Brad, my fencing buddy, has a habit of wrapping the hilt of his epee around the hilt of mine, and trying to win by sheer, brute force. Naturally, this just pisses me off. Now, let me say, Brad is the nicest and most mild mannered guy you will ever meet. Every muscle in my fencing arm is getting stronger just by fencing him regularly, and sometimes we end up laughing too hard to fence. Because here's the thing: Brad is predictable in his approach. I know what he is going try, he will try to overpower me. And when he does this, I am predictable in what I will do. I will give push back. Count on it.
I find it hard to disengage my weapon - in fencing, and in life. If I could more reliably disengage, I would not have to pit my brute force against his brute force, and could probably use more strategy. Instead, I find myself caught in a battle of wills and weapons, which I sometimes win, sometimes lose. Once I realize I cannot disengage my weapon, I use aggressive footwork to back him off the strip, thrashing and stomping. If I'm going down, I'm going down fighting. It's in my nature. I've never understood the people who just sit and cower. But I do understand strategy. I just wish I was better at it.
In my work, this lesson is very immediate. I set my boundaries firmly with co-workers, how many patients I will see, when I will see them, and what my limits are. I make it clear, no one has to guess. Nothing personal, just business. With patients, it has to be personal, and I have to adjust my pressure. When you are working with someone's body, it is a natural reaction for their body to press back against yours. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. Push me, I push you. When I lighten up, they lighten up, and they can stand straighter, move better. A good physical therapist learns this lesson early and well: a light touch on a body and it will do anything you want it to do.
I think I just figured out how to beat Brad.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Chaos Theory
Making house calls is exhausting work, and not for the faint of heart. Working in areas of grinding poverty will take its toll on your body, your spirit, and your car. Today, as I waited for the predicted tornadoes to roll into Atlanta, I visited some of my regular patients, and some new patients. Almost without exception, they have some kind of chaos going on in their lives, need that exceeds what I have to give. One house has had the utilities cut off. At another, a child has been severely injured. At a third, hoarding is suspected. At the next, neglect is reported. A patient follows me up a driveway, she's out of medication and can get no more, and the darkness is closing in. Can I help? Serious family fights swirl around me as I try to treat my patient, try to hear and respect their story, their pain, explain their body to them, and offer a healing touch. I knock on a door and it falls off its hinges. I attempt to walk through the yard, and beer bottles, garbage of every sort blocks my way. I set down my treatment bag and bugs scatter. These places are real, and I am in them every day, trying to bring better health, trying to inspire, explain, soothe. Can I help? Can I?
Some days are better than others. Some days I am sure I am in the right place, doing the right thing, at the right time. Some days I feel effective, like Joan of Arc, my patron saint, out there on the battle field. My sword is raised and nothing can stop me. Other days, it's more like St. George slaying the dragon. Did St. George win? Just now I cannot recall. The dragons of poverty, crime, disease. Can they ever be slain? After a meal and a hot bath with vanilla amber oil, I feel restored enough to carry on and attempt to process the horrors of the day. Advance, retreat, advance, retreat. Have I left any good behind?
From my beginner mind, I seem to recall that the theory of chaos states that there is actually a pattern and predictably in what seem to be chaotic and random events. Of course, I am no expert on this matter, but use it as a metaphor only. I can see the predictability in the life and health choices my patients have made, and I can see a pattern. How can I explain it to them so that they too can see, step for a moment out of their own story, and see the larger pattern in the chaos? The greatest gift I could give them, in the short time I am with them, is a sword to slay their own dragons, and create a path to peace through the chaos.
Some days are better than others. Some days I am sure I am in the right place, doing the right thing, at the right time. Some days I feel effective, like Joan of Arc, my patron saint, out there on the battle field. My sword is raised and nothing can stop me. Other days, it's more like St. George slaying the dragon. Did St. George win? Just now I cannot recall. The dragons of poverty, crime, disease. Can they ever be slain? After a meal and a hot bath with vanilla amber oil, I feel restored enough to carry on and attempt to process the horrors of the day. Advance, retreat, advance, retreat. Have I left any good behind?
From my beginner mind, I seem to recall that the theory of chaos states that there is actually a pattern and predictably in what seem to be chaotic and random events. Of course, I am no expert on this matter, but use it as a metaphor only. I can see the predictability in the life and health choices my patients have made, and I can see a pattern. How can I explain it to them so that they too can see, step for a moment out of their own story, and see the larger pattern in the chaos? The greatest gift I could give them, in the short time I am with them, is a sword to slay their own dragons, and create a path to peace through the chaos.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Long as I Can See the Light
"Put a candle in the window. I feel I've got to move. Though I'm gone, gone, I'll be comin' home soon, long as I can see the light." - Creedence Clearwater Revival
You know, you never really know a man until you clean out the top drawer of his dresser and read his suicide note. Six years ago this spring, I stood and read my grandfather's. It was not addressed to me, nor was it addressed to my mother. It was addressed to a woman neither of us had ever met. We, the family, the ones who showed up to clean up the crime scene, clean up the legal details and carry the grief, got one sentence. Something to the effect of, "I'm sorry for the mess I'm leaving behind for Dawna and Susie." Awesome, I thought, holding the note and talking to the detective with the concerned head tilt. Thanks for the mention. The detective asked me if I wanted the gun back.
No. Thanks. You can keep the gun.
I often hear "Guns don't kill people, people kill people." Shit. Depression, vodka and guns kill people. I spent years of my life begging him to get rid of the guns. Please, please, don't do anything foolish, promise me? He promised me. In the end, the depression, and the guns, won. I could not save his life, none of us could, no matter how hard we all tried. Suicide is a long twilight for the survivors. Even though you know you did all you could, you will always wonder if you could have done more. While I was cleaning out the top drawer and trying to explain to my mother why a man would inject a Viagra speedball with a syringe, the NRA called. In no uncertain terms, I told them about the cold, dead hand we just pried a gun from. They were not amused. Frankly, neither was I.
The funeral was sparsely attended. When death is suicide you really find out who your friends are. We interned his ashes in the family plot on the Oregon Coast, next to my grandmother, who he never got over, and who I can guarantee you was as pissed as we were. "Family" members, such as they are, or were, couldn't be bothered. Of course, he did have a way of alienating people, so I suppose they have their own stories. I think there were six of us. Me, mom and dad, Grandma, Uncle Jack, one friend and the preacher. The preacher was a stand in, not the one we talked to. He had "an emergency" come up. Oh. The stand-in was failing miserably. I did what I naturally do. I stepped in, resuscitated the situation and made everyone feel better, inviting people to share their favorite stories of this wonderful, wonderful man who had a bad end. He was worth so much more than that. He deserved better.
He was a good man, he was his own man, we loved him well, and commend his soul to God. As trite as it may seem, I still light a candle, and pray he finds his way home.
You know, you never really know a man until you clean out the top drawer of his dresser and read his suicide note. Six years ago this spring, I stood and read my grandfather's. It was not addressed to me, nor was it addressed to my mother. It was addressed to a woman neither of us had ever met. We, the family, the ones who showed up to clean up the crime scene, clean up the legal details and carry the grief, got one sentence. Something to the effect of, "I'm sorry for the mess I'm leaving behind for Dawna and Susie." Awesome, I thought, holding the note and talking to the detective with the concerned head tilt. Thanks for the mention. The detective asked me if I wanted the gun back.
No. Thanks. You can keep the gun.
I often hear "Guns don't kill people, people kill people." Shit. Depression, vodka and guns kill people. I spent years of my life begging him to get rid of the guns. Please, please, don't do anything foolish, promise me? He promised me. In the end, the depression, and the guns, won. I could not save his life, none of us could, no matter how hard we all tried. Suicide is a long twilight for the survivors. Even though you know you did all you could, you will always wonder if you could have done more. While I was cleaning out the top drawer and trying to explain to my mother why a man would inject a Viagra speedball with a syringe, the NRA called. In no uncertain terms, I told them about the cold, dead hand we just pried a gun from. They were not amused. Frankly, neither was I.
The funeral was sparsely attended. When death is suicide you really find out who your friends are. We interned his ashes in the family plot on the Oregon Coast, next to my grandmother, who he never got over, and who I can guarantee you was as pissed as we were. "Family" members, such as they are, or were, couldn't be bothered. Of course, he did have a way of alienating people, so I suppose they have their own stories. I think there were six of us. Me, mom and dad, Grandma, Uncle Jack, one friend and the preacher. The preacher was a stand in, not the one we talked to. He had "an emergency" come up. Oh. The stand-in was failing miserably. I did what I naturally do. I stepped in, resuscitated the situation and made everyone feel better, inviting people to share their favorite stories of this wonderful, wonderful man who had a bad end. He was worth so much more than that. He deserved better.
He was a good man, he was his own man, we loved him well, and commend his soul to God. As trite as it may seem, I still light a candle, and pray he finds his way home.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Nicky A.
"Just about a year ago, I set out on the road, seeking my fame and fortune, lookin' for a pot of gold. Things got bad and things got worse, I guess you know the tune. Oh Lord, stuck in Lodi again." - Creedence Clearwater Revival
Sometimes you just need a break from being a responsible human being. Last June, to celebrate my birthday, I hopped in my car and drove, with no particular destination, down A1A in Florida. No luggage, although I did pack sunscreen, camera, notebooks. I figured I'd find whatever I was looking for on the way. Didn't know how long I'd be gone. In my typical style that worries my family and pisses off my friends, I left no note and no indication of where I'd gone or when I'd be back. That's why I GO. To get AWAY. And so, quietly, unceremoniously, I did. I have a cell phone for god's sake. Leave a message.
The drive was so freeing, so essentially happy. When I was hungry, I ate. When I was thirsty, I drank. Whatever, whenever. I stopped if I wanted to see something, wove between the lines on the highway when I could. Stopped for views. Took pictures. Treated myself to a fabulous birthday brunch. Stopped at lighthouses, talked to strangers, petted dogs. Reapplied sunscreen. Played music loud. Before I knew it, I ended up in Daytona Beach. As you do. Bikini or tattoo? Henna Chinese character on the neck? I wandered in and out of t-shirt shops, up and down the boardwalk, looking for temporary tats that might be fun to apply in places bosses and patients would never see. A girl in a shop told me there was a music festival on, did I know? I did not. Lighthouse was playing, had I heard of them? Sure. Maybe I'd stay. I booked myself the last available room at the Plaza and realized I had no clean clothes, not having planned this little escapade. So I bought some, plus a toothbrush. Daytona is an interesting place. It's packed with people under 25, roaming the streets. I couldn't get from street corner to street corner without being chatted up, which was amusing, and certainly makes a new girl feel welcome. But there was music on. And I was starving, like "damn, I've lost poundage already" hungry. I was determined to get a comfortable seat for the concert. Much as I love a mosh pit, a woman of a certain age wants a comfortable seat.
So I tucked in at a pretty respectable looking bar, ordered birthday wine and sushi and began to people watch. Was there anyone interesting to chat with? Who was new to meet here? The most likely prospects were a group of pretty good looking lesbians to my right, and...that's when I saw Nicky A. Sitting on the wall, black t-shirt, black watch cap, camera and a tattoo that read "Faith". My blood left my head for points further south, and never made it back the entire evening. All I could think about was how much I wanted to lick that tattoo.
With no blood in my brain, I'm not sure how I ended up on that wall, but end up there I did, and within a few moments I was sitting within licking distance of that tattoo. To this day, I wish I'd taken a picture of it, and him. I do have a vague recollection of some woman yelling at me that she couldn't see, so I scooted right up and said, "Hey. Hope I'm not crowding you. I just got yelled at by some very angry woman. Do you mind if I sit here?" "Oh NO, you're good, you're good." And that's how Nicky A's god-help-me-19-year-old-roadie-from-New-Jersey's hand ended up on my thigh.
I said nothing, for or against. I just let it be, for the time that it was. It was a great conversation, fun, in that young summer way, when only one of us was old enough to enjoy the wine. As it turned out, he was traveling with the band, photographing, and had a kick ass camera. Apparently they all had "really good rooms." I wondered if that was hint. I was pretty sure it was a hint. But then again, how the hell should I know, really. I just let it be. Nicky moved off for a while to photograph and smoke, I enjoyed a bigger slice of the wall. All mine. Good concert, and then it was over. Through the crowd, I could see Nicky turn back and look around, then start waving at me. I raised my wine glass and nodded.
Goodbye, Nicky A., the most beautiful person I met in Daytona. Thanks for a great concert. Keep the faith, and if I ever see you again, I'm definitely licking that tattoo.
Sometimes you just need a break from being a responsible human being. Last June, to celebrate my birthday, I hopped in my car and drove, with no particular destination, down A1A in Florida. No luggage, although I did pack sunscreen, camera, notebooks. I figured I'd find whatever I was looking for on the way. Didn't know how long I'd be gone. In my typical style that worries my family and pisses off my friends, I left no note and no indication of where I'd gone or when I'd be back. That's why I GO. To get AWAY. And so, quietly, unceremoniously, I did. I have a cell phone for god's sake. Leave a message.
The drive was so freeing, so essentially happy. When I was hungry, I ate. When I was thirsty, I drank. Whatever, whenever. I stopped if I wanted to see something, wove between the lines on the highway when I could. Stopped for views. Took pictures. Treated myself to a fabulous birthday brunch. Stopped at lighthouses, talked to strangers, petted dogs. Reapplied sunscreen. Played music loud. Before I knew it, I ended up in Daytona Beach. As you do. Bikini or tattoo? Henna Chinese character on the neck? I wandered in and out of t-shirt shops, up and down the boardwalk, looking for temporary tats that might be fun to apply in places bosses and patients would never see. A girl in a shop told me there was a music festival on, did I know? I did not. Lighthouse was playing, had I heard of them? Sure. Maybe I'd stay. I booked myself the last available room at the Plaza and realized I had no clean clothes, not having planned this little escapade. So I bought some, plus a toothbrush. Daytona is an interesting place. It's packed with people under 25, roaming the streets. I couldn't get from street corner to street corner without being chatted up, which was amusing, and certainly makes a new girl feel welcome. But there was music on. And I was starving, like "damn, I've lost poundage already" hungry. I was determined to get a comfortable seat for the concert. Much as I love a mosh pit, a woman of a certain age wants a comfortable seat.
So I tucked in at a pretty respectable looking bar, ordered birthday wine and sushi and began to people watch. Was there anyone interesting to chat with? Who was new to meet here? The most likely prospects were a group of pretty good looking lesbians to my right, and...that's when I saw Nicky A. Sitting on the wall, black t-shirt, black watch cap, camera and a tattoo that read "Faith". My blood left my head for points further south, and never made it back the entire evening. All I could think about was how much I wanted to lick that tattoo.
With no blood in my brain, I'm not sure how I ended up on that wall, but end up there I did, and within a few moments I was sitting within licking distance of that tattoo. To this day, I wish I'd taken a picture of it, and him. I do have a vague recollection of some woman yelling at me that she couldn't see, so I scooted right up and said, "Hey. Hope I'm not crowding you. I just got yelled at by some very angry woman. Do you mind if I sit here?" "Oh NO, you're good, you're good." And that's how Nicky A's god-help-me-19-year-old-roadie-from-New-Jersey's hand ended up on my thigh.
I said nothing, for or against. I just let it be, for the time that it was. It was a great conversation, fun, in that young summer way, when only one of us was old enough to enjoy the wine. As it turned out, he was traveling with the band, photographing, and had a kick ass camera. Apparently they all had "really good rooms." I wondered if that was hint. I was pretty sure it was a hint. But then again, how the hell should I know, really. I just let it be. Nicky moved off for a while to photograph and smoke, I enjoyed a bigger slice of the wall. All mine. Good concert, and then it was over. Through the crowd, I could see Nicky turn back and look around, then start waving at me. I raised my wine glass and nodded.
Goodbye, Nicky A., the most beautiful person I met in Daytona. Thanks for a great concert. Keep the faith, and if I ever see you again, I'm definitely licking that tattoo.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Ask for Your Biscuit
Lessons in divinity may happen to you in Church, but for me they happen when I am eating. Last week I was sitting in an Applebee's in one of those neighborhoods that surrounds and caters to a large metropolitan airport. In other words, a culinary wasteland. With one hour between commitments at a continuing education course, and hunger pulsing in me like a wild animal, I determined to make the best of a pedestrian situation.
To my left, three uniformed men having a lunch meeting. Above me, a television blaring CNN. Under my hand, a notebook of the classic black and white variety. In front of me, a Pecan-Crusted Chicken salade composee with the ubiquitous Honey Mustard Dressing. "Excuse me..." I stopped the lovely waitress as she walked by. "I thought this came with a Garlic Cheddar Biscuit?" "Oh, it does," she replied, "but my manager told me to wait until the customer asks for it." Interesting, I thought. Advertised, but not delivered until you ask. "Yes, please. I would definitely like my biscuit."
As I finished my salad, and my biscuit, which was actually a small bite of heaven held together with cheese, I thought about how important it is to ask for what you want, and wondered how many people read about that biscuit on the menu, but don't ask for it, and then wonder why they don't get it, and go home disappointed. To open the door of Heaven, you have to ring the doorbell.
The surface of us is but a minor matter. The things that separate us, centrally define us, are not whether we are democrat or republican, Catholic or Protestant, Muslim or Jew, male or female. The central difference in human beings is, do you let words and wine roll around on your tongue until you taste them, do you lick your fingers, do you let the olive oil and butter run down your chin in appreciation? Do you taste, do you savor, can you meet me there? The thing that separates human beings is this: Do you ask for your biscuit?
To my left, three uniformed men having a lunch meeting. Above me, a television blaring CNN. Under my hand, a notebook of the classic black and white variety. In front of me, a Pecan-Crusted Chicken salade composee with the ubiquitous Honey Mustard Dressing. "Excuse me..." I stopped the lovely waitress as she walked by. "I thought this came with a Garlic Cheddar Biscuit?" "Oh, it does," she replied, "but my manager told me to wait until the customer asks for it." Interesting, I thought. Advertised, but not delivered until you ask. "Yes, please. I would definitely like my biscuit."
As I finished my salad, and my biscuit, which was actually a small bite of heaven held together with cheese, I thought about how important it is to ask for what you want, and wondered how many people read about that biscuit on the menu, but don't ask for it, and then wonder why they don't get it, and go home disappointed. To open the door of Heaven, you have to ring the doorbell.
The surface of us is but a minor matter. The things that separate us, centrally define us, are not whether we are democrat or republican, Catholic or Protestant, Muslim or Jew, male or female. The central difference in human beings is, do you let words and wine roll around on your tongue until you taste them, do you lick your fingers, do you let the olive oil and butter run down your chin in appreciation? Do you taste, do you savor, can you meet me there? The thing that separates human beings is this: Do you ask for your biscuit?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The Artificial, Culturally-Mandated Split-Personality: A Brief Psychoanalytical Argument for Integration of the Two Halves of the Female Psyche (Or, Why Both Velma AND Daphne are HotHotHot)
"Bimbo-limbo is where I've been, I know you know that it's wearin' me thin. Things are changin', and it's about time. I'm rearrangin' all the guilt in my mind. I'm lookin' for smart woman in a real short skirt..." Jimmy Buffett
I was a worried child, freckled brow furrowed over my Saturday morning bowl of Apple Jacks, alarmed over the limited roles allotted to Velma and Daphne, the two female characters in the Scooby Doo cartoon. Velma, the small, dark, bookish one with glasses she was always losing, invariably solved the mystery by dredging up some little known scientific fact. Daphne, a poised, polished, titian-haired beauty routinely won hearts and charmed innocent passers-by. At eight years old, I could not understand why Velma never got to nip off to the Mystery Van for a bit of fun with Fred. Or Shaggy. Or Fred AND Shaggy for that matter. Further, why didn't Daphne ever get to solve the mystery? I found this unfair. I sat quietly in my living room, Yorkshire Terrier Coco at my side, and contemplated this. Years later, I have walked in the platforms of both Velma and Daphne, and have more perspective.
Being Velma has certain advantages. You are never bored. Everything is interesting, life is rich and amusing and beautiful and meaningful in so many ways because of what is going inside your head, and your heart. Colors are brighter, smells more intense, music and paintings and well-composed gardens and meals and conversations can send you into flights of physical ecstasy unequaled by any drug.
Being Daphne also has advantages. People do lots of nice things fore you, which makes life quite lovely and a lot easier. Doors are held, umbrellas appear in the rain, cups of coffee, pastries and compliments are brought to your office door. Lunch tabs are picked up, extra charges are dropped, an extra discount is found. Suitcases are lifted, workmen go the extra mile. Wishes are granted, pupils dilate, faces soften, hands fumble, and you get the nice seat by the window with a free appetizer or dessert sent out by the chef. All, apparently, because you showed up and smiled.
There are, however, disadvantages to being Daphne. Sometimes one can feel rather under the microscope, and this can chafe like an ill-fitting thong. People you hardly know will feel quite free to press you for details about private things, like your stockings, and your hair color, and how your feet feel in those high heels, your exercise routine and the composition of your lunch, leading you to dart around corners and duck under counters to avoid them. If you are a tiny, youthful looking Daphne, some people will try to parent you, which will get on your very last nerve. Overall, sometimes thoroughly well-meaning people can over-do, which can get a tad annoying and claustrophobic, and were one less well-versed in etiquette, one might actually find oneself shouting "STOP! Stop hovering! Stop helping! Stop explaining! I appreciate your concern, but REALLY, I'm GOOD!"
A disadvantage of being Velma is that people can get a little too used to you having the answer, having the plan, making the decision, learning difficult things with no help whatsoever, whipping out projects in ridiculous time frames. People of lesser motivation or capacity or work ethic will sometimes expect to piggy-back on your work. You may end up intellectually visible all the time, leading almost every group, even when you don't mean to, or want to. This can be an incredible amount of pressure, leading to increased margarita consumption, and severe performance anxiety over the smallest things, such as picking out a cheese for your sandwich at Subway. So many ways to fail, so little time! "Did I pick the RIGHT cheese? Is my answer RIGHT here? Because if I choose the WRONG cheese, there could be consequences."
A further disadvantage of being Velma is that men often shrink up when you enter the conversation. A further disadvantage of being being Daphne is that women often purse their lips when you enter the room. Both will often say you need to be less something. "You need to be less..." NEED to be less? Need to be LESS? For whom, exactly? If one happens to be in full Velma/Daphne bloom, wearing one's black leather thigh-high stiletto boots and discussing Tolstoy at oh, say, church or a cocktail party, with all that shrinking and pursing going on, sometimes you don't even know who you are rooting for.
Neither Velma nor Daphne is anything like a full, real, dimensional woman, they are representations of how our culture divides us: you are the smart one, or you are the pretty one. You learn which one you are expected to be very early, and woebetide the woman who foolishly attempts to be both at the same time, as this is often seen as being greedy, and as we all very well know, there is only so much good to go around the universe. This is the "Who Does She Think She Is Phenomenon." The subsequent psychic split can take a lifetime of work and a revolving account at Crabtree and Evelyn to overcome. If one's Daphne is driven underground, it can lead to a series of very unfortunate clothing choices, wrong turns involving easy-care fabric, sensible shoes made entirely of cork, and a long twilight of earnest conversations with women with shadowy upper lips trying hard to convince themselves that looks don't really matter, even though thousands of years of evolution argues that it most certainly does matter. These women will end up on your dissertation committee. If one's Velma is driven underground, one runs the distinct risk of becoming the president emeritus of the Cute-But-Lazy Afternoon Social Club, and routinely saying things aloud like, "Well, I WOULD have finished so and so's latest novel, but as you can see, unwanted hair removal consumes so much of my time..." These women will end up in the suburbs.
I think history, and certainly herstory, cries out for an integrated Velma and Daphne. Fred and Shaggy, still panting from the trying to integrate the Madonna/Whore split, may feel momentarily befuddled, but they are good guys, they will catch up. Daphne needn't be so polite and opinion-free to apologize for her beauty. Velma needn't be so gender-neutral and non-descript to make her intelligence less threatening. That limits both and denies them full humanity. How tiring to have to be either one, all day, every day! How frightening to fear you are really neither.
We can hear Daphne's eloquent request, "Grant me the dignity of the occasional unpleasant emotion, even if it happens to be inconvenient for you. Hear me, as well as see me." Daphne can have a bad mood, a bad hair day, a bad-ass opinion and a few thoroughly unapproved, unsanctioned and mother- and priest-shocking bad girl habits and still be quite lovable. She can be more dimensional, less of a blank canvas. We can hear Velma's battle cry, "I am more than the left hemisphere of my brain! See me, as well as hear me!" Velma can stop covering up her body and her carnal nature and still do the math and solve the mystery. Or she can dare to NOT solve the mystery once in a while, the bigger challenge for her. She can take a break, have a smoke with Shaggy and hit it again tomorrow, fresh and interested. Each can take a walk on her wild side, try something new, step out of the roles they have been assigned and rewarded for playing their whole lives. Daphne has won attention and "love" by being pretty and well-behaved, Velma by being smart and ever-competent. If you don't recognize and expand beyond your patterns and roles, whether assigned, learned or chosen, you won't ever know your own possibilities. It's a scary thing to try something new, to risk failure, to risk rejection and derisive snickering of every possible sort. But without risks, without taking chances, without trying something new, life becomes as flat and predictable as a 2-D cartoon character.
One question remains: What exactly was going on under that big orange sweater of confusion? Velma, for her own pleasure as well as the viewing pleasure of others, really should take a moment to explore the French cut t-shirt options available nowadays. What Velma said may have been, "The square root of x is clearly y, and in this instance that means the answer to the mystery is..." But she was also thinking "Give me five minutes in the sub-sub-basement of the graduate science library behind those dusty botanical journals from the British Science Museum and honey, I guarantee I could make you forget your own name." Never underestimate a Velma.
If you have to choose whether to be Velma, or Daphne, say YES. Choose both. Free your inner Velma. Free your inner Daphne. If one looks closely, there is a Daphne inside most Velmas, and a Velma inside most Daphnes. And while this can get a bit crowded, you do end up with four breasts, and how can that be bad? Twice as much fun for everyone involved.
I was a worried child, freckled brow furrowed over my Saturday morning bowl of Apple Jacks, alarmed over the limited roles allotted to Velma and Daphne, the two female characters in the Scooby Doo cartoon. Velma, the small, dark, bookish one with glasses she was always losing, invariably solved the mystery by dredging up some little known scientific fact. Daphne, a poised, polished, titian-haired beauty routinely won hearts and charmed innocent passers-by. At eight years old, I could not understand why Velma never got to nip off to the Mystery Van for a bit of fun with Fred. Or Shaggy. Or Fred AND Shaggy for that matter. Further, why didn't Daphne ever get to solve the mystery? I found this unfair. I sat quietly in my living room, Yorkshire Terrier Coco at my side, and contemplated this. Years later, I have walked in the platforms of both Velma and Daphne, and have more perspective.
Being Velma has certain advantages. You are never bored. Everything is interesting, life is rich and amusing and beautiful and meaningful in so many ways because of what is going inside your head, and your heart. Colors are brighter, smells more intense, music and paintings and well-composed gardens and meals and conversations can send you into flights of physical ecstasy unequaled by any drug.
Being Daphne also has advantages. People do lots of nice things fore you, which makes life quite lovely and a lot easier. Doors are held, umbrellas appear in the rain, cups of coffee, pastries and compliments are brought to your office door. Lunch tabs are picked up, extra charges are dropped, an extra discount is found. Suitcases are lifted, workmen go the extra mile. Wishes are granted, pupils dilate, faces soften, hands fumble, and you get the nice seat by the window with a free appetizer or dessert sent out by the chef. All, apparently, because you showed up and smiled.
There are, however, disadvantages to being Daphne. Sometimes one can feel rather under the microscope, and this can chafe like an ill-fitting thong. People you hardly know will feel quite free to press you for details about private things, like your stockings, and your hair color, and how your feet feel in those high heels, your exercise routine and the composition of your lunch, leading you to dart around corners and duck under counters to avoid them. If you are a tiny, youthful looking Daphne, some people will try to parent you, which will get on your very last nerve. Overall, sometimes thoroughly well-meaning people can over-do, which can get a tad annoying and claustrophobic, and were one less well-versed in etiquette, one might actually find oneself shouting "STOP! Stop hovering! Stop helping! Stop explaining! I appreciate your concern, but REALLY, I'm GOOD!"
A disadvantage of being Velma is that people can get a little too used to you having the answer, having the plan, making the decision, learning difficult things with no help whatsoever, whipping out projects in ridiculous time frames. People of lesser motivation or capacity or work ethic will sometimes expect to piggy-back on your work. You may end up intellectually visible all the time, leading almost every group, even when you don't mean to, or want to. This can be an incredible amount of pressure, leading to increased margarita consumption, and severe performance anxiety over the smallest things, such as picking out a cheese for your sandwich at Subway. So many ways to fail, so little time! "Did I pick the RIGHT cheese? Is my answer RIGHT here? Because if I choose the WRONG cheese, there could be consequences."
A further disadvantage of being Velma is that men often shrink up when you enter the conversation. A further disadvantage of being being Daphne is that women often purse their lips when you enter the room. Both will often say you need to be less something. "You need to be less..." NEED to be less? Need to be LESS? For whom, exactly? If one happens to be in full Velma/Daphne bloom, wearing one's black leather thigh-high stiletto boots and discussing Tolstoy at oh, say, church or a cocktail party, with all that shrinking and pursing going on, sometimes you don't even know who you are rooting for.
Neither Velma nor Daphne is anything like a full, real, dimensional woman, they are representations of how our culture divides us: you are the smart one, or you are the pretty one. You learn which one you are expected to be very early, and woebetide the woman who foolishly attempts to be both at the same time, as this is often seen as being greedy, and as we all very well know, there is only so much good to go around the universe. This is the "Who Does She Think She Is Phenomenon." The subsequent psychic split can take a lifetime of work and a revolving account at Crabtree and Evelyn to overcome. If one's Daphne is driven underground, it can lead to a series of very unfortunate clothing choices, wrong turns involving easy-care fabric, sensible shoes made entirely of cork, and a long twilight of earnest conversations with women with shadowy upper lips trying hard to convince themselves that looks don't really matter, even though thousands of years of evolution argues that it most certainly does matter. These women will end up on your dissertation committee. If one's Velma is driven underground, one runs the distinct risk of becoming the president emeritus of the Cute-But-Lazy Afternoon Social Club, and routinely saying things aloud like, "Well, I WOULD have finished so and so's latest novel, but as you can see, unwanted hair removal consumes so much of my time..." These women will end up in the suburbs.
I think history, and certainly herstory, cries out for an integrated Velma and Daphne. Fred and Shaggy, still panting from the trying to integrate the Madonna/Whore split, may feel momentarily befuddled, but they are good guys, they will catch up. Daphne needn't be so polite and opinion-free to apologize for her beauty. Velma needn't be so gender-neutral and non-descript to make her intelligence less threatening. That limits both and denies them full humanity. How tiring to have to be either one, all day, every day! How frightening to fear you are really neither.
We can hear Daphne's eloquent request, "Grant me the dignity of the occasional unpleasant emotion, even if it happens to be inconvenient for you. Hear me, as well as see me." Daphne can have a bad mood, a bad hair day, a bad-ass opinion and a few thoroughly unapproved, unsanctioned and mother- and priest-shocking bad girl habits and still be quite lovable. She can be more dimensional, less of a blank canvas. We can hear Velma's battle cry, "I am more than the left hemisphere of my brain! See me, as well as hear me!" Velma can stop covering up her body and her carnal nature and still do the math and solve the mystery. Or she can dare to NOT solve the mystery once in a while, the bigger challenge for her. She can take a break, have a smoke with Shaggy and hit it again tomorrow, fresh and interested. Each can take a walk on her wild side, try something new, step out of the roles they have been assigned and rewarded for playing their whole lives. Daphne has won attention and "love" by being pretty and well-behaved, Velma by being smart and ever-competent. If you don't recognize and expand beyond your patterns and roles, whether assigned, learned or chosen, you won't ever know your own possibilities. It's a scary thing to try something new, to risk failure, to risk rejection and derisive snickering of every possible sort. But without risks, without taking chances, without trying something new, life becomes as flat and predictable as a 2-D cartoon character.
One question remains: What exactly was going on under that big orange sweater of confusion? Velma, for her own pleasure as well as the viewing pleasure of others, really should take a moment to explore the French cut t-shirt options available nowadays. What Velma said may have been, "The square root of x is clearly y, and in this instance that means the answer to the mystery is..." But she was also thinking "Give me five minutes in the sub-sub-basement of the graduate science library behind those dusty botanical journals from the British Science Museum and honey, I guarantee I could make you forget your own name." Never underestimate a Velma.
If you have to choose whether to be Velma, or Daphne, say YES. Choose both. Free your inner Velma. Free your inner Daphne. If one looks closely, there is a Daphne inside most Velmas, and a Velma inside most Daphnes. And while this can get a bit crowded, you do end up with four breasts, and how can that be bad? Twice as much fun for everyone involved.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Only White Chick in the 'Hood
Today my patient calls took me into a part of town that could reasonably be compared to Cabrini Green. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Cabrini Green, it is a large urban housing project/neighborhood in Chicago that is infamous for high crime. On any given day, my caseload takes me into some pretty rough neighborhoods, areas of town that quite frankly, most people avoid unless they actually live there. Today I covered an area of town new to me, and was so deep into the 'hood that even I was surprised. After about 30 minutes of driving, following my GPS deeper and deeper, I finally approached a huge apartment complex, much of which was being re-built. People were randomly milling about, children, teenagers, older people. The day had turned muggy, a preview of the sort of weather for which Atlanta is famous: hot, humid, sticky. These are the places on the evening news, the places suburban America shakes their heads about, are afraid to drive through, and have opinions about without ever having been there. These are my patients, their families, their homes, and here what I would like to say about it.
Wherever I go, I am treated with respect, kindness, and gratitude for my services. I am greeted, pointed in the right direction, and given the best (and sometimes only) seat in the house. People are sometimes a little amused I am there, small white chick with a medical bag rattling around alone in the big ol' hood. Tiny children run up to me and want to touch me, older women call out, "You lost, baby?" They notice, they care, and you know you have made a little connection when they call you "Baby" and introduce you around. Doors are open, life is in the street because it is too hot to stay in the very small apartments. And while I am by no means naive or unaware of some of the business going on around me, I have never felt unwelcome or unsafe. I wish more people could see the good I see in these neighborhoods, the good people. Perfect? No. Good, much. A friend I was talking to the other day explained it this way: "You're like the fire department. You're the good guys." Maybe so. I hope so. I like being a good guy.
Wherever I go, I am treated with respect, kindness, and gratitude for my services. I am greeted, pointed in the right direction, and given the best (and sometimes only) seat in the house. People are sometimes a little amused I am there, small white chick with a medical bag rattling around alone in the big ol' hood. Tiny children run up to me and want to touch me, older women call out, "You lost, baby?" They notice, they care, and you know you have made a little connection when they call you "Baby" and introduce you around. Doors are open, life is in the street because it is too hot to stay in the very small apartments. And while I am by no means naive or unaware of some of the business going on around me, I have never felt unwelcome or unsafe. I wish more people could see the good I see in these neighborhoods, the good people. Perfect? No. Good, much. A friend I was talking to the other day explained it this way: "You're like the fire department. You're the good guys." Maybe so. I hope so. I like being a good guy.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Heal Thyself
It is 6:43 pm and I am in bed. I consider my bed the source of all wisdom and happiness, and the sooner I can get into it, the happier I am. Ordinarily I would not be in bed quite this early, but I have been rather exhausted for several nights running due to my current caseload. I am a physical therapist, and I see people who are...bedridden. I hope you enjoy the irony as much as I do.
Patients seem to come in two primary varieties: those who do too much, and those who won't do anything. To be fair, of course, the patients I see are quite ill with a variety of diagnoses. However, the majority of the diagnoses I treat these days seem to spring from poor lifestyle choices: diabetes, obesity, congestive heart failure, cardiac disease, cerebrovascular disease. Many of these conditions could be improved or avoided altogether if different choices were made: stop smoking, eat less, move more. It's not really a complicated equation. And yet people continue to look for a complicated answer - one that will involve a quick fix, preferably by someone else, at no cost to them. There is no quick fix, and if you want your health to improve, I will work with you. But I cannot row your boat for you. I am not your answer. YOU are your answer, and you might as well start rowing.
Patients seem to come in two primary varieties: those who do too much, and those who won't do anything. To be fair, of course, the patients I see are quite ill with a variety of diagnoses. However, the majority of the diagnoses I treat these days seem to spring from poor lifestyle choices: diabetes, obesity, congestive heart failure, cardiac disease, cerebrovascular disease. Many of these conditions could be improved or avoided altogether if different choices were made: stop smoking, eat less, move more. It's not really a complicated equation. And yet people continue to look for a complicated answer - one that will involve a quick fix, preferably by someone else, at no cost to them. There is no quick fix, and if you want your health to improve, I will work with you. But I cannot row your boat for you. I am not your answer. YOU are your answer, and you might as well start rowing.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
What Lies Beneath
Today I sat in a windowless, airless conference room at an airport hotel in a city which shall remain nameless. I sat with strangers and listened to material I already know by heart not because I wanted to, but because I was required to be there. Because I try to make it a practice to be present and participate in my own life, I listened carefully to the speaker with fully 15% of my brain, and I feel a better person for it. With the other 85%, I thought of distant friends, and what we used to talk about, and missed their conversation. Here's what I would have rather talked about today.
The nature of God. Fermat's theorem. Foucault's pendulum. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and David Sedaris. Exactly how hot so and so's tush is. How to solve the homeless problem. Why people who want children don't get them, and people who don't seem to get plenty, and then treat them very badly. The need for a good train system in America. How equal parts tequila, triple sec and fresh lime juice make the very best margarita. How excellent Barbara Kingsolvers' or Joanne Harris' latest book is. How if you happen to slip and fall under James Franco or Javier Bardem on an icy street you will not be held accountable for your actions. Who you are voting for and why. Why it is that some men seem to think that if they say something that is clearly wrong in a reasonable tone of voice, you will somehow not notice and agree with them. How incredibly long it takes to finish the doctorate. How great it is to be able to say with credibility, "Trust me, I'm a doctor." Travel. The desire for love, the need for freedom. How to live a life that matters. Was marriage a good idea? Would we have lived more deliciously in sin? What is sin exactly, who gets to decide, and why? Is Mascagni better than Puccinni? Stones or Beatles? Smooth or chunky? Spit or swallow? How to be calm, cool, graceful, coherent, inspiring, inscrutable and She Who Must Be Obeyed in the classroom, courtroom, board room, briefing room and surgical bay. How you want the sun, the moon and the stars, but tonight would settle for a foot massage, two glasses of moderately-priced wine and a few semi-sincere compliments from a guy with an at least average IQ, reasonable hygiene and no felony record. How great it would be for someone, occasionally anyone, who for one tiny once isn't you, to make the indicative move. The list of women you would consider doing it with if you happened to be lesbian and they were too. Times you fell asleep while driving, and where you woke up. Ten things you're damn glad you never did. Twenty things you're only sorry you didn't do sooner. Silly things you used to believe, and when you stopped believing them. This year's candidates for the Nobel Peace Prize. Is the universe expanding or contracting? Boxers or briefs? What to get pierced next. Does anyone really care about Lindsay Lohan? The battle for tenure. Is that a new wrinkle? How to cure guinea worm. Why we always have enough money for more bombs, but not for bread and medical care. The best investments to make which mechanics are trustworthy. Does anyone have a holy clue what 'pompatus of love' means? Is it Latin? How to eliminate poverty, violence, prejudice, cancer, pain, cellulite. Have you ever gone out without your knickers? And did you get better service from the waiter? The little cat that has shown up on your doorstep and whether or not you are going to feed him. Of course you are. How to make the right contacts for promotion. What if the hokey pokey really IS what it's all about? Possibilities for peace on earth. How incredible life is, how unbelievably short, and how damn fast it goes.
The nature of God. Fermat's theorem. Foucault's pendulum. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and David Sedaris. Exactly how hot so and so's tush is. How to solve the homeless problem. Why people who want children don't get them, and people who don't seem to get plenty, and then treat them very badly. The need for a good train system in America. How equal parts tequila, triple sec and fresh lime juice make the very best margarita. How excellent Barbara Kingsolvers' or Joanne Harris' latest book is. How if you happen to slip and fall under James Franco or Javier Bardem on an icy street you will not be held accountable for your actions. Who you are voting for and why. Why it is that some men seem to think that if they say something that is clearly wrong in a reasonable tone of voice, you will somehow not notice and agree with them. How incredibly long it takes to finish the doctorate. How great it is to be able to say with credibility, "Trust me, I'm a doctor." Travel. The desire for love, the need for freedom. How to live a life that matters. Was marriage a good idea? Would we have lived more deliciously in sin? What is sin exactly, who gets to decide, and why? Is Mascagni better than Puccinni? Stones or Beatles? Smooth or chunky? Spit or swallow? How to be calm, cool, graceful, coherent, inspiring, inscrutable and She Who Must Be Obeyed in the classroom, courtroom, board room, briefing room and surgical bay. How you want the sun, the moon and the stars, but tonight would settle for a foot massage, two glasses of moderately-priced wine and a few semi-sincere compliments from a guy with an at least average IQ, reasonable hygiene and no felony record. How great it would be for someone, occasionally anyone, who for one tiny once isn't you, to make the indicative move. The list of women you would consider doing it with if you happened to be lesbian and they were too. Times you fell asleep while driving, and where you woke up. Ten things you're damn glad you never did. Twenty things you're only sorry you didn't do sooner. Silly things you used to believe, and when you stopped believing them. This year's candidates for the Nobel Peace Prize. Is the universe expanding or contracting? Boxers or briefs? What to get pierced next. Does anyone really care about Lindsay Lohan? The battle for tenure. Is that a new wrinkle? How to cure guinea worm. Why we always have enough money for more bombs, but not for bread and medical care. The best investments to make which mechanics are trustworthy. Does anyone have a holy clue what 'pompatus of love' means? Is it Latin? How to eliminate poverty, violence, prejudice, cancer, pain, cellulite. Have you ever gone out without your knickers? And did you get better service from the waiter? The little cat that has shown up on your doorstep and whether or not you are going to feed him. Of course you are. How to make the right contacts for promotion. What if the hokey pokey really IS what it's all about? Possibilities for peace on earth. How incredible life is, how unbelievably short, and how damn fast it goes.
Beating a Subconcious Retreat
During my last fencing lesson with John, we worked on timing and footwork. In fencing, timing is everything, and being light and accurate on your feet is a crucial aspect of whether you score the point or lose the point. As a drill, John asked me to match his footwork up and down the strip. If he advanced, I retreated. If he retreated, I advanced. I learned how to read my opponents footwork, read the position of the blade, and plan my next move accordingly. Advancing the drill, John would call out a number, say “4” “3” “5” and my job was to match the footwork, then lunge and sink the blade the split second before he took his last step. This is where the trouble started.
Flipping his mask up, John said, “What did you just do?”
Flipping my mask up, I replied, “I lunged and sunk the blade.”
“No, you didn’t. What did you do before you lunged?”
“I advanced.”
“No, you didn’t. Do it again.”
And so we put our masks back down and try it again. Each time John asks, “What did you do RIGHT BEFORE YOU LUNGED?” And each time, I swore I knew, and each time I was wrong. “THAT. THAT. Your right leg came out into a lunge, you sunk the blade. Your lunge is great. But what are you doing with your back leg?” And after about five tries, I finally noticed something. The split second before I lunge, sink the blade and glance at the clock to see if the touch was mine, I take a step backward.
“Why are you stepping back? Stick the back leg. AGAIN.” I love fencing with John because he is hard on me. Masks down, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, determine if the position of the opponent’s blade is a threat, maintain distance, parry, lunge, riposte, sink the blade. “Stick the back leg!” “Drop your arm!” “Close your 6!” “Watch your bellguard!”. Amid coaching directions from John, Gene, Tom, Brad, Kyle and Ellen, I realize I do not stick my back leg the split second before I lunge. I am a subconscious retreater.
Damnit, apparently I pull my punches.
I pride myself on never pulling my punches. This is a blow. John asks for an explanation. “Why the hell are you stepping backward?” One of the things I love most about fencing is that it is immediate, so I man up, as it were. “I’m afraid my leg isn’t strong enough to pull me out of the lunge fast enough to save my own ass!” And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Fear. I stand there on my 45 year old legs, clad in fencing whites, weapon on my hip, mask under my arm. Shame pulls me down like quicksand. Am I strong enough?
Fear that you aren’t strong enough in some way will always make you pull your punches. In life, in love, in fencing. Fear that if you move forward into something legs lunging, weapon flying, heart on your sleeve, you won’t be able to control it well enough to get yourself out of it without getting hurt. It will also keep you forever out of reach of your target, whatever your target happens to be. This week I will be doing lunges, with no subconscious retreat. I don’t ever want to move backward. The only way out is through.
Flipping his mask up, John said, “What did you just do?”
Flipping my mask up, I replied, “I lunged and sunk the blade.”
“No, you didn’t. What did you do before you lunged?”
“I advanced.”
“No, you didn’t. Do it again.”
And so we put our masks back down and try it again. Each time John asks, “What did you do RIGHT BEFORE YOU LUNGED?” And each time, I swore I knew, and each time I was wrong. “THAT. THAT. Your right leg came out into a lunge, you sunk the blade. Your lunge is great. But what are you doing with your back leg?” And after about five tries, I finally noticed something. The split second before I lunge, sink the blade and glance at the clock to see if the touch was mine, I take a step backward.
“Why are you stepping back? Stick the back leg. AGAIN.” I love fencing with John because he is hard on me. Masks down, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, determine if the position of the opponent’s blade is a threat, maintain distance, parry, lunge, riposte, sink the blade. “Stick the back leg!” “Drop your arm!” “Close your 6!” “Watch your bellguard!”. Amid coaching directions from John, Gene, Tom, Brad, Kyle and Ellen, I realize I do not stick my back leg the split second before I lunge. I am a subconscious retreater.
Damnit, apparently I pull my punches.
I pride myself on never pulling my punches. This is a blow. John asks for an explanation. “Why the hell are you stepping backward?” One of the things I love most about fencing is that it is immediate, so I man up, as it were. “I’m afraid my leg isn’t strong enough to pull me out of the lunge fast enough to save my own ass!” And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Fear. I stand there on my 45 year old legs, clad in fencing whites, weapon on my hip, mask under my arm. Shame pulls me down like quicksand. Am I strong enough?
Fear that you aren’t strong enough in some way will always make you pull your punches. In life, in love, in fencing. Fear that if you move forward into something legs lunging, weapon flying, heart on your sleeve, you won’t be able to control it well enough to get yourself out of it without getting hurt. It will also keep you forever out of reach of your target, whatever your target happens to be. This week I will be doing lunges, with no subconscious retreat. I don’t ever want to move backward. The only way out is through.
Cigarettes and Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women
Hang around inside my skin for a while and you’ll hear a lot about other men’s wives. Unsolicited, I hear about these women during bus rides, on trains, at meetings, during patient visits, at trivia night, and at various clubs. I hear about them over margaritas, at martini bars, at the holiday buffet, at the car wash, at conferences, on the treadmill, in the sauna at the gym, in the grocery line and not infrequently, in the bathroom , because as a physical therapist I work with a lot of patients who cannot go to the toilet alone. Wives come up a lot in the john. The stories will not just be about their wives, but also their mothers, fiancés, current girlfriends, ex-girlfriends and female neighbors. I’m sure these lovely women are not as bad as I’m told, and I’m sure the pleading looks are somewhat exaggerated for dramatic effect.
This pattern seems to have started in the first grade, when my pals Ricky and Brad came to me wanting love notes penned to their girlfriends. I was the only six-year old who could write cursively, so I was in high demand as a calligrapher-slash-Cyrano de Bergerac. In fact, Ricky, Brad and I spent quite a lot of time together during the three years I lived in that town. It seemed they were always in need of a new love note to send to some girl in the class who was not me. As time went on, all I had to do was enter the conversation/train car/examination room and soon some random guy was talking about his girlfriend, fiancé, wife or ex-, and the story always seemed to follow a common formula: 1) She won’t move/travel/try new things; 2) She is not athletic/musical; 3) She spends too much time cleaning/not enough time cleaning or 4) She won’t/can’t get a job/hobby/degree/off my back.
Often, after hearing these very interesting and informative stories, I get to meet the lovely lady in question, and high hilarity inevitably ensues. These conversations, too, follow a predictable pattern. I find it amusing (and a little sad) that after all these years, with a variety of letters behind my name and experiences on my curriculum vitae, all anyone really wants to know about me is this: Are you married? How long have you been married? Do you have children? Are you planning to have children? Where is your husband? You’re taking Salsa/Tango lessons? Does your husband go with you? You’re getting pierced/your hair cut short? How will your husband feel about that? Where is your husband now? You’re living here/travelling alone? Without your husband? For how long? When was the last time you saw him? When are you seeing him again? Really? Really? These questions are sometimes fired with such great rapidity that all that is missing is a harsh light over the table and a cigarette-smoking Good Cop. I often want a cigarette myself, after these conversations. Or a shot of smoky whiskey, savored alone in a dark corner, no questions asked. Or answered.
I am a board-qualified, state-licensed, trained and certified medical professional, reasonably well-traveled and well-read, a damn good conversationalist (if I do say so myself), guitar player, mixer of margaritas, wearer of glasses, writer, runner, fencer, loyal friend, animal lover and a terrible joke teller. In spite of these qualifications and other potential neutral conversation-starters, the only question that really seems to matter is still: ARE YOU MARRIED? Hello, I’m Dr. Fuqua-Whitley, doctor of physical therapy, treating your husband/son/boyfriend/lover. Have we met? Please don’t be alarmed that I’ve seen your husband/son/boyfriend/lover naked as a jaybird in a hospital gown, counseled him through urinary incontinence, helped him pull his pants up and tested his anal wink and cremaster reflex. He was talking about you the whole time.
December 15, 2010
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Joy to the World
December 13, 2010
Around me, the snow gently falls. The sky is dove gray, the bare branches of December outline the stories of spring that are yet to be written. In the corner of my living room, an undecorated Christmas tree glows with the expectation of the ornaments to be hung there on Christmas Eve, and piano nocturnes play softly in the background of my never-ending paperwork. It is silent, it is white, and it is beautiful.
And yet, in this season of insistent Joy to the World, the darker angels of my nature become more attuned to the undercurrents of unhappiness and lack of fulfillment I see, hear and feel swirl around me like the falling snow. Like the negative of a photograph, the things that people do not say or do stand out for me, and I think of a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Who you are shouts so loudly in my ear that I cannot hear what you say.” The unhappiness comes cloaked in many disguises: family discord, obesity, illness, depression, addiction, rampant materialism and overspending. More than even these, I see around me too many of my fellow humans beings leading lives of quiet desperation. Having followed someone else’s idea of success and fulfillment, they find themselves living someone else’s life. Their faces are ashen with the fatigue of disappointment. Where is the Joy?
Of course, my joy is not everyone else’s joy, to be sure. My truest Joy comes in movement, artistic expression, challenge, competition and reflection. Without these, even for a day, I will feel I have wasted a day of my life, and I will mourn it. Without a run, without fencing, without writing, I will feel like a mourner at the graveside of my own life. When I move, feel my own body moving through space, or work with another’s body to improve movement and reduce pain, I feel true joy and touch the face of God. Writing makes it real, proves it happened, that the joy was not an illusion.
All around me at this time of year I see shoppers with long lists and long faces standing in even longer lines. My ears strain to hear a “Happy Holidays” or a “Merry Christmas” exchanged, or even to look someone in the eyes and exchange a smile. Where is the Joy? Are all these purchases really so necessary? Are more wrapped boxes under the tree really what will bring the most joy? At the end of a busy Saturday before Christmas, my shopping accomplishments are meager – I’ve never really been good at shopping, or at getting it all “done” on time. On these days, I measure my accomplishment by the number of one dollar bills I’ve dropped in the Salvation Army buckets, the number of times I’ve made a stranger laugh at the absurdity of a situation, and the number of times I’ve seen true surprise in a cashier’s eyes when I meet them in a moment of humanity and we both pause to say, “You have a Merry Christmas.” The number of times I’ve parried wrath and riposted with a soft answer.
Finding one’s own joy is a way of bringing true Joy to the World. Purchased joy carries a high price tag, and is made with cheap materials. Today, I will make my house calls, continue my turtle steps to accomplish holiday tasks by the Fetes de Rois on January 6th, and I will run, advance, retreat, parry, riposte and write. Under my breath, I will be singing. Joy to the World.
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