working on transforming old U-hauls and buses into restaurants on wheels. Hence my journey into the land of the not-so-easy-to-find.
As soon as I pulled up in front of the building my concerns about locale vanished. Yes, the street number was haphazardly spray painted on the wall of the metal warehouse. Yes, there were numerous large trucks parked on the street and in front of the only entrance I could find. But there was also a vibe. I heard the radio blaring music from Mexico. I saw three young men on top of a truck working with more enthusiasm and fervor than anyone I'd witnessed in a while. As soon as they saw me, smiles broke out, then words of welcome and offers of help. When I asked for Daniel, they ensured he was on his way.
Daniel is originally from Mexico and came to Houston by way of California. He's the better English speaker of the two brothers who run the shop. Inside the warehouse that day were as many as 9 or 10 trucks in process. The place was orderly and running with the smoothness of a fine automobile. Added to the men on top of the first truck were guys working in one area with sheet metal and men in the back dealing with plans. Efficiency and cleanliness were evident at every turn.
As I drove Daniel to the location where the trailer is currently parked, I explained the non-profit's dream and what we'd done to date. He said little except to inform or correct me about city ordinances. When we arrived at the Center ten minutes later, he quickly set to the task of assessing our situation.
A few minutes passed with him using his measuring tape and crawling under cabinets and then he emerged with a bid at least one fourth less than the first quote I received. He acknowledged that it was only his best guess and vowed to get to work as soon as possible on a pen to paper version.
I dove him back to his facility and along the way was impressed with not only his knowledge but his respect for the non-profit's plans. He knew the value of giving people an opportunity.
I want to call the truck Salud! but since it's a word used for toasts and the non-profit is a religious group, I'm doubting we'll go there. But I think it's fitting. Daniel and his brother have found and offer opportunities for financial health regularly. We want this truck to offer good Mexican (not fatty TexMex) options and we want the staff to enjoy such monetary gain as well. Even if we don't name it "to your health," in my heart I'll know that's it's true identity.
But I was on a mission!
A local non-profit wanted and received a donated beginning to what they hoped would be an income-generating enterprise for the impoverished area of Houston they serve. In their dreams, a former high school concession stand would be transformed into a taqueria or food truck and women from the neighborhood would learn good business practices and earn cash for their families. While the dream became reality in the initial gift of the trailer, the transformation process was taking a while as the non-profit's staff was consumed with their ongoing activities that reach more than 80,000 annually.
Enter me.
After discovering that I was looking for additional income while going to massage school, the director contacted me about serving as a project manager. The gig sounded interesting and I love it when handouts are put aside in lieu of hand ups. So I committed to learning what I could about city requirements, food services, and refurbishing.
Since food trucks are an emerging trend in Houston, I was able to connect to some of my network and discover one of the best and most reliable groups working on transforming old U-hauls and buses into restaurants on wheels. Hence my journey into the land of the not-so-easy-to-find.
As soon as I pulled up in front of the building my concerns about locale vanished. Yes, the street number was haphazardly spray painted on the wall of the metal warehouse. Yes, there were numerous large trucks parked on the street and in front of the only entrance I could find. But there was also a vibe. I heard the radio blaring music from Mexico. I saw three young men on top of a truck working with more enthusiasm and fervor than anyone I'd witnessed in a while. As soon as they saw me, smiles broke out, then words of welcome and offers of help. When I asked for Daniel, they ensured he was on his way.
Daniel is originally from Mexico and came to Houston by way of California. He's the better English speaker of the two brothers who run the shop. Inside the warehouse that day were as many as 9 or 10 trucks in process. The place was orderly and running with the smoothness of a fine automobile. Added to the men on top of the first truck were guys working in one area with sheet metal and men in the back dealing with plans. Efficiency and cleanliness were evident at every turn.
As I drove Daniel to the location where the trailer is currently parked, I explained the non-profit's dream and what we'd done to date. He said little except to inform or correct me about city ordinances. When we arrived at the Center ten minutes later, he quickly set to the task of assessing our situation.
A few minutes passed with him using his measuring tape and crawling under cabinets and then he emerged with a bid at least one fourth less than the first quote I received. He acknowledged that it was only his best guess and vowed to get to work as soon as possible on a pen to paper version.
I dove him back to his facility and along the way was impressed with not only his knowledge but his respect for the non-profit's plans. He knew the value of giving people an opportunity.
I want to call the truck Salud! but since it's a word used for toasts and the non-profit is a religious group, I'm doubting we'll go there. But I think it's fitting. Daniel and his brother have found and offer opportunities for financial health regularly. We want this truck to offer good Mexican (not fatty TexMex) options and we want the staff to enjoy such monetary gain as well. Even if we don't name it "to your health," in my heart I'll know that's it's true identity.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Coaching Beyond the Finish Line
To inspire others, to live with such authenticity that people trust without question your words and seek your guidance, to move people beyond perceived limits ... these traits of a leader are personified in an amazing story populating headlines and newscasts last week.
Some stories get me teary. Some make me sob. Guess which response this prompted ...
Some stories get me teary. Some make me sob. Guess which response this prompted ...
Monday, December 06, 2010
Moaners, Groaners, Boners and Stoners
We've got quite a cast of characters in this theater of the absurd known as massage. I've mentioned before that the intern massage room is a large space divided into smaller ones with a series of curtains on rings. The two most frequent sounds I hear are the rattle of the rings (sort of like a massive zipper effect) as someone enters their space and the wretched wrenching of plastic when a face guard isn't functioning properly.
But plenty of other sounds abound!
Moaners are those clients that -- once the effleurage has begun -- forget they are in public or simply don't care. They express their pleasure with sometimes muted (and sometimes not) "mmmmmmm"s and "yessssss, yessss". Usually they make me smile.
Groaners are hurting. We have a 64-year-old accupressurist from China in our class. His pressure is now legendary and his space tends to be the source of most of the groaners. I tell my clients that it's supposed to "hurt so good, not hurt like hell." He tends to get the ones who are game for hell. Groaners walking out of there are often heard sniffling as well.
Boners are not exactly a sound category unless you note the eery silence. I've had one guy (out of 95 client hours thus far) who didn't say a word but left me evidence of his pleasure on the massage table sheets. Since this is a bodily function that's just a fact of life, I tend not to be too concerned. Now the guy who asked me, after I had completed what to him felt like a tortuous range of motion/stretching sequence, "Are handcuffs next?" is another matter.
And finally, the stoners who, again aren't that much about the sounds, but rather the smell. Seems that lots of folks like to have a toke or a drink or maybe even several pills before they come for a nice, double-your-pleasure-massage. Problem is, they don't realize that whatever you have in excess in your system is going to come out of your pores. In the case of two of our clients the smell of weed was so prevalent that other clients were wondering if the therapists weren't off in a corner chilling. That prompted management to intervene and the sounds I heard were the swishing of the rings, the robotic "My instructor has advised me to terminate the session immediately. Please get dressed" and the pattering of feet as a troop of authority figures rushed the two downstairs for a refund and an escorted exit. In my own client base, I have a pill popper who gives off a metallic aroma that can't be masked any more than her constant fidgeting and lengthy tongue tied explanations of how a wreck a year ago continues to cause her constant pain.
One of the hesitancies I had when considering a massage license years ago was the fact that you often don't get to choose your clients and the concern that I would get one that would just be too difficult to deal with. "Hairy backs" said with a shudder was my punchline then. Funny. Now that I'm introduced daily to a new set of characters, I'm strangely intrigued. Like a theatrical experience without the stage and lights, clients mesmerize me as I walk them to the massage room door, discover more about their roles through touch and attention to sights and sounds, and then see the storyline resolved in 60 to 90 minutes.
To all our Moaners, Groaners, Boners and Stoners ... Bravo!
But plenty of other sounds abound!
Moaners are those clients that -- once the effleurage has begun -- forget they are in public or simply don't care. They express their pleasure with sometimes muted (and sometimes not) "mmmmmmm"s and "yessssss, yessss". Usually they make me smile.
Groaners are hurting. We have a 64-year-old accupressurist from China in our class. His pressure is now legendary and his space tends to be the source of most of the groaners. I tell my clients that it's supposed to "hurt so good, not hurt like hell." He tends to get the ones who are game for hell. Groaners walking out of there are often heard sniffling as well.
Boners are not exactly a sound category unless you note the eery silence. I've had one guy (out of 95 client hours thus far) who didn't say a word but left me evidence of his pleasure on the massage table sheets. Since this is a bodily function that's just a fact of life, I tend not to be too concerned. Now the guy who asked me, after I had completed what to him felt like a tortuous range of motion/stretching sequence, "Are handcuffs next?" is another matter.
And finally, the stoners who, again aren't that much about the sounds, but rather the smell. Seems that lots of folks like to have a toke or a drink or maybe even several pills before they come for a nice, double-your-pleasure-massage. Problem is, they don't realize that whatever you have in excess in your system is going to come out of your pores. In the case of two of our clients the smell of weed was so prevalent that other clients were wondering if the therapists weren't off in a corner chilling. That prompted management to intervene and the sounds I heard were the swishing of the rings, the robotic "My instructor has advised me to terminate the session immediately. Please get dressed" and the pattering of feet as a troop of authority figures rushed the two downstairs for a refund and an escorted exit. In my own client base, I have a pill popper who gives off a metallic aroma that can't be masked any more than her constant fidgeting and lengthy tongue tied explanations of how a wreck a year ago continues to cause her constant pain.
One of the hesitancies I had when considering a massage license years ago was the fact that you often don't get to choose your clients and the concern that I would get one that would just be too difficult to deal with. "Hairy backs" said with a shudder was my punchline then. Funny. Now that I'm introduced daily to a new set of characters, I'm strangely intrigued. Like a theatrical experience without the stage and lights, clients mesmerize me as I walk them to the massage room door, discover more about their roles through touch and attention to sights and sounds, and then see the storyline resolved in 60 to 90 minutes.
To all our Moaners, Groaners, Boners and Stoners ... Bravo!
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Just Another Day in Paradise
- One therapist worked an entire hour on his client's foot. (Not "feet", "foot".)
- Another spent an hour on one knot in a runner's calf.
- And yet another had a guy who wanted a two hour massage but couldn't handle any more pressure than what you might apply when squeezing a new tube of toothpaste. My friend said it was like petting a cat for a couple of hours!
Those are but a few of the more "out there" experiences of a massage school intern. Mine haven't measured up to that degree of oddity. But I certainly have stories to tell.
One day three women came for the beginning a "girls' day out." What made them interesting to me is that they were obviously from a Pentecostal background -- long hair, no makeup, skirts rather than pants. My client was the mom and said she'd had a massage before. I'm learning that doesn't always mean what you think it means. Some have had a chair massage in a mall or airport. Some have had a friend rub their shoulders. But not all who say it mean they've gotten naked on a table and had someone apply the pressure!
Mom was apparently suffering from some bad knees and warned me to be careful. I could see her discomfort as she walked down the hallway and I explained what she needed to do to get ready on the table. I used my standard instructions, "Please disrobe to your comfort level and then lie on your back, face up under the covers."
When I got back into the space, I saw she had followed the instructions perfectly. However, her level of comfort was to keep her RED bra on and put the covers under her arms. So the first sight I saw wasn't something I was expecting from someone so conservative in their outer attire.
I smiled when I did the first bit of pressure on her neck and she ahhed with such abandon. When she added, "You have a nice warm, firm touch" I knew she was going to enjoy the experience so much more if I could relieve her of a bit more clothing. I suggested she pull down the bra strap and she quickly complied.
As I continued, I prayed. Everyone on my table gets a blessing of some kind. Some times I focus on their needs outside our "walls" throughout the entire experience. Some times I wait until the end and wait for a word to pray into them. On this Mom, I prayed throughout. So when I made it to her knees I was only partially surprised to feel a heat coming out of my hands and into her aching joints. I don't know if she felt it but it was a real phenomena. By the time I completed her front and was rolling her over, she was pretty much under the spell of total relaxation. So when I mentioned that the back massage would be that much better with the bra strap un-buc ... she had it off before I finished my whispered suggestion.
The smile on her face when she was restored to her conservative attire was a sweet reminder that our work goes beyond the physical.
A second out of the norm experience came when a woman came in as a walk-in and my friend and I were in the reception area at the time. My friend looked at me and held up her little finger. The reason was because the woman was not much bigger than that. Seriously, she may have weighed 80 pounds. My friend whispered, "I'm afraid I'd break her." In a few moments, I learned that the woman who shared my height but was less than half my weight would be my client.
I tried not to stare as I asked about her concerns. She didn't want anything done to her scalp, face, or feet. AND she wanted a light touch.
Without being able to demonstrate on you, I'll just have to say that imagine you are trying to find a lost contact on a tile floor. You don't press very hard, right? That's the degree of pressure she wanted. I had to ask three times to make sure I got it right.
My thumb and forefinger would wrap around her upper arm with room to spare. Her calves only required one hand to be completely engulfed. Her thigh fit into my cupped palm.
When I got to her back it was a bumpy road -- literally. Her ribs protruded so much that there was no true way to do effleurage because there was no way for a long, smooth stroke.
I wear a bandana around my head because I usually have to worry about dripping sweat on folks. This time I worried that if I kept tearing up I'd be dropping those. I fought - with limited success - the worried and stressful responses her appearance generated because I believe that my emotions can be felt through my hands. And I prayed like never before.
I had no idea how she liked it. She only acknowledged at one point that her arm was tender because of "so many needles". Otherwise she said nothing and never explained why she was the way she is.
At the end of the 50 minutes I felt a real sense of urging. So I bent down and whispered, "I have a crazy question. Have you ever had your ears done?"
"No."
"They say it's like a full body massage and I know you don't want your scalp done but I thought you might like it. It's kind of Eastern!"
She agreed.
Halfway during the ears (and I did it the way my mentor taught me) I realized why I had felt the urging to do it.
That was the only time in the entire massage she got to be treated as normal. Her ears could handle the "normal" amount of pressure with no problem.
Afterwards, as we rode down in the elevator, she said that part of the massage was the most amazing.
That's when I saw it -- a jeweled pink ribbon pin on her lapel.
If cancer was indeed what had gotten her to that state, the massage should never have happened. Massage increases circulation so the cancer cells have that much more speed in moving around the body. The only time massage isn't contraindicated is when the patient is already terminal. But my client didn't check the box on the intake form asking if there were any medical conditions to keep her from receiving a massage, so I gave her what she wanted.
When I showed one of our receptionists the small amount of pressure she had required, the rather expressive woman declared, "That's not a massage! Why did she come here?"
"To be touched," I replied and, in that moment, the rightness of it all seemed absolutely clear.
- Another spent an hour on one knot in a runner's calf.
- And yet another had a guy who wanted a two hour massage but couldn't handle any more pressure than what you might apply when squeezing a new tube of toothpaste. My friend said it was like petting a cat for a couple of hours!
Those are but a few of the more "out there" experiences of a massage school intern. Mine haven't measured up to that degree of oddity. But I certainly have stories to tell.
One day three women came for the beginning a "girls' day out." What made them interesting to me is that they were obviously from a Pentecostal background -- long hair, no makeup, skirts rather than pants. My client was the mom and said she'd had a massage before. I'm learning that doesn't always mean what you think it means. Some have had a chair massage in a mall or airport. Some have had a friend rub their shoulders. But not all who say it mean they've gotten naked on a table and had someone apply the pressure!
Mom was apparently suffering from some bad knees and warned me to be careful. I could see her discomfort as she walked down the hallway and I explained what she needed to do to get ready on the table. I used my standard instructions, "Please disrobe to your comfort level and then lie on your back, face up under the covers."
When I got back into the space, I saw she had followed the instructions perfectly. However, her level of comfort was to keep her RED bra on and put the covers under her arms. So the first sight I saw wasn't something I was expecting from someone so conservative in their outer attire.
I smiled when I did the first bit of pressure on her neck and she ahhed with such abandon. When she added, "You have a nice warm, firm touch" I knew she was going to enjoy the experience so much more if I could relieve her of a bit more clothing. I suggested she pull down the bra strap and she quickly complied.
As I continued, I prayed. Everyone on my table gets a blessing of some kind. Some times I focus on their needs outside our "walls" throughout the entire experience. Some times I wait until the end and wait for a word to pray into them. On this Mom, I prayed throughout. So when I made it to her knees I was only partially surprised to feel a heat coming out of my hands and into her aching joints. I don't know if she felt it but it was a real phenomena. By the time I completed her front and was rolling her over, she was pretty much under the spell of total relaxation. So when I mentioned that the back massage would be that much better with the bra strap un-buc ... she had it off before I finished my whispered suggestion.
The smile on her face when she was restored to her conservative attire was a sweet reminder that our work goes beyond the physical.
A second out of the norm experience came when a woman came in as a walk-in and my friend and I were in the reception area at the time. My friend looked at me and held up her little finger. The reason was because the woman was not much bigger than that. Seriously, she may have weighed 80 pounds. My friend whispered, "I'm afraid I'd break her." In a few moments, I learned that the woman who shared my height but was less than half my weight would be my client.
I tried not to stare as I asked about her concerns. She didn't want anything done to her scalp, face, or feet. AND she wanted a light touch.
Without being able to demonstrate on you, I'll just have to say that imagine you are trying to find a lost contact on a tile floor. You don't press very hard, right? That's the degree of pressure she wanted. I had to ask three times to make sure I got it right.
My thumb and forefinger would wrap around her upper arm with room to spare. Her calves only required one hand to be completely engulfed. Her thigh fit into my cupped palm.
When I got to her back it was a bumpy road -- literally. Her ribs protruded so much that there was no true way to do effleurage because there was no way for a long, smooth stroke.
I wear a bandana around my head because I usually have to worry about dripping sweat on folks. This time I worried that if I kept tearing up I'd be dropping those. I fought - with limited success - the worried and stressful responses her appearance generated because I believe that my emotions can be felt through my hands. And I prayed like never before.
I had no idea how she liked it. She only acknowledged at one point that her arm was tender because of "so many needles". Otherwise she said nothing and never explained why she was the way she is.
At the end of the 50 minutes I felt a real sense of urging. So I bent down and whispered, "I have a crazy question. Have you ever had your ears done?"
"No."
"They say it's like a full body massage and I know you don't want your scalp done but I thought you might like it. It's kind of Eastern!"
She agreed.
Halfway during the ears (and I did it the way my mentor taught me) I realized why I had felt the urging to do it.
That was the only time in the entire massage she got to be treated as normal. Her ears could handle the "normal" amount of pressure with no problem.
Afterwards, as we rode down in the elevator, she said that part of the massage was the most amazing.
That's when I saw it -- a jeweled pink ribbon pin on her lapel.
If cancer was indeed what had gotten her to that state, the massage should never have happened. Massage increases circulation so the cancer cells have that much more speed in moving around the body. The only time massage isn't contraindicated is when the patient is already terminal. But my client didn't check the box on the intake form asking if there were any medical conditions to keep her from receiving a massage, so I gave her what she wanted.
When I showed one of our receptionists the small amount of pressure she had required, the rather expressive woman declared, "That's not a massage! Why did she come here?"
"To be touched," I replied and, in that moment, the rightness of it all seemed absolutely clear.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hurry Up and Wait -- The Details
I've been slow to post many details about massage school. In the first weeks of class, we were told of the need to respect client privacy and not even acknowledge a client when out shopping unless they said hello first. But stories keep landing on my table -- inspirational, humorous, and curious ones. So, while I haven't settled on how much I can and cannot say, and of course, names are out of the question, as a storyteller, I am compelled to say something.
Today, I'm tackling the subject of "hurry up and wait."
Our course is divided into three sections. First we hit the books. Next, (and where we are now) are our official days of internship with 50 "hands-on" hours required and most of us adding another 70 due to the need to cut costs of tuition. Lastly, we will go back to the books and practice tests so that we can pass what the state puts before us.
Most of my cohorts and I have heard similar comments about massage:
"How do you deal with the nastiness of feet?"
"What do you do about the big guys?"
"What's it like when you roll them over and see a hairy back?"
"What if a guy ... you know ... gets aroused?
The reason I know my cohorts have heard the same questions is that we have lots of time to talk. When more than 25 people are available for massages and you're depending on walk-ins to get the hours, we spend a great deal of time chatting. Supposedly, we are to wait in a small 10 x 10 room until the front desk calls to say we have an appointment. But (refer again to the above note on how many of us are in this program at this point) and you can easily deduce that space might be limited in what is known as the "intern room." Since you will rarely see me on a crowded elevator or on the escalator at a huge sporting or concert event, I take my slightly claustophobic self down to the cafe and set up a make shift office.
With my Mac, wireless access to email (but, curiously, not Facebook or YouTube), and a discount that ensures I'll have something to drink throughout the day, I'm good to go. I'm trying to keep my bills paid, so the time for freelancing is of great value.
However, I've learned not to count on long spurts of productivity. Inevitably, if I arrive at 8:45 a.m. and am set up by 9:15 -- with both my massage table and makeshift office ready for action -- I've got a visitor by 9:30. That small intern room starts overflowing downstairs to the cafe fairly quickly. That's when the storytelling and laughter begins.
We compare how many hours of actual massage we've accumulated. We wait to see who had the biggest surprise -- "I worked one hour on only a calf." "My young client moaned the whole time." "I got 'shooshed' by one of the instructors because my tapotement (tapping) was too loud." And we keep waiting for the receptionist to peek around the corner and call one of us away for an actual appointment.
Some adjusted their hours as soon as we realized 9 to 5 wasn't going to net us many massages. Though our class schedule is set, our massage schedule is adjustable. I now go in at ten and stay until 7 or 8 p.m. Mon-Thurs and add Sunday afternoon for good measure. Saturday is THE day to be there but my freelancing and volunteering usually have me booked. Plus, back to back (get the massage humor?) massages are hard on me now that I appear to be dealing with a pinched nerve.
When we do get a client, we're off! We make our way to the reception area where we are given the intake form. That's the source for finding out any issues, what degree of pressure is desired, and whether we are giving a 30, 60, 90 min or 2 hour massage. HINT: 90 min is perfect. Two hours means the intern is trying to fill the time. 60 min means you're going to miss out on something and especially if you have an issue. After 50 hours thus far, I can tell you, everyone has issues!
We then greet the client and have the time it takes to walk 50 feet to the elevator, ride up one floor, and walk another 50 feet or so to find out more about their needs, explain where they can take a restroom break, tell them to turn off their cell, and go over the procedure so they aren't too alarmed when we start working on their forehead the minute we get into the mostly quiet massage room.
"Mostly quiet" refers to the fact that there are only curtains surrounding each table, those curtains are on rings, those rings make noise every time you open the entrance to your space or hit the "wall" with your hip. Also we've got "soothing" music (if you don't count the track that is mostly static), men snoring, therapists whispering instructions, and plastic bags of laundry being collected and new bags being opened (you know that sound).
We take the client to the space, explain where to put clothes and that we need them to get "under the covers and face up" and then leave to let them get comfy. Those few minutes of waiting are usually filled with getting some info down on their intake form and adding them to our collective list of clients so that our hours are accounted for. I have the additional pleasure of getting my bandana tied. You see, I'm a sweat-er and if not properly attired I will drip.
Then, hoping my client has already closed his/her eyes, I enter Ninja-like and begin with breathing together and the face. By the time I've done the neck and shoulders, I've got my stride. Arms, legs, and back follow. We conclude with the scalp.
If I've done my job well, the client has a drugged look on his/her face when emerging from our curtained habitat, clothed and ready to evaluate me. I walk the same path back down to the reception area, leave them with the evaluation paper, and thank them.
Then I'm back up to the second floor to change the sheets on the table, check to see if any laundry needs to go to the collection area downstairs, and finally back at my makeshift office in the cafe.
And it's hurry up and wait all over again.
More on those round the table conversations in the next post . . .
Today, I'm tackling the subject of "hurry up and wait."
Our course is divided into three sections. First we hit the books. Next, (and where we are now) are our official days of internship with 50 "hands-on" hours required and most of us adding another 70 due to the need to cut costs of tuition. Lastly, we will go back to the books and practice tests so that we can pass what the state puts before us.
Most of my cohorts and I have heard similar comments about massage:
"How do you deal with the nastiness of feet?"
"What do you do about the big guys?"
"What's it like when you roll them over and see a hairy back?"
"What if a guy ... you know ... gets aroused?
The reason I know my cohorts have heard the same questions is that we have lots of time to talk. When more than 25 people are available for massages and you're depending on walk-ins to get the hours, we spend a great deal of time chatting. Supposedly, we are to wait in a small 10 x 10 room until the front desk calls to say we have an appointment. But (refer again to the above note on how many of us are in this program at this point) and you can easily deduce that space might be limited in what is known as the "intern room." Since you will rarely see me on a crowded elevator or on the escalator at a huge sporting or concert event, I take my slightly claustophobic self down to the cafe and set up a make shift office.
With my Mac, wireless access to email (but, curiously, not Facebook or YouTube), and a discount that ensures I'll have something to drink throughout the day, I'm good to go. I'm trying to keep my bills paid, so the time for freelancing is of great value.
However, I've learned not to count on long spurts of productivity. Inevitably, if I arrive at 8:45 a.m. and am set up by 9:15 -- with both my massage table and makeshift office ready for action -- I've got a visitor by 9:30. That small intern room starts overflowing downstairs to the cafe fairly quickly. That's when the storytelling and laughter begins.
We compare how many hours of actual massage we've accumulated. We wait to see who had the biggest surprise -- "I worked one hour on only a calf." "My young client moaned the whole time." "I got 'shooshed' by one of the instructors because my tapotement (tapping) was too loud." And we keep waiting for the receptionist to peek around the corner and call one of us away for an actual appointment.
Some adjusted their hours as soon as we realized 9 to 5 wasn't going to net us many massages. Though our class schedule is set, our massage schedule is adjustable. I now go in at ten and stay until 7 or 8 p.m. Mon-Thurs and add Sunday afternoon for good measure. Saturday is THE day to be there but my freelancing and volunteering usually have me booked. Plus, back to back (get the massage humor?) massages are hard on me now that I appear to be dealing with a pinched nerve.
When we do get a client, we're off! We make our way to the reception area where we are given the intake form. That's the source for finding out any issues, what degree of pressure is desired, and whether we are giving a 30, 60, 90 min or 2 hour massage. HINT: 90 min is perfect. Two hours means the intern is trying to fill the time. 60 min means you're going to miss out on something and especially if you have an issue. After 50 hours thus far, I can tell you, everyone has issues!
We then greet the client and have the time it takes to walk 50 feet to the elevator, ride up one floor, and walk another 50 feet or so to find out more about their needs, explain where they can take a restroom break, tell them to turn off their cell, and go over the procedure so they aren't too alarmed when we start working on their forehead the minute we get into the mostly quiet massage room.
"Mostly quiet" refers to the fact that there are only curtains surrounding each table, those curtains are on rings, those rings make noise every time you open the entrance to your space or hit the "wall" with your hip. Also we've got "soothing" music (if you don't count the track that is mostly static), men snoring, therapists whispering instructions, and plastic bags of laundry being collected and new bags being opened (you know that sound).
We take the client to the space, explain where to put clothes and that we need them to get "under the covers and face up" and then leave to let them get comfy. Those few minutes of waiting are usually filled with getting some info down on their intake form and adding them to our collective list of clients so that our hours are accounted for. I have the additional pleasure of getting my bandana tied. You see, I'm a sweat-er and if not properly attired I will drip.
Then, hoping my client has already closed his/her eyes, I enter Ninja-like and begin with breathing together and the face. By the time I've done the neck and shoulders, I've got my stride. Arms, legs, and back follow. We conclude with the scalp.
If I've done my job well, the client has a drugged look on his/her face when emerging from our curtained habitat, clothed and ready to evaluate me. I walk the same path back down to the reception area, leave them with the evaluation paper, and thank them.
Then I'm back up to the second floor to change the sheets on the table, check to see if any laundry needs to go to the collection area downstairs, and finally back at my makeshift office in the cafe.
And it's hurry up and wait all over again.
More on those round the table conversations in the next post . . .
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Celebrate Good Times, C'mon
For the last three days, we've been celebrating my friend's birthday. On the actual day of her birth -- Thursday -- the plan had been to make beef bourguignon, a dish we'd done together before and had enjoyed the effort of trying to follow Julia Child's instructions.
I took the cast iron dutch oven and a cake pan by her house before heading to massage school. She was also doing her mother's chocolate cake recipe (an enterprise that another friend and I had attempted once, and only once, for her and one, we now agreed, for which we would always offer our support but never again attempt its complexity). The idea was that she would get off work a bit early and I'd meet her at our girlfriend's house as soon as I completed my last massage of the day.
When I walked in, something hit me. I wasn't sure what it was but I knew the situation wasn't what it should be. I dove into the fray and added fresh rosemary to my chopped potatoes and since they were going to need to roast at a higher temperature than the beef, I asked what the timing on Julia's recipe was going to be.
"I don't know," she said. "I haven't taken a look yet. Let me see."
Reading aloud, she got to the source of my concern. "3 to 4 hours."
"We'll be doing takeout tonight," I replied.
Fortunately, we are all quite affable in the kitchen so in the middle of the laughter we found the Thai takeout menu and ultimately enjoyed some spicy delights while smells of beef broth, wine, luscious beef and vegs wafting throughout the dining area. I didn't stay for the unveiling of only the first step Chef Child's French cuisine. I had an early start to my Friday but I did get to taste it on Saturday evening.
Friday we enjoyed a taco bar back at our favorite kitchen with games following. Friends around the table laughing at each other's foibles with dominoes and Rummy tiles emit sounds that energize my soul.
After a half day on Saturday in a board meeting, I ran a few errands and then met the birthday girl at my house. We had a sleepover planned. First we'd finish the beef dish, then we'd hook up with a massage school friend, attend an art show and finally, she'd be treated to a birthday massage.
All went off like clockwork.
At the end of the night, as I said goodbye to the massage therapist who had been deemed "unbelievable," I realized that even the reality of few funds can't keep creative women from a good time.
Celebrate? You betcha! Wonder what we'll come up with for the holidays?
I took the cast iron dutch oven and a cake pan by her house before heading to massage school. She was also doing her mother's chocolate cake recipe (an enterprise that another friend and I had attempted once, and only once, for her and one, we now agreed, for which we would always offer our support but never again attempt its complexity). The idea was that she would get off work a bit early and I'd meet her at our girlfriend's house as soon as I completed my last massage of the day.
When I walked in, something hit me. I wasn't sure what it was but I knew the situation wasn't what it should be. I dove into the fray and added fresh rosemary to my chopped potatoes and since they were going to need to roast at a higher temperature than the beef, I asked what the timing on Julia's recipe was going to be.
"I don't know," she said. "I haven't taken a look yet. Let me see."
Reading aloud, she got to the source of my concern. "3 to 4 hours."
"We'll be doing takeout tonight," I replied.
Fortunately, we are all quite affable in the kitchen so in the middle of the laughter we found the Thai takeout menu and ultimately enjoyed some spicy delights while smells of beef broth, wine, luscious beef and vegs wafting throughout the dining area. I didn't stay for the unveiling of only the first step Chef Child's French cuisine. I had an early start to my Friday but I did get to taste it on Saturday evening.
Friday we enjoyed a taco bar back at our favorite kitchen with games following. Friends around the table laughing at each other's foibles with dominoes and Rummy tiles emit sounds that energize my soul.
After a half day on Saturday in a board meeting, I ran a few errands and then met the birthday girl at my house. We had a sleepover planned. First we'd finish the beef dish, then we'd hook up with a massage school friend, attend an art show and finally, she'd be treated to a birthday massage.
All went off like clockwork.
At the end of the night, as I said goodbye to the massage therapist who had been deemed "unbelievable," I realized that even the reality of few funds can't keep creative women from a good time.
Celebrate? You betcha! Wonder what we'll come up with for the holidays?
Saturday, October 23, 2010
I May Not Be an Iron Chef, But I Rock the Hospice Kitchen
We don't usually have opportunities to connect with the residents of the AIDS hospice. Many come to us too late. With only weeks to live, they have no time or energy for sharing their stories or the steps of their journey to this quiet 8-bed haven for their final days. Usually most of the residents are from the streets and are at or very near the "actively dying" stage. So as volunteers, we concentrate primarily on food, clean sheets, and mopped floors.
Today was different.
Most of the 8 residents were eaters. Two were very alert. Two would have been even more communicative if only I'd known their heart languages. So today I started my shift as a short order cook. Betty even wrote down the orders so we could keep the oatmeal/boiled eggs separate from the fried egg with toast! The first hour or so we were boiling, flipping, scrambling, and buttering fast enough to impress Houston's The Breakfast Klub.
And like most family cooks, as soon as breakfast dishes were in the sink, I was searching for what lunch would be. Omega House does an incredible job of making the most of all donations. I can't begin to list all the reasons I'm impressed with Sandy and her leadership of that place. Still somedays I'm just not inspired with what I find in the fridge and freezer. I know better cooks than me could have manifested a feast out of what I found there, but I didn't see it. So I announced to my fellow vol that I was heading to the supermarket. As per her character, she gave me cash to split the bill.
Consulting with her by cell from the aisles of the store and after I discovered a special on chicken, we agreed a King Ranch Casserole was in order. Back at the kitchen counter, I overheard our trainee discussing life with one of the residents. Soon we were all engaged in hearing about histories, desires, and even funeral plans. No one tried to "shush" him. No one tried to pretend that we weren't sitting in a hospice for the dying. We all just shared information about what we knew regarding the end days. And even our youngest vol had knowledge of that.
When the buzzer rang from Bed D, I had just sat down for a cup of coffee (ok and a doughnut ... but really those things are always there and I just couldn't let them go to waste!). I rose and discovered that one of our only two female residents was awake and wondering where her husband had gone. After a brief look around, I suggested to her that he might have taken a walk.
"Ok," she said. "I just go in and out so much I had wanted to tell him something while I was awake."
Clearly, she cherished the moments when the drugs didn't take her away. So I asked a question. She responded. I asked another and her story grew longer. That's when I sat down and let the journey unfold. I left a few twists and turns later to get her a salad and grateful for the opportunity to put a story to the woman in Bed D.
Back in the kitchen, the timer went off and we pulled the brown and bubbling (as all casserole directions suggest they should be) concoction from the oven. Cheesy goodness topped chicken, chiles, sour cream and tortillas to a calorie-laden delight. Since everyone had been smelling the sauteed onions and baked goodness for almost an hour, I had a line of folks ready to test it.
Our most talkative resident proclaimed it "heavenly" and it received good reviews from vols and our favorite nurse as well. But the best moment came when our French-speaking African agreed to a taste after I pulled the word for "chicken" from the recesses of my limited French vocabulary. After one bite, he smiled up at me and said, "Yes, more."
Somedays the length of the conversation doesn't matter. Merely a connection will do.
Today was different.
Most of the 8 residents were eaters. Two were very alert. Two would have been even more communicative if only I'd known their heart languages. So today I started my shift as a short order cook. Betty even wrote down the orders so we could keep the oatmeal/boiled eggs separate from the fried egg with toast! The first hour or so we were boiling, flipping, scrambling, and buttering fast enough to impress Houston's The Breakfast Klub.
And like most family cooks, as soon as breakfast dishes were in the sink, I was searching for what lunch would be. Omega House does an incredible job of making the most of all donations. I can't begin to list all the reasons I'm impressed with Sandy and her leadership of that place. Still somedays I'm just not inspired with what I find in the fridge and freezer. I know better cooks than me could have manifested a feast out of what I found there, but I didn't see it. So I announced to my fellow vol that I was heading to the supermarket. As per her character, she gave me cash to split the bill.
Consulting with her by cell from the aisles of the store and after I discovered a special on chicken, we agreed a King Ranch Casserole was in order. Back at the kitchen counter, I overheard our trainee discussing life with one of the residents. Soon we were all engaged in hearing about histories, desires, and even funeral plans. No one tried to "shush" him. No one tried to pretend that we weren't sitting in a hospice for the dying. We all just shared information about what we knew regarding the end days. And even our youngest vol had knowledge of that.
When the buzzer rang from Bed D, I had just sat down for a cup of coffee (ok and a doughnut ... but really those things are always there and I just couldn't let them go to waste!). I rose and discovered that one of our only two female residents was awake and wondering where her husband had gone. After a brief look around, I suggested to her that he might have taken a walk.
"Ok," she said. "I just go in and out so much I had wanted to tell him something while I was awake."
Clearly, she cherished the moments when the drugs didn't take her away. So I asked a question. She responded. I asked another and her story grew longer. That's when I sat down and let the journey unfold. I left a few twists and turns later to get her a salad and grateful for the opportunity to put a story to the woman in Bed D.
Back in the kitchen, the timer went off and we pulled the brown and bubbling (as all casserole directions suggest they should be) concoction from the oven. Cheesy goodness topped chicken, chiles, sour cream and tortillas to a calorie-laden delight. Since everyone had been smelling the sauteed onions and baked goodness for almost an hour, I had a line of folks ready to test it.
Our most talkative resident proclaimed it "heavenly" and it received good reviews from vols and our favorite nurse as well. But the best moment came when our French-speaking African agreed to a taste after I pulled the word for "chicken" from the recesses of my limited French vocabulary. After one bite, he smiled up at me and said, "Yes, more."
Somedays the length of the conversation doesn't matter. Merely a connection will do.
For the Art Lover in All of Us
I marvel at beauty. This week has been a masterpiece in the making.
My massage internship resulted in views of intricate tattoos, athleticism and grace unhampered by the years, mother/daughter bonds celebrating risk, and the generosity of friends. Like a first time visitor to the Museum of Fine Arts, my jaw sometimes dropped in awe.
While some might dismiss my assessment, I know without doubt that this week my hands were instruments of good, sometimes offering restoration beyond what "cross friction for better circulation could provide" and going straight to the mystical, spiritual realm.
I know there are massage therapists who will be able to go deeper than me, endure longer than me, and ascertain causes and solutions for stress and strain better than me. But I'm not swayed. Because my newfound "ministry" isn't about being the best. I know that I give rest to the weary, comfort to the tired, and blessings to each body on my table.
I am 49 years old. I am an instrument of good. And, because of that, I am my own work of art. I thank God for the inspiration.
My massage internship resulted in views of intricate tattoos, athleticism and grace unhampered by the years, mother/daughter bonds celebrating risk, and the generosity of friends. Like a first time visitor to the Museum of Fine Arts, my jaw sometimes dropped in awe.
While some might dismiss my assessment, I know without doubt that this week my hands were instruments of good, sometimes offering restoration beyond what "cross friction for better circulation could provide" and going straight to the mystical, spiritual realm.
I know there are massage therapists who will be able to go deeper than me, endure longer than me, and ascertain causes and solutions for stress and strain better than me. But I'm not swayed. Because my newfound "ministry" isn't about being the best. I know that I give rest to the weary, comfort to the tired, and blessings to each body on my table.
I am 49 years old. I am an instrument of good. And, because of that, I am my own work of art. I thank God for the inspiration.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Campaigning for a New Way
If I had to make my living by phone banking every day, I'd call it quits.
If my livelihood depended upon me blockwalking on a regular basis, I'd take steps to make a change.
Oh ... wait a minute ... I did.
Life on the campaign trail is difficult. The work is never done. More lists are always popping up -- calls to make, doors to knock on, funds to raise, mailers to design with just the right message that help folks know a candidate ... in three paragraphs or less.
After one season, I knew the grueling pace would never be a race I could master. While my current studies keep me busy, I have found a degree of balance between fun and facts, between what I want to do and what I have to do. In the last two weeks, I've attended a few campaign events (because I wanted to, not because I had to) and standing at a distance I've had my decision confirmed.
I wonder if the public would agree that a new way is viable, that they would be willing to be educated on choices without calls, mailers, and a knock on the door on a Saturday morning. While I hear plenty of complaints about the process, the gurus bring out stats each time a naysayer suggests cutting back on campaign communications that dispel the idea that those complaints have any merit. They easily convince the campaign planners that disconnecting from phone banks or closing the door on blockwalking would shut down a successful campaign.
And what do I know? Maybe they're right.
But as for me and my ears, feet, and heart . . . we'll be going in new directions.
If my livelihood depended upon me blockwalking on a regular basis, I'd take steps to make a change.
Oh ... wait a minute ... I did.
Life on the campaign trail is difficult. The work is never done. More lists are always popping up -- calls to make, doors to knock on, funds to raise, mailers to design with just the right message that help folks know a candidate ... in three paragraphs or less.
After one season, I knew the grueling pace would never be a race I could master. While my current studies keep me busy, I have found a degree of balance between fun and facts, between what I want to do and what I have to do. In the last two weeks, I've attended a few campaign events (because I wanted to, not because I had to) and standing at a distance I've had my decision confirmed.
I wonder if the public would agree that a new way is viable, that they would be willing to be educated on choices without calls, mailers, and a knock on the door on a Saturday morning. While I hear plenty of complaints about the process, the gurus bring out stats each time a naysayer suggests cutting back on campaign communications that dispel the idea that those complaints have any merit. They easily convince the campaign planners that disconnecting from phone banks or closing the door on blockwalking would shut down a successful campaign.
And what do I know? Maybe they're right.
But as for me and my ears, feet, and heart . . . we'll be going in new directions.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
"Live Like You Were Dying" Has Implications
I must admit to tearing up a bit at every hearing of Tim McGraw's popular country song that includes a "bucket list" of activities ranging from sky diving to bull riding to sweet talking and forgiveness. I get emotional when I think people might not realize the value of each day, that unaccustomed to sudden lost, they might assume that every day is a given.
Because I learned at a very early age that nothing is guaranteed, and had that theory reinforced when I hit my mid-30s, I have attempted to cherish the moments, to accept most challenges that come my way, to embrace the unknown and try to learn what I can.
As a result, days can be packed.
Last weekend I spent all day Friday helping artists load in to a downtown festival that happens only because the a festival staff of three, the city, and countless volunteers make it happen. For 13 hours, I ensured that I answered as many questions as possible, smiled at the weary (artists come from across the country), and took a moment every now and then to appreciate the orchestration that makes this celebration of art benefitting local charities possible.
On Saturday, I went from one side of the Houston area to the other dressed in rodeo clown attire. You haven't seen surprise and smiles until you've pulled into a drive thru in between rodeo gigs. On this day, I held on tight as a pygmy goat kept me going in rapid circles, blew tons of bubbles that little boys seemed thrilled to burst (a metaphor for my love life?) and tasted chili from 26 different cook-off teams to judge which was the best. A couple of hours later and sans the red cheeks and fake freckles of Cornbread (my clown name) I attended a benefit for a group that supports persons living with AIDS and then spent some time with a friend who has recently experienced loss and wanted to get out for a while.
Sunday I was back at the arts festival. More questions, more volunteers, and support of artists by way of water, sodas, crackers and cookies filled the afternoon hours until we finally were ready to assist with load out. Once again, I marveled at the willingness of individuals donating time and energy so that others might enjoy a great day.
When the weekend concluded I was wiped. At least I thought I was. Then I got word that my stepfather was not doing well. In ICU with complications to infirmities to numerous to list, I wondered if he would make it through the week. And due to my "to the walls" attitude all weekend, I was physically and emotionally drained.
A tear fell after a phone update from my mother. That's when the angels swooped in. Except, they were "angels unaware." The young man in massage class who was bored as we waited for our next instructions on a routine isn't usually the touchy-feely type. Yet, out of the boredom, he said, he wanted to rub my feet. One woman who knew what was happening with my family kept checking with me and took care of my back. Another lit a candle and said a prayer. And another classmate closed us off from the rest of the class so that she could practice her routine and I got quiet and a full massage before leaving.
The day served as a great reminder. I'm going to continue to remember that living has no contract, no guarantees. But I'm also going to ramp up the gratitude and be aware that others are living . . . and literally dying all around me. A pair of feet, shoulders, or maybe even a needed prayer could be around the next corner. Wonder if there's a pair of wings in my size?
Because I learned at a very early age that nothing is guaranteed, and had that theory reinforced when I hit my mid-30s, I have attempted to cherish the moments, to accept most challenges that come my way, to embrace the unknown and try to learn what I can.
As a result, days can be packed.
Last weekend I spent all day Friday helping artists load in to a downtown festival that happens only because the a festival staff of three, the city, and countless volunteers make it happen. For 13 hours, I ensured that I answered as many questions as possible, smiled at the weary (artists come from across the country), and took a moment every now and then to appreciate the orchestration that makes this celebration of art benefitting local charities possible.
On Saturday, I went from one side of the Houston area to the other dressed in rodeo clown attire. You haven't seen surprise and smiles until you've pulled into a drive thru in between rodeo gigs. On this day, I held on tight as a pygmy goat kept me going in rapid circles, blew tons of bubbles that little boys seemed thrilled to burst (a metaphor for my love life?) and tasted chili from 26 different cook-off teams to judge which was the best. A couple of hours later and sans the red cheeks and fake freckles of Cornbread (my clown name) I attended a benefit for a group that supports persons living with AIDS and then spent some time with a friend who has recently experienced loss and wanted to get out for a while.
Sunday I was back at the arts festival. More questions, more volunteers, and support of artists by way of water, sodas, crackers and cookies filled the afternoon hours until we finally were ready to assist with load out. Once again, I marveled at the willingness of individuals donating time and energy so that others might enjoy a great day.
When the weekend concluded I was wiped. At least I thought I was. Then I got word that my stepfather was not doing well. In ICU with complications to infirmities to numerous to list, I wondered if he would make it through the week. And due to my "to the walls" attitude all weekend, I was physically and emotionally drained.
A tear fell after a phone update from my mother. That's when the angels swooped in. Except, they were "angels unaware." The young man in massage class who was bored as we waited for our next instructions on a routine isn't usually the touchy-feely type. Yet, out of the boredom, he said, he wanted to rub my feet. One woman who knew what was happening with my family kept checking with me and took care of my back. Another lit a candle and said a prayer. And another classmate closed us off from the rest of the class so that she could practice her routine and I got quiet and a full massage before leaving.
The day served as a great reminder. I'm going to continue to remember that living has no contract, no guarantees. But I'm also going to ramp up the gratitude and be aware that others are living . . . and literally dying all around me. A pair of feet, shoulders, or maybe even a needed prayer could be around the next corner. Wonder if there's a pair of wings in my size?
Monday, October 04, 2010
Definitely Tired. Definitely.
Class all day. Prepare a dinner that doesn't reek of "I'm single and don't merit anything beyond microwave frozen diet meals." Spend time on freelance projects. Do the laundry so that clean sheets and scrubs are available tomorrow. Check in on the sick and afflicted in my family. Bed time.
I'm sure that for a few months I can do this. But "sure" is definitely not a definitive response to "definitely tired."
I'm sure that for a few months I can do this. But "sure" is definitely not a definitive response to "definitely tired."
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