This One Is Different

In New Orleans on business, we went to the French Quarter to dine on "expense-accounted gruel." (Excerpted from Jethro Tull's "Cross-Eyed Mary" 1971). Afterward, for health reasons, we took a walk onto Bourbon Street. Recalling my very first trip to New Orleans, when I was nineteen, I looked for the Velvet Swing, whose memorable feature was a trapeze swing above its door on which a young underdressed woman swung, pointing her legs skyward each time the swing cleared the top of the door and swung out toward the street. It wasn't there. Of my three visits to New Orleans in the forty years since, this one seems different.

As we trudged past the bars with "hawkers" in the street waving us in at every other doorway, I began to feel silly about my being overdressed. Gallatoire's, our dining choice for this evening, was a "jacket-required" establishment—at least for gentlemen. Amid a throng of younger people who were dressed as casually as one can while still being dressed, I walked along with my gray hair, a navy wool blazer, tasseled loafers and buttoned-down shirt. On my first visit, it was bell-bottomed jeans, a parson's shirt, and sandals. My point of view in the 1960's was expressed by my attire during that visit, but this visit's different.

People from all walks of life strolled along the street, gazing with wonder, grinning at oddities, listening to the assortment of street musicians. Most drum, pick or blow familiar tunes. This guitar man strums, this drummer drums, another plays a sitar with his thumbs. While most play songs I've heard before, I hear a coronet, just blowing away. And I know this one is different.

Some are panhandlers. There is even a young man with an empty plastic beer glass approaching people with full glasses, just asking for a pour. I've seen all sorts of beggars, but this one is different.

It's nine o'clock on a Tuesday. We find ourselves walking for just a moment behind a young teenaged woman, clad in worn-out, dirty jeans and a scoop tee shirt. A five year old little girl (I know what five looks like these days, my granddaughter is just that age) clings to her hand, sucking on a sucker, gazing all around. A co-worker turns to me and says, "That little girl just doesn't have a chance, does she?" I sigh, and surmise the young mother "just had to go out," and had nowhere to drop her, so she brought her along. As my co-worker turned, shaking his head, I said, "Some people overcome it, maybe this one is different."

Suppressing the Warbles

Henry David Thoreau once wrote "As the sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so I had my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my nest." As I stepped outside to pick up the paper on this chill February morning, I took a breath, sighed and walked to the mailbox. Nothing wrong with hanging around here. No suppressed warble though, as I spotted my neighbor and first greeted him, then greeted his dogs by name--dogs are people, too, you know. Even on a Saturday morning, the notion of just watching remains just out of reach, natural as it is. Years of conditioning have reinforced the other natural activity--constantly flowing thoughts of everything but just sitting still. Even so, I'll settle for what comes along, just being here. I listened to two friends talk last night about their lives, one remarking he was just glad to make it this far alive, "With each year better than the last," he says, "what could be better than just being here?" The other talked about the joy of just being free to experience life in such a beautiful place. He said he has no room in his life for people who whine about their situation. Look on the bright side, he urges. So this morning, I will join them and enjoy just being here, and I'll warble if I want to.

Intersections

The other day, I used an expression I don't remember hearing anywhere or reading anywhere, so I must have just made it up. It was about lives intersecting. On many levels, when or where our lives intersect determines our future. But that's just the result. Something precedes it, and it is one of life's great puzzles. Many cultures have developed explanations for that something that is "in charge." Some are religious, some philosophical, some spiritual, even astrological--think karma, divine providence. the stars, and all the philosophical answers to life's questions about why we are here.

There are even many who believe it's all a random process and pure chance dictates how your life intersects with the lives of others. I do prefer the former, even though chance seems to be the only thing that prevents someone from rounding the corner and running into you. And what was it that landed your resume a few slots behind the last candidate chosen for interview at a company on the Coast that you were perfect for? Was it really preordained that you would attend a university 500 miles southwest of your home town, and not due east? There are pivotal moments in life, and we really don't know what causes lines to intersect or not, do we? Oops, I seem to have moved metaphors—from traffic and geography to linear algebra and geometry. I kind of like the traffic and geography metaphor better, don't you? It's easier to picture a missed bus or train or a traffic light turning yellow seconds too soon; as opposed to riding some sort of vector or parallelogram. But mathematics probably lends itself to analysis more readily than traffic lights, rounding corners, college applications and resumes.

Neither really addresses the chance that determines how we connect when our lives intersect. There are first impressions, which can derail any connection. There is eye contact. If no one makes eye contact, no connection seems possible. On the other hand, eye contact can put some people off. A smile just naturally prompts a return smile (see brain research). So, even eye contact if and when intersections occur, seems to be a factor in determining what happens after lives intersect. Even if connections are made, things like words and touch strengthen or truncate those tentative connections before they can grow. The people you encounter, the vast, vast majority of whom never connect with you or even try. So those with whom you connect, regardless of where or when, are valuable and precious. Through them you become the human you are.

There are chains that begin with a single person that become phenomenal. Think of the National Kidney Registry. Without its founder, hundreds of lives would no longer be. And, if Michael J. Fox had not contracted Parkinson's then his foundation would not raise money for research, and its trial finder would not be connecting people with researchers for clinical trials that must take place to find a cure. Or, if you do not connect with other humans wherever and whenever you can, then you will be less for it, and so will we all.

 

On Being Crabby

Someone told me (for the 2nd day in a row) I was being crabby. Having denied it, I was informed I "must not even know what crabbiness is." I looked it up, and found several definitions, synonyms, and even translations, e.g., Grincheux is the French word for crabby (Oh, Dr. Seuss, I never knew your secret--Grinch was not a made-up word). Grouchy, ill-tempered, grumpy are words commonly found in the definition. I find none of the above that fit, especially the French one. Even if it were so, two days in a row is nowhere near the record (see the world record holder below)

Even so, I have found this little writing space a perfect antidote to lots of pains and other puzzles. Thus I sat down here to explore crabby, just in case herself was correct to label me crabby. So far, the best thing I learned just nosing around to see if I was even close to crabby myself is this--the best way to deal with being crabby is to act as if you aren't,


It turns out there is brain science behind this. I am not making this up, but it has been proven that humans are hard-wired, so to speak, to respond to a smile with a smile; to respond to a frown with something less than pleasant; to crying with a congruent look of sadness and an offer of sympathy.

Secondly, the brain tends to store memories by emotion, so when you let a crabby emotion run its course, it is bound to stir up memories of other times you have been crabby and soon your crabbiness is spiraling even higher--or is it lower? Probably depends on whether it is depressed-crabby (downward) or stressed-crabby (upward). Now, if you act as if you aren't crabby, you don't dredge up more memories of other crabbiness.

 

Now, this is me, acting as if I am not crabby. I'm reminded of the story about the power of suggestion that went something like this, the doctor tells you to take some medicine or other, but cautions you that it will only work if you don't think of monkeys while you drink it. How in the world do you not think of a monkey without telling yourself "I am not going to think of a monkey"—which means you are thinking of a monkey? So, I'm sitting here not thinking about not being crabby….It's stopped raining, think I'll just go for a walk.

 

What to Leave Out

It's Sunday, the day stretches ahead. There are routines, exceptions; chores and special events; plans and blank spaces; energy and idleness. Routines can be comfortable, but I'm not sure the rest of my world appreciates them. Routines have seldom been something shared, except maybe walking the dogs—who had no choice. Setting the routines aside, the exceptions are what move us along. If all we do is our usual routine, nothing new happens. So, even those who appreciate routine tolerate those necessary exceptions.

The chores make for some purpose in the day. I still like to be able to tell myself at the end of it that I got a few things accomplished. In college, my friend Gerry Murphy and I had a memorable dorm room discussion (I'll bet it was on a Sunday) about the effect of a sense of accomplishment. We argued that the sense of accomplishment encourages the one who is having this feeling to rest on his or her laurels, so to speak, and reduces motivation. The most obvious cause of this sense of accomplishment was the accomplishment itself. Avoiding this sense of accomplishment that only reduces motivation and encourages languor is best achieved by avoiding the task itself. So we determined that we were best served by doing nothing in the first place. (What? We were in college, for heaven's sake!)

So, you might think avoiding the chores would be my preference, but then I grew up, so here I am placing a value on doing chores. Then, there are the special events. I'll take a few of them, as long as a reasonable period of rest follows soon.

I like some blank spaces, too many big plans make me feel trapped, then driven. Just for today, I want to stay with the blank spaces. (Thanks, Gerry). I put up with the big plans, but I think I undermine certain portions of those big plans to make sure they don't overlap, but have blank spaces in between.

There is a downside to too much blank space—lethargy. Merriam-Webster says it's "the quality or state of being lazy, sluggish, or indifferent." In my view, you have to program your Sunday a bit. But, once you open that door, plans proliferate and to restore balance, you have to ask yourself "what do I need to leave out?"

Next thing you know, I'll be trying to write one of those "Six Word Biographies."

THE FULL CATASTROPHE

In the novel, Zorba the Greek, Zorba is asked if he was ever married. He says, "Am I not a man, and is not a man stupid? So, I married. I had a wife, children, a house, the full catastrophe." In today's stressful world, life can be "the full catastrophe," at times. Did Zorba mean married life is a catastrophe? Or was it merely a slice of his life, a truly "full catastrophe."

To me, Zorba and his response personify a remarkable appreciation for the richness of life and its dilemmas, sorrows, tragedies and ironies. Zorba's response was to dance in the gale of the "full catastrophe," to celebrate life, to laugh with it and to laugh at himself, even in the face of personal failure and defeat.

So how can anyone cope with "the full catastrophe?" First by just being in the present moment, which is all we really have. We often spend our time reliving the past or "pre-living" the future. We remember a past that is gone forever, and worry about a future that might never happen, while the present slowly slips away. The term for just being in the present moment is mindfulness, and it takes a lot of practice. In the present moment, the full catastrophe in our past disappears, and the future catastrophe doesn't arise.

Do you sometimes see your life as "the full catastrophe?" I do… now. Like Zorba, I am a man, I married. I have a wife, children, and a house—but don't get the wrong idea, that didn't convince me. No, what made me a believer happened two years ago this month. The neurologist said simply "Jim, you have Parkinson's disease."

He went on to explain that

• Parkinson's is a chronic and progressive movement disorder. Medical science knows neither the cause nor the cure.
  
• The most common symptoms are tremors of the hand and leg, slowness of movement, muscle rigidity and in some cases, impaired balance. There can also be depression, problems with emotional control and cognition in some patients, as well as sleep disorders.
  
• The neurons that normally produce the neurotransmitter dopamine, which controls unconscious motor activity, begin to malfunction and die off. As some point, your brain stops producing dopamine, which controls much of your unconscious motor function.
  

He probably went on explaining, but most of that didn't register… I was lost there for several moments. I later did a little of my own research and learned, oddly enough, PD does not have the same effect on conscious motor activity, and that's significant for those of us living with Parkinson's.

Another doctor I consulted two years ago said to me "Jim, the most important thing you can do with this diagnosis is to exercise an hour a day."
I said "Doctor, that's a pretty tall order for me; thirty minutes, twice week is a good week for me these days." In the nearly 2 years since that conversation, I have exercised more than I did in the previous ten. Consequently, I experience virtually no back or joint pain, can do more pushups than I ever could, I can bend and reach farther, and move better than I can remember. I go to yoga class. Did you know the Sanskrit word for pose is "-asana?" In yoga I am learning what my teacher and I call "old-guy-asana," each day you bend and stretch just a bit further than the old guy you were yesterday. All this new muscle activity is building up that inventory of conscious movement, unaffected by Parkinson's DIsease.

Often, when we are not practicing mindfulness, we are relying on unconscious movement. When we multi-task, we can only have one task at the top of mind. The rest is being handled unconsciously. Think about the last time you drove home only to arrive at your driveway having no recollection of actually driving. You were too preoccupied with other things, and your unconscious took over and took you home. So, the second part of practicing mindfulness I have to re-learn is to do just one thing at a time, mindfully.

It turns out mindfulness is a highly effective way to treat stress, some intractable pain, Parkinson's and other chronic illness. Dr. Jon Kabat-Zinn started work in this area with his pioneering Stress Reduction and Relaxation Program at the UMass Medical School more than twenty-five years ago. There he and his colleagues have taught thousands of people with chronic illnesses, intractable pain and more to live more consciously and mindfully, helping them deal with their own version of the full catastrophe with their eight week program.

A few weeks ago, I started Dr. Kabat-Zinn's program myself, and I feel the difference. Over the years, I have read a shelf full of books on mindfulness meditation, and off and on tried it. But, until now, I never had the motivation to stay with it. But that's changing, just like my attitude toward fitness. I am trying, in Dr. Kabat-Zinn's words, to become "an island of being in a sea of doing"

It's all a part of the "full catastrophe" that my life has become, and I wouldn't trade these moments for anything. You see, to me the "full catastrophe" captures something positive about being a human. We have a way of taking what is most difficult in life and finding within it the room to grow in strength and in practical wisdom.