Peach Pie Thoughts

It occurred to me this morning as I devoured my SECOND piece of fresh-from-the-oven pie that I would be very roly-poly were I living in a more temperate climate.  You see, today began cool and crisp and fall-like and everything in me was ready to bake.  Because we had just purchased peaches from a local farmer, I made peach pie.  Had it been like it was in July -- hot and humid -- I would never even think, much less, feel such a thing.  My need to be in the kitchen begins and ends with cool temperatures so ever since I noticed the small signs of fall, I've been thinking soups, stews, chili.  Add to such thoughts, pumpkin pie, home-made bread, and Christmas cookies.  Is it a wonder that I manage to gain weight in the fall and winter and then have to work it off during late spring and summer?  So as the last fragrance of cinnamon and peaches wafts through the house and I sit here, my tummy full and my senses gratified, I'm hoping for Indian summer and if that doesn't happen, a good dose of self-discipline.

Good Advice

"Once during the day, think of who you are as living energy and not as a goal to be achieved or an obstacle to be overcome.  Feel yourself without inventory."  THE BOOK OF AWAKENING by Mark Nepo

Hmmm.  "Feel youself without inventory."  Once again this book, a gift from a sister-in-law, has me thinking.  Just what does he mean when he says, "Feel yourself without inventory"?  It's a phrase loaded with potential for discovery.  It didn't take me long to acknowledge that I am perpetually taking inventory of myself.  I live a "should" existence.  I should clean the house.  I should read this book.  I should call my mother.  I should contact my friend.  I should exercise more.  I should volunteer more.  I should eat healthy.  I should drink more water.  I should, I should, I should....  I've lived my life shoulding myself all over the place and as a result I have carried a lot of guilt along the way.

I also spend a lot of time judging myself, another kind of inventory.  Did I do my job well?  Am I a good student, teacher, friend, principal, wife, mother, person?  Have I served a purpose with my existence?  Again, the answers to these kinds of questions creates guilt as I almost always fall short of my own expectations.

And daily I take stock of my physical self.  I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles, the blemishes, the gray hair, the muffin top.  I stand on the scales and can't deny that I am not at my desired weight.  So what that it's only five pounds over, it's not good enough. 

Not good enough.  Now there's a phrase.  Not that long ago I went to see a therapist because the issues I was dealing with at the time, I could not resolve on my own.  I was caught in circular thinking and I needed someone to hear me and guide me to some kind of resolution.  She didn't exactly do that but what she did do was insightful.  She asked questions.   Pointed, directed, essential questions that forced me to look more carefully at some of the baggage I had been carrying around during my lifetime.  Some of that baggage, perhaps the heaviest, can be summed up in the phrase "not good enough".  I wasn't good enough for my father to not question now and again whether I was really his daughter.  I internalized that conclusion and thus found it easy to believe I wasn't good enough for others in my life.  I wasn't good enough for myself.  While it did result in my working harder to prove otherwise, no matter what I achieved or what accolades I received, in my own eyes I was never good enough.  The therapist didn't tell me what to do but acknowledging the power I had been letting "not good enough" exercise in my living led me to the resolution I sought.

And so being told to think of myself "as living energy and not as a goal to be achieved or an obstacle to be overcome, to feel myself without inventory", well, I find I like that concept.  It's worth experiencing.  If I can achieve that, I'm pretty sure I'll be happier, freer, and able to experience life more fully.  It's never too late to take good advice.

Live Out Loud

I've been thinking about my daily reading for August 12th, titled "To Live Out Loud".  I liked the phrase as soon as I read it.  It just sounds healthy and free and right.  But then, I read the entry and what at first seemed a simple, joyous concept became much more complex and more difficult.  Think about it.  What does it mean to live out loud?

Why do children laugh and cry with abandon?  They don't think about how others will react.  They just feel and express that in the moment through sound or word or action.  Adults, on the other hand, self censor.  Expressing what you feel, whether it be joy, disgust, sorrow, or contentment, makes you stand out, draw attention.  Most of us are uncomfortable with that.  So we either keep our thoughts and feelings to ourselves or we compose our expression of them to fit the audience and our own need to fit in or worse, to be invisible.  Thus, we dilute both and become disingenuous.  The more we confine our real selves, the more we modify ourselves to blend, the less we know ourselves.  We lose touch with our soul and become less real.  I can't remember the last time I cried or laughed freely.  I mean really freely, with abandon.  My first thought is that I can't imagine the vulnerability I would experience were I to do so.  But now I find myself hoping for a time when I can do both because now I can't imagine how empowered and invulnerable I would be.

Living out loud, I think, is allowing ourselves to not only feel but to express what we feel by word, by laughter, by sighs, by action, by whatever is real in its generation and expression.  Living out loud is to be real to yourself and to others without regard for what others think.  It's clear to me now that living out loud would be a gift to both myself and to those around me.  What do you think?

Small Signs

This morning as I walked the neighborhood small signs were all around me, signs that fall is just around the corner.  First, the air was crisp and cool, something we didn't experience the last five weeks or so.  Second, the leaves of trees and bushes are no longer the intense emerald of summer but rather the deep, dark tones of green we see just before the leaves start to change to warm autumn shades.  The flower beds are another indicator.  Spring flowers are long gone.  The bleeding heart foliage that has hung around considerably longer than usual is now turning yellow.  Many summer flowers are past their prime, going to seed, with stalks turning stiff and brown.  I actually saw some sedum, an autumn flower, starting to turn tones of pink.

There are other signs, signs not needing a walk to be apparent.  Banners are up around town welcoming university students back.  Monday the public school administrators start working, their summer vacation ends.  Hummingbirds visit my flower garden regularly now bulking up for their long journey south.  The rose- breasted grosbeak that visits our feeder in the spring before heading farther north has already visited us on his way south.  Football players, both college and high school, are out practicing, getting ready for the opening game.

And perhaps the best sign that fall is on its way is our annual planning for the upcoming holidays.  Now we are making arrangements for family get-togethers at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I love that the anticipation begins now and builds slowly through September, starts to speed up in October, and we ride the peak from Thanksgiving through New Years. 

The signs are there.  Small now but building even as I write this.

The Book of Awakening

I received the book, THE BOOK OF AWAKENING, as a Christmas gift this last year.  I confess it has stayed on the book shelf up until recently.  For no identifiable reason I pulled it off the shelf a couple of days ago and lo and behold, it has been a comfortable, supportive companion each day since.  Today's reflection began with the following quote from Goethe:  "So long as you haven't experienced this: to die and so to grow, you are only a troubled guest on the dark earth."  Just that thought alone was enough to give me pause, to take time to reflect. 

This past week I've used the word "synchronicity" several times because I've either experienced a sequence of seemingly unrelated events that seen as a whole were clearly related or such events in the lives of my friend were shared with me that were of the same kind.  That's what is at play again with today's passage.  I sent my sister, who is at a cross roads in her life, a card this past week that says something to the effect that you only start to grow when you reach the outer edges of your comfort zone.  This morning as I wrote an email to a friend, I mentioned that the greatest growth I've experienced has always followed my greatest discomfort.  And then I read the August 9th entry in this book and there it is, the quote and the daily reflection titled, "Preparing the Way".  The author likens living to a series of mini deaths.  Death of old habits, death of old ways of thinking, even the sloughing off of dead skin cells is part of living and growth. 

Each passage ends with suggestions for meditation.  This one asks the reader to "sit quietly and consider the many selves you have been.  As you breathe evenly, consider how the new self has always been growing underneath the old.  Now close your eyes and meditate on the newness growing within you right now.  As you breathe steadily, relax your grip on the habits of your mind that might be blocking your growth."  It's proved to be a peaceful way to enter into my day.  I thought I'd share it here so you, too, can benefit.

PS:  If you're interested in the book, it's THE BOOK OF AWAKENING by Mark Nepo. Conari Press.

Reflections of a Different Kind

Have you ever passed by a shop window or a mirror and done a double take?  Recently, that's happened twice.  The first time I thought I saw my grandmother.  The second time I thought I saw my father.  Each time, upon a second look, I realized the reflection I saw was my own.  Funny, the reflection in my mind's eye is so different!  No wonder I didn't recognize myself.  Since then I've stood in front of the bathroom mirror studying my aging features, looking for the similarities I have with those long dead relatives.  And they are there, of course, for better or worse.

That got me to thinking about age, my age in particular.  That self-reflected image I carry in my mind I mentioned above?  Well, I would guess the age of that person to be early 40's.  And my self-image in terms of my energy and my intellect?  Most times I feel even younger than that, especially after a good workout.  And yet, the mirror clearly tells a different story.  It says I am, indeed, 62.

That got me to thinking about the "me" behind the physical facade.  It's like my body is a container wherein resides my person.  The container definitely looks less for the wear but the person?  She doesn't feel worn at all.  In fact, she's feeling more empowered and vital than she's felt in years.  I wasn't aware of this duality when I was younger.  The body and the person fit together pretty well back then.  They complemented each other.

So what happens to "me" when the container no longer functions?  When the container restricts the energy of "me"?  Sure, I know, there are those who have pat answers to that question but I've not been able to reconcile those answers with what I have experienced, what I've observed, and what seems logical.  Will the energy of "me" disperse into the universe, possibly joining with the energy of others who've gone before?  Will it transfer to a new container?  Or is there a bigger energy that will draw "me" to it, like a magnet or into it like a black hole?  Or does it just fizzle out, like one of those sparklers we used to light for the Fourth of July?  This last is the least satisfying thought.  I just don't see my body as fuel for "me".  I don't see the aging of this body as being the result of expended fuel.

Anyway, I feel a disconnect between "me" and my body, that's real.  Just as real as the disconnect I felt when I first glimpsed my reflections, mistaking them for past relatives.  Beyond that, it's all conjecture.

A Life Changer

Recently, I was asked a number of questions regarding events surrounding the brain aneurysm I suffered when I was 35.  Rarely does a day go by that I am not reminded of it.  After all, I have a serious scar on my head which starts at my brow and ends behind my ear.  I have worn bangs ever since in an effort to hide it.  I also have a short term memory and central processing disorder as residuals of the surgery.  Both I have managed to overcome through therapy and time.  And yet, I haven't relived the actual sequence of events for years.  Let's see, I'm 62 now so we're tallking 27 years. That sounds like a long time between the event and now, but I'm here to tell you, it is as clear to me today as it was when it happened.

It was a late January night in 1984.  Rog and I were in bed and in the midst of intimate activity.  Intercourse, in other words.  I remember all the signals were going off in my body telling me I was about to have an orgasm when my head exploded.  Well, not literally, but I saw an explosion in my head complete with the accompanying fireworks, white lightening radiating in all directions from a central point against a pitch black background.  Really.  And my head hurt.  Bad.  But the rest of my body was reaching for sexual gratification.  I remember thinking to myself in a split second, which do I hold on to?  The pain or the pleasure?  I went for the pleasure.  As good as I was feeling once orgasm was achieved however, did nothing for the major headache I was experiencing.  I remember getting out of bed and splashing my face with cold water in the hopes of putting out the fire in my head.  I moaned, for God's sake, which is not at all my standard.  The only other pain I've ever experienced that got any sound from me was child birth. 

So, it's midnight or so and I'm in major headache mode but not thinking it's anything more than that, I go back to bed to sleep it off.  That has been, and still is, my approach to dealing with illness.  Before too long, I was feeling queasy and asked Rog to get a bowl in case I threw up.  Throw up, I did.  More than once.  You might think I would have put two and two together at that point, but no, I was in major denial.  I had a headache and an upset stomach.  Period.  I WOULD feel better in the morning.  My husband, on the other hand, must have concluded things were far more serious than that though he did not suggest we go to the hospital at that time.  When the clock alarm went off, I did not feel well at all.  In fact, not only did my head hurt but light hurt.  I know that sounds strange but it did.  I could not handle seeing light.  Only a darkened room or keeping my eyes closed made the rest of my issues tolerable.  My husband suggested we go to the emergency room.  Being a teacher, there were details to attend to before I could do any such thing.   I had to call in sick and talk with the subsitute.  There were no sub plans and the regular plans for the day were with me, not at school.  I must have sounded like a total wimp as I weakly described to the sub what I had planned to do that day.  Again, in my mind I would be back the following day so there wasn't much need to fill her in on the rest of the unit activities.

So we were off.  An indicator of just how bad I felt -- I didn't fix my hair or put on make-up, something I am never seen in public without.  I remember checking into the emergency waiting room and sitting and sitting and sitting.  I felt like death warmed over and surely looked the same but it seemed to me there was no one acting as if I was an emergency.  In fact, nothing about the emergency room indicated emergencies were dealt with there.  To me, everyone moved as if time was in abundance.  When finally we were called, a young doctor asked me what was wrong and I explained what had transpired the previous evening.  He had me stand up and touch my nose with each hand.  He asked me to walk a straight line.  For crying out loud, I was sick, not drunk!  But the results of these simple tests must have told him something because the next thing I knew I was having x-rays and a spinal tap.  Blood was found in my spinal fluid and now, for the first time, I began to understand that this was something more serious than a major headache.

I remember lying on a hospital bed on wheels when the neurologist came to tell me what they suspected was wrong.  I'm looking up at this face, no body, just a face.  A strange face whose mouth is moving but I don't hear the words at first.  I hear that they think an aneurysm in my brain has sprung a leak, I'm going to be put in the ICU, I'm going to have a cat scan to determine exactly what has happened and where in my brain, how bad it is.  I'm still not fully ready to believe that I'm in serious condition, that I'm not going back to work tomorrow.  I'm just glad to know that they may know what's wrong and they plan to fix it.

I remember being in ICU, hooked up to machines.  I must have slept a lot while there as I don't remember much.  A student of mine came to visit while I was there.  She told me she told the hospital personnel she was my sister since only immediate family was allowed to visit patients in ICU.  I accepted that answer back then but now I think maybe her father had something to do with it.  As I recall he was some kind of official with the hospital.  Anyway, once I was stabilized and tests had been run and the diagnosis confirmed, I was moved to a general ward to wait.  I was told that research showed that patients with my condition fared better during surgery if a period of up to ten days was allowed for the body and the brain to normalize.  Those days went by uneventfully.  I ate, slept, bathed in bed, had to ring for bathroom assistance, did cross stitch, and listened to books on tape.  I had visitors.  Family, colleagues, friends.  I never once thought of my condition or the upcoming surgery.  I existed in a blissful state of acceptance.  No pain, no worry, just doing as I was told and allowing everyone else around me to deal with the details.

The night before the surgery, Dr. Belagura, my micro-neuro surgeon, came to discuss with Roger and I what we could expect the following day.  I remember he started out by saying something about how much easier it would be were he to be operating on an old lady whose brain had been stomped on by a Mack truck than to be operating on me, a vital young woman.  Not exactly a cheering way to begin the conversation.  From there he described the procedure and all the possible results.  On one end, I could die on the surgery table, especially if I seizure on the table (the whole idea of the ten days prior to the surgery was to lessen the likelihood of that happening).  The aneurysm could fully rupture.  I could be paralyzed, blind, unable to speak.  We wouldn't know until he got in there and found out exactly what was going on and what had to be done to stop it.  The surgery would take about four hours.

I remember holding my husband's hand, looking at him.  I don't remember what we said to each other before he left for the night but I do remember what I did for hours after.  Sleep was not on the list.  I finished listening to A TALE OF TWO CITIES.  I reviewed the life I had led up to that point.  I thought of the things I hadn't yet done or accomplished.  I promised myself that if I came through this whole, I would no longer let things happen to me but rather I would make things happen for me.  I would not put off for tomorrow what I could do in the present.  I promised I would not find myself in this same position in the future with regrets about what I hadn't done, hadn't achieved.  At some point, sleep overcame my thinking.

The morning of the surgery, I do not remember feeling any apprehension.  Not before and especially not after taking whatever drug they gave me.  I remember Roger taking my picture.  I remember smiling and laughing as I was rolled down the hallway.  I remember thinking how cold and small the operating room was.  And then I remember nothing.  It's like I was a light and someone had pulled the cord.  I was out and stayed out for the better part of two days.  The surgery took three hours longer than anticipated.  The aneurysm did fully rupture during the operation.  I have my medical records and while difficult to decipher, it is clear there was a period of serious concern.  Roger spent all seven hours in a waiting room by himself, by his choice.  As I think on it, he had the tougher time.  He dealt with all the "what if's".  He told me he started thinking of building ramps to the house at one point.  Friends helped out with our son who was blissfully too young to fully understand all that was going on.  Roger, on the other hand, spent some time thinking about life as a single father.

Roger took a picture of me in the ICU after the surgery.  I am not sure I really remember anything about my time there and I am thankful I had no idea how I looked.  That Mack truck the surgeon talked about the night before the surgery, well, I looked like the Mack truck won.  I do remember regaining conciousness and being told how long I had been out.  I remember being asked who the president was and thinking one answer while giving another.  A wrong answer.  I remember drifting in and out and periodically being asked simple questions I absolutely had the right answers to but was to be unable to give.  It was like my mouth had a mind of its own.  Roger tells me the doctor told him he was very pleased with how things went.  I suspect Roger must have had some doubts given not only the way I looked but the way I sounded.  Time seemed to work its magic though and gradually the real Robin started to make herself known. 

I was moved out of the ICU and about a week later was told I would be going home.  I felt great.  Light no longer bothered me.  I was lucid and not only knew but gave the right answers to such questions as, "Who is the president?  How old are you?  What's your name?" 

At home there was a period of rest and then a period of boredom.  I had follow-up appointments with my neurologist who explained that there would be residuals from the surgery but that they couldn't say for sure what they would be until the scar tissue had fully developed.  From all indications, the worst had been avoided but one couldn't dig around in someone's brain without some expectation of consequences.  My aneurysm was located near the optical nerve on my left side.  It was in an area that dealt with language.  That's what I was told but at that time it meant nothing to me, really.  Everything seemed normal so about six weeks after the event itself, I returned to work.  That was a mistake.

Going into a classroom to teach flanguage arts to thirteen year olds is a challenge under the best of circumstances.  For someone who hasn't fully recovered their energy and who might have a few loose wires in their head, it proved extremely frustrating.  I loved teaching and I loved my students.  I had every reason to believe they loved me.  Well, at least as much as 8th graders can love any teacher.  Things seemed to be going okay other than my being tired but there were a few quirky events that I couldn't explain.  A student would give an answer and I'd repeat what I thought was said only to be greeted with unexplained laughter.  I would be asked to do something, whether by colleagues, students, or Roger, and I wouldn't get the task done.  My forgetfulness frustrated others, Roger most of all.  My last days of teaching were less than auspicous.  I chalked it up to being very, very tired.

Then summer came and while my memory issues bothered Roger, the lack of job responsibilities helped life resemble normalcy.  I took a leave of absence to return to grad school that fall and there my frustrations grew.  At one point, I believed I was going crazy.  I had always been a decent student.  Learning, when I applied myself, was relatively easy.  Not so now.  I could read a page and not remember a thing.  I could read it four or five times and barely remember the most important concepts while not holding on to any of the details.  At one point I was called upon to give an answer and then having given it, I was asked to repeat it for the class.  I couldn't.  I couldn't remember the question much less my answer!  I wasn't tackling the duties of my assistantship well either.  Nothing was going as I had expected and finally I shared this with my neurologist.  Tests were run and it was determined that I had a short term memory deficit and a central auditory processing disorder.  Can you inagine the relief hearing that brought to me?  I wasn't crazy.  Things that once were simple, weren't any more.  But knowing what was wrong, I was able to receive a bit of therapy and make some adjustments.  Clearly, I've been able to do well inspite of these issues.  In fact, I think it made me a much better educator.  Understanding that different brains process differently helped me understand the need to present information using multi-modalities.

So, here I am, 62 years old, retired, enjoying a full and happy life.  The only thing, in addition to the scar, that remains to remind me of the aneurysm, is a tingling sensation I experience on my right side, especially in the extremities.  It's nearly a constant in my life but I'm so used to it that I have to think about it to feel it.  Were I to face a similar situation today, I would have only one regret -- the possible loss of the years ahead and for that I am grateful.