Dr. Chris

I won’t be seeing my friend, Dr. Chris, today.  Business just got too slow and the rent too high, so he had to close his doors.  For three years I’ve seen him at least three times a week, for several hours at a time.  Technically he’s a chiropractor, but for me he’s been so much more than that.  When I first arrived in his office, referred by a friend and desperate, I could barely get myself onto one of his tables so he could work on me.  I’d had a bulging disc that I’d been working on with a physical therapist, but I thought I could heal even more if I had chiropractic help as well.  I went to someone with a good reputation.  I was interviewed by one person and treated by another.  My theory is that communication went awry because with one aggressive move, that chiropractor turned my bulging disc into a herniated one.  Once the jelly is out of the doughnut, there’s no putting it back.  I could barely walk.  Keith would take me from home to school so I could teach, and then cart me back so I could get horizontal on our firm sofa.  If I moved suddenly it would feel like someone was stabbing me in the leg with a knife.  I went, in under a second, from being able-bodied to being permanently disabled.

I wasn’t very trusting after that.  Western medicine offered me the choice of cortisone injections into my spine until the cortisone would begin to degrade my spinal tissue, or permanent medication that had a list of horrific side-effects.  I tried the cortisone twice but it hurt like hell, had minimal productive effect, and caused my heart to race for days.  I tried acupuncture.  I think it helped a bit.  I tried sound wave therapy.  I don’t know if that helped or not.  My last traditional treatment option was to fuse my discs together, and my physical therapist did not recommend it.  He said that over time the fact that two discs were in an unnatural position would affect the discs above and below causing an eventual cascading failure.  Finally a trusted friend recommended Dr. Chris.

Chris Abrahamson is a tall, fatherly Swede, and the most gentle man I have ever met.  His prices were ridiculously reasonable and I immediately felt safe with him in spite of myself, so I decided to give it a shot.  The first time on the table, I could barely tell he was doing anything.  He was touching my spine but not with a lot of pressure.  I would have thought he was a fraud except that when I got up I felt a little better.  That was the continuing trend.  I’d go.  He’d be gentle.  I wouldn’t know why but I’d feel better.  Continuing treatment is necessary for maintenance and there’s never going to be yoga, running or any high impact activity in my future, but I can get around pretty darned well these days.  He is everything a chiropractor or any kind of doctor should be.  But here’s the thing, he’s more than that.

Chris is a genuine healer.  His calming presence is soothing to everyone who has come into his office.  I’ve watched it happen.  People are full of anxiety and stress, and when they leave they are relaxed and smiling.  Personally, I have an anxiety disorder.  I can have my heart racing when I’m thinking about flowers.  Part of the reason I went to see him so often was because when I went, it calmed me, even on really hard days.  I also have a hard time expressing how I feel, and so I carry a lot of my feelings in my physical body.  It’s weird, I know, but it’s true.  There were times when no one else was there and he would lay his big open palm on my shoulder or stomach and I would start to bawl my eyes out.  It didn’t bother him.  He’d just sit on a stool at the head of my table, his hand on my shoulder, saying oh so quietly, “It’s okay.  It’s okay.”  He’d hand me Kleenex and then when I sat up he’d sit next to me and I’d finish crying on his shoulder.  He always had a twinkle in his eye and when I was depressed he could always make me laugh.

Once Keith was out of town and I was at home and accidentally grabbed the handle of a skillet that had just come out of a 450 degree oven.  I could hear my fingers sizzle.  I was in so much pain and had no idea what to do because ice made my pain go through the roof, and all I could remember were old wives tales about burns.  With my remaining functional hand I texted him at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and he texted right back, “No ice!  Use a bowl of cool water!”  I did so and texted a couple more questions.   Then I tried to leave him alone.  Pretty soon I got an incoming text.  He was checking on me to make sure I  was okay.

When I needed emergency surgery he came and visited me in the hospital even though he hates hospitals.  He held my hand and got teary-eyed because it was right after surgery and I was a mess.  He really, truly cared about me.  It was so appropriate and so extraordinary to have a doctor as a father figure caring for my emotions as well as my body.  Maybe because it was another chiropractor who hurt me, after a while he only charged what I had on my HSA.  The way he treated me changed the way I view God because it changed the way I view men and fathers.  And I know I’m not the only one who has been utterly blessed to know this man and be helped by him.

Monetarily some may look at his life and think it small.  They would be wrong.  I have never met anyone who gave so much to so many, expecting so little in return.  This is, in my opinion, the definition of a powerful, meaningful, important life.  Without him and his generosity there would be so much more suffering in the world.

His life has become an example of true success to me.  Even if I don’t make a lot of money I want people at the end of my life to say that I made every bit of difference that I could, loving people and the creatures of the world to the best of my ability.  I may not be a healer in the traditional sense, but I can be a lover of all through my research, my art, my words, and my actions.  I will sometimes fail, but I will keep recommitting to love because those with the most beautiful lives I’ve seen, like Dr. Chris, have done the same.  Hopefully we’ll go out once in a while for tea because man, I’m going to miss that guy.

17 Days

17 DAYS

A good number of years ago now my mother was closing in on her 28th hour of labor after having waited an extra three weeks for me to arrive, and exemplifying to women everywhere the reasons for contraception.  By all accounts it was a miserable experience, followed by another six months dealing with a colicky baby.  I don’t know why they were surprised when I did not have children.  I know, of course, that women say it’s worth it and I fully acknowledge the wonder of new life.  However, enough time has passed that I think it’s safe to say my own life is no longer new.  At this point I’ve earned a graduate degree, had a couple major organs removed, gotten the requisite glasses for old people, and obtained a major back injury.  I have sleeping problems, waking problems, mental health issues, marital issues, and a potential bunion.  This part of getting older is not fun, and I think it’s the discomfort that drives most people to either go into denial or reach a phase or two of reflection, pondering the meaning of it all.

This spring my husband has actually named something for me that has resurrected from my childhood.  Because of the earlier mentioned back injury I’m no longer able to run.  This has led to a necessary reconciliation to the idea of walking as exercise.  Imagine me sighing.  I just did.  It never counted as exercise before.  It was for other people who didn’t have the desire to push through the pain, sweat in the rain and grit their teeth so that their brains would stop spinning and they could be purely physical.  That’s what running was for me.  It’s taken me a good couple of years to accept the slow path.  My brain keeps pumping away at thoughts.  That is, it spins its usual frenetic cycles until I see something beautiful.  Flowers have begun to stop me in my tracks.  I pull out my trusty iPhone, decide not to care about appearances, crouch in whatever position is necessary and capture the riveting bloom to some degree of satisfaction.  Sometimes I concede and realize I cannot do it justice, and sometimes I am doggone proud of my unskilled photography.  It is always a life-giving moment.

Keith caught me at it because he was going to pick me up from my usual walk route from our condo one day.  He has me on the creepy Find-a-Friend app without which we’d never be able to find each other.  He watched me leave the condo and within two blocks he saw the little blue dot that was me hovering for several minutes at a corner, unmoving.  He decided to go around the block a few times to give me a little more walking time.  I soon proceeded down some stairs, around a corner, down another block, and then stopped again, hovering like a hummingbird sipping nectar.  He caught up with me at our favorite neighborhood garden.  He smiled and said, “It’s just like when you were in kindergarten.”

Oh my God!  I hadn’t put that together!  I was late 17 times for the first half of kindergarten even though it was only three blocks from my house.  It was the only thing besides daydreaming that ever merited a note to my parents.  I wasn’t late because I didn’t want to go to school.  I was late because I was enraptured by everything along my path.  I didn’t want to study like a scientist, either. I wanted to discover and love.  I longed for the fuzzy caterpillars to crawl down my index finger and wave their searching antennae in the open air.  I wanted to study the pattern in the veins of the leaves.  I wanted to gently prod the pill bugs so they’d roll up in their delightful balls and I wanted to marvel at the colors and patterns of the flowers.  All I remember about kindergarten itself is an empty hall full of coats, scarves and snow boots.  Those 17 days though, I remember really well.

It’s been a while.  Now I’m teaching interior design, and since hearing William McDonough speak at a conference I have become compelled to research issues around environmental care.  I’ve incorporated it into every class from space planning to materials for interior use, to design history and now a course that I am proud to say expands my reach to the fashion program.  I have a wider audience with my textiles class, and I love it.  I want to spread news of how things are being created and manufactured in the world, what we’re using and where it ends up at the end of its life.  I am a fountain of horrifying information regarding the chemicals that we use with utter disregard for human health.  It makes me really fun at parties.  But there’s a link here, and I haven’t shifted from delight to what might be considered politics just to make my readers miserable.  It really goes back to those 17 days.  My whole life goes back to those 17 days.

In those 17 days, for which I was roundly punished, I developed a profound love affair with the natural world.  My heart filled with so much love that now, decades later, I walk down the sidewalk to my university office and quietly whisper “I love you” to the frenetic squirrels, wispy ferns and majestic trees.  I love nature so much it hurts, and I mean that in a physical way.  When I learn of the latest environmental catastrophe my chest aches and there is nothing that will soothe it.  Does this mean I don’t care about humans?  Of course not!  How in the world are humans supposed to live healthy lives without abundant access to clean water, soil and air?  The concepts of care for nature and care for humans are inextricably intertwined.  My students will tell you, at least by their senior years, that I’m ridiculously soft-hearted.  I have to tell them at the front end of each quarter that just because I’m nice, it doesn’t mean I have low academic standards.  I’m nice and I write extremely difficult exams out of love, because I want them to be prepared for the world.

Basically though, I’m a mush-ball of affection, and this world is hard on people like me.  The hardest part of getting older for me (besides those missing organs) is the increasing knowledge of how much we humans are causing suffering on multiple levels everywhere I look.  Knowledge is a hard thing for a soft heart to bear, which actually means I am one tough mother.  It takes guts to stay soft and know what I know.

So here’s my resolve as I move forward.  I’m embracing the love of my inner kindergartener.  I’m determining to stay soft while I keep daring to learn more.  That’s the impetus behind my application for doctoral programs this spring.  I am willing to bear the pain if it means I have a better platform for speaking a little bit louder, having more credentials so I can publish and maybe even reach the people who mistakenly believe that caring for the environment means leaving humanity behind.  If I have to bear this pain, I am going to make it mean something.  I need to be part of creating change in our manufacturing systems so that kindergarteners everywhere have the ability to walk out their front doors and experience the wonder of an unspoiled world.  If you’re Christian, nature points to God.  If you’re not, nature points to health.  Caring for it is a win-win for everyone, everywhere and I haven’t even gotten to the related issues around slavery and social justice.  It’s depressing to talk about the startling suicide rates among cotton farmers in India on my birthday.

On this day I’m committing to love and clinging like mad to wonder.  Those flowers that I photograph will keep me alive, along with hugs from friends.  I will soak in the sound of the rain in the trees and continue saying “I love you” as I walk around campus, sometimes to people and sometimes to the chattering squirrels.  There are plenty of people out there, muttering anger and hate.  If muttering love makes me eccentric, so much the better.  I already have the purple hair.

Putting it Out There

It’s been a while.  Hi!  I just posted on my vlog about being vulnerable, so here I go in written form.

I hid in the corner, back then,

so young, so

shamed by being my

self, shaking, feeling

anxious for no reason and so

so

stupid.

You saw me and coaxed me

out as though I were feral,

or as if I were hiding in

a shell somewhere where people

payed money to stare and tap

and wish I were more brave.

You saw me in there and I don’t know

how you did it because I didn’t

know how to be seen or even

what color my sad fins had

joined to become after they

began life as hands.  I

felt loved.  I felt safe

enough to let my 20” deep

aquarium thick glass to keep the

sharks in/out wall

down

and all the water flooding through

the entry.  And it was good.  God.

I miss you so much.  But you

left me full, with fingers and lungs and

the ability to breathe air in the

company of others.

 

Sick

So I may be sick so

what’s new, what’s 
extraordinary, what 
makes me get out of
bed each day, after I’ve
cursed and snoozed the
morning alarm for at 
least a half an hour? I
was sick yesterday and
it didn’t stop me from 
going to the store or 
wondering if you needed
new socks. Being sick is
only temporary, no matter 
the end, so why change
today and leave life before
it’s done?  I’m not a 
microwave kind of girl. I’ll
stay in the oven until my
bits are crispy if it means
more time with you. 

Broken Beauty

A shack by the sea, a 

bit of broken paper
lost in the breeze from 
off the Sound, dancing
along the brink 
in irregular fits and 
starts, enjoying the 
randomness of it, or at
least I would, if I were
paper. 
A view from the shack, a 
cracked window looking
over the vast cradle swinging
back and forth, rocked by
the moon, and the frothing
edge singing over 
stones, weeping for all
the earth’s groaning, still
gleaming, still holding 
the beauty of sacred life.  

 

To Hold

To hold things inside, to

withhold all those simple
thoughts that rise like 
bubbles to the surface, all
those feelings that bloom
in whichever intense shades
they embody as though 
they were balloons all 
filled with transparent life 
barely contained by ebullient 
hues, is to kill oneself, breath
by breathe, stealing moments
from a possible future. 
To break out, to learn how to
speak, how to walk while 
looking at more than 
the uneven path is to enrage
death itself, which will fight
for recapture and, God 
willing fail, but only after 
battle wounds have bled
into the free earth and 
paid, ironically, for grace. 

Running Time

Time runs out every 

night, around when the
moon is high. It never 
runs in, backs up, gathers
itself into a ball and just
stops moving. It runs. 
It’s fueled. It pushes 
ahead but softly like 
a Seattle rain, all mist 
that doesn’t garner much
attention. It gives itself 
fully, holds nothing back,
is spent wildly, leaks 
often, mutters low, knowing
better than anyone just
how tight the schedule 
for everyone is. 


The Plan

She liked to think of herself as a woman of uncertainty, but that wasn’t really true. Sure, she didn’t know what to think about the Bible any more. She wasn’t sure how involved God really was in people’s lives and how much was a matter of perspective, but she was sure of more than she wanted to admit. She was sure that people weren’t primarily numerical and therefore didn’t belong in boxes. That probably applied to God, too. She was also certain she needed to think her own thoughts, make her own decisions and take responsibility for learning how to actually live her life. She didn’t want to survive. She wanted to be fully invested, aware, empowered, and present for all the days before her death. 

The difficulty lay in the fact that she didn’t know how to do this. For a myriad of reasons she’d grown up without acquiring many of the usual inter and intrapersonal skills that usually come with age. She was determined to find a path, though, whether she was late in starting it or not. She decided to brainstorm, and the list of her ideas is as follows:
  1. Take more initiative. Being docile and submissive isn’t always the true path to peace. Speak up when needed, even if it causes conflict. 
  2. When speaking up causes conflict, decide not to embrace the idea that it’s all your fault. Communication is good, even if it’s hard. Just don’t go too far and start flinging blame or cheap shots at people. That’s never okay. 
  3. Notice the good stuff. Maybe even write it down. It’s easy to lose sight of goodness in life when it’s mixed in with the inevitable pain, so work at recognizing kindness. 
  4. Remind yourself that you’re strong.  You don’t need permission to live. 
  5. Be gracious with yourself. Listen to the words you speak over yourself. If you wouldn’t say them to anyone else, don’t say them to yourself, either. If you fail in this, be gracious then, too. Forgive yourself and move forward. Consider coming up with some positive phrases with which to counter the negative ones. This idea makes you want to barf. Find out what that’s about. 
  6. Accept and recognize comfort. Soak it up when it comes. 
  7. Accept and recognize when you are loved. 
  8. Ask for help when you need it, you ninny. Wait. Refer to #5. You lovely woman. Oh, barf. I mean, Oh! Whiskey!
  9. Allow yourself space to heal without condemning yourself for it. If you’d been hit by a train you’d know it was reasonable to take time. You’ve been hit by a train. It just didn’t have wheels on it. 
  10. When you condemn yourself, try affirming yourself instead. Say what you’d say to one of your students. 
  11. Regarding Mom and Dad: They’re probably not going to change. Don’t wait for it. Work on yourself. Give up on the idea that you’ll ever be parented, even now, in a way that is deeply edifying. Love them where they are, how they are, without expectation. Find your security somewhere else. (This might be where knowing God loves you would be really helpful. It’s unclear why you haven’t been able to get that after all this time, and that makes you angry. Ask Tom about that.)
  12. When you’re up for phone conversations put boundaries on them. Start with five minutes. Go to 15 but not more than 20. 
  13. When they cut you off while you’re trying to tell them about your life, ask them why they did that. Guage their receptiveness. If that conversation goes nowhere, stop trying to tell them about your life. 
  14. When they’re upset about your boundaries, keep them anyway and don’t apologize for having them. You’re bound to empathize. Go for a walk afterward, or go up on the roof.  Yell into a pillow. Call a trustworthy friend and talk about it. Warn the friends ahead of time that you may need to be reminded that boundaries are healthy for everyone. Look at happy animal pictures on Pinterest. 
  15. When Mom and Dad don’t understand and you can’t explain, tell them you can’t explain and you’re sorry they’re in pain, but avoid shifting blame onto yourself to try to make them feel better. Leave the loose ends when needed. Write a poem about it afterward, or refer to #14. 
  16. After having any basically meaningless conversations with Mom and Dad, having stayed within your boundaries, hang up, eat a piece of chocolate and congratulate yourself for a job well done. Contribute $5 toward your next great pair of shoes. 
  17. Cry when it comes. 
  18. Breathe. 
  19. Invest in things that help bring you to life. Take art classes or poetry classes. Be brave and apply for that MFA program.  Be responsible to your day job but don’t allow it to rob you of fulfillment. 
  20. If the MFA program doesn’t accept you, don’t stop writing. 
  21. Keith: This requires a separate list. Work on that as it comes.  Remember that you love each other and don’t let society dictate your “normal.”  
That’s as far as she got, but it was a start. She was already used to laying on an ice pack for long stretches of time to help her back. Certainly she could implement this. With help. And grace for flubs. In fact, when she screwed up and did something wrong she determined to stand up and walk across the street to a coffee shop and get some tea if it was during business hours. If it was late, she’d write “I love me” in Word on her iPad, and make each of the letters a different color. 



Shock

Sometimes there
is a hair trigger
split running right through
a moment when all was
fine and breezy, 
the kind
of time when a luxurious
complaint about
someone else’s driving, or
bird shit on the car, seems
reasonable.

Then an unexpected
rift occurs,
and the earth becomes
flat like a
tree that’s been
beaten into
paper, or
a heart that
has lost its
beating.

Dear Me

My friend, for one who can be so quiet the voice you have is bold. I don’t know where you find the courage but invariably you own your words like land you’ve bought with blood. Heartsick, your broken drumbeat pounds inside the knowing all the breaking in the world. I always thought you’d be a cello, you know, instead of tympani, but then, your mother played the pipe organ like a Gothic god. It’s no wonder part of you is tuned to always hear the cracking of her bones.  Her suffering was silent to everyone else. 

Everyone else. 

No one else. It made you alone to hear it and there was nowhere for you to go. Go now. Buy earplugs. Listen to woodwinds until the channel can change. Make friends who only drain you in the normal way, then fill you up with hugs and affectionate  disagreements and eyes that see you crying in the rain even when it looks like the sun is shining bright. Even when you have to tell them but you can because they’re not the sort to faint at the sight of blood. 

You are purple. You are complex, hot and cold and hard and softer than that silky white cat who saved your life when your brother died. You know how to leave but you always choose to stay. The world still needs you, telling squirrels you love them and seeing flower songs shimmering opal along the edges of the evening sky. It’s your legacy. You get to see and love, but you have to pay for the seeing. 

Maybe it won’t always cost so much. Maybe you’ll be reimbursed. Maybe you are even more lovable than rabbits or marmots or baby dear ducking their heads in the grain fields. Maybe the strength that seems like it’s cruel, forcing you sometimes to keep breathing when you’d rather stop, is actually being kind because if you just keep breathing there will be beauty and joy and surprising comfort that will make all the extra breathing worthwhile. 

I want you to hold onto possibilities with the same tenacity you’ve employed so you could take ownership of your words and live. Life is the goal. You’re not alone. You are loved. You are worthwhile and you have a lot to offer this crazy, fucked up world, but you (listen, you) are not fucked up. You are wounded, but you already know that’s not the same. A person can be wounded and be a rock star. That’s you. You get extra points just for breathing, because you’re unique and valuable and sensitive. Being you is good. Be you.