- 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.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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."
Friday, October 01, 2010
Massage Lessons ... I'm Learning
As when anything you want to be good -- preparation sets the tone.
The sheets are clean. The lights are low. The music is on but not overwhelming. Just a few simple acts so that the unspoken declaration is clear, "Welcome."
When you are on the table, grounding can begin. My fingers are lightly on your shoulders and then with a few deep breaths -- breathe in and out . . . in and out . . .
The transformative power of touch is underway.
In classes, I'm being shown the methods by which I can glide, compress, strip, and friction at least some of your stress away. What I can't do is wipe away the cause of the pain. The more I connect via massage, the more I wish it could be true.
How incredible to offer you the ability to identify your trigger point -- that place that's the source of pain but of which you are unaware -- and go deep enough and for long enough so that relief occurs. Not just physically but mentally and emotionally. While I can offer a temporary, physical nod in the right direction, I can't do the same with your mind.
For now I'll leave that to different kinds of therapists. But if you can't yet find the words, my table and touch are ready. You are most definitely welcome.
The sheets are clean. The lights are low. The music is on but not overwhelming. Just a few simple acts so that the unspoken declaration is clear, "Welcome."
When you are on the table, grounding can begin. My fingers are lightly on your shoulders and then with a few deep breaths -- breathe in and out . . . in and out . . .
The transformative power of touch is underway.
In classes, I'm being shown the methods by which I can glide, compress, strip, and friction at least some of your stress away. What I can't do is wipe away the cause of the pain. The more I connect via massage, the more I wish it could be true.
How incredible to offer you the ability to identify your trigger point -- that place that's the source of pain but of which you are unaware -- and go deep enough and for long enough so that relief occurs. Not just physically but mentally and emotionally. While I can offer a temporary, physical nod in the right direction, I can't do the same with your mind.
For now I'll leave that to different kinds of therapists. But if you can't yet find the words, my table and touch are ready. You are most definitely welcome.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Networking by any other name . . .
While reading a story about how the creation of social network content has hit a plateau, I realized some of the language seemed very familiar. The church -- a social network of its own and one in which I spent much of my career -- would identify with the classifications of participants:
Creators
Conversationalists
Critics
Collectors
Joiners
Spectators
Inactives
The study's findings reveal that in the past year, no measurable growth has appeared in the Creators category and in the U.S. that group (of those creating social content) has actually declined. Social networking is still on the rise, however. But this study suggests that the average user "feels most at home taking more passive actions."
If I were still in the church consulting business, I'd have a workshop outlined in a matter of minutes after digesting this one!
Creators
Conversationalists
Critics
Collectors
Joiners
Spectators
Inactives
The study's findings reveal that in the past year, no measurable growth has appeared in the Creators category and in the U.S. that group (of those creating social content) has actually declined. Social networking is still on the rise, however. But this study suggests that the average user "feels most at home taking more passive actions."
If I were still in the church consulting business, I'd have a workshop outlined in a matter of minutes after digesting this one!
Just When I Thought I Couldn't Go On . . .
The temps dropped below 90!
Now I remember what a cool breeze feels like.
Now I remember what a cool breeze feels like.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Amazed and marveling ...
I've had a lasagna-making, Omega House-mopping, party-hopping, rodeo-clowning, slow-cooking kinda of weekend and it's not over yet.
I'm marveling at the kind of life I lead ...
-bottling mead at one party for friends who own a Renaissance Faire,
-singing "For He's a Grumpy Old Man" to a friend younger than me -- with all his friends and family dressed in old man attire at a cafeteria,
-cooking for friends, people with AIDS, and more friends,
-and filling in at the last minute at a rodeo event that's helping to raise awareness and funds to "beat the hell out of melanoma."
In less than two days, I've done that and more. When leadership gurus used to tell me to envision my future and write it down I always said I couldn't imagine a future that exceeded my reality. I still can't. Rather than setting a course and moving toward a status/objective/goal, I have chosen to cherish each moment as best I can and take every opportunity to milk the life out of every experience.
So far, so very, very, very good.
I'm marveling at the kind of life I lead ...
-bottling mead at one party for friends who own a Renaissance Faire,
-singing "For He's a Grumpy Old Man" to a friend younger than me -- with all his friends and family dressed in old man attire at a cafeteria,
-cooking for friends, people with AIDS, and more friends,
-and filling in at the last minute at a rodeo event that's helping to raise awareness and funds to "beat the hell out of melanoma."
In less than two days, I've done that and more. When leadership gurus used to tell me to envision my future and write it down I always said I couldn't imagine a future that exceeded my reality. I still can't. Rather than setting a course and moving toward a status/objective/goal, I have chosen to cherish each moment as best I can and take every opportunity to milk the life out of every experience.
So far, so very, very, very good.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
A time to live and a time to . . .
Before E was born, his father walked out on E's mother and her then eleven children. E, the baby, never knew him and, in some ways, always sought that relationship.
Yesterday when my friend visited E, E was already in a coma. My friend knew the implications of his condition should he survive. He told E, "It's ok to sleep. And when you wake up, you will be in the arms of a Father who will never leave you and always love you."
Last night E died . . . surrounded by his family and my friend.
Yesterday when my friend visited E, E was already in a coma. My friend knew the implications of his condition should he survive. He told E, "It's ok to sleep. And when you wake up, you will be in the arms of a Father who will never leave you and always love you."
Last night E died . . . surrounded by his family and my friend.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Peace that Passes Understanding
My friend's friend is quite possibly dying. E contracted a parasite of some kind several weeks ago. He's in his mid-30s, adventurous (especially when it comes to street taco stands), in great shape and then suddenly he's unable to keep anything down and is losing weight rapidly. Three weeks were required before doctors could identify what the problem was and attack it. Antibiotics -- two rounds -- were thought to help but in his weakened state he got slightly better only to get a lot worse. Last week the thought was that he might be rebounding. This week he's in ICU and the doctors say he's added meningitis and possibly pneumonia to his problems and the first batch of parasites have been replaced by something else.
His mother arrived from Mexico on Friday.
My friend is assisting as best he can, trying to be there for E, and at the same time trying to stay out of the way of the family. Since E has 11 brothers and a sister and they are all Spanish-speaking while my friend is not, that's not the easiest thing to do. Still he is there. He steps in when possible and, in the meantime, stands and waits for his turn to see the shadow of his lover.
E hasn't hidden any aspect of his life from his family. They've known since his youth that he plays hard. But in the last few years, he's traded much of his life on the edge for the pursuit of something longer-lasting. He's earned his GED, started work towards a college degree and held down a demanding position as the go-to guy with a catering company. All the while, he cajoles, jokes, and debates his way through conversations and relationships with a laugh that will make anyone forgive his unbridled fervor and, soon enough, applaud his desire to constantly be learning.
Extremely attractive and proud of it, E has retreated as the pounds and muscles fell away. Only family were allowed to care for him. He pulled away from my friend in a vain attempt to shield him from the sight of his deterioration. My friend took the retreat in stride, knowing that when E is determined, there's no option but to oblige him.
E gave his power of attorney to his brother this week. That's the last conscious act he's verbalized.
The brother now serves as gatekeeper to the ICU visits, hearer of the doctors' dire updates, and translator for family members and friends. Since our little chosen family focused on our friend the night before, praying with him, laughing with him, eliciting stories and tears, and then distracting him when he wanted, I decided the brother was my focus yesterday.
Tall, robust, long dark curls framing his face, the brother's obvious strength and love for E was evident from the first hello. Wrapped in a blanket from the night's vigil at his mother's side as she wept over her baby, he was holding on to the edges of both the material and his courageous facade. "I schedule time for crying," he said. "I'm the one my brother wanted to take care of things. Call me silly, but, I can't let them see me cry. That's my time. Last night, I didn't get it because I stayed with my mother. I'm in great need of tears at the moment."
I looked at those arms, the blanket, and eyes that implored the Universe to make this better somehow while every word indicated his resignation to what was to come. I knew in an instance what I wanted to do.
"Hon, I'm a little strange. I know you just met me. But I want to massage your hands. Do you like massage? Do you mind?"
"Are you kidding? Of course. Oh, you are incredible! Yes, yes."
We sat. We chatted. Then we talked, really talked. Mixed between the stories was laughter that sometimes surprised the other visitors in the waiting room. I looked up once to see a woman watching with what looked to be envy and a smile in her eyes. I envisioned that she wanted what we were sharing -- the freedom to just be, to not pretend to hope for things when our hopes are detrimental to the good of the one we love, to accept, to stare down expectations and social mores and just do. I worked his forearms and heard of how E came to be not just his brother but his friend and confidante. On his metacarpals and carpals I got the story of E's youth. Turning the pages of time and my massage attention to toward the fleshy parts surrounding his thumb I got the lowdown on family dynamics. And by the time I was working his fingers we had declared our love for one another.
When Mama came away from the morning visit with E she was ready to go home so I took her lead and exited as well. But I also took the morning's moments with me throughout the day. Later in the evening, when I stood backstage at a fundraising gala for the AIDS hospice where I volunteer, I heard the music with a new poignancy, the speeches with a keen alertness to the myriad of emotions that comes when you minister to the dying and those they love. I was amazed at how my one day underscored the connectedness that a person of faith feels when faced with friendships, struggle, love, aspirations, frustrations, and more. I held no answers but I embraced peace.
And then . . .
Feet announcing with every throb they were ready to head home, secure in the knowledge that once again the power of volunteers had produced an enjoyable experience for supporters and a profitable one for the organization, I stood ready to make a quick departure after the traditional toasts and desserts with cast and audience. I greeted one of the organizational staffers and her husband who I had met briefly earlier in the afternoon. We did a checklist of how everything went and then she walked away for a glass of water.
I turned to her husband. "So as I recall, your beautiful wife told me that you were in marketing as well. Is that right?"
"Well, yes, in a way. I work in communications for the Mexican consulate here in Houston."
Gasp. Hand to chest in disbelief. Was it really only hours ago that I sat with E's brother discussing what we thought was needed to help others of his siblings to cross the border and see E? And here was the man who might have those answers.
I regurgitated what I hope was a concise version of the story. He nodded in understanding, letting me know that indeed he'd heard similar stories before. Then he outlined the steps needed, gave me his card and said the most beautiful words a woman blessed with the ability to connect the dots can hear, "Have the brother call me."
Facing disease and perhaps death is never easy, pleasant, wanted, or any other positive term I can come up with. But with love, touch, patience, grace, and an openness to allow for each person involved to be who they are and how they need to be, peace can come.
I thank God that I don't just get to see this happen, but am an active participant. For that and so much more, I thank God.
His mother arrived from Mexico on Friday.
My friend is assisting as best he can, trying to be there for E, and at the same time trying to stay out of the way of the family. Since E has 11 brothers and a sister and they are all Spanish-speaking while my friend is not, that's not the easiest thing to do. Still he is there. He steps in when possible and, in the meantime, stands and waits for his turn to see the shadow of his lover.
E hasn't hidden any aspect of his life from his family. They've known since his youth that he plays hard. But in the last few years, he's traded much of his life on the edge for the pursuit of something longer-lasting. He's earned his GED, started work towards a college degree and held down a demanding position as the go-to guy with a catering company. All the while, he cajoles, jokes, and debates his way through conversations and relationships with a laugh that will make anyone forgive his unbridled fervor and, soon enough, applaud his desire to constantly be learning.
Extremely attractive and proud of it, E has retreated as the pounds and muscles fell away. Only family were allowed to care for him. He pulled away from my friend in a vain attempt to shield him from the sight of his deterioration. My friend took the retreat in stride, knowing that when E is determined, there's no option but to oblige him.
E gave his power of attorney to his brother this week. That's the last conscious act he's verbalized.
The brother now serves as gatekeeper to the ICU visits, hearer of the doctors' dire updates, and translator for family members and friends. Since our little chosen family focused on our friend the night before, praying with him, laughing with him, eliciting stories and tears, and then distracting him when he wanted, I decided the brother was my focus yesterday.
Tall, robust, long dark curls framing his face, the brother's obvious strength and love for E was evident from the first hello. Wrapped in a blanket from the night's vigil at his mother's side as she wept over her baby, he was holding on to the edges of both the material and his courageous facade. "I schedule time for crying," he said. "I'm the one my brother wanted to take care of things. Call me silly, but, I can't let them see me cry. That's my time. Last night, I didn't get it because I stayed with my mother. I'm in great need of tears at the moment."
I looked at those arms, the blanket, and eyes that implored the Universe to make this better somehow while every word indicated his resignation to what was to come. I knew in an instance what I wanted to do.
"Hon, I'm a little strange. I know you just met me. But I want to massage your hands. Do you like massage? Do you mind?"
"Are you kidding? Of course. Oh, you are incredible! Yes, yes."
We sat. We chatted. Then we talked, really talked. Mixed between the stories was laughter that sometimes surprised the other visitors in the waiting room. I looked up once to see a woman watching with what looked to be envy and a smile in her eyes. I envisioned that she wanted what we were sharing -- the freedom to just be, to not pretend to hope for things when our hopes are detrimental to the good of the one we love, to accept, to stare down expectations and social mores and just do. I worked his forearms and heard of how E came to be not just his brother but his friend and confidante. On his metacarpals and carpals I got the story of E's youth. Turning the pages of time and my massage attention to toward the fleshy parts surrounding his thumb I got the lowdown on family dynamics. And by the time I was working his fingers we had declared our love for one another.
When Mama came away from the morning visit with E she was ready to go home so I took her lead and exited as well. But I also took the morning's moments with me throughout the day. Later in the evening, when I stood backstage at a fundraising gala for the AIDS hospice where I volunteer, I heard the music with a new poignancy, the speeches with a keen alertness to the myriad of emotions that comes when you minister to the dying and those they love. I was amazed at how my one day underscored the connectedness that a person of faith feels when faced with friendships, struggle, love, aspirations, frustrations, and more. I held no answers but I embraced peace.
And then . . .
Feet announcing with every throb they were ready to head home, secure in the knowledge that once again the power of volunteers had produced an enjoyable experience for supporters and a profitable one for the organization, I stood ready to make a quick departure after the traditional toasts and desserts with cast and audience. I greeted one of the organizational staffers and her husband who I had met briefly earlier in the afternoon. We did a checklist of how everything went and then she walked away for a glass of water.
I turned to her husband. "So as I recall, your beautiful wife told me that you were in marketing as well. Is that right?"
"Well, yes, in a way. I work in communications for the Mexican consulate here in Houston."
Gasp. Hand to chest in disbelief. Was it really only hours ago that I sat with E's brother discussing what we thought was needed to help others of his siblings to cross the border and see E? And here was the man who might have those answers.
I regurgitated what I hope was a concise version of the story. He nodded in understanding, letting me know that indeed he'd heard similar stories before. Then he outlined the steps needed, gave me his card and said the most beautiful words a woman blessed with the ability to connect the dots can hear, "Have the brother call me."
Facing disease and perhaps death is never easy, pleasant, wanted, or any other positive term I can come up with. But with love, touch, patience, grace, and an openness to allow for each person involved to be who they are and how they need to be, peace can come.
I thank God that I don't just get to see this happen, but am an active participant. For that and so much more, I thank God.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Twists in the Conversation
"History shapes generations and generations shape history." That's a line I've borrowed from Strauss and Howe and used many times standing before leaders who are desperate to cross the generational barriers they often see rising up in their organizations.
My massage therapy class is no different. This week I started singing "I'm a little bit country . . ." and my generational cohort completed the line a la Marie Osmond (pre-Dancing with the Stars and Nutrisystem commercials) and one of our younger brethren in the class said, "I remember that. They did it on South Park."
Next up was talk of movies like X-Men and Mystique's body paint compared to the gold paint of Goldfinger. More of the youthful brigade had joined us and acknowledged that while they hadn't see the 007 flick, they knew the reference because of Goldmember in Austin Powers.
And so it goes, seems that history also shapes parody. My youth is being recycled.
So I'm glad to have my cohort in the classroom. T is an incredible artist via knitting, embroidery and some things that one does with needles that I'm not too familiar with but look beautiful! She's smart, witty, and savvy on events past and present so that we have shared more than one look of "been there, done that" when classroom conversations have taken any number of the twists and turns.
That's why when she asked to speak to me -- and had a rather serious tone in her voice -- I quickly wrapped up what I was doing to see what she wanted.
"Do you go straight?" she queried.
Now, I've been very up front about who I am and what I do with various non-profits, political organizations, and my friends. While my instructor has labeled me a liberal and playfully gives me grief on a regular basis, T has struck me as a woman who takes things as they come, doesn't jump to judgement and while possibly disagreeing with someone, doesn't feel the need to preach or lambast them for the differences. So I was somewhat shocked that she went from conversations that had primarily been about pop culture, good web reads, family life, and cooking shows to what my sexual orientation is.
"Uh, what?" I asked in return.
"Do you go straight?" she said again. But the repetition was a tad bit slower since it was obvious that I was confused.
I didn't want to be defensive and yet, I still couldn't believe we were having this conversation in the hallway.
"Straight? Yes, I'm straight," I said while also ensuring that I didn't indicate I thought there was anything wrong with the alternative. At least, I hoped I was doing that. Mostly I had a very confused look on my face. So I added, "Are you asking me if I am straight?"
"No!" she declared emphatically and also gave Seinfield's now famous "not that there's anything wrong with that" look before she really slowed down to say, "Do you GHOST WRITE?"
"Why, yes, yes on both counts. What do you need?"
Lessons learned this week: Massage and laughter are both great stress relievers.
My massage therapy class is no different. This week I started singing "I'm a little bit country . . ." and my generational cohort completed the line a la Marie Osmond (pre-Dancing with the Stars and Nutrisystem commercials) and one of our younger brethren in the class said, "I remember that. They did it on South Park."
Next up was talk of movies like X-Men and Mystique's body paint compared to the gold paint of Goldfinger. More of the youthful brigade had joined us and acknowledged that while they hadn't see the 007 flick, they knew the reference because of Goldmember in Austin Powers.
And so it goes, seems that history also shapes parody. My youth is being recycled.
So I'm glad to have my cohort in the classroom. T is an incredible artist via knitting, embroidery and some things that one does with needles that I'm not too familiar with but look beautiful! She's smart, witty, and savvy on events past and present so that we have shared more than one look of "been there, done that" when classroom conversations have taken any number of the twists and turns.
That's why when she asked to speak to me -- and had a rather serious tone in her voice -- I quickly wrapped up what I was doing to see what she wanted.
"Do you go straight?" she queried.
Now, I've been very up front about who I am and what I do with various non-profits, political organizations, and my friends. While my instructor has labeled me a liberal and playfully gives me grief on a regular basis, T has struck me as a woman who takes things as they come, doesn't jump to judgement and while possibly disagreeing with someone, doesn't feel the need to preach or lambast them for the differences. So I was somewhat shocked that she went from conversations that had primarily been about pop culture, good web reads, family life, and cooking shows to what my sexual orientation is.
"Uh, what?" I asked in return.
"Do you go straight?" she said again. But the repetition was a tad bit slower since it was obvious that I was confused.
I didn't want to be defensive and yet, I still couldn't believe we were having this conversation in the hallway.
"Straight? Yes, I'm straight," I said while also ensuring that I didn't indicate I thought there was anything wrong with the alternative. At least, I hoped I was doing that. Mostly I had a very confused look on my face. So I added, "Are you asking me if I am straight?"
"No!" she declared emphatically and also gave Seinfield's now famous "not that there's anything wrong with that" look before she really slowed down to say, "Do you GHOST WRITE?"
"Why, yes, yes on both counts. What do you need?"
Lessons learned this week: Massage and laughter are both great stress relievers.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Alone Doesn't Mean Lonely
Reminders that I live alone come every day:
- When I have to apply a Icy Hot patch to my sore back and can't quite get it right the first, second or third try.
- When I see something on the floor and know that no one else is going to pick it up but me.
- When I cook a recipe as written and eat on it for days because they usually feed 4-6 people.
- When bills have to be paid, even if I don't have a regular income at the moment.
Reminders that I'm rarely lonely are fairly frequent as well:
- When a friend agrees to spraying for bugs in my kitchen while I'm away for a few days.
- When another friend texts that she admires the path I'm on and the steps I'm taking to care for myself and others.
- When any number of individuals from the various non-profits with whom I work comment on my energy level and networking skills.
- When I'm driving in my car and tempted to make an unhealthy choice and instead call any one of the speed dial numbers programmed in my phone.
Loneliness creeps in during dark days or at night and waits in the shadows until I invite it to get a bit closer. That choice is usually because there's a tearjerker of a movie on or some memory just got the best of me. Ironically, when loneliness hits, it only takes minutes and I'm not alone. Friend/family are always there. And for this and soooooooo much more, I'm grateful.
- When I have to apply a Icy Hot patch to my sore back and can't quite get it right the first, second or third try.
- When I see something on the floor and know that no one else is going to pick it up but me.
- When I cook a recipe as written and eat on it for days because they usually feed 4-6 people.
- When bills have to be paid, even if I don't have a regular income at the moment.
Reminders that I'm rarely lonely are fairly frequent as well:
- When a friend agrees to spraying for bugs in my kitchen while I'm away for a few days.
- When another friend texts that she admires the path I'm on and the steps I'm taking to care for myself and others.
- When any number of individuals from the various non-profits with whom I work comment on my energy level and networking skills.
- When I'm driving in my car and tempted to make an unhealthy choice and instead call any one of the speed dial numbers programmed in my phone.
Loneliness creeps in during dark days or at night and waits in the shadows until I invite it to get a bit closer. That choice is usually because there's a tearjerker of a movie on or some memory just got the best of me. Ironically, when loneliness hits, it only takes minutes and I'm not alone. Friend/family are always there. And for this and soooooooo much more, I'm grateful.
Observations from a Massage School Newbie
1. The student nightmare that usually occurs before the presentation is due -- that you are making the presentation and then look down to realize you're naked -- is fact, not fiction, in massage school. Your fellow students will see you naked. You'll be draped. But you will be naked.
2. Massage school is one of the few learning institutions where homework means remembering to shave your legs.
3. During the first weeks of "hands-on learning" bruises happen. Lots of bruises. I sort of wear them like battle scars. I may soon suggest a game of trying to identify shapes, kinda like what you do on a sunny day with white puffy clouds. The best I can do right now is that the one on my forearm (anterior view) looks like an eggplant. Unfortunately, the one on my forearm (posterior) is directly beside an age spot and is blending in way too well. The ones on my thighs? Well, let's just say it looks like I've been having more fun than I really have.
2. Massage school is one of the few learning institutions where homework means remembering to shave your legs.
3. During the first weeks of "hands-on learning" bruises happen. Lots of bruises. I sort of wear them like battle scars. I may soon suggest a game of trying to identify shapes, kinda like what you do on a sunny day with white puffy clouds. The best I can do right now is that the one on my forearm (anterior view) looks like an eggplant. Unfortunately, the one on my forearm (posterior) is directly beside an age spot and is blending in way too well. The ones on my thighs? Well, let's just say it looks like I've been having more fun than I really have.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
This Southern Girl Doesn't Glow -- She Sweats
Yesterday was so intensely hot that sane people were indoors with air conditioning.
Sanity is not my strong suit.
By 9 a.m. I had donned three layers of clothing and was searching for shade at a Special Rodeo. Eleven other clowns and I were among the entertainment for a half day of fun for children with special needs. We were photographed with them. We danced with them. We cheered at their karaoke. Some did rope tricks (note that that wouldn't be me). And all of us sweated.
At one point, I found a way to stand with my arm around Confetti for a photo (we all have rodeo clown names) without touching her wet shirt. She had a leather patch on the back of her suspenders. When Valentine or Geranium stood close to me, I cringed each time a hand would press into my back because I knew visions of wet rags had to be dancing in their heads. One hour in and there wasn't a dry hair on my head. Thankfully the cowboy hat disguised that fact somewhat. But I did fear that some of the smaller kids in wheelchairs and strollers might truly be afraid of the deranged looking woman in crazy makeup, suspenders, bright yellow shirt and wearing leggings. I would have (if it hadn't been me!).
The kids were incredible. Some were inspiring. One girl of probably 9 or 10 but looked to be the size of a 5-year-old and who needed a walker, belted out "God Bless America" with the fervor of an American Idol. Several teenagers dominated the dance floor. One girl could do cartwheels. Her friend happily thought she could too as she bent at the waist and motioned with her hands toward the floor. One young man caught all of our attention as he did a rapid fire reading of the words to "Take this Job and Shove It" occasionally allowing the music to catch up.
The "regularness" of their lives was never more evident as they helped each other, as siblings were jealous of attention paid to the others, as Moms giggled at their antics, as a grandfather helped his acrobatic grandson jump high in the air . . . over and over and over again. They were simply kids having a great time on horses, in wagons; playing with rabbits and laughing at the prickliness of a hedgehogs; and turning their lips blue with cotton candy and snow cones.
My heart was warmed as well as my body!
I had just enough time to drive home, shower (ahhhhhh), and load up the car. Why? Because I'm not content to do one event per day. Noooooooo. Crazy woman books a rodeo event and an Equality Texas gig in one day. In defense of what little grip on reality I have, the rodeo event was purely volunteering. ET was paying me to serve as the event coordinator. And in these lean days, that meant saying yes to them even though I already had something on the calendar.
Minutes after drying my hair, the sweat started pouring once again. I had to drive to the store to pick up ice and lemons. More sweat. I loaded my friend's car with supplies I'd been storing at my house. More wetness. We drove separately to the Heights (about 20 minutes away) and my persnickety AC in my car kicked in about ten minutes into the drive. Yet more moisture. We unpacked at this incredible house that was once a flop house but was now the location of many a gala. With a wraparound porch, huge backyard, art throughout, and both a state-of-the-art kitchen and wine cellar, it's truly the bones of a great event.
I had enlisted friends to make this event one of the great ones. They came through as always. We arranged, rearranged, set up the bar, set up the food, and traversed the emotional landscape of a host with one party in the evening and a Sunday brunch scheduled for the following day.
We transformed ourselves into party-goers with quick changes. My hair was still not dry. And served, photographed and mingled well. Just when I thought that I might not look as though someone threw a bottle of water in my face, the crowd grew to such a level that the AC couldn't keep up. Donation cards became fans. The host felt sorry for me and showed me the one vent in the kitchen I could stand over for immediate relief. I'd almost dried off when it was time to clean up, load the cars and enjoy the convection oven that I now know as my Beetle with the bad compressor.
And yet, when people commented on my performance at the party, I most often heard "energetic." Now when you are a year shy of 50, you've dripped in front of strangers in a strange land, and you still get remarks like that, it's not a bad feeling. A smile is a wonderful form of makeup. Sincere interest in what another is saying adds light to the eyes and complexion. What I lack in physical composure, I make up for with attitude.
A day like yesterday was all about attitude. I learned from the young. I shared with the advocates. And I took a shower when I got home.
Life is still very good ... a little warm, but very good.
Sanity is not my strong suit.
By 9 a.m. I had donned three layers of clothing and was searching for shade at a Special Rodeo. Eleven other clowns and I were among the entertainment for a half day of fun for children with special needs. We were photographed with them. We danced with them. We cheered at their karaoke. Some did rope tricks (note that that wouldn't be me). And all of us sweated.
At one point, I found a way to stand with my arm around Confetti for a photo (we all have rodeo clown names) without touching her wet shirt. She had a leather patch on the back of her suspenders. When Valentine or Geranium stood close to me, I cringed each time a hand would press into my back because I knew visions of wet rags had to be dancing in their heads. One hour in and there wasn't a dry hair on my head. Thankfully the cowboy hat disguised that fact somewhat. But I did fear that some of the smaller kids in wheelchairs and strollers might truly be afraid of the deranged looking woman in crazy makeup, suspenders, bright yellow shirt and wearing leggings. I would have (if it hadn't been me!).
The kids were incredible. Some were inspiring. One girl of probably 9 or 10 but looked to be the size of a 5-year-old and who needed a walker, belted out "God Bless America" with the fervor of an American Idol. Several teenagers dominated the dance floor. One girl could do cartwheels. Her friend happily thought she could too as she bent at the waist and motioned with her hands toward the floor. One young man caught all of our attention as he did a rapid fire reading of the words to "Take this Job and Shove It" occasionally allowing the music to catch up.
The "regularness" of their lives was never more evident as they helped each other, as siblings were jealous of attention paid to the others, as Moms giggled at their antics, as a grandfather helped his acrobatic grandson jump high in the air . . . over and over and over again. They were simply kids having a great time on horses, in wagons; playing with rabbits and laughing at the prickliness of a hedgehogs; and turning their lips blue with cotton candy and snow cones.
My heart was warmed as well as my body!
I had just enough time to drive home, shower (ahhhhhh), and load up the car. Why? Because I'm not content to do one event per day. Noooooooo. Crazy woman books a rodeo event and an Equality Texas gig in one day. In defense of what little grip on reality I have, the rodeo event was purely volunteering. ET was paying me to serve as the event coordinator. And in these lean days, that meant saying yes to them even though I already had something on the calendar.
Minutes after drying my hair, the sweat started pouring once again. I had to drive to the store to pick up ice and lemons. More sweat. I loaded my friend's car with supplies I'd been storing at my house. More wetness. We drove separately to the Heights (about 20 minutes away) and my persnickety AC in my car kicked in about ten minutes into the drive. Yet more moisture. We unpacked at this incredible house that was once a flop house but was now the location of many a gala. With a wraparound porch, huge backyard, art throughout, and both a state-of-the-art kitchen and wine cellar, it's truly the bones of a great event.
I had enlisted friends to make this event one of the great ones. They came through as always. We arranged, rearranged, set up the bar, set up the food, and traversed the emotional landscape of a host with one party in the evening and a Sunday brunch scheduled for the following day.
We transformed ourselves into party-goers with quick changes. My hair was still not dry. And served, photographed and mingled well. Just when I thought that I might not look as though someone threw a bottle of water in my face, the crowd grew to such a level that the AC couldn't keep up. Donation cards became fans. The host felt sorry for me and showed me the one vent in the kitchen I could stand over for immediate relief. I'd almost dried off when it was time to clean up, load the cars and enjoy the convection oven that I now know as my Beetle with the bad compressor.
And yet, when people commented on my performance at the party, I most often heard "energetic." Now when you are a year shy of 50, you've dripped in front of strangers in a strange land, and you still get remarks like that, it's not a bad feeling. A smile is a wonderful form of makeup. Sincere interest in what another is saying adds light to the eyes and complexion. What I lack in physical composure, I make up for with attitude.
A day like yesterday was all about attitude. I learned from the young. I shared with the advocates. And I took a shower when I got home.
Life is still very good ... a little warm, but very good.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Facing Fears and the Table
For some anxiety-ridden students facing the return to classes, the nightmare of standing before your classmates and realizing you're naked is a familiar one. The relief of waking up is sweet.
My nightmare has no such ending. I'm in massage therapy class. I won't be waking up. I will be naked.
Even before I hit the one-year-to-the-big-50 mark, I wasn't that comfortable with my body. I've always been aware of the extra pounds and now, of course, there's the reality of aging skin. I'm not convinced that I'm some crone but I'm also not that excited about a swimsuit.
So joining a class that requires you to shed clothing and jump on a table so that 20-somethings who cycle, play in rock bands, and bartend can beat on you makes total sense, right?
I can't say that I was surprised when we were told this week that we'd need our lotion. That was the cue that our clothes would be coming off. We've been practicing with scrubs on, learning to drape the sheet so that some degree of modesty is maintained. But with the introduction of strokes, we had to be moving to the big day.
What did surprise me was my reaction. Suddenly, I saw myself in such a negative light. Every pound on me seemed heavier, every blemish got darker, every wrinkle looser. And when we were told on the second day on "hands-on lab work" that we had to have a male partner if we hadn't already had one . . . well, gulp, I had to face the fear.
I looked around the room and there was the one guy in the younger set (yes, we've somewhat self-organized by age) who actually laughs at my jokes. He caught my eye, we did the raised eyebrow dance of inquiry and both nodded that we would proceed.
I worked on him first. He's the cyclist and may weigh as much as my two thighs. He's never had a professional massage. On this issue, I definitely had the upper hand.
I followed the class procedure of strokes, got the instructor to use him as a model so that my new young friend could have an incredible glute experience, and got some good response for my degree of pressure.
Then we closed the curtains and I stripped.
When he came back to the table, we had to practice the turn. If he does the draping correctly, he can't see but the move requires a rollover in which the client's breasts are potentially exposed. I rolled and positioned myself and took a deep breath. In that moment, I realized the truth of the words I uttered more than once during his practice of strokes and in response to his effusive apologies for getting some part of the practice wrong. "We are students. We are here to learn. We'll make mistakes but if we can't learn on each other, we can't learn."
My fears were faced by reframing. On that table, I am not a middle-aged woman with "issues" about her physical contours and sagging skin. I am an object lesson, a means to greater understanding. In learning mode, the experience made sense and, in fact, was essential.
Massage really does help relieve stress.
My nightmare has no such ending. I'm in massage therapy class. I won't be waking up. I will be naked.
Even before I hit the one-year-to-the-big-50 mark, I wasn't that comfortable with my body. I've always been aware of the extra pounds and now, of course, there's the reality of aging skin. I'm not convinced that I'm some crone but I'm also not that excited about a swimsuit.
So joining a class that requires you to shed clothing and jump on a table so that 20-somethings who cycle, play in rock bands, and bartend can beat on you makes total sense, right?
I can't say that I was surprised when we were told this week that we'd need our lotion. That was the cue that our clothes would be coming off. We've been practicing with scrubs on, learning to drape the sheet so that some degree of modesty is maintained. But with the introduction of strokes, we had to be moving to the big day.
What did surprise me was my reaction. Suddenly, I saw myself in such a negative light. Every pound on me seemed heavier, every blemish got darker, every wrinkle looser. And when we were told on the second day on "hands-on lab work" that we had to have a male partner if we hadn't already had one . . . well, gulp, I had to face the fear.
I looked around the room and there was the one guy in the younger set (yes, we've somewhat self-organized by age) who actually laughs at my jokes. He caught my eye, we did the raised eyebrow dance of inquiry and both nodded that we would proceed.
I worked on him first. He's the cyclist and may weigh as much as my two thighs. He's never had a professional massage. On this issue, I definitely had the upper hand.
I followed the class procedure of strokes, got the instructor to use him as a model so that my new young friend could have an incredible glute experience, and got some good response for my degree of pressure.
Then we closed the curtains and I stripped.
When he came back to the table, we had to practice the turn. If he does the draping correctly, he can't see but the move requires a rollover in which the client's breasts are potentially exposed. I rolled and positioned myself and took a deep breath. In that moment, I realized the truth of the words I uttered more than once during his practice of strokes and in response to his effusive apologies for getting some part of the practice wrong. "We are students. We are here to learn. We'll make mistakes but if we can't learn on each other, we can't learn."
My fears were faced by reframing. On that table, I am not a middle-aged woman with "issues" about her physical contours and sagging skin. I am an object lesson, a means to greater understanding. In learning mode, the experience made sense and, in fact, was essential.
Massage really does help relieve stress.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Let the Good Times Roll
We started talking about the trip about a month ago. Our new friend -- who had only recently joined our cooking crew of Wednesday nights -- has a condo in the French Quarter. The long Labor Day weekend afforded all of us -- two unemployed (but I am a student) and two employed but with limited vacation time and equally limited funding -- the chance to pool our resources. With some cooking in and wisely chosen dining out options, we could make a dream vacation happen.
We did it!
Driving over on Thursday night, I asked each person to make a wish and I, the official fairy duster, would help to ensure their realization via my positive energy (and a flourish as I waved my arm in lieu of a wand).
"I want to order the right thing. I always wish I'd tried something else."
"I want to meet someone new."
"We need to be safe and have fun."
"I want to see myself in a positive light."
"I want to survive health care reform."
The last one came from our insurance salesman and we agreed that might be out of the purview of my wish granting abilities.
Every other wish came true. We dined well on Cajun and Creole delights. We met tons of new people at parties and even on the streets. We laughed until we teared. We made up ratings games for the time we spent on the balcony watching the crowds who took one street over (ours) to avoid Bourban. We had scales for intoxication ... 0 for he's a glass or two to 10 for "soon he'll be praying to the porcelain god." And another for "that's unfortunate" fashion statements.
We were five adults who hadn't seen their 20s in a while who were wise enough to say "when" and go off on our own as needed and pitch in and make whatever should happen happen when that was required.
Driving home we knew that wishes and dreams were still within our reach. And we all smiled.
We did it!
Driving over on Thursday night, I asked each person to make a wish and I, the official fairy duster, would help to ensure their realization via my positive energy (and a flourish as I waved my arm in lieu of a wand).
"I want to order the right thing. I always wish I'd tried something else."
"I want to meet someone new."
"We need to be safe and have fun."
"I want to see myself in a positive light."
"I want to survive health care reform."
The last one came from our insurance salesman and we agreed that might be out of the purview of my wish granting abilities.
Every other wish came true. We dined well on Cajun and Creole delights. We met tons of new people at parties and even on the streets. We laughed until we teared. We made up ratings games for the time we spent on the balcony watching the crowds who took one street over (ours) to avoid Bourban. We had scales for intoxication ... 0 for he's a glass or two to 10 for "soon he'll be praying to the porcelain god." And another for "that's unfortunate" fashion statements.
We were five adults who hadn't seen their 20s in a while who were wise enough to say "when" and go off on our own as needed and pitch in and make whatever should happen happen when that was required.
Driving home we knew that wishes and dreams were still within our reach. And we all smiled.
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