Saturday, December 31, 2011
Ringing in the New
This year, my goal is to try one new thing every day, and write about it. While this is not strictly a new idea, I find it exciting and inspiring. Stay tuned my 5 and 1/2 loyal readers, we are going to have some fun this year!
Friday, December 16, 2011
Showing Up
It is 8:45 pm on a Seattle Thursday night, and I have been staring at this blank page for forty-five minutes. I made an appointment with myself to write tonight, and I am both punctual and full of integrity. My father says I am indeed full of it, and I like to call "it" integrity. My very, very dear friend, whom I will call Nell (because that's her name) calls me "tenacious." I know this is her delightful, Southern, classy-lady way of saying I'm just like a dog with a bone. Oh good lord. Did I just compare myself to a dog? Really? Are these the visuals I want to plant in the heads of my readers? Anyhow, I made an appointment with myself, and here I am. I show up.
Oh, sure, I spent half of that time looking up words, including a full twenty minutes spent on the word "braise", which, should, by the way, NOT be confused with saute, which I confess I did until I researched it. In case you were wondering, braise involves searing the food in question (usually meat, mushrooms, or occasionally root vegetables) at a high heat to seal in the juices, and create a carmelized, crusty layer of deliciousness, some of which will stick the pan. We'll get to that in a moment. This process is called the Maillard Process. Just saying that makes me feel prepared to go toe to toe with Julia Child.
After the Maillard Process is complete, you are ready to add your liquid, and eventually reduce that liquid into a sauce by cooking off the water (a sauce reduction). The liquid should have an element of acidity, such as balsamic vinegar, tomatoes, lemons or ideally, wine. The acid works on the carmelized sugars to deglaze the pan. At the end, to finish the sauce and round out the mouth-feel, a bit of butter or cream is added. The acid breaks down the milk solids to make it smooth. It's a complex, delicious dance of organic chemistry that makes it all work, and I feel a better person for being clear on the exact difference between braise, saute, and simmer. I mean, it comes up. I wouldn't want to confuse one with the other, because let's face it, that would just be embarrassing.
If I'd had any sense tonight, I would have taken my laptop down the street to a coffee shop to write, or maybe a restaurant or happy hour. I would have encouraged strangers to tell me their stories, so I could break them down and put them together into something heroic. I would have sipped a Ginger Martini instead of hot ginger tea, tears of laughter would have been dabbed with monogrammed handkerchiefs instead of Puffs Plus, all the men would have looked like Gabriel Byrne and at no point would I have inadvertently written myself into a word corner by comparing myself to a dog.
These are the things I do, at 8:45 pm on a Thursday night in Seattle.
It ain't pretty. But at least I showed up, and stories are written by those who show up.
Oh, sure, I spent half of that time looking up words, including a full twenty minutes spent on the word "braise", which, should, by the way, NOT be confused with saute, which I confess I did until I researched it. In case you were wondering, braise involves searing the food in question (usually meat, mushrooms, or occasionally root vegetables) at a high heat to seal in the juices, and create a carmelized, crusty layer of deliciousness, some of which will stick the pan. We'll get to that in a moment. This process is called the Maillard Process. Just saying that makes me feel prepared to go toe to toe with Julia Child.
After the Maillard Process is complete, you are ready to add your liquid, and eventually reduce that liquid into a sauce by cooking off the water (a sauce reduction). The liquid should have an element of acidity, such as balsamic vinegar, tomatoes, lemons or ideally, wine. The acid works on the carmelized sugars to deglaze the pan. At the end, to finish the sauce and round out the mouth-feel, a bit of butter or cream is added. The acid breaks down the milk solids to make it smooth. It's a complex, delicious dance of organic chemistry that makes it all work, and I feel a better person for being clear on the exact difference between braise, saute, and simmer. I mean, it comes up. I wouldn't want to confuse one with the other, because let's face it, that would just be embarrassing.
If I'd had any sense tonight, I would have taken my laptop down the street to a coffee shop to write, or maybe a restaurant or happy hour. I would have encouraged strangers to tell me their stories, so I could break them down and put them together into something heroic. I would have sipped a Ginger Martini instead of hot ginger tea, tears of laughter would have been dabbed with monogrammed handkerchiefs instead of Puffs Plus, all the men would have looked like Gabriel Byrne and at no point would I have inadvertently written myself into a word corner by comparing myself to a dog.
These are the things I do, at 8:45 pm on a Thursday night in Seattle.
It ain't pretty. But at least I showed up, and stories are written by those who show up.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Silent Nights
Tonight, as I crawl into bed for my first night of writing in weeks, I am listening to the traditional music of Advent, O Come Emmanuel (Veni, Veni Emmanuel). The weeks of Advent are about waiting in anticipation of the fulfillment that is to come. It is about clarifying, focusing, and clearing out one's soul in preparation to receive. The words to this hymn were written in the 9th century, the music in the 15th century, and it fits my mood tonight.
For weeks, I have heard little but silence in my soul. I have experienced such a period of intense outward change that my core, writer self has simply been hanging on for dear life, both hands to the pole and screaming into the wind, as the changes, (hereafter referred to as The Great Atlanta To Seattle Move-Tornado of 2011) picked up my little bag o' bones, blew them across this great nation of ours, and deposited them in a completely new life. It was my fourth transcontinental move. That won't sound like much to some of you, and the first three times, it wasn't difficult for me. I was much younger then.
But as I sit here tonight, trying to tie thoughts to paper, I begin to feel less shell-shocked, less brittle, more at home. My Christmas tree is glowing, the warm white lights reflected off of the teal and plum ornaments, colors that make me happy when I look at them. Remnants of my old life, a print of poppies that reminds me of France, a print of a winding path that calls me back to Italy, and sepia photographs of Crete and Florence blend with new modern elements, curiously pewter and silver seem to be my new favorite colors. A cascade of sprout green raw silk, bedroom drapes that shut out the Atlanta night and cocooned me as I wrote, remind me now of springs and growth yet to come here in Seattle.
The night is silent, yet gratefully, after much waiting, my mind begins to come alive. The ticking of the clock, the black and silver Baby Ben that my Grandmother wound every night, ticks beside me, like her comforting heartbeat when she hugged me goodnight. I am in a good place, a place that demands work, offers love, and invites peace. My captive thoughts have at last been ransomed, and I can write again. No more silent nights.
For weeks, I have heard little but silence in my soul. I have experienced such a period of intense outward change that my core, writer self has simply been hanging on for dear life, both hands to the pole and screaming into the wind, as the changes, (hereafter referred to as The Great Atlanta To Seattle Move-Tornado of 2011) picked up my little bag o' bones, blew them across this great nation of ours, and deposited them in a completely new life. It was my fourth transcontinental move. That won't sound like much to some of you, and the first three times, it wasn't difficult for me. I was much younger then.
But as I sit here tonight, trying to tie thoughts to paper, I begin to feel less shell-shocked, less brittle, more at home. My Christmas tree is glowing, the warm white lights reflected off of the teal and plum ornaments, colors that make me happy when I look at them. Remnants of my old life, a print of poppies that reminds me of France, a print of a winding path that calls me back to Italy, and sepia photographs of Crete and Florence blend with new modern elements, curiously pewter and silver seem to be my new favorite colors. A cascade of sprout green raw silk, bedroom drapes that shut out the Atlanta night and cocooned me as I wrote, remind me now of springs and growth yet to come here in Seattle.
The night is silent, yet gratefully, after much waiting, my mind begins to come alive. The ticking of the clock, the black and silver Baby Ben that my Grandmother wound every night, ticks beside me, like her comforting heartbeat when she hugged me goodnight. I am in a good place, a place that demands work, offers love, and invites peace. My captive thoughts have at last been ransomed, and I can write again. No more silent nights.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Test Post from New Location
Test post from new location. After several weeks of hiatus, I'm ready to write again.
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Lightness of Letting Go
In a few short days, I will be moving across the country. I am beyond thrilled. Where I am going is a beautiful place, and where I am leaving is the me that I was, not the me that I am now. So it feels right. All week, I have been sorting out my belongings, keeping only the best of the best, a few of my favorite things, because I am moving into one third of the space. This move from gracious, three-story brick Southern townhouse to open, loft-style urban Northwest apartment is not what I expected to be doing at this point in my life. And yet, that too, feels ultimately right. The experiences you don't plan so often turn out to be the best ones.
As I sort through basement and attic, office and garage, I have to laugh at all the ages and stages of my life, and I am grateful that with each passing year, I become simpler, deeper, more satisfied with less. Even things I thought I could never part with, I find myself laughing that I ever kept them in the first place. Boxes and boxes and bookshelves of books, enough to stock a respectable library, must go, for there is no longer room. I must keep only a few favorites, and donate the rest to the Decatur Public Library. Surely they will name a wing in my honor. But, I have read them. With rare exception, I will not read them again. As the water flows over the stones in the river, I will not pass that way again. The classes that I taught, the research that I did, the courses that I took, are over. Those houses, those trips, those hobbies, they are the me that was, and it is well and truly over. I can let it all go now.
The experiences I had, the people I loved, the things I have done, I carry within me as a rosary of experience. In my memory, I can touch the stones and remember. I do not need outward reminders. In my basement, a huge stack awaits donation pick-up, and I shall take the tax write-off. More will follow. Furniture, even furniture that I liked, will go, because it no longer fits my reality. And the curious thing is, the more I give away, the more sure of my choices I am, the easier it becomes, and the freer, lighter and calmer I feel. In life, as in travel, there are those who travel light, and those who wish they did.
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.
As I sort through basement and attic, office and garage, I have to laugh at all the ages and stages of my life, and I am grateful that with each passing year, I become simpler, deeper, more satisfied with less. Even things I thought I could never part with, I find myself laughing that I ever kept them in the first place. Boxes and boxes and bookshelves of books, enough to stock a respectable library, must go, for there is no longer room. I must keep only a few favorites, and donate the rest to the Decatur Public Library. Surely they will name a wing in my honor. But, I have read them. With rare exception, I will not read them again. As the water flows over the stones in the river, I will not pass that way again. The classes that I taught, the research that I did, the courses that I took, are over. Those houses, those trips, those hobbies, they are the me that was, and it is well and truly over. I can let it all go now.
The experiences I had, the people I loved, the things I have done, I carry within me as a rosary of experience. In my memory, I can touch the stones and remember. I do not need outward reminders. In my basement, a huge stack awaits donation pick-up, and I shall take the tax write-off. More will follow. Furniture, even furniture that I liked, will go, because it no longer fits my reality. And the curious thing is, the more I give away, the more sure of my choices I am, the easier it becomes, and the freer, lighter and calmer I feel. In life, as in travel, there are those who travel light, and those who wish they did.
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
What We Do For The Least of These
Three times a week, he waits for me, sitting in his broken wheelchair, behind a glass door. He is legally blind, cannot hear, and has lost both legs below the knee. For weeks I have been trying to get him equipment. I have made calls on his behalf, trying to locate the equipment he needs that Medicare will not pay for. He is not the first, nor is he the only, of my patients who needs a new wheelchair. The brakes are now broken, and his wheelchair ramp needs repair. I repair what I can, eye glasses, Hoyer lifts, walkers, canes, tub benches. I realize I need better wheelchair repair skills than I currently have.
Another man, behind another door, who has no use of his left side due to stroke, sits in a borrowed wheelchair that is too small for him and is contributing to scoliosis of the spine. He is barefoot, wears a dirty t-shirt with a hole and pants that do not zip held up by one suspender. Nothing has been washed, he is in the same clothes he was in the last time I came. He has no sliding board to assist in the transfer from wheelchair to bed, no tub transfer bench to assist in washing himself. His son is asleep in another room and cannot be roused. The smell is unbearable. He is proud as he tells me he does his own washing, in a bucket, with bits of soap.
I spend ninety minutes on the phone, making every call I can think of, yelling at people I do not know, trying to make some progress, trying to make some meaningful change. The answer always seems to be the same, no matter who I call. They need something from someone else, before they can do their job. I am banging my head against a concrete wall. My patient is not a theory, he is not a statistic; he is an elderly man who cannot walk who needs a bath, a clean set of clothes and sheets, and a wheelchair that fits. For the love of Christ, it cannot be that difficult.
And yet, it seems to be. At the end of the phone line, sitting somewhere in an air conditioned office and wearing clean clothes, a "representative" tells me that they can do nothing, yet again, for my patient. I am told that my patient needs to make calls, fill out paperwork, and the most they, the representative, can do is "drop off a brochure." I am dangerously close to losing it. "Well," I say to the representative, determined to choose my words carefully. "My patient has no family available to help, has severe mental and physical limitations, cannot walk, is sitting in a borrowed wheelchair that is causing curvature of the spine, pisses in a cup and cannot wash himself adequately after shitting into a plastic bag because that is what he has available, but by all means, DROP OFF A BROCHURE."
After ninety minutes, I am late for my next appointment, and must move on. "You must call, and follow up. You must ask your son for assistance. It can be better. But you have to be a squeaky wheel on your own behalf." We are both frustrated. "At least you tried," he says. You've done more in an hour than anyone else has gotten done in four months." I don't feel like I've gotten anything done. He is sitting in the same wheelchair, and he will be wearing the same pants the next time I come. We have done no actual therapy, because his need for equipment is so great, it has to be first priority. He has plenty of brochures, but nothing has changed. I will be quizzed by a bean-counter about my use of therapeutic minutes.
Around the country tonight, people will watch the evening news, and shake their heads, and get angry, thinking of all the people out there trying to "cheat the system." System? What system? I see old men in wheel chairs with no legs who cannot make phone calls on their own behalf because they cannot hear, and who cannot get anyone to follow-up on completing paperwork or sending a fax. I see elders in America who are so poor they are washing their own torn t-shirts in a bucket, who cannot get assistance unless they pay $400 of their $900 Social Security check to a program to bring them "down to Medicaid-eligible."
I call everyone I know who might have equipment lying around unused. I call the donation houses to get my patients wait-listed for a wheelchair that fits and bathroom equipment so they can take a bath safely. Medicare will not pay for "bathroom equipment." I want a number-cruncher, and the American voters who think all of my patients are out to cheat the system, to come with me on patient rounds. I would like to show them the challenges these people are facing just to get out of bed and take a bath every morning. I would like to show them exactly what we are doing for the least of these, our brothers.
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.
Another man, behind another door, who has no use of his left side due to stroke, sits in a borrowed wheelchair that is too small for him and is contributing to scoliosis of the spine. He is barefoot, wears a dirty t-shirt with a hole and pants that do not zip held up by one suspender. Nothing has been washed, he is in the same clothes he was in the last time I came. He has no sliding board to assist in the transfer from wheelchair to bed, no tub transfer bench to assist in washing himself. His son is asleep in another room and cannot be roused. The smell is unbearable. He is proud as he tells me he does his own washing, in a bucket, with bits of soap.
I spend ninety minutes on the phone, making every call I can think of, yelling at people I do not know, trying to make some progress, trying to make some meaningful change. The answer always seems to be the same, no matter who I call. They need something from someone else, before they can do their job. I am banging my head against a concrete wall. My patient is not a theory, he is not a statistic; he is an elderly man who cannot walk who needs a bath, a clean set of clothes and sheets, and a wheelchair that fits. For the love of Christ, it cannot be that difficult.
And yet, it seems to be. At the end of the phone line, sitting somewhere in an air conditioned office and wearing clean clothes, a "representative" tells me that they can do nothing, yet again, for my patient. I am told that my patient needs to make calls, fill out paperwork, and the most they, the representative, can do is "drop off a brochure." I am dangerously close to losing it. "Well," I say to the representative, determined to choose my words carefully. "My patient has no family available to help, has severe mental and physical limitations, cannot walk, is sitting in a borrowed wheelchair that is causing curvature of the spine, pisses in a cup and cannot wash himself adequately after shitting into a plastic bag because that is what he has available, but by all means, DROP OFF A BROCHURE."
After ninety minutes, I am late for my next appointment, and must move on. "You must call, and follow up. You must ask your son for assistance. It can be better. But you have to be a squeaky wheel on your own behalf." We are both frustrated. "At least you tried," he says. You've done more in an hour than anyone else has gotten done in four months." I don't feel like I've gotten anything done. He is sitting in the same wheelchair, and he will be wearing the same pants the next time I come. We have done no actual therapy, because his need for equipment is so great, it has to be first priority. He has plenty of brochures, but nothing has changed. I will be quizzed by a bean-counter about my use of therapeutic minutes.
Around the country tonight, people will watch the evening news, and shake their heads, and get angry, thinking of all the people out there trying to "cheat the system." System? What system? I see old men in wheel chairs with no legs who cannot make phone calls on their own behalf because they cannot hear, and who cannot get anyone to follow-up on completing paperwork or sending a fax. I see elders in America who are so poor they are washing their own torn t-shirts in a bucket, who cannot get assistance unless they pay $400 of their $900 Social Security check to a program to bring them "down to Medicaid-eligible."
I call everyone I know who might have equipment lying around unused. I call the donation houses to get my patients wait-listed for a wheelchair that fits and bathroom equipment so they can take a bath safely. Medicare will not pay for "bathroom equipment." I want a number-cruncher, and the American voters who think all of my patients are out to cheat the system, to come with me on patient rounds. I would like to show them the challenges these people are facing just to get out of bed and take a bath every morning. I would like to show them exactly what we are doing for the least of these, our brothers.
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
My Life as a Perp
The music: Bad Reputation, by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
Lately, my permanent record has been taking a beating. Yesterday I came home to find, in my mailbox, a "False Alarm Citation and Warning: False Alarm of Automatic Response Alarm Systems" because one week prior, I had inadvertently set off my house alarm while dashing out my basement door on the way to my afternoon patient rounds. It is rather dark in my basement hallway, and while juggling computer, treatment bag, keys, phone, Mi-Fi, calendar, a bottle of raspberry selzter, mail and gently toeing three cats out of my way, I hit a wrong button, and then another, and then another, in a frenzied attempt to turn the damn thing off. When the alarm company called to tell me the police had been dispatched, I asked them to cancel and explained my mistake. I had no idea I was setting off such a furor at city hall.
This black mark landed squarely on my already-much-besmirched reputation, as it followed right on the heels of a moving violation I received two weeks prior when I was involved in what I hope to someday remember fondly as "The Great Left Turn Incident of '11." Right now, I remember it simply as "Getting My Bumper Smashed By A Cheeky Young Turk Going Too Damn Fast Through The Intersection." I admit I am not yet quite at peace with either of these two incidents. I hit a wrong button in the dark, and I turned left. Now, I am, apparently, a perp, and although generally I have always tried to see all sides of any story, I am starting to feel just the tiniest bit oppressed by The Man. If I had a tin cup, I would be running it along the bars of my cell, pausing only to strum and sing a soulful rendition of "Folsom Prison Blues" on my guitar.
I suppose it was really only a matter of time. My parents saw the writing on the wall early, and warned me about it, that night I attempted to tip-toe up the stairs four minutes...no, wait, four hours...past my midnight curfew. Once midnight came and went, I reasoned, as only adolescents can do, that since I was already in trouble I might as well make the most of it. Upon my return, as I crept up the stairs accompanied by the, Lord Have Mercy, Christ Have Mercy, rosy-fingered dawn, carrying my shoes, I found both of my parents standing, arms akimbo at the top of the stairs, sputtering, "Where HAVE you..." and "What in the HELL have you..." and the ever-popular "If you think for ONE MINUTE you're going to...". Now, I have only myself to blame, 'cause Lord knows, Mama tried.
And it's made me wonder, this week, about forgiveness, and how maybe we could all use just a little bit more of it in our lives. I pressed a wrong button, I turned left, I had fun, I laughed so hard I forgot to look at my watch, and I loved somebody. I'd do it all again, and in fact, since I'm still stumbling around like an idiot in a thorn bush at the age of...old enough to know better, but young enough to still enjoy it...I probably will. Not really such a walk of shame, at least not in my book.
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.
Lately, my permanent record has been taking a beating. Yesterday I came home to find, in my mailbox, a "False Alarm Citation and Warning: False Alarm of Automatic Response Alarm Systems" because one week prior, I had inadvertently set off my house alarm while dashing out my basement door on the way to my afternoon patient rounds. It is rather dark in my basement hallway, and while juggling computer, treatment bag, keys, phone, Mi-Fi, calendar, a bottle of raspberry selzter, mail and gently toeing three cats out of my way, I hit a wrong button, and then another, and then another, in a frenzied attempt to turn the damn thing off. When the alarm company called to tell me the police had been dispatched, I asked them to cancel and explained my mistake. I had no idea I was setting off such a furor at city hall.
This black mark landed squarely on my already-much-besmirched reputation, as it followed right on the heels of a moving violation I received two weeks prior when I was involved in what I hope to someday remember fondly as "The Great Left Turn Incident of '11." Right now, I remember it simply as "Getting My Bumper Smashed By A Cheeky Young Turk Going Too Damn Fast Through The Intersection." I admit I am not yet quite at peace with either of these two incidents. I hit a wrong button in the dark, and I turned left. Now, I am, apparently, a perp, and although generally I have always tried to see all sides of any story, I am starting to feel just the tiniest bit oppressed by The Man. If I had a tin cup, I would be running it along the bars of my cell, pausing only to strum and sing a soulful rendition of "Folsom Prison Blues" on my guitar.
I suppose it was really only a matter of time. My parents saw the writing on the wall early, and warned me about it, that night I attempted to tip-toe up the stairs four minutes...no, wait, four hours...past my midnight curfew. Once midnight came and went, I reasoned, as only adolescents can do, that since I was already in trouble I might as well make the most of it. Upon my return, as I crept up the stairs accompanied by the, Lord Have Mercy, Christ Have Mercy, rosy-fingered dawn, carrying my shoes, I found both of my parents standing, arms akimbo at the top of the stairs, sputtering, "Where HAVE you..." and "What in the HELL have you..." and the ever-popular "If you think for ONE MINUTE you're going to...". Now, I have only myself to blame, 'cause Lord knows, Mama tried.
And it's made me wonder, this week, about forgiveness, and how maybe we could all use just a little bit more of it in our lives. I pressed a wrong button, I turned left, I had fun, I laughed so hard I forgot to look at my watch, and I loved somebody. I'd do it all again, and in fact, since I'm still stumbling around like an idiot in a thorn bush at the age of...old enough to know better, but young enough to still enjoy it...I probably will. Not really such a walk of shame, at least not in my book.
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.
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