Comparison and Separation-- Guest post by Lisa Wells

 Today's guest post is by yogi and role model Lisa Wells of Live Well Studio, Corvallis.  There's a lot of wisdom in here, even if you don't know a downward dog from a hotdog.  Please enjoy!
Jana
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Comparison and Separation:  Can You Embrace Your Humble Pigeon Pose?

I’ve been practicing yoga for more than 2 decades.  My pigeon pose has probably reached its full expression.  There just isn’t much more opening to be found in these old hips.  My Pigeon Pose is a humble Pigeon Pose.

 I often find myself surrounded by yogis with extraordinarily beautiful Pigeon Poses.  Yogis who can bring their shin perpendicular to their spine and then lie their chest right down on it.  Or yogis who come into full upright Pigeon, bend their back knee and balance perfectly in Mermaid Pose.  Or the few who can reach overhead and hold the foot of their back leg lightly in their hands as they gaze upward into the eyes of the divine.  Can you hear my jealousy?

I’ve envied me many a Pigeon.  With no other option on the table, I humbly proceeded to work at Pigeon Pose at my bodies pace.  I practice Pigeon Pose nearly every day not for its beauty, but because my body feels better when I do.  Pigeon Pose feels delicious regardless of what it looks like.

The other day, I found myself once again noticing everyone else’s achievements in Pigeon Pose.  I was comparing my Pigeon with other yogi’s Pigeons.  I can tell you exactly who was deeper in their Pigeon than I was.  I can tell you exactly who has tighter hips than I do.  As I was cataloguing all the Pigeon Pose’s in the classroom I had an ‘aha’ moment: the process of comparison was keeping me separated from others.  My internal dialogued, simplified, was: “He’s better than me.”  “She’s tighter than me.”

This internal dialogue enhanced my sense of isolation and specialness.  It fed my ego, the good and bad of my ego, and it kept me alone.  This sense of loneliness through comparison is an old familiar feeling.
I’ve recently been chanting a simple mantra during my meditation: “not-separate.”  Softening into ‘not-separate’ has changed my perspective on the world. I’m more connected with people.  I smile more easily.  I’m less attached to who I think I am. I am more able to give fully of myself.  I am less afraid to be my true self.

Gradually, I find myself letting go of my need to compare myself to others.  I find myself able to practice Mudita, empathic joy. Not just in theory, but really enjoying the accomplishments of others. If I am not separate, then their accomplishment is also my accomplishment. Mudita is a delicious way to expand my experience of life.

So when your yoga teacher reminds you not to compare yourself with others, it’s for real and for realization. It’s to help protect you from injuring yourself.  It’s to help you practice Mudita and ‘Not Separate.  As this deepening occurs, the world might just open up and swallow you whole.  You might step right into Krishna’s mouth and experience the glory of all that is.   You might wake up.
     --Lisa

S.A.D.? Lighten Up!

It's dark out there.  Costco has lightboxes on sale.  Must be time for the annual Seasonal Affective Disorder rerun.  And check out Dr. Jim Phelps' exceptionally thorough discussion on research and information on light and depression.

 The days are darkening here in Corvallis, andwhat little slanty sun could shine is thwarted by rain clouds. If you notice yourself getting sleepy, lethargic, or gloomy, you're in good company. Seasonal changes in light have a very real and physiologic effect on mood and energy. Our brains and bodies are set up by evolution to react to long light days with increased energy (work those fields! harvest!) and to cooler, dark days by slowing the system down (sleep! now sleep some more!). Our bodies would be perfectly happy going to bed not long after the sun sets. That probably worked well in days before widespread use of artificial light and 24/7 availability of food and things to do-- but it's unrealistic for most of us now. The result in the split between rapid societal evolution and much slower physiologic evolution can be sleep, energy and mood disorders, including the Oregon State Malady:  Seasonal Affective Disorder.

A light box can address both typical and more drastic results of the effects of waning light on the brain and body. Light boxes produce effects similar to sun exposure and can be used in the morning to assist in wakefulness and mood regulation and in the afternoon to increase energy. Exposure is typically between 15-30 minutes at a regular time each a.m. or early afternoon. To be effective, the light source should be at or above face level, with eyes open (although it is not necessary or recommended to look directly at the light)and within 15-30 inches of the light source. Specific instructions vary according to model. There is a great deal of evidence of effectiveness in the use of light boxes to treat seasonal affective disorder, a type of depression linked to low winter light.

Because they have a real--and sometimes profound-- effect, they are best used according to specific directives based on the particular mood or sleep issues one is experiencing. In some cases, use can increase hypomania (agitation, excess energy, and insomnia among other symptoms). Usually a reduction in the exposure time or moving exposure from am to afternoon  is enough to remedy that. However, I encourage persons considering light therapy to consult their physician or mental health practitioner and have some sort of system in place to track results. Because it isn't completely clear that such intense light exposure is safe over long periods for eyes, light therapy isn't for everyone and the risks as well as benefits should be explored.

I'm a chronically terrible sleeper, and an even worse waker. I noticed that the best sleep I have is when I am camping and rise and go to sleep with the summer sun. Since that time frame is typically also when I rise and wake in the winter, I have found great benefit in the use of a dusk/dawn simulator. The device I use attaches to my bedside lamp and is programmed to turn the (100 watt full spectrum) light down very gradually in the evening and then up again gradually in the morning. I use it from October to May and find I don't even need an alarm clock, as the dawning light creates a gentle alertness over time. I wake up refreshed instead of startled. Research suggests that gradual lightening stimulates a chemical cue to awakening, just as gradual darkness stimulates a chemical cue to drowsiness. I rarely use a light box since I've bought my dawn simulator. They aren't cheap-- mine was $150-- but I find it a bargain for the help it's provided me with sleep and waking.

Meanwhile, if it's a nice day, get out there!The average American is getting LESS than the 20 minutes of sun a day needed by the body to manufacture adequate vitamin D-- that's on a summer day.  In Corvallis, you'd need to be outside during 24 daylight hours to get that daily dose.  The USDA just doubled the RDA; if you are supplementing, they say go for D3 and 800 mg.  Harvard Health suggests 1000 and tells more about the importance of this vitamin, ways to get it, and effects for different populations in their newsletter here.

Resources:

The Office of Dietary Supplements/National Institute of Health FACT SHEET on D.   There's a chart on getting vitamin D from diet.  Trust me, if you aren't taking cod liver oil or drinking a half-gallon of milk a day, you probably won't get it there.

Corvallis's own Linus Pauling Research Center is doing lots of research on D and are big proponents.  Find out what they are on about HERE.

Boston University reseacher and professor Dr. Michael Holick is considered one of the foremost researchers on D; he alerted a nation to links between D deficiency and increased autoimmune diseases and cancer.  He worries our obsession with sunlight protection in the form of sunblocks and clothing is causing a national deficiency.  Remember, no need to tan-- 20 minutes on hands and face in summer is plenty to produce all the D you need.

Quote of the day:  Albert Camus
To correct a natural indifference I was placed half-way between misery and the sun. Misery kept me from believing that all was well under the sun, and the sun taught me that history wasn't everything.

The Science of Forgetting

We are what we remember.  When we remember the awful, we are awfully burdened.  When we remember the transcendent, we are lifted.

What do we do when the awful transcends into the everyday?

Two recent articles offer clues.  Researchers in cognitive behavioral therapy, neuroscience, and pharmacology are interested in how we might learn to be less bent under the weight of horrific, or even just negative, reminiscence.  In this article from neuroscience news, scientists identify two completely different neural pathways used in pruning out the thornier aspects of our pasts:   http://neurosciencenews.com/discovery-of-two-opposite-ways-humans-voluntarily-forget-unwanted-memories-prefrontal-cortex/.

One method shuts down the path to the memory, and the other substitutes alternate, pleasant memories for the troublesome recollections.  Think of the latter as the use of Febreze on a smoky outfit.  The first method requires suppression, perhaps more arduous found to be but equally effective.

And then there is chemical magic: 

 http://www.wired.com/magazine/2012/02/ff_forgettingpill/

Scientists have been working on finding a medication that will block recurring, unproductive recollections without wiping out the rest of the data base.  The implications for sufferers of PTSD are heartening.  (PTSD short story:  when the brain has diligently cataloged every aspect of a real or perceived life-threatening event and vomits these back into activating panic at the most inopportune times.  For more about Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, check out this post: /stuck-in-bad-story-ptsd.html )

Ideally, we want to learn to sit compassionately with all our feelings:  the positive, the frightening, the heartbreaking.  We want to give them the space to feel heard and validated.  We want to eventually find some gratitude, or at least understanding of how to integrate our feelings and what has happened in our lives into a more peaceful place. But we're only human.  We can only bear so much.  And there is sometimes so much that wants to be borne.

allow in comfort.  photo s banese 2012

During the worst of times, it's best just to breath, to sleep, to be in nature, to be, when we can bear it, with others who know the story and love us in all our manifestations. Sometimes being with those who really, truly get it-- have been there too-- provides access to new tools to reach that elusive goal of gratitude and integration.  Mind you, the gratitude is not about the loss, or even the pain (but if you can get there, more power to you).  It's about what you leaned through the relationship or situation that has now ended, and what you will take into the future and into your heart.

Grief comes in wide and periodic waves of unimaginable intensity.  We don't think we can bear them, we don't want to bear them-- and yet, despite our protests, we come out the other side for times.  On bad days we may want to leave the  house.  On bad days we can hardly breathe.  And then there are those brief respites where we are in gratitude, denial, what have you-- and are pulled up by our short hairs as friends say, "It's weird you seem so happy".  All of these peaks and valleys and boulder-strewn trails are real.  All they mean is:  this is the way of grief for you now.

s. banese 2012

Yet there are some assists.  Using Cognitive Behavioral techniques, one can conscientiously (and mostly metaphorically) lock grief away for more intentional inspection during a prescribed time.  You can choose to journal, meditate or pray at a particular time of day to focus on feeling your feelings.  When they arise at less convenient times, treat them with firm loving compassion a la Dr. Spock:  acknowledge them, and remind them you've not forgotten and will be getting together with them soon.  If you choose not to wait when negative recollections intrude, at least take action: draw, write a letter to your pain or loved one or your fear from the perspective of a wiser future self.  Try not to engage in less healthy distractions such as overindulging in TV, alcohol, drugs, junk food.    Respect your reasonable desire to be away from pain, but refrain from the negative behavior.

If head-on looking at the pain isn't working, try the old "happy spot" trick:  for every unbearable sad memory that arises, substitute a happy one.  Start with real ones, but fantasies work too as long as you keep perspective. 

If nothing's working, go for a cleaner,unrelated distraction. Do a jigsaw, dance wildly, engage in some critical analysis.   Alphabetize or color code your spice cabinet.  The point here is to shift energy from the emotional brain into the critical thinking/logical parts of your brain. 

Medication is a option.  I'd opted for trying the others first, for obvious reasons:  costs, side effects, hassle.

But I wouldn't hesitate to recommend a consult if the others aren't working, or if you've lost sight of why you should bother after all.  In that case, get thee to a physician and see what might be helpful to get you back to functioning level. 

Here's a couple other resources to consider.  Benton County (or your local) Hospice program offers educational classes and support group for bereavement.  The first is more curriculum based and good if you who are still in the "it's too private to talk about" stage.  You'll get good information in a safe environment.  The support group is less formal and filled with people in similar situations.  You may find a wealth of knowledge about what to avoid, expect, and what can help.

There is no life well-lived that won't face suffering. You are in tribal company here.  Let your tribe support you the best they are able.  Ask for what you need.  Be kind to your body, which will release its suffering in its own fashion.  

The big message:  Take Care.  You don't have to do this alone.

A good listen on memory can be found at radiolab.org by clicking here.

Song of the Day: God Bless the Potholes Down On Memory Lane, by Randy Newman

Errata

It's been a month or more since I last posted.  There are five draft posts, half-started, waiting for some nudge from the muse.  There are a dozen more I wrote in my head to the point they felt completed, and thus will never see print.  That's a bad habit that also applies to letters to friends (ask my poor penpals).  I thought to try to sum all of it up.  A trap, that-- trying to capture these ephemeral moments of grace and crystallize them into something to hold.

I can tell you these things.  Fall has come, strong on.  The wind blows, the trees undulate, and the little elm leaves make tiny yellow tornadoes on my driveway.  There is a pumpkin and two squash soberly decorating my concrete porch.  The students are back in my sleepy town, and suddenly the streets are filled with cars and people and bikes on the sidewalk and discarded beer cars and noise.  It's been sunny and dry for days, and I long for rain, or at least enough humidity to smile without my lips cracking.

Beside me, as I write, is a bowl filled with bits of windfall I found walking home from work tonight.  A hazelnut, still in its paper tutu.  Two walnuts, one in a green casing, another bared to its gold shell.  A small fig that will never ripen.  Two sweetgum ballsl one green and the other dried small, prickly and brown.  A horse chestnut, shiny and brown.  They are an alter to transience and season.

Here are the blogs I almost wrote.  Maybe soon.
Been through hell?  Try not to move in.
The messy and the real
Offerings for the Shadow
That magic (radicalizing) moment
The sting of things; the lure of the numb

 Two years ago, a first of a series of sad and tragic events unfolded in my inner circle.  They weren't all things that happened to me, but they were close enough to have profoundly shaken me. There is something in humans that seeks and responds to pattern, and fall brought with it emotions of these events and hopes that the cycle might now slow.  It didn't, for a time-- the same themes of love, loss, death, transition recurred and were amplified by the anniversaries of the original losses.

I'm human.  My heart wanted to shrink in response to the enormity and sadness of these events.   Especially this last week, I longed for a retreat somewhere remote, where I could sit in silence alone.


It didn't happen that way.  And in spite of myself. I had an epiphany against my own will, all because I Just Showed Up.

rubber band on the counter

More about that later, perhaps.  For now, I know at least,
these things are true:
Life is full of unbearable, undeserved suffering. Life is full of incredible, miraculous beauty.    There is too much that needs doing.  Doing anything is better than doing nothing.  We all can be jerks and misunderstand each other too easily.  And we are deep wells of creativity, hope and  love.

Love is everywhere, waiting for eyes to see it.

More to tell, but for now-- sleep.
Jana

Ordinary Days

How was your day?  Mine was a mixed bag.

I started this day completely overwhelmed and nauseated by the smell of fresh celery from the farmer's market.  My brain is still trying to figure out smells after a few months with none at all (see anosmia posts for details); and for some strange reason the few it can smell tend to freak it out completely.  Another woman with parosmia (the fancy-pants term for distorted smells) described the one we get as variations on "zombies and old socks".  That's pretty close.  I get it with coffee, cucumbers and peanut butter, to name a few.  And oh my gosh, most especially with celery.  That one can chase me out of a grocery store.  Today said sweetheart brought home our box from the farmer's market, featuring celery so fresh it slapped me on the face, and I had the olfactory equivalent of motion sickness for the next three hours.  But, wearing gloves and gagging in the most delicate way, I chopped some up and double bagged it for our river trip.

We headed out to the McKenzie with family and friends for a beautiful start to September.  The weather was perfect:  robin egg blue skies, a pleasant breeze and a temperature just right.  The river sparkled blue and green, clear and clean.  Strangely, on this beautiful holiday weekend, we encountered few people:  a couple of drift boats, a few scattered fly-fishers winding their lines into the constant hatches.  We picnicked on a shore, and I found a few sets of LOVE rocks, and threw the brightest jasper into the water to better appreciate their colors.

jasper in the river

We stopped at Jump Off Joe, a high rise accessed by a 50 foot log way up over the water, where two of our party braved the shade and still very cold water to take a leap.  Sweetheart was one of the two.  I wonder when I will be chill enough to watch someone I love do something that looks dangerous without picturing a future without them.   I think probably never.

We made an easy and exciting run through the wave trains and did a bit of manuvering to get through Brown's hole, and I remembered why I love running rivers.  A few no-harm-done-except-panic accidents has left me pretty wary of whitewater.  Once I'm on, I'm fine, but it's been harder and harder to get on.  I know from experience that the best way to deal with fear is exposure.  I also know the easiest way is avoidance.  I'm better at the latter.

One of the panicky accidents occurred at Marten's Rapids, a class three (difficult) set of rocks and waves at the end of our run.  Among its obstacles are two large rocks known as "Oh Shit" and "Castration."  In June this year, a man making a lousy run died there.  It's no picnic.  Although I'd experienced with all the thrill and safety of a carnival ride, a few years ago things changed.

ok, not marten's.  i was too busy not freaking out to photo.

There were several circumstances afoot that particular summer day.  I was in a boat with inexperienced rowers, who stopped rowing as we hit a set of powerful hydraulics at Marten's.  The raft was new, stiff and unforgiving.  This combination of factors was enough to make our joyride into a nightmare, plunging the raft into a strong hole where thousands of pounds of hard water pinned us against a huge boulder.  Half the raft was under water and we were clinging to each other and the raft for what seemed like eternity.  Certainly long enough that I considered this might be it.

I was holding on hard to the oldest member of our crew, a woman near 80 years old. The water was snowmelt, freezing.  One by one, people were knocked off the boat by the water, including the captain, and finally even the woman I was trying so hard to hold.  That was the hardest part for me, watching this fragile woman washed off the boat and into the rocks and rapids.

Soon there were half as many in the boat.  The weight difference changed the dynamics enough that we popped free.  We all had PDFs (life jackets-- and please, don't even THINK of boating running or cold water without them).  Those taking the accidental swim floated out of the rapids and were rescued by rope or the boat behind us.  Except for a bit of hypothermia, and in my case a new profound respect for and fear of whitewater, we were unharmed. 

But I was harmed.  My brain couldn't let go of the visuals of the water and the faces of the crew, and especially the picture of that elderly woman pulled off the raft.  I avoided McKenzie for a long time.  I skipped several river trips.  The ones I did that involved even more technical rapids required all the coping skills I could muster to even get out of the door and into the car.  Again, once there, I loved it.  It took a lot of self-talk to get back to the McKenzie.  Part of that talk was thinking about my clients, who do brave things every day.  Sometimes their brave tasks seem incredibly easy to me.  Sometimes they are way above running a rapid.  I have great respect for each end of the spectrum, because I know that Brain learns fear in a visceral way.  It doesn't matter if it's flying or spiders, whitewater or job interviews-- panic is panic, fear is fear.

When we approached Marten's my heart was aflutter.  I thought about swimming to shore and walking the last mile of river.  I asked about, then declined, a drop off there.  I thought about the many times each week I ask my clients to do something that is extremely difficult for them.  I tried to remember ways to calm my amygdela and think logically about the times I'd been through this rapid easily.  Fear Weasel Brain was having none of this, so I decided just to shut up the internal dialogue and see what happened.

It was a great run.

After the river, I relaxed with the family at Squirrels over a good-enough meal.

So:  how was my day?  Well, there were parts I didn't mention-- putting up plums, missing my deceased parents, worrying about and loving family members, doing laundry.  It was nauseating, wonderful, terrifying, reaffirming, tedious, beautiful.  In other words, an ordinary extraordinary day.

Ask me next week, and I'd tell you it was great day.  But in truth, like most days, it held way more than that.  It was a mixed bag.  A beautiful, frightening mix. 

And that's life.

Jana

PS  Did you see the blue moon? So gorgeous!

Lighting the Shadows of Rape Myth Culture

The headlines are everywhere.  During a television interview, state congressman John Atkins explained his opposition to abortions for rape victims. “If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down."  He didn't clarify what he meant by a "legitimate" rape. His science is dead wrong.

"Akin is not alone in his view about rape and pregnancy, however. It dates at least to medieval times, when a 13th century English legal tome called Fleta asserted that pregnancy was prima facie evidence against a charge of rape, "for without a woman's consent she could not conceive."

A 19th century book, "Elements of Medical Jurisprudence" by Samuel Farr, said that conception is unlikely "without an excitation of lust, or the enjoyment of pleasure in the venereal act." That reflected the common notion that pregnancy requires a woman, like a man, to reach orgasm during intercourse.

Both early references were noted by The Guardian newspaper in a blog post on Monday.

In fact, "human ... female orgasm is not necessary for conception," explained a 1995 paper in the journal Animal Behaviour, one of many studies reaching the same conclusion."   (read the rest of the Reuters article here).

Surely it didn't take until 1995 for a paper to demonstrate that women can become pregnant without orgasm.  In fact, studies find that rapes result in even higher pregnancy rates than consensual sex. This may in part be because victims are (quite obviously) less likely to be using birth control at the time of the rape.  To add insult to injury, in 31 states rapists may claim the same paternity rights to custody and visitation as men who father through consensual sex.  Lawyer Shauna Prewitt, whose daughter was the result of a rape, spoke of her experience in an article in CNN today.  "I know it because I lived it. I went to law school to learn how to stop it."

Don't believe for a minute that Akins is a lone idiot.

"In a (May 2011) House debate, Rep. Pete DeGraaf (R-Mulvane) was quoted during a conversation with Rep. Barbara Bollier (R-Mission Hills).  The House was discussing insurance coverage for abortions. The point was made that proposed coverage restrictions did not make exceptions for pregnancies resulting from rape or incest. DeGraaf suggested that women purchase separate abortion-only policies. Bollier questioned him about the likelihood of women doing this.
Rep. Pete DeGraaf said, "We do need to plan ahead, don't we, in life?"
Bollier asked him, "And so women need to plan ahead for issues that they have no control over with pregnancy?"
DeGraaf then responded, "I have a spare tire on my car." "I also have life insurance," he added. "I have a lot of things that I plan ahead for." (http://articles.kwch.com/2011-05-25)

Akin's reference to "legimate" rape has not been explained, though he has apologized -- sort of.  "The mistake I made was in the words I used."  Actually, the mistake was in the things he believes, and there is no real reason, beyond his desire to continue his electoral race, to think he has changed his beliefs. His reference to "legitimate" rape parallels cultures in which raped women are killed by their own relatives as matters of honor, and to religious law that required women raped within city walls to be stoned to death along with their assailants, citing complicity because the victim did not not cry out in a way to be heard.

While we may not murder the victims of rape, Americans fail to protect them when we participate in cultural myths that blame the survivors.  This is as common among women as men.  It's even common among victims.  Why?  Because we all want to believe we have control over our destiny.  Even when we don't.

When I was in college I was a volunteer, and later a co-director, for a rape victim support service.  Each victim, every single one, blamed themself.  Whether they were raped by a former partner, by a date while intoxicated, or by a single or group of strangers.  If they complied, our of socialization or fear, or if they fought tooth and nail.  Even if their assailant had a lethal weapon.  They went over every single detail to see where they could have done something different.  I remember especially the 20 year old Christian early elementary student.  She answered a knock on her door; a young man said his car had broken down and asked to use her phone.  This was before cell phones.  After she let him in, he bound and assaulted her brutally.  She lamented that she should never have let him in.  But that was a crazy thought-- it was her complete nature to assist someone in need.

Other myths still exist:  she asked for it, she was sexually provocative, she shouldn't have been where she was or doing what she was doing.   I think of the elderly nun I counseled, or the parents of the elementary girl.  And I also think that even if a woman is dancing naked on a table for strangers, is drunk, or wanted to make out earlier-- that has nothing to do with whether it is ok to have sex with her without her permission.  IT IS NEVER OK.

Rape and the threat of it is a constant in women's lives.  Nearly every R-rated and many PG-13 movies include at least one scene in which a women is subject to it.  In fact, during the time I worked at the crisis center, a spate of horror movies were released with a recurring theme, starting with "Halloween".  A murderer was on the loose.  "Liberated" women-- read brash, assertive or openly sexual women-- were killed off, one by one.  In the end, only the virgin/conservative woman was spared.  The message seemed obvious:  pay for your freedom with your life.  This was later echoed in Thelma and Louise, in which one lead character (an abused wife) is sexually assaulted after a night out in which she drinks and dances with a handsome man.   Her friend kills the assailant and they flee, but in the end both women suicide.

What can we do with our outrage?  Start with this:
--Speak out against sexual violence as entertainment.
--Do not tolerate, passively or otherwise, rape "jokes" or the continuation of rape myths.
--Donate your time, money or needed items to organizations that support survivors of sexual violence.  Even a few dollars will help.

All Over The Map(s)

sail away ladies sail away

Back from a long-dreamed of trip to Alaska. I have family there, and they were wonderful hosts-- sailing, fishing, hiking, wildlife peeping, and a high speed catamaran trip to Sitka were on the agenda, along with fantastic meals of local seafood and organic veggies.  SE Alaska is the Arnold Schwarzenegger of Oregon without the swagger:  everything that's wonderful about here is closer, bigger, more. Islands, islands everywhere, and totem, and huge swarms of spawning salmon and chirping eagles and spouting whales.

The trip took a little convincing.  I live close to the dime and it seemed such a luxury.  But we had a free place to stay, local guides, a 33 foot sailboat (the magnificent Haiku) and two for one airline tickets.  How to resist?  Having been enamored of the place since i was wee and reading, obsessively, over and oer the Time-Life series on Alaska and the Arctic during visits to my Tennessee Aunt Louise-- well, I knew a trip was in my destiny.  And when the cards fell, even though there were house repairs to do and being self-employed means no paid time off-- well, only a fool gives a raspberry to destiny.  Off we went.  Here's a few things I learned:

You can get a better suntan in Alaska in June than in Oregon.  If you're lucky.  We were lucky

You can look extra sexy in waders with the right angle lens.

Most people don't lock their doors in SEAL.

Fresh halibut curry is a revelation. 

a view from the haiku

sailing through the narrows

keeping things under control

Sailing is really, really relaxing and healing, especially when it's (oddly) not raining, there's good food in the galley and  great company on the deck.  Admiral Zooey (the redhead) and First Mate Fletcher kept things under control, or at least underfoot.  Capt s Brian and Liz demonstrated how to relax into the Alaska vibe(beer was often involved). 

cuddlin' up at low tide

Turn ten minutes from the dock and you can walk the Mendenhall glacier park and wrestle with some sadness over ts diminished state.  Pick a different 10minutes and grab some fishing gear to wonder int the Tongass Rainforest, stumbling past the evil Devil's club into native carvings and possible grizzly sushi bars.  No need to change clothes except to throw on the waders and extra-tuffs to be one with the fishes as you wander off shore in search of something to grab your lure.

It's a wonderful life.  It's a life full of suffering.  Both/and, so take your times of grace and rejuvenation where you can and JUST SAY YES to opportunities that can make old dreams come true.

Adapation

And I'll be your cheerleader and butt-kicker to go after the (planful, ethical, soul enhancing) YESes in your life.  SI SE PEUDE.

I feel ready to do so serious psychotherapy after all that relining and awakening.  Hold me to it!

writer's pile of tumbling blocks.



perhaps i need to be playing different keys for now

I am niggled with guilt at neglecting my blog in order to focus on the visual world.  My blog is quick to point out that it is in good company, neglect-wise-- along with my paperwork, most no-longer-visible surfaces in my living space, and my correspondence habits.  I took to the web to find literary solace, asked for water and it gave me gasoline.  The rapscallion Chas
Bukowski has disabused me of any rationalizations and I am at temporary peace with the lapse of my written words.  Here's how:

so you want to be a writer?
by Charles Bukowski
 to every thing, there is a season, and this is gonna be a bang-up one if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was. -ed note: i can tell something's going to get born, but i think it's going to be a messy delivery.......

Difficult Gifts

Sometimes love swells up so big in a heart it leaks out the face.

It's beautiful outside right now.  The skies are a rare Oregon-clear, the stars bright and the breeze perfectly cool.  The moon is reluctant to rise just yet, but I know it's out there, big and yellow and still swollen though waning. The sun is out there too in that dark somewhere too, though as is often true of our sources of life and light it's not apparent from our limited perspective.

I read a sad and beautiful letter tonight from an old friend writing on Caring Bridge.  If you know the site, you know that you are visiting it because there are Big Scary Things afoot.  The friend talked about how she is working with integration of the return of her (miraculously and temporarily disappeared) terminal diagnosis.  Her incredible shine, her integrity and devotion to love as the centering point was profound.  She didn't shy away from the fear part.  She bore witness.

I went to the backyard and sat and stared at the sky and cried.  This woman's community is strong.  And everyone in it would likely gladly give up a year of our life to add a month to hers.  But we don't get those choices.  There are a lot of choices we don't get.  What amazes me is the choice some people make to go into love when facing death.  To keep getting bigger and bigger in spite of all the good reasons to withdraw.

In gratitude and with love to my friend and teacher A~.
Jana

The Race To Educated Debt

Heard on the radio tonight that US college student's school loan debt has reached one TRILLION dollars.  That's a one followed by 12 zeros.   Mind you, my math's not so good.  I had trouble adding my Scrabble score last night (old school, with a real board and a pencil, not online).  I can't grasp the concept of a trillion, so I looked it up.  Guess what:?  If you had a stack of a thousand dollar bills it would be over 67 miles high.   A senator complaining about national debt said if a person was born at the time Jesus lived s/he'd need to spend a million dollars a day the last two thousand years to spend that much.  He was a little off-- that's only 2/3s of the trillion.  A trillion is a ridiculous number.  One trillion seconds is 31,688 YEARS. 

Average tuition rates at college climbed 15% between 2008 and 2010-- and we all know they are higher still every year.  It's no longer possible to put yourself through school working a part time job like I and many of my cohorts did. 

What have our students gotten for all this unfathomable debt?  Classrooms are larger.  Real professors who are really teaching--not directing you to the on-line powerpoint, not handing you off to a grad student with no experience or interest in teaching-- are rarities. Mentoring is even rare, especially in public and (slightly) less costly universities.  And jobs?  Well, in a few select fields, say engineering, graduates can usually find jobs with actual benefits and enough pay to to find housing and raise families. But many well educated graduates would love to just be able to work full-time.  Anywhere.

A good liberal arts education used to be a ticket to opportunity.  With an emphasis on critical thinking, the ability to reason, write and learn, a graduate might end up working in most any field.  Now companies want a Master's degree to do jobs that for years were done perfectly well with a few month's training.  I know a brilliant young woman with a BA in science who can't find a job washing beakers.  She recently applied at a local food chain and was asked to submit a writing sample.  In the time she took to supply it, seven other people came in to turn in applications.  A writing sample?  For a minimum wage, part time, un-benefited position?  Ridiculous.

There's a big push at high schools to raise graduation rates, now hovering around 60% nationally, close to 100% with a goal of 80% of graduates going on to complete a four year degree.  For what?  So we have a whole generation of incredibly educated indentured servants selling our Big Macs? We are headed entirely down the wrong path.  At a presentation on learning disabilities, local psychologist Kim Golletz discussed some interesting realities.  The average college graduate has an IQ of about 115.  Let the whole IQ debate slide for now and just look at the numbers.  On a bell-shaped curve of general population IQ scores, an IQ of 115 is in the upper 25 percentile.  How, exactly, are we going to attain an 80% or higher BA education rate for that 100% of youth graduating high school?  And why exactly do we need it?

There are all kinds of brains.  Some of the smartest people I know never went to college at all.  A mechanic I met in the early 90s in SE Texas dropped out of school in 6th grade.  He most likely had dyslexia and never learned to read, which made school a big fail for him.  But he could take apart and reassemble an engine in an afternoon.  And he made good money doing it-- enough to raise a family and buy a home.  A pipefitter, a farmer, a landscaper back then could start their training in high school, or by apprenticing with an expert.  In my Midwest youth there was a little shame in being sent on "the vocational track" if you were from the sort of family that expected college.  But it was hard to argue it with your peers who were making great salaries and buying houses at 21 when you were still eating Top Ramen for dinner and hoping to pass a final.

The options seem to be gone for today's high schoolers, who are drilled from middle school to be anxious about choosing the right college.  And for those who can't make it or don't want to, a high school diploma or equivalent is required just to get into the training programs, which take twice as long and require boatloads of minimum competencies in reading and math that may or may not be useful to the skill.

OK, grownups.  We are the ones that need to make a fuss about this.  Write your school board and political representatives, and encourage them to support vocational training for teens in the schools, and to get off "everybody graduate/everybody get a bachelors degree" bandwagon.  We need to stop equating long educations with skill sets for working every job.  We need practical education for all kinds of minds, at costs that are within means.

Related post:  The Kids Aren't Alright:  The Pressure for Excellence

You Ate The Apple

Coming up:  July 15th I will be preaching it at the Universalist Unitarian Church.  This year's topic is all about original sin.  OK, not.  I did my sin sermon a couple years ago, and would be happy to glaze your eyes over with a repeat performance in another venue.  This one is about the burdens blessings and responsibility of critical thinking and choice. Yep, ignorance might be bliss, but it is also the closest thing to unconsciousness:  a desire to retreat back into the womb where decisions are made for us.

If you're in Corvallis, come join us that day. The nice thing about the UU is everyone is welcome-- Buddhist, Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Pagan, Agnostic, whatever.  Just bring an open mind and heart.

My usual accompanist, fiddler/songwriter Willeke F., is making music at Shasta that week-- sad for me, good for her-- but I'll do my best to make it worth your while.

The (Lost) Smell of Pleasure

evening sky, 6/1/12

I'm at the first year anniversary of losing my sense of smell.  It'll be good to be past some of the difficult firsts:  Thanksgiving, spring scents, summer harvest, winter without enjoying the olfactory pleasures of a woodfire or baking bread.  My weight has stabilized.  I learned one can eat food whether or not one likes the taste.  But I miss enjoying it, and I imagine I always will

When you have a peculiar experience, it's common to notice evidence and reminders everywhere.  I've become acutely aware of how much we talk about smell and taste in daily life, even in our slang: "sweet!" and "that stinks".  And I always loved smell and the memories it instantly evoked.  One of the hardest parts of this year was losing my father, and not being able to recall him through the scent of his belongings.  After my mother died, even years later, I could bring her back in the most vivid way just by going into her closet and inhaling the scent of her bathrobe.  I have my father's cedar chest, and it saddens me that it is now just a visual piece. 

There is no describing the paths scent carries us on.  It's hard enough to describe a smell.  Try it.  Often scents are articulated by the memories associated with them--fireworks smell like summer, the 4th of July; pine like Christmas and the forest we walked.

smells like:  nothing.

Luca Turin, a perfumer and the controversial subject of Chandler Burr's book "The Emperor of Scent", is an exception.  In his classic "Perfumes:  A-Z" (with coauthor Tania Sanchez) he is able to evoke complex imagery with his descriptions; still, they generally refer to a mood, or another smell.  Both books are currently buried in the stacks at my library, but a rough Turin paraphrase might be his description of a perfume as "reminiscent of an apple in the sun cut with a steel blade."  When I first lost my ability to smell, I devoured both of these books greedily.  As a supersmeller prior to anosmia,  I never liked perfume-- my nose plowed right past whatever they were supposed to offer and was overwhelmed with chemicals.  But after scent was gone, books like these were olfactory porn.  I was a torch-carrying separated lover reading old letters and staring at photographs.

With the passage of time, there is the robbery of memory.  Now it's harder to recall the scent of an apple or of a blade, and what's left is a ghost of impression, drifting.  There is a very real sense of loss of pleasure.  If you're familiar with learning theory, you may have heard of primary reinforcers.  There aren't many.  Food, sex, sleep, satiation of thirst.  Always first food is mentioned.  Without smell, food becomes more of a secondary reinforcer.  It staves off discomfort, but it doesn't give pleasure.

how did that guy know about the nose? (A+gallery's photo)

In my life, I have been through harder immediate struggles.  In my work, I see larger tragedies every day.  But this has been a loss for me, and it helps to acknowledge it, especially at Big Times like the anniversary date.  "Get the wound out of the body and onto the page", says author Marjorie Sandor; and she's right. It helps.  Three things that have also really helped:  talking to other persons with smell loss/distortion on web support sites, having friends and family that have tried to hear and understand what it means, and artist Wolf Nkole Helzle's wonderful community of world photo diarists.  The latter has helped me learn to appreciate the visual world, never previously my strong suit.  Thanks to Wolf and his project, I now carry a camera with me everyday and look to find something in the visual world that leaves the sort of mark scent use to leave on me.  Since olfaction serves as a mental marker for events and emotions, it helps to have visual cues to tie my these to places and dates.

Thanks for bearing witness.  Suffering decreases when we are heard and seen; that's what my work is all about.

Jana
Today's video:  it just made me smile.

A Pep Talk With Resistance

 Machete, anyone?

Though the last few days' temperatures have been no guide, summer is approaching and the garden shows it.
Plums and cherries are gaining bulk and, with luck, some sweetness and color in the next weeks.  There are a few red strawberries nestled among the hard green ones.   We are wishing we had several yard bins to cope with the massive influx of dandelions, sticky willy, knotweed and all those other reminders about the truth of "that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger".  I'm also paying for my sins of planting vinca, forget-me-nots, shasta daisys and tall verbena-- these a reminder that sometimes a little is still too much and best enjoyed in someone else's biome.

Gardening is a form of spring cleaning. It's not until we can clear out the old debris that we can truly appreciate what we have and see more clearly our intentions.  I've been taking the metaphor to the extreme by allowing the detrius of the past years to gather in ever higher and more intimidating piles.  "Just Do It" plays a drumbeat in my brain, drowned out by "...later".  There are so many juicy distractions in the world, all with more compelling siren calls than cleaning the closet. But I hear the call of a clearer day, and I hope to answer it. 

Like many professional procrastinators, I have all sorts of tricks of my sleeve to avoid tasks that are complex, or more problematic to me, just boring.  I need a certain amount of anxious juice to plow through the inertia and get her done.  This week I'll be taking some of my own medicine to bust these habits, rather than waiting for the crisis of the moment to propel me.



Intervention One:  The Dreaded Things To Do List. Plan:  Make it before lunch, review it at lunch, knock off a couple of things before dinner.  To increase the odds, I'm keeping it short.  Here's the template:

! One Thing I've procrastinated on too long is:  ____________________
! One Step in the Right Direction will be accomplished today by : ___________________________.

That's it.  I want to tackle a little of something Ominous/Annoying/Shaming each day.  Tomorrow's goal is seemingly small-- I let my last dental check up slide by around the time my dad died, then never rescheduled. Scary Bully In My Head had lots to say about that-- dentist will be mad, hygienist will lecture, there will be Hell to Pay in one form or another.  So I put off and off and off rescheduling.  I'm calling tomorrow.

My other intervention this week is to create a little intentions bowl and fill it with slips of paper with words on it representing areas of my life that could use some attention-- not any of them necessarily pressing at a particular moment, but all pressing over time.  Each day I'll pick a word out in the morning and think about how I might show intention in a small or big way toward that concept.  Here are some of the words in my bowl and how I might use their encouragement (just examples).



Relationships:  Are their relationships in my life that need more breath or care?  Write a letter, make a date, do a kindness.

Health:  If I choose this slip tomorrow, it may encourage me to talk a walk during lunch, or a date at the gym, or skip the junk foods offered that day.

Career:  Oh, the endless possibilities.  I can work on learning the new billing system, set up new policies for no-shows, order that nifty device that allows me to take credit and debit cards.

Responsibility:  I can get that book back to the library.  Empty the cat box before someone who can smell lets me know it needs it,  Return that borrowed dress.

Happiness:  I can schedule or make flyers for the Scotch and Poetry night I've been wanting to host.  I can call someone I love and tell them that.  I can dance to a favorite tune in the kitchen, or just practice letting my crabby thoughts rise and sink instead of inviting them in for a pity party.

The point isn't to create lots more To Do lists, but to be aware and look for opportunities to live the intentions you carry around everyday anyway.  To make manifest!


If you try these and don't mind sharing, I'd love to hear if it was helpful for you.