Me and Poetry Today

I’ve quite often wondered, and probably blundered,

When I’ve tried to discern and really to learn

An important life fact—although nothing exact—

from those opening words, singing to me like birds.

they’re the words, don’t you know it,

that this morning were coming

from my first favorite poet,

i mean good ol’ e.e. cummings.

They’re from, I think, the opening stanza

of a virtual poetic bonanza,

of an old poem—to me a song—

one I’d been hearing all night long

It seems I’m always wrestlin’

With those words of edward estlin.

“I have never loved thee as now I love”

they sing to me like angels from above.

There’s another that I like, it can stop me at the door

“I carry your heart in my heart.”  Oh allow me one more

“The best gesture of my brain is not worth your eyelids flutter.”

Failing to find a rhyme I’d accept, let’s just say “like butter.”

Now, I recall how this business started,

A simple task from which I soon departed.

What did he really mean, “I have never…”

“…as now I love.”  Was it not forever?

but instead merely a fleeting glimpse

of love that cannot fly but only limps.

Then while caught in the embrace of death,

Once more the love takes away his breath

To think I b’lieved some simple verse of mine could do it

I knew it, I knew it, I just simply blew it.

‘cause I started looking at all of his other stuff.

But fear not for me, it wasn’t that rough.

Just know that love’s precious and so,

We really must share it wherever we go.

Traditions, Traditionally Speaking

Traditions, Traditionally Speaking

I've been thinking about Christmas traditions lately, and I noticed none are stronger than those we used to observe at Christmas when I was very young.  My version of the traditional Christmas is entirely from that time of my childhood.  We did our major observance on Christmas Eve.   My Father's brother Dick, his sister Rita, her husband Hank and their child, my cousin Jim all came over for the evening.  We (the kids) opened one gift on that night, then opened the rest on Christmas morning.  If I recall correctly, we opened our gifts before church.  This saves Santa from having to completely wrap what he brings, making the trip around the world more easily achieved.  It means when we came down the stairs on Christmas morning, the largest of Santa's gifts were in plain sight on or near your pile of presents.  No problem there, after admiring the gift Santa had not wrapped, we tackled the pile that was wrapped.

I think as young parents we rotated Christmas visits between our respective parents' homes.  We headed for whichever grandparents' home was on our schedule and did whatever the respective grandparents' tradition called for.  By contrast, my siblings began to observe Christmas at their respective homes with their "nuclear" families, dropping in on Grandma and Pop later.  Soon a new tradition became established, the "family" party took place earlier in the month of December and was attended by all who were in town, usually not including us after 1984, as we had moved to Atlanta in 1985.  For the next five years or so, our "tradition" was to drive for eleven or so hours to Chicago, then on to St. Louis, or vice-versa.  Since we had to travel six to seven hundred miles each way, it was not an easy tradition to carry on as our kids got older, I think.  

The result of all this was that we did not establish the kinds of "nuclear" family traditions my siblings did.  We had even abandoned traveling home for the holidays by the mid to late1990's.  Both of my parents had passed away and my wife's Dad came to live with us a short time later.

No worries, because as the kids reached college age, the whole Christmas thing became a homecoming by one or both of them, which was sometimes fun, and sometimes less so.  Most of the time, they both came home and spent only Christmas Eve and Christmas at home with us, attending church when we did.  Without grandkids, things proceeded this way for a number of years, changed little by the marriage of our oldest.   Oh, they had to be at the in-laws' on Christmas morning in observance of their strict tradition of not opening gifts until the entire family had assembled, but they could still sleep at our house, then get up and go to his parents' when they got up.  Our focal point was probably Christmas Eve anyway, but there were no "traditions" to which anyone strictly adhered.  We just went with the flow, so to speak.  We even find ourselves doing that with our new grandchildren, adopted simultaneously three years ago.  Nothing firm has been established that I would term "a tradition" on our side

Which leads me to wonder what the rest of the world does.  I spoke to several of the adult ESL students I tutor, and none of them had any tradition beyond attending church on Christmas.  Some of the adults living here travel home for the holidays to be with children and grandchildren, but others have abandoned that practice as their grandchildren entered their teenage years and lost interest in their grandparents, or as the distance and the heavy holiday traffic became harder to bear.  Some are now single, and that seems to diminish local traditions even further, unless they simply move to where their children live.  The trouble with that strategy is that the children are more mobile than my parents or my parents' parents ever were, so you might face move upon move just to keep up.

So, as yet another non-traditional Christmas season approaches, I pay some heed to an article I ran across.  It's about starting holiday traditions.  The link is below.  While many of them are only a fit for young families or large ones, there are surely a few nuggets for everyone.  If not, try thinking of one that fits you and your situation as number fifty-one.  Give it some thought and try talking it over with a friend or family member.  With a little luck, you might just come up with one that works for you.  I sure hope so.  May you make a new tradition that helps make this--the most traditional of holidays--a Merry one.

http://www.cozi.com/live-simply/50-holiday-traditions

SCD Syndrome And Me

SCD Syndrome And Me

I was in a contemplative mood this morning, I'm not sure why.  Maybe because it was Friday the 13th, or maybe it was just the fact that it's that time of year again.  Especially at this time of year, SCD is highly prevalent.  Like many other syndromes, this one arises out of defense mechanisms that are generally benign.  As Freud said, the ego employs them to deal with anxiety--anxiety produced by conflict between the id and the superego and reality--I could go on, but you probably know the basics.  

I learned mine while I was majoring in Psychology, an endeavor I abandoned when I realized I'd have eight more years of school before I could make enough money to support myself.  But not before I learned enough to understand that defense mechanisms can also get us in trouble when they begin 'to distort reality."  They begin to distort when they are overused.  

Denial was the first defense mechanism described by Freud, and is commonly at the start of every list I run across.  It is the easiest to spot.  Here's the overweight middle-aged guy pretending he's not, saying he's still in pretty good shape, and he could lose those few extra pounds quickly if he wanted to.   It's the guy who goes out for "a few drinks" and wakes up late for work and doesn't remember how he got home last night, saying "I don't have a drinking problem, I could quit any time I want."   

Sometimes denial works, allowing enough time for the ego to get back in control, deny the reality for a bit and take some positive action.  But not always.  Take SCD syndrome as an example.  It begins with the small things.  "No one knows I did that, he didn't see it anyway." Or, "He doesn't know.  I'll straighten up before the end of the year and everything will be fine."  But the days pile up and before long the victim realizes that his mistakes are piling up too, and a list is being made.  He also knows the list is being checked, more than once and that he will wind up in the wrong category when the big guy comes to town.  

Yes, the big guy's going find out.  When it really sinks in, he decides to deny the whole thing--to deny the big guy even exists--to become a "Santa Claus Denier," a victim of SCD.  Some reach that stage and stay there for a long, long time, even into adulthood.  Then, it goes away for a few magical years--roughly coinciding with the early years of parenting, if they get the chance; but it comes back again.  I know from personal experience.  Only recently was I able to undergo successful treatment.  It came in the form of two magical  grandchildren, God bless 'em.  I am no SCD victim today.  I believe--again....   Merry Christmas, Santa.   

Life Imitates Art vs. Life Imitates Weather

Life Imitates Art vs. Life Imitates Weather

You've heard the expression that life sometimes imitates art.  The thought goes way, way back.  From Ancient Greece comes Aristophanes' famous question about the comedies written by Menander: "O Menander and Life! Which of you took the other as your model?", much later comes  Oscar Wilde, who opined in his 1889 essay The Decay of Lying that, "Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life", and later still, in George Bernard Shaw's preface to Three Plays he wrote, "I have noticed that when a certain type of feature appears in painting and is admired as beautiful, it presently becomes common in nature; so that the Beatrices and Francescas in the picture galleries of one generation come to life as the parlor-maids and waitresses of the next."  Does Art lead perception, or is art such an expression of life itself that the question is indeed circular?  Darned if I know.

But today, I am sure of yet another notion, that life imitates weather.  As I sat at the breakfast table watching the fog slowly lift off the inlet outside my window, I could sense the fog lift from my own head.  I could focus on the moment first, observing my self and what I was feeling, what I needed to do for the day, where I would go and more.

Later, by 11:30 or so, the sun appeared, briefly at first, and the pace of things around me quickened.  More people appeared, making more noise.  Things that had slipped my mind were in place again.  I had energy and focus.  I ticked things off a mental list that was more complete than the one that came into focus when the fog first lifted.  The day was perceptibly warming up and so was I.  Even as the sky clouded over, the warmth it left behind sustained the level of activity around me.  I sat briefly by my window and watched the pelicans swoop over the inlet, feeding on fish at low tide.

Later, with the higher tide, human fishermen would return on their boats and fish far less efficiently than the pelicans do.  But still, the warmth would draw them out.  As it was, it sent me back out for more.  The sun returned, sparking enthusiasm for one final errand on my list, one I had put off for weeks because of the effort involved.  

Still the sun sustained us all.  Not a blazing sun, just the sun returning after a few chilly days.   As the sun went down--so early during December here--we relaxed and cooled as the evening did.

A Shell-Gift

A Shell-Gift

What is this, she asks, what does it mean

See it from my side, he thought with a smile.
Step away from your own side once in a while,
The gift's hard to make sense of, I already knew.
There's not a thing I can offer, no obvious clue,

That explains why I've given this shell to you,
it's lovely, it's fragile, yet somehow it's strong.
It's old and looks empty, but it will sing for you,
sending forth the magnificent sea's endless song.

The gift's not expensive or especially dear.
You may never see it as I did right here,
seeing you touch it, hold it up to your ear
and listen a moment was truly, my dear,

All I really wanted that shell-gift to do.

Why Don't Gym Shorts Have Flies?

Why Don't Gym Shorts Have Flies?

If needles have eyes, why don't gym shorts have flies
If brakes can have shoes, why don't cars get the blues.
If Air Jordans make news, when will sweatshirts amuse

When porkers can't fly, why do blackbirds make pie
If horses become glue, when will Brunswick be stew.
If all those turkeys are eaten, when will all eggs be beaten.

If there're dogs called Ol' Blue, when will my sis be Ol' Sue
If that earns me the dog house, know I'm not such a big louse.
Rhyming's not that much fun, if you can't dis anyone.

In fact, it's so boring, you'll soon all be snoring.
Unless I get to the point, then get out of this joint.
But some yarns are pointless, and prostheses jointless

Questions don't become serious or even mysterious
when asked all the time, just in order to rhyme,
but a life with no questions can lead to suggestions

one is really quite shallow, and lighter in weight
than a single marshmallow, your best friend just ate.
So let's just forget it, or soon we'll regret it.

If your gym shorts lack flies, understand they're a prize
when compared to a leotard, really, you guys.  

Plumbing the Heights and Depths

The other day, after careful searching, I called a plumber about an intermittent problem we were experiencing that just wouldn't seem to quit, and seemed to have become continuous. We asked around and looked around and called this gentleman.  He's been in the area for a long time and several people recommended him highly.  Naturally, between the time of my call and his scheduled arrival, the problem went away, as it had before.  He stopped in and I described the problem.  He gave me a quick diagnosis, then confirmed it by simply running some water in the kitchen sink for a few minutes, never even bringing a tool into the house.  Talk about plumbing the heights, and there was more.

He spent the next twenty minutes or so telling me about himself and the life he's had on this island for nearly seventy-five years.  He was entertaining and I nodded, smiled, commented and so on to the effect that he kept right on talking.  We had some work done recently and asked who I had used.  I named the contractor but could not recall the last name of the plumber he used, only recalling his first name as"Barry."  He didn't recognize the name, but proceeded to tell me a story about a man he knew with that first name, with whom he had a serious falling out, but that he was on his "prayer list."  He acknowledged that many people have forgotten all about prayer, but that he had a list of people and he prayed for some or all of them each night.  I was suitably impressed and said so.

Next he told me about a brief skirmish he had recently had with a stranger.  For some reason, he and this fella had bumped into each other as he was leaving the store.   The collision had caused the stranger to drop what he was carrying, and he proceeded to try picking a fight with my plumber over it (you can tell he already has me on his side--"my plumber." indeed).  In any event my plumber apologized several times and advised the stranger the he (my plumber) was a good Christian man and had no intention of getting into a fight with him (in the American South, it is quite common for people of a certain age to bring the fact of their religion into almost any conversation.  I swear I once asked a man for directions and wound up knowing which church he attended every Wednesday and Sunday without fail).  The stranger walked away, and my plumber noticed he was getting into a pickup with a name and the words "General Contractor" on the side.  He decided to have one more word with the man.  He asked him if in his work he used blueprints, if he had them prepared by an architect, and if he had someone who could interpret them.  The stranger said, "of course I do" or words to that effect.   My plumber then told him the same was true in life--that the Bible was the blueprint, Jesus was the architect, and the stranger had better learn to interpret them or he was going straight to hell.

Plumbing the Heights and Depths

By now, I expected the next words out of his mouth would be to invite me to join his church.  Instead, he launched into another tale involving a confrontation between him and another stranger after a fender-bender that was clearly the other man's fault.  He recalls looking at the minor damage to his truck and saying something like "That's OK, Pops.  Just forget about it."  The other man came back at him, with "who are you calling' Pops?"  He insisted he wasn't going anywhere until my plumber paid for the damages to his car.  When my plumber pointed out the accident was clearly the other man's fault, he was met with more grief, and the man began getting physical, pushing him several times.  Both men's wives were present, and my plumber told his wife, "If he pushes me one more time, I'm gonna make him stop."  He told the other man the same thing.  The man pushed him again, twice, each time harder than before.  My plumber finally wound up and punched the man in the jaw.  The man fell back and was unconscious.  The man's wife asked if he would help her get him to the hospital.  My plumber agreed, and drove the man and his wife to the hospital.  The man stayed unconscious for two weeks and two hours, then died.

My plumber was charged with involuntary manslaughter, but the man's wife insisted on testifying on my plumber's behalf, pointing out her husband was at fault and out of control, that my plumber was merely defending himself.  The judge agreed and dismissed the charges with a warning to my plumber.  Now we were plumbing the depths.  He started telling me another tale, but when we heard my wife opening the front door, he dropped it, saying it wouldn't be the sort of thing he could say in front of a woman.  After talking for ten more minutes, he prepared to leave.  We tried to pay him for his time and effort in coming over, but he insisted he had done nothing, so he couldn't charge us.  (Ahh, back to plumbing the heights--I've had electricians charge me for flipping a circuit-breaker on and off).  It seemed that together we had plumbed a lot of territory, at least that's how I saw it.

Writing And Not

Where does this impulse come from?  I'm wondering because I've gone through a spell in which I didn't write at all.  I'm usually working on something--a speech, an essay, a story or even a poem.  But lately, nothing.  It's best done when I have a lot of energy, writing when I'm tired is not for me.  If I have energy when I start, however, I can keep writing for hours and not feel tired.  I spent some time carrying a little notebook and a pen to capture thoughts I might explore in writing.   Lately they have mostly contained lists of tasks I need to do, grocery lists and other odds and ends.  Not sure of this, but I don't know if a grocery list would prove a very interesting basis for writing an essay.

Let's take a look.There's a sleep diary the doc asked me to keep for two weeks to report the results of my newest prescription, intended to help me sleep.  That would be number six, no seven, in the progression of pharmacological treatment.  The diary indicates progress in sleep, so number seven's permanent now.  I am now on to number eight, which is not expected to have any impact for the first three or four weeks, so no diary on this one.   

But back to the notebook--a list of items to pick up at Lowe's for a project in my home office--stain, a few boards, shelf brackets and copies of the key to our front door (a couple of new locks I just installed).  Hmm, not much inspiration for writing there.

Next up, a list of recipe items needed for making gingerbread men.  A new Christmas tradition, Grandma and Mom go Christmas shopping, while Grandpa makes his famous gingerbread men with the grands.  It turns out the grands are just old enough and competitive enough to take turns with the mixer, the rolling pin and the cookie cutters, of course.  But these are not traditionalists.  Each of them had to choose a different shape to cut out, so we wound up with only half a dozen gingerbread "men," and "women," the latter were added at grandma's insistence--granting equal time to the female grandchild, etc.  However, neither of the grands would use the gingerbread characters irrespective of gender.  So, when I got the occasional turn, i made that handful of gingerbreads.  I was lucky the pumpkin cutouts didn't work, or we'd have some of those instead.  It wore me out, but still not much writing material was there?  A slice of life to be sure, but...

Back to the notebook, there are passwords, task lists (too many repeat items, of course), more shopping lists and no more ideas for writing, so I'm on my own.  Ah, here's an old note--"Monday 10AM, Starbuck's."  Coffee with a friend.  I remembered that one without the note.  Maybe there is something in that to inspire.    

Well, it's a start, writing about not writing, but the grands are on their way over, so I'd better call it a day.  
      

Amused? Who Me? and Maybe Not Even My Feet

You might think your feet are designed for standing and walking, but there are scientists who believe we are really designed to walk on all fours, and not standing upright on two.  This theory is often used to try to explain away the high incidence of lumbar and cervical injuries among humans.  There are lots of theories as to why primates moved from quadrupedal to bipedal travel, including some who believed they found it less strenuous.  Picture yourself walking around on all fours all day.  I am sure I'd find it exhausting.

Anthropologists have recently found in treadmill studies measuring metabolic, kinematic and kinetic data that four out of five chimps used more or an equal amount of energy walking upright.  The one using an equal amount of energy and the one using less shared skeletal characteristics of the hip and hind limb that allow for greater extension of the hind limb.  Examining old fossil records, they noted the same in some early bipeds.  

Which brings me to my recent experience in four different "amusement" parks in the Orlando, Florida.  My experiences there led me to inquire into what "amusement" means "the state of being amused, entertained, or pleased.  That didn't help much, it's a little like defining "park" as "a place where a park ranger hangs out."  Really?  Amusement is the state of being amused?  

OK, so I moved on to amused, and the answer was not particularly credible--it was "to cause to laugh or smile by giving pleasure."  By the time I had stood, walked and stood again for more than eight hours each day for four consecutive days, nothing could cause me to laugh or smile--about my legs or feet anyway.  I only fully understood the situation when I ran across the archaic meaning of the word amuse (Archaic To delude or deceive.).  Now I get it, we are deceived into believing that walking on two feet is what we evolved into (a higher state, at least assuming you are taller walking on two feet instead of four) so that we could get around using less energy.  But, the fact is, we expend more or less the same amount of energy walking on two feet instead of four.  We forsook walking on all fours (knuckle-dragging as some would say) just to be taller, I guess.  We were likely deceived (amused?) into it.  Today, I think we are being amused into believing that amusement parks are a place where we will laugh or smile all the day long.  

Now, I don't consider myself old and feeble, I work out daily, attend yoga, pilates and personal training sessions, and I walk.  I just don't do a lot of standing around, thus I was ill-prepared for an "amusement" park.  Each day, after six hours or so standing in line or standing around waiting for others to finish their rides, I was "pining" for the pine bench.  Pining means "to feel a lingering, often nostalgic desire."  A perfectly accurate description of how I felt.  I really, really wanted to sit down.  

Which brings me to another gnawing resentment I began to harbor--I didn't care for all those people riding around on electric scooters.  They'd ride up, park and hop off their vehicle spryly, ready to stand in a line, having passed many of those in line ahead of them, who moved aside--believing they were disabled in some way or they would not be on a scooter.  But these people were not disabled, they were simply smarter than I am.  They had probably been at "amusement" parks before, and learned they would be better off renting a nice little scooter than walking, standing, walking, sitting as I did.  In fact, when they "sat" they sat on a padded seat, not a pine bench as I had whenever I sought rest.  Speaking for my feet, I am not amused...          

Thinking About What Makes Friends

I've been thinking about friends again this week.  How rare they can be, how forgiving they have to be if your are not to lose them.   

One thing that stands out to me is that true friends are not blind to our faults.  In fact, we may have even learned they were true friends when we did something colossally stupid or made perfect fools of ourselves in their presence and they didn't feel we'd done so permanently.  I'm not saying they didn't notice.  The best of friends are never blind, they are just willing to close their eyes to your mistakes.  

I know, because I have made my share of blunders, and mistaken one thing for another countless times.  I have misunderstood people and acted on that misunderstanding only to find I was way off.  But, as Emerson said, "It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."  Anyone who's been a friend of mine for a while has had to accept my being stupid more than once.  I've found if they still like me after that, they are probably my friends.  

I thought of citing some examples here, but those that have come to mind have been too embarrassing to put on display here.   I'll just point out I find it easy to misread the intentions of others because I'm projecting my own thoughts onto them.  It takes a good friend to wade through some of that and let it go.  

On a slightly less obvious level, friends can sit silently with you without being the least bit uncomfortable.  This is true in some of the most pleasant times, and the not so.  It's not just the not saying anything part.  That can go on among perfect strangers and mean nothing.  A crowd of people on a train or a bus not speaking to one another is not a gathering of friends.     It's the conversations or shared moments wherein you never need to say what's on your mind that count.  I don't need to come out and say it, my friend just knows.

In other graver circumstances of despair or confusion, a true friend can just hang in there being present and be comfortable.  That kind of friend doesn't see the need to fix things or to fix you.  That sort of friend just cares in person.  Great to have in your life.  

It's Not A Sentence, It's Just A Word.

Depress is a verb meaning, according to Dictionary.com's second definition "to lower in force, vigor, activity, etc.; weaken; make dull."  It's my favorite definition.  A definition I don't care for is about "to make sad or gloomy; lower in spirits; deject; dispirit."  This was the first definition in Dictionary.com.  I like Wiktionary.com's first definition--"To press down."  Depressing things just lowers their force, it doesn't extinguish anythng.

Depression gets a real negative vibration going whenever it's mentioned, almost as if it is a sentence to some form of imprisonment.  It doesn't have to be.  That's what people who don't know about "depressing" things call it.  

Often we are instructed to depress a button or a switch somehow to make something we want happen.  "Depress the switch to ..."  Well, you know...depressing things is a necessary step.  So, why does everybody get depressed about "depressing" something?  Who knows?

There are a few things that depress you--and me--hunger, unnecessary pain, early or premature death, lingering disease, broken hearts, and more.  They are usually things that pass by.  But there are things you can depress without depressing everyone else.  Depressing a button to lower the temperature, or the air pressure, or the force applied to something.   Sometimes what's depressing is a matter of brain chemistry, producing a lowered amount of force or activity.  

Finally, people can "depress" whatever button they need to in order to get treatment for that lowered force they are experiencing.  It's nothing to get depressed about.  Feeling that lowered force, I'm getting treatment.  It's not a sentence, it's just a word.          

Just Another Day

Now and then, a change in routine can lift your spirits.  Or it might just be getting a good night's sleep for a change.  I will have to do a little research.  Maybe I should get a good night's sleep again tonight  and try having a routine day tomorrow and see if my spirits are lifted again---or, maybe not.  I like the notion of changing routines.  Today, something new replaced a seven year habit.  The only drawback was the first part that was "new" was a pilates class.  Too much core strength development will give you a lot of aches, among other things.

But seriously, I did enjoy the change, and I plan to do it again.  Do habits get too boring?  Is it the activity, or the way you approach it that makes the routine stuff get you down?  I'm sure it's the latter, you know it and I know it, too.  But it's always easier to change my approach in a new situation, stepping out of the groove I have worn in a situation is not something I've been able to do.  Instead, I walk away, try something else.

New things, places and even people can always make just another day something better.  The things that were a strain in the old, just disappear when you shake the dust off your feet and step out the door.  Just another day becomes a big lift.  You too can remind yourself of that fact any day now.

Being Ready To Sail

I threw away my coaching books, and put my retirement planning ones in a box.  All that analysis seemed to fit, but now I'm not so sure.  I think I'm ready for a change.  I watched a show last night, and it made me think again about all that planning and its outcome.

Most of the things I've enjoyed just happened, without much of a plan.  Our friends picked us up, and drove us the half mile or so from where we lived to the Harbor.  The name of the band was vaguely familiar, but not to the others with us.  We had lived in a couple of places they had not, so we guessed which they were from, and I guessed wrong. They were deftly funny, and musically eclectic.  Thoroughly entertaining, so much so that I quickly realized I'd never seen them before.  We had a good time, cheered and cried in the right places.  No songs for the atheist, they cried.  I may be crazy, but it just may be a lunatic you're looking for.

Then Zac joined them for a number about what not to do while she's walking away, and the risks involved.  I'd seen them firsthand before.  Someone unfamiliar reminded us it was nobody's business but our own.  Hah!

Yes, some of their selections rang bells, some gongs, none were flat.  Where had they been all our lives (and where had we)?

Proud to be an American, but at least I know I'm free.  God blessed the USA again.  But all along, I knew I was being sent, drawn, driven to that state I know was where we all need to be--in that place where--when a good wind comes along, we're ready to sail.  Does that make any sense?  

How do we sail in all this?  Our bells are rung for us by perfect strangers who have learned to do so and use that singular talent to sail their way.

Remedies For A Sleepless Night Really Might Be Part Of The Cure

My guess is sleeplessness is a pretty individual thing.  What keeps me up at night is different from what does the same for you.  I can't bring myself to sit around trying to think good thoughts, but I am not given to worrying about the state of politics and the like.  It has all just become such a mess that I really don't waste much time on it.  People in politics today don't mind being seen to be incompetent, stubborn, negative, self-serving, backbiting, (Hmmm, maybe this means more to me than I have thought, seeing as how I have so many names I call them when I have the chance).  Unlike some others, I am not inclined to blame one side or the other.  They are equally at fault in my book, and they have earned no credibility by "standing up for what's right."  None of them seem to have a corner on the answers that are right.  But, I have wandered off topic again.  I really want to know more about what robs me of sleep than politics.

Some of it is physiological--I am "of a certain age" and have a few issues, but it is intermittent enough to defy simple "blame it on the illness" thinking.  Sometimes the only cure is time and reading/writing.  Reading worked once already tonight, and I managed a couple of hours out to that.  I am trying writing just now, and, in fact I am getting sleepy right now writing this TO BE CONTINUED.

Back again, didn't even waste 90 minutes, or maybe lying there was a waste of time.  I'm looking for something a little off the beaten path as a remedy.   I think I'll consult my friends at Google.

MUCH LATER, I have slept since then, but let me tell you, people who believe they know what you should do to help yourself get to sleep are unbelievable.  As usual, Google offered an abundance in response to my query, "how can I get to sleep at night?"  (883 million responses in .54 seconds).  I went through a page of them and I was astonished, not only by the array of ideas and their volume, but also by the amount of advertising woven into each page of information.  When your teacher caught you asleep in the classroom she probably never told you "that's OK, because sleep's a big business," but it is, see for yourself.

But that is only secondary.  The responses were so extensive, it was hard to take in.  No one in that field believes that "brevity is the soul of wit."

Here are the highlights of what I found in a few minutes of googling.  I really didn't read any one in its entirety.  What quickly drew my attention was the volume of each response.   Wiki How provided twenty-four steps to better sleep, followed by thirty-five tips on better sleep.  Helpguide.org provided only nine secrets to better sleep, but each secret included eight or nine tips.  One interesting side light--your brain uses sleep time to clear out the waste, the process is called the glymphatic system, and lack of sleep allows the accumulation of this waste material which presumably impairs the brain's function.

The Mayo Clinic starts off slowly--they provide seven steps to improve sleep, but this is followed by eleven tips (they just couldn't help themselves).  Prevention.com has eleven steps to take during your waking hours to improve sleep.  However, they follow that with more tips when you actually lay down to sleep.  The well.com offers 42 simple steps to help you get to sleep.  
    
One of my favorite quotes about the need for brevity comes from Patricia Marx: "One false word, one extra word, and somebody's thinking about how they have to buy paper towels at the store. Brevity is very important. If you're going to be long winded, it should be for a purpose. Not just because you like your words."  

Would that some of these helpful sources understood that.  One might have somewhat obliquely--WikiHow, in step 11 of the quick fixes for falling asleep, suggests Do something dull: Read a boring book, a work paper....  here's my thought--how about reading tips and steps for falling asleep?  Boring enough, methinks.

Training Camp

Our villa sits beneath the outstretched limbs of a giant oak.  It is at least five feet in diameter and, is thus home to, thousands upon thousands of acorns.  Those acorns fall this time of year, at least I hope it is only this time of year.  More often than not, it sounds like footsteps on the tile roof.  That's why I was not surprised to discover our rooftops have been used in a secret project.  Here, commandos, cat burglars and contestants trying out for the cirque d'soleil all learn how to drop to a surface with a sound like an acorn hitting a roof on a fall day.

I am pretty sure it's early in the session, judging by the number that sound like burglars on the roof.  There are a handful that sound like mice in the rafters, they must be the precocious beginners.  The rest of the torrent is probably the acorns.  Any day now, we expect a horde of squirrels to arrive, charged with storing the acorns for some nefarious purpose no doubt.

in the mean time, we sleep irregularly, with the noises of the night punctuated by the sound of "falling acorns."  

There Just Aren't Enough Laughs In My Life

I heard a man speak recently on the subject of laughter.  I expected the usual stuff, how laughter is the best medicine and so on.  I've been known to keep a handful of humorous books on my bookshelf to pull down and ask for a little help in the keep-on-laughing department.  All too often, there isn't anything to make me laugh out loud.

Although this one worked tonight--
              
              My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. 
              She's ninety-seven now, and we don't know where the hell she is.

I laughed and you could have heard me, and yes, if a man laughs in the forest and no one hears him, the joke was still funny.

Anyway, we were in a group, and he had us all whooping it up--you know "Ho-Ho, Hah, Hah, Hah," and so on.  Then he had us introduce ourselves to the person next to us at the table and then laugh out loud at them.  It is hard to force such laughter, but the whole thing was so silly, we were soon laughing at ourselves for real.  I'm still waiting for the beneficial effects, but I haven't been practicing regularly.

So, I decided to do a little digging.  Soon I had to attach a set of earbuds to my laptop, as someone near and dear to me was ready to knock my block off if she heard any more laugh exercises.  It seems there are innumerable YouTube clips of people teaching laughing yoga, which, as it turns out is so easy anyone can do it, unlike the yoga practiced by some in my  local yoga center.  I mean, I do what I can and sweat through my shirt at my weekly yoga class, but there are people there doing Hot Yoga--I mean I watch them mop up the sweat after some of those sessions.  They scare me.  Now, the laughter yogis--I didn't see one of these laughing yoga practitioners break a sweat.  That doesn't seem nearly painful enough to be good for you.  

Despite my doubts, there are apparently all kinds of teachers and participants out there.  Twice I saw forty (yes--40) different yoga laughter exercises performed.  I was also introduced to laughing clubs that are springing up all over the place.  Laughteryoga.org has an application that allows you to find the club nearest you.  The one in South Carolina on one of those islands near Charleston calls itself "Laughter At The Beach."  I could relate to that (no, that is not what I heard the last time I went shirtless at the beach).  

The one in Savannah had a more sober name "The Savannah Laughter Project"--there's something in their description that earnestly supports the notion that devoted laughter practitioners can have an influence on world peace and tranquility.  How you laugh it off when you take on such a responsibility was not mentioned.  

I did also see, courtesy again of YouTube, a series of exercises led by the world-renowned Dr. Kataria, a very interesting and amusing fellow.  My favorite was a series of laughter therapy exercises each punctuated by a rhyming wry comment.  I can't at this moment recall any well enough to do them justice, but that may simply mean I have as yet achieved very little of this particular form of enlightenment (or any other, for that matter) and I need more laughter and training.  I certainly buy the former, so the latter is almost certainly true as well.

It turns out Dr. Kataria has a series of five day trainings in Laughter Therapy coming up in Bangalore, India..But there is also one in Orlando, November 4-8.  I think the universe is trying to tell me something--I am not making this up--I have reservations for a timeshare in Orlando beginning on the 8th, .  Maybe I am being drawn to Orlando to become a Certified Laughter Yoga Professional.  Now that's not funny. 

The Porch On An Evening In October

This evening on my porch, there's a pleasant breeze cooling this unencumbered space.  The breeze is manufactured, an overhead fan spinning its magic on a warm October evening.  Part of the warmth is the result of some weather front or another that has stalled somewhere nearby, the rest is the effect of my being overdressed.  I donned long pants and a long-sleeved Salty Dog Cafe t-shirt in anticipation of a walk around the little lagoon that sits twenty yards or so below this porch.  

This month is one of two times each year that the "no-see-ums" reign when the temperature hovers between 68 and 72 or so degrees Fahrenheit.  At that temperature, they rise out of the sandy soil and look for me.  I am a sort of Pied Piper for these creatures.  They come for me first, and those around me, seeing me begin to squirm and scratch as my little friends bite, take this as their signal to move indoors.  I combat these followers with a layer of clothes a bit too warm for the ambient temperature.  The followers have less exposed skin on which to feast, and they often lose interest, especially if I keep moving.

This evening we had planned a walk, hoping to work out the kinks from two and a half hours of driving to visit children and grandchildren.  When darkness falls, a certain member of the aforementioned pair who had resolved to get moving, loses her enthusiasm.  The walk has been postponed.

The porch is sparsely furnished.  A two-seater love seat made of wicker with soft flowered cushions and a matching end table.  I've dragged a small lamp from the living room ("Go ahead, just not the good one.").  It has just enough cord to reach the table if i move it to the other end of the love seat, and stretch the cord all the way out to plug it into the only receptacle out here.  An extension cord is in a box somewhere and when I run across it, I'll rearrange.  I'm not in any hurry.

At the moment, two borrowed sawhorses are folded up in one corner, and a small pile of tools and supplies for replacing screening awaits a day with more than twenty-four hours.  When such a day arrives, I'll replace the screening on the second frame I found stored by the previous owner outside the condo under some bushes.   Or, for all I know they could have lain there for the entirety of the six years he owned the unit.  When I first spied this porch, and noted the absence of screens on the track outside the sliding windows he indicated he didn't know where they were as he never used them.  In one of life's amazing turns, the screens, once their coated aluminum frames are washed and new screening is in place look almost like new (to me anyway) and they perform their intended purpose, letting air in, and minimizing the entrance of flying and/or crawling insects.

Having stalled in my efforts to write here on a regular basis, I started reading a few things I ran across as I unpacked yet another box.  Allowing myself to get distracted as i unpack containers and boxes is among the several reasons our unpacking ordeal remains unfinished.  Another is the dearth of storage space, making us resort to storing things in surprising spaces.  If you find my dress socks in the bottom drawer of our coffee table, do not be alarmed, i knew they were there all the time.  Yes, we opted for a coffee table with several drawers and baskets that can be pulled out and filled with who knows what, instead of the spare kind of table with just the top and four legs.  We need the storage space, you see.  That's also the reason we have replaced the sofa table on which you'd place a lamp in the living room with a "console table," another piece of furniture with drawers where an alternative piece would have open (wasted) space.  I am pretty sure one of those drawers can be devoted to holding a small hammer, a collection of screwdrivers and pliers, and a tape measure or two.  Another can hold duck tape and a can of W-D 40, still another flashlights of various sizes and spare batteries.  You get the idea.  This piece of furniture is on order.  One of us is worried that the color may not go.  By now you've guessed it's not me.  I am welcoming anything with storage space.  I am still looking for a place to store spare light bulbs...

Tonight it's starting to feel like home.

Trip Around The Sun

OK, I am a Jimmy Buffett fan, you may have noticed this a time or two in these little observations before.  He makes me think, and just today, the song I used as a title fits best what is on my mind (it's a Jimmy Buffett/Martina McBride collaboration).  Just how do you put this birthday thing in perspective?

Sure, the first thought is I'm glad to be here.  What follows is a question--why?  Well, aren't we all glad to be surviving?  Isn't that the evolutionary thing?  We are driven to survive, and making another year is worth celebrating, no matter what.  As my sister says, I wake up and I'm glad to have another day.  But Jimmy's song tackles something more:  

Hear 'em singing Happy Birthday 
Better think about the wish I made.

Do you remember making a specific wish?  Not me, my thought is I probably wished for another year, that's all.  Does that birthday wish focus on anything long-term?  Usually, it arises out of a short-term thought you have.  "I want this, or I hope that..."  The longer term look at things to me is about the people  you manage to keep around you in your life.  Some of them are family, people who are patient and stay around whether you have paid your dues or not. They put up with your inconsistency, your divided attention and your wandering (both literally and figuratively), but in the end, here they remain.  Thanks to all of you.

This year gone by ain't been a piece of cake 
Every day's a revolution 
Pull it together and it comes undone 
Just one more candle and a trip around the sun

Did you wish for an easy year, something you'd easily manage? Pulling it together just never seems to work out as you planned. Mostly, I have tried to roll along and keep the right people (friends) around me if I can.  We run across fine people, and if we are lucky, we can keep them around, but we're just hanging on as things work out--we aren't in control.  The world spins and we aren't in charge. As Jimmy sees it, it's just the same.    

I'm just hanging on while this old world keeps spinning 
And it's good to know it's out of my control 
If there's one thing that I've learned from all this living 
Is that it wouldn't change a thing if I let go

But Jimmy adds something, he notes that all his effort to control things doesn't change a thing.  He can change very little, so letting go makes sense.  

Did I do the right things?  Did I spend my time well?  Heck, I don't know.  I know there are some great things that happened to me at just the right time.  Did I spend my time well?  I think so, but you know what?  I just know it flew by.  You don't have time to second-guess.  What you did you did, what you spent your time on you spent.  I may have a bruise or two and a scar or two, but all in all, I have enjoyed and I look forward to another.  Jimmy adds a thought or two--

No, you never see it coming  
Always wind up wondering where it went  
Only time will tell if it was time well spent  
It's another revelation  
Celebrating what I should have done  
With these souvenirs of my trip around the sun.

What I should have done--is that something I can celebrate?  Only time will tell.  

So, should I make a wish or resolution this year?  I wonder...  I'd mostly like to keep on going and see what's around the next bend. Here's Jimmy's take--

  

Yes, I'll make a resolution 
That I'll never make another one 
Just enjoy this ride on my trip around the sun  
Just enjoy this ride ...  
Until it's done

Yes, make a resolution--not to make another one.  At this point in my life, I can agree, but I wonder if things would have worked out as they have if I had never made a resolution or decided to pursue something I saw in front of me, even if it was beyond my grasp.