This post comes to you courtesy of my left hand.
I am right-handed under normal circumstances, but that hand is in a cast at the moment. So I am currently having the adventure/lesson of discovering what it is like to function with only the use of my left hand. I am learning quite a few useful things, and thought it might be worth sharing/remembering.
~ I have found it necessary to find new and creative ways to accomplish everyday tasks.
One example would be the process of brushing my teeth. Have you ever tried to take the cap off a tube of toothpaste with only one hand - your non-dominant hand? Don't even ask about how long it now takes to do the actual brushing with a hand that has no muscle-memory for the task.
More fun is to be had in the kitchen. I've found it necessary to get quite creative opening a juice bottle, opening a can with a manual can opener, opening sealed bags, even cracking eggs or making toast. Lets not forget the washing up either - those wet dishes are slippery!
~ I have found it necessary to slow down my schedule.
Almost everything takes just a bit longer, and it adds up over the course of a day. The process of bathing and dressing in the morning takes 15 minutes longer than it did before last week. It takes longer to pump gas, to start my car, to eat my lunch, to use the restroom, to gather my things at the end of the day.
And typing! This one is killing me. With two hands, I am quite fast on the keyboard - accurate too. With only my left hand? Umm - not so much - not even close. I need to rethink how much I can do in one day while my hand is healing.
~ I think this is a good thing actually.
The forced slow-down is a good thing. It requires that I consciously evaluate all sorts of little things (habits, patterns) that I have not really looked at in a very long time. I suspect the process will ultimately prove to be a valuable gift in and of itself.
This has already been a very interesting week. I wonder how things will look during week 4 or 5 or 6.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Love and Acceptance
Today I read a post called Actions speak louder than words written by an amazing lady. I've been following her blog for quite a while now, and I have a lot of admiration and respect for her.
All I can say is that I really needed to hear this message today. It was a reflection of her thoughts about the bible passage in John 13 describing how Jesus washed the feet of his disciples as an example for them to follow. She broke it down to the two words, Love and Acceptance, and described the questions she was asking herself in response. It resonated with me, and circles in my mind and comes out something like this...
How do I show Love to others?
The big kind of love. The love for a fellow human being kind of love. The service to others that grows out of that kind of love. The kind of showing that washes anothers feet.
How do I accept Love?
Again, I mean the big kind of love. The fellow human being kind of love. The service to me that grows out of that kind of love. The kind of acceptance that allows another to wash my feet.
All I can say is that I'm not nearly as good at either one as I'd like to be.
All I can say is that I really needed to hear this message today. It was a reflection of her thoughts about the bible passage in John 13 describing how Jesus washed the feet of his disciples as an example for them to follow. She broke it down to the two words, Love and Acceptance, and described the questions she was asking herself in response. It resonated with me, and circles in my mind and comes out something like this...
How do I show Love to others?
The big kind of love. The love for a fellow human being kind of love. The service to others that grows out of that kind of love. The kind of showing that washes anothers feet.
How do I accept Love?
Again, I mean the big kind of love. The fellow human being kind of love. The service to me that grows out of that kind of love. The kind of acceptance that allows another to wash my feet.
All I can say is that I'm not nearly as good at either one as I'd like to be.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
The relative size of things
One night long ago, coming home late from a full day of work-then-school, I pulled into the driveway of my house, locked the car, looked up, and stopped. Just stopped. For a long time.
Awestruck.
There was something in the sky. Something I had never seen before. Something that was amazing and huge and incredibly, indescribably, beautiful. It reminded me of some pictures I had seen of far-off nebulae, those beautiful collections of gas and dust and stars, invisible to the naked eye. Only this, whatever it was, filled a third of the sky, and I found myself unable to look away. My street was dark, with few street lights. The night was cool, and the breeze smelled sweet from the wild grasses that grew everywhere. And I couldn't look away.
I don't know what it was. I never found out. I caught the tail-end of some mention of it on the radio the following day, not enough to learn what it was, and that was it. It was gone the following night. Most people never saw it.
I've never forgotten it though, and I hope I never will. The memory is important to me, far more important than a pretty view would suggest. In fact, the memory is essential to me, and somehow necessary to my sense of myself.
It wasn't just the beauty of the thing. It wasn't just the size of the thing. It wasn't just the unexpectedness of it, the surprise. It was something, something more.
Gazing up,
My eyes full of the sight of it.
My ears full of the sound of the wind in the trees.
My nose full of the sweet scent of the grass.
I saw it.
Completely. For just a moment.
For just a moment, the relative size of things was visible before me. The size of the beautiful thing in the sky, so huge, so small compared to the star-filled sky beyond it. The size of myself, so small, so huge compared to the sand beneath my shoes. And all of it - myself, the sand, the grass in the breeze, the beauty in the sky, the stars beyond - all of it infinitely precious. All of it infinitely beautiful. All of it completely essential, and exactly, exactly what it was. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Awestruck is too small a word for what I saw/felt/knew in that moment.
I found myself thanking God, singing His praises to the sky for the making of such wondrous things as sand and grass and people and amazing sights in a night sky. Grateful. Full to overflowing.
And this from me? I was doing this? Unselfconsciously? Me? A woman who didn't go to church. A woman who didn't know God, not well anyway. A woman who didn't pray. A woman whose life was disintegrating around her as her husband disappeared into the surreal no-mans-land of drug addiction. A woman who had gone back to school at night in a desperate attempt to hold on to something normal, keep a perspective on a normal life. None of that mattered in that moment.
All that mattered was that glimpse of the relative size of things. So tiny. So vast. And all of it, ALL of it precious. Infinitely precious. Including me - as unbelievable as it seemed then and now - including me and everyone, everything else.
I think about the passage from Genesis where it says that God looked upon his work and saw that it was good, very good.
I dare to say... I think that may have been an understatement.
Awestruck.
There was something in the sky. Something I had never seen before. Something that was amazing and huge and incredibly, indescribably, beautiful. It reminded me of some pictures I had seen of far-off nebulae, those beautiful collections of gas and dust and stars, invisible to the naked eye. Only this, whatever it was, filled a third of the sky, and I found myself unable to look away. My street was dark, with few street lights. The night was cool, and the breeze smelled sweet from the wild grasses that grew everywhere. And I couldn't look away.
I don't know what it was. I never found out. I caught the tail-end of some mention of it on the radio the following day, not enough to learn what it was, and that was it. It was gone the following night. Most people never saw it.
I've never forgotten it though, and I hope I never will. The memory is important to me, far more important than a pretty view would suggest. In fact, the memory is essential to me, and somehow necessary to my sense of myself.
It wasn't just the beauty of the thing. It wasn't just the size of the thing. It wasn't just the unexpectedness of it, the surprise. It was something, something more.
Gazing up,
My eyes full of the sight of it.
My ears full of the sound of the wind in the trees.
My nose full of the sweet scent of the grass.
I saw it.
Completely. For just a moment.
For just a moment, the relative size of things was visible before me. The size of the beautiful thing in the sky, so huge, so small compared to the star-filled sky beyond it. The size of myself, so small, so huge compared to the sand beneath my shoes. And all of it - myself, the sand, the grass in the breeze, the beauty in the sky, the stars beyond - all of it infinitely precious. All of it infinitely beautiful. All of it completely essential, and exactly, exactly what it was. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Awestruck is too small a word for what I saw/felt/knew in that moment.
I found myself thanking God, singing His praises to the sky for the making of such wondrous things as sand and grass and people and amazing sights in a night sky. Grateful. Full to overflowing.
And this from me? I was doing this? Unselfconsciously? Me? A woman who didn't go to church. A woman who didn't know God, not well anyway. A woman who didn't pray. A woman whose life was disintegrating around her as her husband disappeared into the surreal no-mans-land of drug addiction. A woman who had gone back to school at night in a desperate attempt to hold on to something normal, keep a perspective on a normal life. None of that mattered in that moment.
All that mattered was that glimpse of the relative size of things. So tiny. So vast. And all of it, ALL of it precious. Infinitely precious. Including me - as unbelievable as it seemed then and now - including me and everyone, everything else.
I think about the passage from Genesis where it says that God looked upon his work and saw that it was good, very good.
I dare to say... I think that may have been an understatement.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Riptide
Once, when I was a teenager, I went to the beach to go swimming.
Swimming was really the only reason I would go to the beach during the day. Sunbathing is boring, quite frankly, and I never learned one end of a surfboard from another. I didn't care for running in the sand either, though I understand it's an excellent workout.
I do like to swim however, and although I'm not very strong, I particularly like to swim in the ocean. I like the buoyancy of the salt water and the motion of the surf. I like the smell of the salt and seaweed, and I like the sound of it.
I love the sound of it actually. The sound of the sea.
To be honest, I would go to the sea every day just for that sound and those scents.
Actually though, let's be realistic. I wouldn't go during the day unless it was Winter. During the busy beach season, I prefer the evening or the night. Then I can fill my ears and my nose with the sea all I like.
Unless, of course, I want a swim. If I'm to swim, I want the light and the warmth of the sun.
So, on this particular day, it was summer, and I went to the beach for a swim. It was everything I like about a swim day. Warm sun. Enough surf to get pushed around a bit, but not so much as to make it too difficult to swim. A breeze.
I chose a place for my towel and sandals, made a mental note of landmarks that would help me find them again, and danced the hot-foot down to the water. That sand was cooking! It was a bit of a distance from where I was to the pier, and I thought I would challenge myself with a swim down to the pier and back, staying parallel to the shore.
I swam out far enough to avoid getting wiped out by the surf crashing on the beach and started working my way toward the pier. It was wonderful. I didn't think about anything. I just worked my slow way toward the pier allowing the ocean to push me around as I went. Sunlight sparkling off water. Salt seaweed smell. The push-pull of the swells. The sound of the surf alternating between loud and muffled as the water alternately covered and uncovered my ears.
There was no warning really. If a particularly large swell came in and started breaking beyond where I was swimming, I would dive under it to avoid getting wiped out and dumped unceremoniously on the beach. As I swam, I could feel the occasional stronger-than-usual pull of the water moving out to sea, feeding a large wave. I didn't need to watch for them to know they were coming. I could feel them in the water around me. They didn't worry me at all being few and far between, and the pier was drawing closer.
It seemed that one moment I was swimming comfortably and diving under the occasional large wave. The very next moment it was all I could do to gulp a quick mouthful of air between diving under the impossibly large waves lining up one after another. I didn't even have time to wonder why there were suddenly so many. I just kept breathing and diving under the waves until I came up for air one time and finally spotted the pier in the brief moment between dives. I was shocked at how far I had moved in the water so fast. Too fast. I realized then that this wasn't just a cluster of unusually large waves. I realized then that I might be in trouble. Big trouble.
From that point on I was working my way toward shore. I don't know how long it took. I don't know how many times I dived under the giants too late and got pummeled, missing my chance at a breath of air before the next one. I don't know how many times the surf wiped me out as I got closer to shore and the sea got rougher. I just know I kept going.
And then there was sand under my feet and hands. And then there was a lifeguard running toward me screaming some nonsense at me about getting the H#!! out of the water because there was a riptide. (no! really?) And then I was above the water line. And the warmth of the sand took the last of my strength.
I lay face-down on the sand, feeling the heat radiating up through my skin, feeling the breeze on my back, breathing, temporarily blind and deaf, and breathing, just breathing.
Sound returns, and sight, and the awareness I can move my limbs. A lifeguard is asking me over and over if I'm OK. I nod, still speachless, unwilling to waste precious air on words. The lifeguard goes away.
And the sand is warm, and I can feel the warmth of the sun now. The sound of the sea. The scent of salt and seaweed. The grit of sand. The breeze playing with a few strands of my hair that have dried.
And I feel something. Something tiny and fierce and so very bright.
It is something akin to triumph - though empty of pride. It is full of joy instead.
The joy of being alive.
Swimming was really the only reason I would go to the beach during the day. Sunbathing is boring, quite frankly, and I never learned one end of a surfboard from another. I didn't care for running in the sand either, though I understand it's an excellent workout.
I do like to swim however, and although I'm not very strong, I particularly like to swim in the ocean. I like the buoyancy of the salt water and the motion of the surf. I like the smell of the salt and seaweed, and I like the sound of it.
I love the sound of it actually. The sound of the sea.
To be honest, I would go to the sea every day just for that sound and those scents.
Actually though, let's be realistic. I wouldn't go during the day unless it was Winter. During the busy beach season, I prefer the evening or the night. Then I can fill my ears and my nose with the sea all I like.
Unless, of course, I want a swim. If I'm to swim, I want the light and the warmth of the sun.
So, on this particular day, it was summer, and I went to the beach for a swim. It was everything I like about a swim day. Warm sun. Enough surf to get pushed around a bit, but not so much as to make it too difficult to swim. A breeze.
I chose a place for my towel and sandals, made a mental note of landmarks that would help me find them again, and danced the hot-foot down to the water. That sand was cooking! It was a bit of a distance from where I was to the pier, and I thought I would challenge myself with a swim down to the pier and back, staying parallel to the shore.
I swam out far enough to avoid getting wiped out by the surf crashing on the beach and started working my way toward the pier. It was wonderful. I didn't think about anything. I just worked my slow way toward the pier allowing the ocean to push me around as I went. Sunlight sparkling off water. Salt seaweed smell. The push-pull of the swells. The sound of the surf alternating between loud and muffled as the water alternately covered and uncovered my ears.
There was no warning really. If a particularly large swell came in and started breaking beyond where I was swimming, I would dive under it to avoid getting wiped out and dumped unceremoniously on the beach. As I swam, I could feel the occasional stronger-than-usual pull of the water moving out to sea, feeding a large wave. I didn't need to watch for them to know they were coming. I could feel them in the water around me. They didn't worry me at all being few and far between, and the pier was drawing closer.
It seemed that one moment I was swimming comfortably and diving under the occasional large wave. The very next moment it was all I could do to gulp a quick mouthful of air between diving under the impossibly large waves lining up one after another. I didn't even have time to wonder why there were suddenly so many. I just kept breathing and diving under the waves until I came up for air one time and finally spotted the pier in the brief moment between dives. I was shocked at how far I had moved in the water so fast. Too fast. I realized then that this wasn't just a cluster of unusually large waves. I realized then that I might be in trouble. Big trouble.
From that point on I was working my way toward shore. I don't know how long it took. I don't know how many times I dived under the giants too late and got pummeled, missing my chance at a breath of air before the next one. I don't know how many times the surf wiped me out as I got closer to shore and the sea got rougher. I just know I kept going.
And then there was sand under my feet and hands. And then there was a lifeguard running toward me screaming some nonsense at me about getting the H#!! out of the water because there was a riptide. (no! really?) And then I was above the water line. And the warmth of the sand took the last of my strength.
I lay face-down on the sand, feeling the heat radiating up through my skin, feeling the breeze on my back, breathing, temporarily blind and deaf, and breathing, just breathing.
Sound returns, and sight, and the awareness I can move my limbs. A lifeguard is asking me over and over if I'm OK. I nod, still speachless, unwilling to waste precious air on words. The lifeguard goes away.
And the sand is warm, and I can feel the warmth of the sun now. The sound of the sea. The scent of salt and seaweed. The grit of sand. The breeze playing with a few strands of my hair that have dried.
And I feel something. Something tiny and fierce and so very bright.
It is something akin to triumph - though empty of pride. It is full of joy instead.
The joy of being alive.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The brain has a mind of its own.
So I have this really odd brain. Sometimes it's smart, and sometimes it's just plain stupid. I love the smart times, and to be perfectly honest, I despise the stupid times. After all, who doesn't enjoy feeling competent, and who enjoys feeling, well, less-than-competent. Right? Right. Exactly.
It's like I have a toggle switch or a volume dial in my brain that changes my level of functioning. Unfairly, I don't have control over that damn switch or dial or whatever it is that changes my ability to function from reasonably competent to not. I think I should have control over it. After all, it is my brain; it belongs to me. It stands to reason (at least to me) that I should have the final say over what happens to that damn switch/dial in my very own brain, but I don't. I simply don't.
I hate that.
There are lots of supposedly very good reasons why that damn switch gets to do it's own damn thing regardless of my wishes. I get it. The brain is a living part of a living thing. As such, it is vulnerable to fatigue, poor nutrition, environment, stress, injury, etc... Soooo, it stands to reason (says the reasonable and logical me), that its level of function would differ periodically depending on all those factors plus a whole host of other other factors that I have probably never even heard about.
So this is all perfectly normal, and it's time to stop fussing about it... now...
Right now if you please. Enough is enough. Right.
Wrong.
It's not okay with me. Not by a long shot. The reasonable and logical me is not in charge apparently. I don't feel at all reasonable or logical about this. I'm feeling quite fussy. When that damn toggle switch or volume dial moves from "competent" to "something-other-than-competent", I feel Threatened and Vulnerable. Threatened by what exactly? Vulnerable to what exactly? There is no good answer to that. Unfortunately, the absence of a good answer fails to stem the tide of fear and anxiety that accompanies the state of "something-other-than-competent". The fear and anxiety are as inexorable as, well, as inexorable as the tide actually.
I find that I am ashamed of myself for my inability to keep from falling into the place of something-other-than-competent. When in that place, I become hyper-aware that information is moving too fast for me to process. I know I'm missing things. Conversation can become unintelligible. My to-do list fails to make any sense. My mind flutters about like a panicked bird trying desperately to keep up with what's going on around me. Everything is too loud, too fast, two bright, and I am unable to catch up. No matter how hard I try, and I try very hard, I am unable to keep up. And frankly, the louder/busier/more crowded the environment, the faster I find myself in that place. It's frightening. It's embarrassing too, as it's impossible to completely camouflage my impared state when interacting with others.
And I Hate It. Did I mention that I hate it? I think my hatred of it is quite logical really. Who enjoys being frightened or embarrassed? Nobody I know.
I know the antidote to the something-other-than-competent. It's simple really: a good measure of quiet and rest, mixed well, and taken regularly. Enough rest in a quiet environment will reset that damn switch back to competent 99% of the time. The thing I find frustrating is that enough-rest equates to quite-a-lot-of-rest in my case.
This is very hard for me to accept. Other people don't seem to have this problem. Besides, I think my brain should obey my commands you see. After all, it resides in my head. My house (figuratively speaking), my rules - Right?
Yeah....
Despite the date on my birth certificate, I suspect my brain remains a defiant adolescent. It's not buying into the idea. It's quite stubborn actually.
It's like I have a toggle switch or a volume dial in my brain that changes my level of functioning. Unfairly, I don't have control over that damn switch or dial or whatever it is that changes my ability to function from reasonably competent to not. I think I should have control over it. After all, it is my brain; it belongs to me. It stands to reason (at least to me) that I should have the final say over what happens to that damn switch/dial in my very own brain, but I don't. I simply don't.
I hate that.
There are lots of supposedly very good reasons why that damn switch gets to do it's own damn thing regardless of my wishes. I get it. The brain is a living part of a living thing. As such, it is vulnerable to fatigue, poor nutrition, environment, stress, injury, etc... Soooo, it stands to reason (says the reasonable and logical me), that its level of function would differ periodically depending on all those factors plus a whole host of other other factors that I have probably never even heard about.
So this is all perfectly normal, and it's time to stop fussing about it... now...
Right now if you please. Enough is enough. Right.
Wrong.
It's not okay with me. Not by a long shot. The reasonable and logical me is not in charge apparently. I don't feel at all reasonable or logical about this. I'm feeling quite fussy. When that damn toggle switch or volume dial moves from "competent" to "something-other-than-competent", I feel Threatened and Vulnerable. Threatened by what exactly? Vulnerable to what exactly? There is no good answer to that. Unfortunately, the absence of a good answer fails to stem the tide of fear and anxiety that accompanies the state of "something-other-than-competent". The fear and anxiety are as inexorable as, well, as inexorable as the tide actually.
I find that I am ashamed of myself for my inability to keep from falling into the place of something-other-than-competent. When in that place, I become hyper-aware that information is moving too fast for me to process. I know I'm missing things. Conversation can become unintelligible. My to-do list fails to make any sense. My mind flutters about like a panicked bird trying desperately to keep up with what's going on around me. Everything is too loud, too fast, two bright, and I am unable to catch up. No matter how hard I try, and I try very hard, I am unable to keep up. And frankly, the louder/busier/more crowded the environment, the faster I find myself in that place. It's frightening. It's embarrassing too, as it's impossible to completely camouflage my impared state when interacting with others.
And I Hate It. Did I mention that I hate it? I think my hatred of it is quite logical really. Who enjoys being frightened or embarrassed? Nobody I know.
I know the antidote to the something-other-than-competent. It's simple really: a good measure of quiet and rest, mixed well, and taken regularly. Enough rest in a quiet environment will reset that damn switch back to competent 99% of the time. The thing I find frustrating is that enough-rest equates to quite-a-lot-of-rest in my case.
This is very hard for me to accept. Other people don't seem to have this problem. Besides, I think my brain should obey my commands you see. After all, it resides in my head. My house (figuratively speaking), my rules - Right?
Yeah....
Despite the date on my birth certificate, I suspect my brain remains a defiant adolescent. It's not buying into the idea. It's quite stubborn actually.
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