Impact

I suspect that many of us, as we go about our lives, are oblivious to the impacts we have on other people simply by being ourselves. A stray comment, a random compliment, a kind word of encouragement, all of these might alter the course of someone's day, week or even life. And yet if we try too hard to have an impact on others, by preaching, recommending, urging, insisting, we might actually push people away, unintentionally creating distance or damage. The examples we set can be more powerful than our desire to make waves and generate certain results.

I learned today that a woman who had inspired me by her example was recently murdered in New York City. I met S T Woolf when we lived in Somerville, MA and we were both active in our local arts community. She was in her mid-40s at the time and was just finding her wings as a sculptor and artist. Shortly thereafter she boldly decided to leave Massachusetts, her home for many years, and move to New York City to pursue her artwork full time in a place where she might gain more exposure. As I learned through her occasional e-mails, she quickly made friends and got involved in local arts groups; her work was getting seen and she seemed to be thriving in her new home. Observing her successful mid-life relocation gave me the courage to pack up and move to greener pastures which, for me, was the mountains.

Although I did not know her well, she still had a large influence on me. In addition to leaving behind her art, she left me with the awareness of how each of us, even if we are but tiny pebbles in this vast universe, can potentially create large ripples just by being who we are.

May S T Woolf rest in peace.

Influenza

Last week, after nearly a year of living with good health in Denver, I finally scheduled my annual routine medical checkups. Aside from the annoyance at having to fill out three similar sets of paperwork - one set at each facility - the appointments went smoothly and there were no surprises. And to reward myself for having endured the discomfort of a mammogram and pelvic exam, I went for a pedicure, haircut and brow wax at a local beauty academy.

There I was, healthy as can be and looking a bit sharper than usual when, on Labor Day, WHAM! Without much warning I was hit with a fever, chills, cough and muscle aches. A quick Google search confirmed that my symptoms were flu-like; indeed, rapid onset is one of its hallmarks, unlike a cold which sneaks up on you gradually. I haven't had the flu in decades so, unlike my more familiar visits from colds and sinus infections, I was not quite sure what to do when this virus showed up, tornado-like, and destroyed my plans for the day. Lying down seemed like a good place to start, followed by some Ibuprofen for the fever and aches. I took a nap and a few hours later got up to get something to eat.

Just a few days earlier, in a renewed effort to take excellent care of myself by eating a tasty, varied and nutritious diet, I had gone to the grocery store armed, uncharacteristically, with an organized and comprehensive list of ingredients that would allow me to create some vegetarian recipes. I filled my formerly empty fridge with spinach, mushrooms, green onions, zucchini, cheeses, yogurt, fruit and assorted types of tofu. And some dark chocolate covered almonds. The next day I whipped up some spreads and made a so-called Green Velvet Soup, one of the most startlingly green dishes I've ever seen. And on Monday morning, just hours before the flu whacked me over the head and sent me crawling under the sheets, I had gone to pay for and pick up a bicycle that someone in my neighborhood was selling on Craigslist. The bike acquisition was also part of my attempt to improve the quality of my life by diversifying my exercise options.

While heating up some soup and boiling water for tea I recalled something my meditation teacher often says. She likes to remind her students that once a person has made a decision to take better care of themselves, whether this means changing their diets, getting a new job or choosing not to enable a loved one's destructive behavior, life often responds with an, "Oh, yeah?" and presents the person with a situation that challenges their commitment to their new intentions.

So, rather than kvetch about my sweat-producing fever and sporadic coughing, I will interpret this flu as an indication that I'm on the right track.

Ice Axe

Nearly two weeks ago I was at 11,000 feet, lying on my back. My helmeted head faced down a slope, my booted feet were held by two instructors in my Wilderness Trekking School. My hands gripped an ice axe. Before releasing me into a slide, my instructors asked me which way I was going to turn once I was in freefall.


"To the right," I replied, slightly lifting my torso and twisting to the right to reinforce my intention.

The point of this exercise was to learn how to stop oneself from slipping to one's death, serious injury or - in the best case scenario - inconvenience. Plunging the tip of the ice axe into the snow would create a fulcrum around which my body would rotate, so that I'd end up on my belly with my feet facing downslope, and by putting my weight onto the axe I would stop my descent. In theory, that is what was supposed to happen.


I gave the teachers the OK and they let me go. Off I went. Rather than terror, I experienced pure bliss sliding down a glacier in the bright sunshine, my skin tingling from the bits of snow that found their way inside my Gore-Tex layers. I didn't really want to stop and could have happily slid to the bottom, but with my classmates and teachers watching I had no choice. I plunged the ice axe into the snow and, sure enough, my body eventually spun around and my feet and head reversed positions. But I kept slipping. Without being conscious of it, I had lifted the axe out of the snow and plunged it in again, as if the initial plunge had been the problem. Eventually I stopped, but I had traveled a long way.


I climbed back to the top of our slide and awaited my next turn, observing the other students as they attempted this maneuver. Another woman seemed to have the same experience as me - she repeatedly, but imperceptibly, lifted her axe out of the snow and repositioned it, as if each successive plunge would work better than the preceding one. She, too, ended her slide a bit farther than desireable.


"Commit!" exclaimed our lead instructor. "Once the axe is in the ground, commit to it. Put all your weight on it. Don't pull it out!"


I tried again, with similar results. Even though I wanted to stick with my initial axe position, my reflexes had other ideas and I kept lifting it out of the ground. Landing at the bottom of the slope after several rolls and slides - and laughs - I had an even longer climb back to the top.


Before my third attempt, I tried to center myself as my instructors held me by the ankles. I was getting tired, so this was going to be my final try at a successful self-arrest.


"Commit," I whispered inside my head.


As I began my slide, I willed myself to hang onto that axe with all my might, pushing it deeper into the snow rather than lifting it back out. My mental preparation must have worked because I was able to stop myself rather quickly.


Reflecting on this experience, I realized that I need an ice axe equivalent for my life, something that I can plunge into the present moment to prevent me from falling further into negative mind states, getting trapped in thought-loops about the past, and sliding down other slippery internal slopes. Many days I feel as if I've tumbled and slid down life itself, unable to gain any traction, while my peers are off in the distance, out of sight, continuing their upward climbs. Or maybe this is just how it is to travel one's own path, uncharted, with no one providing direction or a map except my inner guidance system which, many times, seems to have me going around in circles, retracing my steps.

I do, however, have a few ice axes in my existential tool belt, if only I can remember to deeply commit to using them. One is meditation; it often succeeds in bringing me back to now. Another is writing; it often helps me gain a compassionate perspective on my life, to help me see that maybe I have not plummeted to the bottom of a ditch after all, that maybe if I poke my head out I'll be blessed with a beautiful view. And a third tool is art making; it allows me to externalize my inner conundra by creating physical objects to represent them, depriving them of their power over me.

Intercourse

I suppose it was only a matter of time before I'd write a post with this word. The time has come. Although I live in a fairly urban neigbhorhood - by Denver standards - my apartment is surprisingly quiet. Rarely do cars or motorcycles speed down the street. My neighbors are not prone to throwing wild parties, blaring the television or having loud arguments. Occasionally I hear the scraping of skateboards against the asphalt between my building and the neighboring one - in fact, as I write this, some young boarder is creating an annoying racket, going back and forth and back and forth, practicing jumps.

But lately the more persistent sounds have been generated by the couple in the apartment below mine; judging by the duration and volume of bed squeaks, grunts and moans, they seem to enjoy a healthy sex life. Good for them. I have never met them, and don't wish to, as I'd rather not picture their faces the next time their carnal exertions crescendo, keeping me awake in the process.

Introducing another Blog

New situations demand new blogs, so I've created a blog in which to reflect upon certain aspects of my experiences in Colorado. Please visit Adventures with Altitude to read about cultural and climactic differences and the occasional quirky observation about life at 5,280 feet.

For a change of pace, on this new blog the titles of posts begin with a variety of letters, not just "I", and often contain more than just a word or two. Do check it out I will be keeping this blog, too, and cross referencing posts when it makes sense to do so.

Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about leaving comments on either blog.

Interstate: Itinerary, Imperfect

The first of several postings on my long-distance car trip from Boston to Denver. Wireless access has been sporadic so these are not real-time postings.

I left the Boston area, specifically my mother's house, on Thursday, September 4, at around noon. I did not have a map or an exact itinerary, I just knew that I wanted to arrive in the Chicago area by either Friday evening or Saturday morning to visit a friend. My car was packed, but a bit carelessly. I had thrown my cosmetics into a shoebox and put that in the back seat, along with several suitcases, two yoga mats, my sleeping bag, a camping mattress, a bag of books, and a few milk crates filled with financial and personal documents. Most of the people reading this blog would not leave for a 2,000+ mile car trip in such haste. And I suspect that many of them would have carefully plotted and planned the route, figuring out ahead of time where they would be spending the night and what sights they wanted to see along the way. Perhaps they would have consulted other people about hotels, restaurants, road conditions, the cheapest gas stations. That is certainly one way to travel, but that isn't always my way.

After years of living in a place where I increasingly didn't want to be, and with the accumulated inertia weighing on me like a leaden blanket that grew heavier by the hour, I genuinely feared that if I didn't just go at that moment that I would never leave. And after packing up my studio and my apartment, which involved much heavy lifting and the emotionally difficult act of sorting and discarding possessions, I didn't have the capacity to plan anything, to predict what route I might want to take. Well-meaning people asked me how I planned to get from Boston to Denver and I simply could not answer them. I really had no idea, I had not looked into it. In a sense it did not matter if my route took me north, south or due west. I just needed to hit the road and trust that I would have the trip that I needed to be having at this time. Trying to optimize, strategize or otherwise try to create a more perfect trip was simply not something my brain could handle.

Still, I was not a completely reckless traveler. My first stop was at the AAA Office in Newton, MA. I walked in and told them I was leaving for Evanston, IL and could they please get me a TripTik, which is their customized travel booklet.

"Did you order one?" the man behind the counter asked.

"No," I said.

"TripTiks take days to prepare," the man informed me, looking at me as if I were slightly insane. Maybe that is how I looked.

"Oh," I said, unfazed. "It says on your website that you create them on demand. I had no idea they were so complicated."

"Well, we might be able to do one quickly for you. Where are you going?"

I gave him my friend's address and told him that I only needed a route and a place to stay that was mid-way between Boston and Evanston. To simplify the task, I told him that I did not need information on every single attraction, shopping mall and restaurant along the way.

"Could you come back in 2-3 hours?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I need to leave soon so I can get in enough daylight driving hours. Perhaps I could just take a map?"

"Well," he replied, as if he were afraid to let me loose on the road without a TripTik, "Have you had lunch yet? If not, come back in an hour. I'll have it then."

It turns out that TripTiks, if requested with a smile, take less than an hour to prepare. When I returned 60 minutes later, after having gassed up, bought some food and visited the ATM, it was already completed and had my name on it. They had highlighted the AAA recommended route in orange pen, and all I had to do was follow it. That was pretty much all I was capable of at that time, following someone else's directions. That night I made it as far as Milesburg, PA on I-80 after making what for my family is a ritual stop at Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT.

Incremental

Bit by bit, step by step, piece by piece. That is how things, people and lives are built. I'm discovering it is also how lives are taken apart, as I prepare to move a few thousand miles away. For a long time - longer than I care to admit - I haven't wanted to be where I am. My body was in one place, my spirit in another. Now I am trying to make it possible for my body and other material manifestations - as in, my stuff - to move to where my spirit would like us all to be: Colorado.

Even though I don't even have that much in the way of big stuff - for example, I do not own a television, couch, armchair, dresser or stereo system - the process of classifying and culling my belongings is time consuming and emotionally draining. I find I can only do a little bit of it at a time. I'm a collector and somewhat of a packrat, and it is hard for me to part with things such as postcards and greeting cards I've purchased on trips, small books received as gifts, ceramic objects from near and far. While these don't necessarily take up that much space, and I could easily dump them in a box and ship them, I am trying to be conscious of what I take with me, what I sell or give away and what I stick in the trash; so far, nothing I've found has qualified for a fifth option, being consumed by bonfre. So, for example, the partially used box of "Quotable Canine" notecards that I received at my department's holiday raffle in 1997 at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York is, finally, OUT, in the "to be donated" pile. However, a half-consumed box of artsy cat notecards, a gift from my mother, is IN. Also in the OUT pile is "Food Values of Portions Commonly Used", a spiral bound volume I recovered from my father's home after he passed away. I will, on the other hand, be bringing my Hungarian cookbooks with me.

At my art studio the decision making has been difficult indeed. Which beads and mosaic materials to sell and which to keep? During the first pass through my stash I decided to keep any beads that I had purchased overseas or that had been part of a popular design. But those criteria left me with a large inventory and so I then reluctantly decided to sell some of the heavier and more expensive ones. In taking my studio apart, drawer by drawer, container by container, I came across even more beads and jewelry that I hadn't seen in years. I figured that if I had forgotten about them so easily, I wouldn't mind selling them and allowing others to enjoy them. But then someone would come into my studio, and ooh and aah over them, and for a moment I'd experience a pang of envy and want them for myself. The pang was particularly piquant when other jewelry designers came in to pick over my collection; I felt like I was watching vultures pluck the meat from the bones of my business. One woman, while scooping up some luscious glass beads, asked me if I'd be keeping my website and making jewelry out West - as in, if I weren't going to keep producing my designs then she certainly could, presenting them as her own. For a split second, my competitiveness and anger surged and I wanted to take back all the beads and escort her out of my studio via a swift and sharp boot in the butt.

One day an artist friend and collector of mermaid themed items came to the studio to give me a farewell hug. He is about to move house, after living in the same apartment for 18 years, and faces similar decisions for what I suspect is an even greater quantity of stuff.

"You know," he said, "sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off if I came home and discovered that the house had burned down. Then I could start from scratch."

I nodded. Suddenly losing one's belongings might be a traumatic but ultimately liberating experience. And I realized that I still have the option of selling or dumping most of what I own, heading to Colorado with only what fits in the back of my car. I wouldn't be the first person to do such a thing. But choosing to quickly divest of most of the objects that reflect my life's trajectory feels a bit too radical; I think I need some tangible reminders of who and where I've been to help me create who I am going to be. For years, my collection of beads reflected my tastes, my travels, and my thought processes, and being surrounded by these objects was a source of comfort and reassurance. If I started to run out of a certain kind, I'd order more, just to have them around. Those beads filled some of the holes in my life.

But as the process incrementally deconstructing my studio continues, I am learning to relish it when people come in and relieve me of objects small and large. As things sell, space frees up in my body and mind. I feel lighter. And I know that once I get to where I am going I will have forgotten about most of the things I chose to leave behind, who is using them and how.

And, piece by piece, bit by bit, I'll get to build the next part of my life.

Invasive

I sailed through the first three plus decades of my life without accumulating a single cavity, a record that fueled delusions of dental grandeur. When my dentist told me a few years ago that the surface of one of my teeth was sticky - a nice way to say decaying - and required a filling, the news crushed my sense of toothy superiority. Part of me had really believed that I'd live cavity-free until 120, despite my propensity for eating sweets.

A few weeks ago this same dentist discovered another sticky spot on a rear, upper left molar. Today I went to get it filled. The room was cold and I was told to keep my coat on. Lying back in the chair, swaddled in my green down jacket, I stared at the dentist and his technician, who looked like a pair of nerdy riot police behind their blue plastic face shields. I tried not to gag as they inserted multiple objects into my mouth. First came a numbing swab of novocaine, followed by three injections of the stuff, not to mention their latex covered fingers. The technician sprayed the inside of my mouth to rinse out the excess from the swabbing.

I was handed a New Yorker magazine to entertain me while the drugs took effect. It was a brief respite before the next oral invasion, during which the dentist inserted the filling and the technician placed a suction tube in my mouth. I must have look stricken or distressed because they kept asking me, "Are you OK?"

"Un huh," I grunted affirmatively, trying to suppress my gag reflex. I wasn't really OK, but I wanted to get the procedure over with as soon as possible, rather than interrupting and prolonging it. Putting my yoga practice to work, I focused my attention on my breath, feeling it rise and fall in my belly. This exercise took my mind off the buzz of activity in my mouth, which normally prefers its privacy and to remain mostly closed.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably just five minutes, the dentist asked me to bite down and see if it felt right. It didn't - there was too much filling. I braced myself for the next invasion, a whirring tool to remove the excess material.

"Could you lick the tooth and make sure it's not rough?" the dentist asked, wanting me to test his handiwork.

I licked. It was smooth.

"You're all set. We'll see you in six months for your cleaning," he said, leaving the room and leaving me with my second filling and an uncomfortably numb mouth.

"How long will it take for the novocaine to wear off?" I asked the technician. My left cheek and lips felt enormous, as if someone had injected too much collagen.

"Um, just a few hours," she said, with just the slightest hesitation.

"Is that two hours?" I tried to clarify.

"Well, it's a few hours ... but once it starts to wear off it will go quickly," she replied.

It took nearly five hours for the novocaine to dissipate enough that I could eat something. Twelve 12 hours later there is still a slight ache in my gum, a reminder of my dental discombobulation.

Insatiable Desire

This posting, alas, is not about my insatiable desire for beads, chocolate, funky shoes, chocolate beads or beaded shoes. I lifted this phrase from an essay by Wendell Berry in a book called The Way of Ignorance, itself titled after one of the included essays.

The context for "insatiable desire" is from his essay called Quantity vs. Form, in which he raises the possibility that in certain situations more might actually be less. The New York Times has recently reported that life expectancy in the United States lags that of other developed nations. Presumably most of us, if given a choice, would choose a longer over a shorter life, provided that the quality of our extended time on earth is relatively high.

Here is what Mr. Berry has to say:

"We seem to be living now with the single expectation that there should and will aways be more of everything, including 'life expectancy'. This insatiable desire for more is the result of an overwhelming sense of incompleteness, which is the result of the insatiable desire for more. This is the wheel of death. It is the revolving of this wheel that now drives technological progress. The more superficial and unsatisfying our lives become, the faster we need to progress. When you are skating on thin ice, speed up.

"The medical industry's invariable unction about life-saving, healing, and the extended life expectancy badly needs a meeting on open ground with tragedy, absurdity, and moral horror. To wish for a longer life is to wish implicitly for an extension of the possibility that one's life may become a burden or even a curse. And what are we to think when a criminal becomes a medical emergency by the beneficence of nature, is accorded the full panoply of technological mercy, and is soon back in practice? The moral horror comes when the suffering or dementia of an overly extended life is reduced to another statistical verification of the 'miracle' of modern medicine; or when a mental disease, such as the inability to face death or an ungovernable greed for more of everything, is exploited for profit."

As a society, we might want to worry about these aggregate life expectancy statistics, which put us at the bottom of the heap. I doubt Mr. Berry would think that lower life expectancy in the US, for the reasons cited in the op-ed piece, is a good thing. Rather, it is a sign of inadequacy if not outright sickness in how we go about caring for people, a result of the profit-orientation of our health care system.

But as individuals, we might want to think about the Quantity vs. the Form of our lives. What makes each of our lives complete? I am reminded of the saying, "Having heard the Tao in the morning, one can die in the evening." For those of us who don't practice or believe Eastern philosophy, will we know and be able to accept when our time has come?