Pain, Pain, Go Away: Dealing with Chronic Pain

I knew last week when I mentioned I live with chronic pain, I would receive a lot of inquiries. I heard from several fibromyalgia sufferers, people like myself, who seriously need the support of others who deal with this mysterious ailment and desperately want the compassion of others.

I also heard from the curious, the stoic, and, the cynical, those who believe fibromylagia is just the syndrome du jour of yuppie middle-aged women. And so it is when you reveal an uncomfortable truth about yourself. People have questions. Some have doubts. All need information.

So this week, I am going to address the innocent, yet frustrating, refrain: "You don't look like you are in pain."  Earlier this evening, I went in search of a pictorial depiction of pain. I wanted to see that which I obviously do not resemble. Here is what I found...the ubiquitous pain chart many hospitals give patients after surgery or other painful procedures to assist us in describing the undescribable.

Okay, so we all can agree, there is no resemblance between YaYa and the happy faces gone awry above.

The faces actually have some credibility; its the verbal descriptions that are an insult to anyone struggling to function with pain. Who is going to take seriously: "I hurt a little bit"? Who is going to prescribe a pain killer for: "It hurts a little more"? When does "It hurts even more" become "It hurts a whole lot"?

Years ago, my Mom, a nurse, taught her children certain words to help explain unpleasant body sensations. We learned terms to describe degrees of discomfort. I seem to remember words like: "soar, achey, throbbing pain, burning pain, and stabbing pain." All of which, by the way, can describe fibromyalgia, along with the phrase "electric shocking pain" which is my term for the neural pain that can accompany this disorder.

Pain is such a subjective phenomenon, and there does not exist a universally accepted chart that accurately depicts everyone's experience. I did discover a verbal explanation that sufferers could find helpful. This pain scale, designed by Andrea Mankoski, is considered useful in describing the severity, if not the quality, of pain.

(Whenever a medical professional  asks you to rate your pain from 1 - 10, ask for a pain scale so you can be sure you're speaking the same language.)
 
0 - Pain free
1 - Very minor annoyance - occasional minor twinges.
2 - Minor annoyance - occasional strong twinges.
3 - Annoying enough to be distracting.
4 - Can be ignored if you are really involved in your work, but still distracting.
5 - Can't be ignored for more than 30 minutes.
6 - Can't be ignored for any length of time, but you can still go to work and participate in social activities.
7 - Makes it difficult to concentrate, interferes with sleep You can still function with effort.
8 - Physical activity severely limited. You can read and converse with effort. Nausea and dizziness set in as factors of pain.
9 - Unable to speak. Crying out or moaning uncontrollably - near delirium.
10 - Unconscious. Pain makes you pass out.

Throughout the year, depending on such things as the weather, my workload, my level of physical activity, my weight, my mental health, the stress in my life, and the quality of my sleep, I fluctuate between six and eight on this scale. 

Since so many people are visual learners, I have made an effort to show you my pain levels. To do so, I solicited the help of a familiar cartoon character: Wile E. Coyote(WEC).

1. WEC reading a book = I feel fine.


2. WEC holding a  help sign = My head, neck, and shoulders are aching and burning; I am waking up frequently during the night due to the discomfort.







3. WEC with mousetraps attached to his
extremities = I am hurting everywhere;
sleep is painful and sporadic. I know my pain
will increase because the quality of my sleep is decreasing.

 

4. Boulder crashing down on WEC's head = Heavy fatigue has set in. I am experiencing "fibrofog"--difficulty thinking and concentrating.



5. WEC is crashing = So is YaYa. My hips and legs throb; I feel dizzy and nauseous from the fatigue and pain. A fibromylagic flare-up is in effect.

6. WEC experiences a complete crash and burn =  Unfortunately, once I have a full-fledged flare-up, I   do not know how long it will last--sometimes weeks, sometimes months.  Luckily, with a multi-pronged approach to treatment, I am able to keep my fibromyalgia in check most of the time. Some  patients must stop working if their flare-ups persist and worsen.  
                                                                               

Next week: Dancing to the beat of a different drummer.

              

A Delicate Balance

A visitor recently questioned me about the stacks of river rocks he saw throughout my home and on the balconies.

"What are these," he asked in a curious little boy kind of way.

"They're rocks," I replied.

"Yeah, but what are they for?"

For a moment I was stumped.

I have used these smooth stones to adorn my space over the past few years, after once seeing an impressive number of them along the perimeter wall of a local beach. Stones, washed up from the sea, not of uniform size, placed precariously one on  top of another. They spoke to me then; they speak to me now.

Each stack is a testimony to aspects of life: the startling beauty of nature in its nakedness; the power of turbulence to shape, smooth, and polish the rough and rugged; and the harmony present in simplicity.

 Lately, these rock altars have reminded me of the balance which has become the essential tempo of my life; for, I live with a chronic illness that drains me of energy in a minute, visits me with pain for hours, and can rob me of sleep for nights on end. I am one of 10 million Americans who suffer from fibromyalgia, a chronic pain disorder characterized by:
                                                    
                                                too little energy
                                                    on top of
                                       impaired memory and concentration
                                                     on top of
                                        not enough restorative sleep
                                                    on top of
                                   widespread musculoskeletal aches and pain
                                                    on top of
                                              soft tissue tenderness
                                                     on top of
                                     too many mental and physical demands

Each day, I must strike a workable balance between these asymmetrical elements of my physical world and the desires of my spirit for inner peace, love, joy, and acceptance.

My stone altars are a testament to what a delicate balance that is!



  
                              

The Inauguration Is Set to Rock

All week I have been seeking the official word on who will perform at the inaugural events next week. Today, a list of names was published including such luminaries as Stevie Wonder, James Taylor, Bruce Springsteen, Herbie Hancock, Sheryl Crow, Garth Brooks, Mary J. Blige, Usher, and Beyonce, amongst others. So now that I know to whom the Obamas and the rest of the nation will be be rockin', I want to know what songs will be droppin'.  But I have to tell you, this seems like a closely held secret.

Rumor has it Bruce Springsteen will be singing "This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land." If this is so, we all might benefit from reviewing the lyrics.  'Ya wanna know them? Here they go:

This Land is Your Land

 by Woody Guthrie, 1940

 Chorus:
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me

As I was walking a ribbon of highway
I saw above me an endless skyway
I saw below me a golden valley
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

I've roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
And all around me a voice was sounding
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

As I was walkin'  -  I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress passin'
But on the other side  .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!

Chorus

In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.

 On Another Note

Don't get me wrong, I'm down with a good old American folk song, 

but, since I am a child of the '60s, I want to hear a song from the 

civil rights era. No, I am not hankering for "Lift Every Voice and Sing," or "We Shall Overcome."

Rather, I want to hear the song my parents played repeatedly for my brother and 

me after we integrated New Jersey private schools in 1965 and 

1967, respectively. 

Ya wanna see the lyrics? Here they go: 

To Be Young, Gifted and Black 

by Ms. Nina Simone, 1969 

To be young, gifted and black,
Oh what a lovely precious dream
To be young, gifted and black,
Open your heart to what I mean

In the whole world you know
There are billion boys and girls
Who are young, gifted and black,
And that’s a fact!

You are young, gifted and black
We must begin to tell our young
There’s a world waiting for you
This is a quest that’s just begun

When you feel really low
Yeah, there’s a great truth you should know
When you’re young, gifted and black
Your soul’s intact

Young, gifted and black
How I long to know the truth
There are times when I look back
And I am haunted by my youth

Oh but my joy of today
Is that we can all be proud to say
To be young, gifted and black
Is where it’s at.
 

What songs would you like to hear performed during the inaugural celebration? 

Take the Time to Write

Do you remember the last time you penned a personal letter? Not an email, not a text message, but an old fashioned, hand-written letter, bearing a first class stamp?

Do you remember the last time you waited to receive such a letter, one identified by the penmanship and the faint scent of a loved one?

We have replaced the anticipation of a personal missive with the instantaneous receipt of an email; the sweet excitement of a message dressed in the personal style of another's script for the efficiency of a message written in multiple abbreviations.

We have lost the art of letter writing, and with it, a crucial vehicle for communicating appreciation, celebration, creativity, and love.

I am contemplating this loss of expression because I just discovered that January 8-14 is Universal Letter Writing Week.

I expected that the cynical among us might say that this event is just another transparent attempt of greedy greeting card companies to separate us from our thinning funds. But, I am not talking about buy a card that will say it for us. I'm imploring us to slow down, get a cup of tea, take out a lovely sheet of paper, an ink pen that scrolls,  and put our feelings and thoughts into words, and our words onto papier.

I'm suggesting we reinstitute time for reflection, introspection, feeling, and expression by making space in our lives for the entire intimate experience of letter-writing. This week, honor your relationship with a loved one by writing a personal letter. These days a letter is a priceless gift.

The "R" word

January 1: I recite my New Year's resolutions.


February 1: I renege upon my New Year's resolutions.


March 1: I reconsider the New Year's resolutions.

April1: I reword the New Year's resolutions.


May 1: I ratchet up my energy to kick some raunchy resolution-ass.


June 1: I ridicule myself for not making steady progress on the resolutions.

July 1: I renounce myself.


August 1: I reject my resolutions.


September 1: I resolve to try again.

October 1: I resuscitate my New Year's resolutions.  

November 1: I renew my commitment to my New Year's resolutions.

December 1: I romanticize the efforts I made to accomplish my resolutions.


Wow, YaYa: That's really rucked up!

New Year, New Blog Plans

Dear Readers: As I finish this year with my 25th blog entry, I want to thank all of you for your faithful readership and insightful comments. I have enjoyed writing my life stories for you, as I knew I would. The unexpected surprise for me has been the comments that so many of you have written. You have shared deeply and thoughtfully, and I am delighted by the dialog that has begun between so many of you.

In the New Year, I hope you will share my blog address: www.myseatonthebeach.blogspot.com with friends and family. In the coming year, I plan to continue to write about mental health issues, divorce recovery, creativity, spirituality, and love!

Please continue to write and even suggest blog topics. Also, if anyone wants to serve as a guest blogger, let me know.

Desiderata--Happy Holidays and A Peaceful New Year!

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be
greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career
however humble;
it is a real possession in the
changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you
to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham,
drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

                                      By Max Ehrmann

The Message in the Bottle

Two years ago, on my 53rd birthday, I took off my wedding band. It was a man’s wedding band: gold with a gold and copper strand (appearing pink) intertwined with a gold and bronze strand (appearing green) down the middle of the ring. Chaz had the same band, three sizes larger.

 I wanted the man’s band. It had more heft than the typical woman’s delicate ring. I was making a weighty commitment and the size of that band seemed symbolic of the stoutness of my devotion.

For the next thirteen years, I only took the ring off when I wanted to scratch an itch underneath it. Then the day arrived when it was no longer appropriate to wear. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back!

So what to do with the ring?

I’d like to say that originally I sought an honorable method of disposing of it. But no, I took the mad woman route at first. I tried to burn it in a cauldron with thirteen years worth of anniversary , birthday, and no-special-occasion cards! (Did I really think I could destroy gold with the heat of a match? Or was I trying to transmute it based on the intensity of my ire?)

Next I tried to pawn it…or at least find a jeweler who would be willing to transform it into another piece of jewelry. No such luck. The braided segments of gold mixed with other metals made the ring unlikely for any other use.

Clearly the time was not right to dispose of the symbol of my marriage because no viable option was coming to mind. So, I decided to sit with the ring, and the betrayal, pain, and loss it represented, until I could find a way to break through to a place where I could let it go with love.

I purchased a gold bird’s nest in which to place the ring, covered it up with gold confetti hearts for another year, and let it rest amidst a stack of books and articles espousing the virtues of a spiritual divorce.

When I turned 54, I revisited the ring question. A year had past, yet I had not received any guidance from my Higher Power about what to do with the ring. I purchased a heart-shaped alabaster  box, with a dove on the lid, and placed the band there for safe keeping. In the meantime, I set about collecting photos from my marriage, cutting them into teeny-weeny pieces, and burning them in the fireplace!

My divorce was finalized on February 14 of this year—Valentine’s Day. (How bizarre is that?) In the ensuing months, I have continued to do the very personal work of letting go: experiencing the grief, accepting the reality, feeling the loss, and trusting that my Higher Power is in control and everything is working out as it should.

The hardest part? Forgiving Chaz…and myself… for …everything. (Honestly, I think I will be recycling through that stage a number of times before I am completely through the process.)

Yet, when my 55th birthday rolled around this year, the perfect answer to the ring dilemma presented it self. I realized I needed to give the pain, the regret, the sadness to My Mother, the Ocean. Yes! Water, the symbol of purification. Stop trying to burn everything, YaYa. Give it to the ocean.

So last Saturday morning, I awakened early, and took the ring, a jar, and a pink index card to the lighthouse. I thanked the Goddess for all that I had learned in my marriage. I asked her to take from me the sting of divorce. And I rejoiced in the new life and new love that is opening up before me like a flower in bloom.

I wrote an invocation on the card, scrolled it into the jar along with the ring, tightened the lid, and flung it into the ocean.

Now, a week later, I wish I could add an addendum to the message in the bottle. It would read: “It is not physical transformation nor transmutation that is necessary for healing. What we need to heal is an experience of spiritual transcendence.”

Advent Star

My birthday is tomorrow. I was born on the second Sunday of Advent, the day on which the afternoon Christmas Pageant service was traditionally scheduled. My mother, Marion, and her best friend, Jane, were on their way to the 4:30 p.m. service when I made my intentions known. Apparently, I was in a hurry to get the holidays underway.

As the story goes, the two young women briefly debated whether to go to church and sing some of their favorite carols before going to the hospital. They wisely by-passed St. Peter’s Episcopal Church and continued on to the other side of town to All Souls Hospital. It wasn’t long before I commenced my joyful noise. My mother still tells with amazement that she was only in labor with me for a half-an- hour.

Just this morning she reminisced, “You were in a real hurry to get here, and when you arrived, you were so at peace…a sweet lovely baby. You only cried  a little bit, and then you seemed captivated by everything going on around you.”

Her friend Jane later became my Godmother, and it was she who, when I turned 30, recounted the day of my birth as if it were a fairytale. It was my turn to be amazed. How often had I been an angel in the Christmas pageant? How many times over my lifetime had I sung myself into tears with my rendition of “Away in the Manger” and “Silent Night.”

But not until the night Jane gifted me with her version of my birth did I understand I was born on what had become one of my most favorite days of the Christian Advent calendar.

Jane said she and my mother sang verses of “O Come All Ye Faithful” between contractions. ("O Come All Ye Faithful!") It tickles me to think that the carol I so love actually invited me out of the womb, and I responded with a big swooshing “Yes!”

The Darkest Days of the Year

The days of December, especially those before December 21st, are the shortest days of the year; the nights leading up to the Winter Solstice, the darkest.

For those of us who are circadian rhythm- and/or serotonin level-sensitive to the absence or presence of natural light, the winter holiday season can be tricky to negotiate. Just when everyone else seems to be cheery and festive, we descend into a funk. Socializing becomes agonizing, and our energy becomes extinct.

This is especially distressing for me because my birthday is in early December. As the date approaches, family and friends will ask optimistically: "What are your plans for your birthday? How are you going to celebrate?"

"Celebrate?" I want to growl. " I just want to slumber! Why do we always have to celebrate?"


Before I learned about SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) I thought I was just a bear hiding out in a human body. Why, I would wonder, do I want to hibernate from Halloween through March?  Why do I become apathetic, fatigued, irritable, lethargic, and just downright anti-social when everyone else is kicking into high-gear?

According to Dr. Richard Friedman, author of an article on SAD in today's New York Times: "As daylight wanes, millions begin to feel depressed, sluggish and socially withdrawn. They also tend to sleep more, eat more and have less sex. By spring or summer the symptoms abate, only to return the next autumn."

Traditionally, SAD has been treated with psychotherapy and/or antidepressants, or a wait-it-out-until- spring "white knuckling." But there are alternative therapies that work as well.

If you struggle with SAD, you do not  have to wait for spring and summer to feel better. “Bright light in the early morning is a powerful, fast and effective treatment for seasonal depression,” said Dr. Norman E. Rosenthal,  a professor of clinical psychiatry at the Georgetown Medical School and author of “Winter Blues” (Guilford, 1998). “Light is a nutrient of sorts for these patients.”

According to Michael Terman, director of the Center for Light Treatment and Biological Rhythms at the Columbia University Medical School, people are most responsive to light therapy early in the morning, just when melatonin secretion begins to wane, about eight to nine hours after the nighttime surge begins.

If SAD sends you spiraling into the winter doldrums, try some of the following techniques:

Extend each day through the use of artificial sunlight. The standard course is 30 minutes of fluorescent soft-white light at 10,000 lux a day. (Shop for full-spectrum lights.) According to Dr. Friedman, the effects of light therapy are fast, usually four to seven days, compared with antidepressants which can take four to six weeks to work.

Use artificial bedroom lights. These help people who are suffering with insomnia and severe depression. Commercially available, these lights are set to simulate dawn, automatically going from dim lighting to bright, white light every morning.

Sit near a window. Move yourself close to a window and look outside for 15-minutes at a time, 3-times daily. You could sit near the window that gets the brightest  morning light while you eat breakfast, write out your to-do list, or read the morning paper.  If you work in an office, you could ask for your desk to face a window. If you work at home, you have many opportunities to "follow the sun."


(If you want to understand the concept of following the sun, just watch an in-door cat for a full day.
A cat will always find the spot on the rug where there is a circle of sun, and there you will find her until the sun moves. That's her sign to get up, stretch, and move to the next sun splotch.)


Spend at least one hour outdoors each day. Try to get in an half-an-hour in the early morning, and another half-an-hour in the early afternoon. This remedy is worth getting up an hour earlier.

Don't isolate from your family and friends. Pace yourself. Perhaps you won't accept all invitations this holiday season, but you'll be up for some. Try scheduling outdoor activities in the mid-day, and increase physical activities like walking, cross-country skiing, and skating. Invite your loved ones to join you.

Try not to get discouraged. Remember, after the winter solstice, each day gets a bit longer until the summer solstice in mid-June, when we celebrate the longest day of the year.

It's all cyclical.

Counting My Blessings

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow. --Melody Beattie

I am not one who takes her inspiration from one-hour television dramas; but two years ago, it was a rerun of ER which lit my dark path through to the next phase of my life.

I was facing my first Thanksgiving without Chaz, who had walked away from our marriage three months earlier. I was still in shock: depressed, despondent, and discombobulated. We had started negotiating around the communal property of the marriage that once had held our dreams but now lay in shambles, and things were not looking good.

We had agreed not to hire lawyers and litigate, but rather we chose to mediate our divorce, a fitting choice for two people who had met and fallen in love while serving as community mediators in San Francisco fifteen years earlier.

At the start of the process, a friend warned me: “Marriage is about love; divorce is about money. Get a lawyer.”  Everyone said: “Get a good lawyer.”

I said no. I didn’t want to participate in a hostile divorce. I wanted a “spiritual divorce” as spelled out by Debbie Ford, author a book of the same name. I wanted to walk resolutely through the fire of anger, grief, acceptance, and onto gratitude and liberation.

“You what?” my friends exclaimed.  “You know YaYa,” chuckled one of my closest confreres, Father Charles. “She’s always got to be so spiritual,” he laughed. (And this, from a priest!)

One meeting into the mediation process and it was clear Chaz was going for the jugular. California divorce law allows for the 50-50 split of communal property. Chaz wanted half of my retirement, half of our savings, half of my TSA (a tax deferred account), alimony, and he even pursued stocks that I had brought into our marriage, but never commingled.


Was I naïve? Was I crazy? Should I fight? Should I fold? Can I trust my own counsel? Should I follow my heart? Damn, trust my heart? Look at where my heart had brought me thus far.

Then, one afternoon, submerged in my funk, I was mindlessly flipping through television channels, only pausing long enough on each station to determine that its contents was of no interest to me, when I chanced upon a scene at the end of this particular ER program.

Two doctors, (I don’t even know the characters names) are sitting on a bench outside of the hospital. The two have been discussing what I can only guess was some type of trauma that one of the doctors had experienced, when the consoling member of the pair asked: “What if this didn’t happen to you, but, it happened for you?”

The experience of hearing those few words was like sitting in the optometrist’s chair as she slips different lens in and out of the heavy frame, trying to decipher exactly what is the proper prescription for your particularly challenged sight.

“No, this one is fuzzier than the last one.”
“Yes, this one is a little clearer.”
“No, this one is not quite as sharp.”
“Wait! Wait a minute! Now I can see clearly!”


A number of years earlier, I had entered therapy during a crisis in my personal life. My loving, kind, maternal therapist told me, after only one session: “You, my dear, are entering a phase of life I like to call ‘re-membering.’ You are about to go in search of, find, and re-member parts of your lost self. When you finish, you may not recognize the person you have become."


With a slight shift of my lens, I saw that this divorce experience was just one piece, albeit one very painful piece, of a much larger picture of my life. I had to trust the invisible hand that was rearranging the pieces. I was called to endure the dismemberment of this aspect of my life in order to create a more whole soul.

As I sit here on the eve of this Thanksgiving holiday, counting my blessings, I realize the need to be thankful for the trials and tribulations of life. They, too, can be transformed into blessings. “…for count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing this, that the testing of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, lacking nothing." --James 1:2-3

Chaz did receive 50% of the communal property, and he was awarded an alimony allotment, though it was for much less than he originally asked.

I have just finished paying the first year of alimony and I’m grateful I have been able to do so without extreme financial hardship. I am thankful for all of the support of my family and friends during the past two years. I am eternally grateful for the new me I am becoming, and for the gift of a new, precious love.

But most of all, I am thankful for the certain assurance that the Goddess Will Provide!


Gratitude ... goes beyond the "mine" and "thine" and claims the truth that all of life is a pure gift. In the past I always thought of gratitude as a spontaneous response to the awareness of gifts received, but now I realize that gratitude can also be lived as a discipline. The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is given to me as a gift of love, a gift to be celebrated with joy. --Henri J. M. Nouwen

Staying Awake in the Moment

" The secret of beginning a life of deep awareness and sensitivity lies in our willingness to pay attention. Our growth as conscious, awake human beings is marked not so much by grand gestures and visible renunciations as by extending loving attention to the minutest particulars of our lives.

"Every relationship, every thought, every gesture is blessed with meaning through the wholehearted attention we bring to it. In the complexities of our minds and lives we easily forget the power of attention, yet without attention we live only on the surface of existence.

"It is just simple attention that allows us truly to listen to the song of a bird, to see deeply the glory of an autumn leaf, to touch the heart of another and be touched. We need to be fully present in order to love a single thing wholeheartedly. We need to be fully awake in this moment if we are to receive and respond to the learning inherent in it."

    -   Christina Feldman and Jack Kornfield, Stories of the Spirit, Stories of the Heart

Hail to the Chief

Have you ever taken one of those endless personality tests that asks:

Q: If you were a cat with nine lives, what would you do with the other eight?
Q: If you won three million dollars in a lottery, what would you do with the last million?
Q: If you had a theme song that played every time you entered and exited a room, what would it be?  (Lately, I’ve been mentally gliding through space on Jill Scott’s “Living My Life Like It's Golden.”)

Well, as of January 20, 2009, when he is sworn in as the 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama will have Thee Theme Song, the presidential anthem: “Hail to the Chief.” This song will accompany him at almost every public appearance for the next four years. That’s mind-blowing!

The melody itself is majestic, but the words are rarely sung.
Oh, would I like to hear them sung on that historic day!

    Hail to the Chief we have chosen for the nation,
    Hail to the Chief! We salute him, one and all.
    Hail to the Chief, as we pledge cooperation
    In proud fulfillment of a great, noble call.

    Yours is the aim to make this grand country grander,
    This you will do, that's our strong, firm belief.
    Hail to the one we selected as commander,
    Hail to the President! Hail to the Chief!

(The lyrics were written by Albert Gamse and set to James Sanderson's music.)

Happy Halloween

I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I do not dress up.
I do not give out candy.
I do not buy candy.
I do not buy apples and nuts.
I do not turn on my porch light.


I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I hate that:
1. Halloween costumes and candies hit the shelves right after Labor Day.
2.  My local Goodwill Store has turned into Halloween Central right at the point of the season that I am looking for wool blend sweaters.
3. People start putting hay in parking lots where there has never been any hay all year, to "stage" pumpkins where there have never been any pumpkins all year.

Presto, overnight…a pumpkin patch.
(Nobody’s buying that.)


I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I do not accept Halloween party invitation,
especially not to masquerade parties.

I went to one once. I was really excited about it because my costume was so original. I went as a chocolate Kiss, or that was the plan. The long strip of paper with the words Kisses, Kisses, Kisses on it was the part that was  to covered my face.

Had I known more about material back then I would have drapped brown fleece over the kissy frame and gone as an unwrapped chocolate Kiss. But no-o-o-o. I had to go as a wrapped Kiss. An aluminum foil-wrapped chocolate Kiss!

On the night of the event, I wore a brown leotard and tights as the base of the costume. I placed the Kiss-shaped frame in the back seat of my car, and drove to the party. My outfit was ingenious. I would just slip the frame over my head when I arrived, then pull the paper mask with the Kisses streamer over my head.

It was a pretty mild evening when I left my home, but by the time I arrived on the other side of town, the temperature had dropped, and the wind had picked up.

I had to park several blocks away from the host’s home. (Uh-oh. This is not looking so good.) I sat in the car, waiting for the wind to calm down. If it didn’t, how would I get to the front door with my costume in tact?

So I waited. And it began to rain.


Always have a Plan B. If not, improvise.

My original plan was falling apart. My Heavy Duty Reynolds Wrap Kiss frame would never maintain its shape and survive the mad dash to the house.

With a few minor adjustments, I reasoned, I could arrived victoriously as a Kiss that was partially melted by the rain. Or, as a Tootsie Roll, a bit confused, in a Kiss wrapper. I could see myself regaling the crowd with a story about how the Tootsie Roll wound up in the wrong sheath. (This could work!)

So, I took the aluminum foil sheets off the Kiss-shaped wires, wrapped them around my skinny brown frame, and darted toward the house.

How was I oblivious to the fact that the foil, once it became wet and cold, would likewise lower my body temperature? I was running like the Tin Woman towards the front door, soggy and shivering, when a strong wind whipped up behind me, and stripped me of half the foil.

Thank goodness I didn’t have to ring the doorbell. I entered the house inconspicuously and dove for the kitchen. I need to dump the remaining foil, and reposition myself. What would I be now?

Then I heard the opening chords to one of those get-the-party-started kind of songs: The Freaks Come Out At Night by Whodini. (If I don’t decide what to do, I am going to spend the night hiding in the kitchen instead of shaking my booty on the dance floor.)

The streamer, meant to serve as a mask, magically became a sash,  place diagonally across my chest, and I instaneously transformed into YaYa, winner of the Ms. Kiss contest. It worked. I danced the night away. I even remember receiving a lot of unsolicited “congratulations” kisses that evening.

Our Halloween Treat for You, Dear Readers

Mookie and FuBu are disappointed that we won’t be sitting outside watching the sky this evening. Sometime tonight, kids will set off firecrackers, and I do not want my black cats harmed. So we are staying close to the hearth.

We have made a list of our 15 Top Favorite Halloween Songs By Which To Dance.
We'll be dancing by the fireplace tonight. Join us. You can find all of these songs on You Tube (www.youtube.com). ENJOY.

15.    Monster Mash--Bobby Pickett
14.    The Theme from “The Addams
         Family
13.    Man Eater—Halls and Oats
12.    Ghostbusters--Ray Parker, Jr.
11.    Boogie Man--K. C. and the
         Sunshine Band


10.    Boogie Nights--Heat Wave
09.    Disco Inferno—The Trammps
08.    Moondance—Van Morrison
07.    Black Magic Woman—Santana
06.    The Phantom of the Opera--“The
         Phantom of the Opera"

05.    Freak of the Week--Funkadelics
04.    Doin' the Cosmic Slop
         --Funkadelics
03.    You Must Have Put A Spell on
         on My Mind--Blue Magic
02.    The Freaks Come Out at Night--
         Whodini

01.    Thriller—Michael Jackson

It Is Well with My Soul

“It is in the quiet crucible

of your personal private sufferings 

that your noblest dreams are born 

and God’s greatest gifts 

are given in compensation

for what you have been through.” 

Wintley Phipps

By The Light of The Moon

It’s a warm night, a full moon is having its way with the sky, and Mookie and FuBu won’t come in the house. They have flipped me off with their tails and warned me not to interfere with cat business. So, I am sitting on a picnic table outside, calling myself keeping them company until they’ve had enough of romping and chasing with abandon.

The swell of the ocean is beating against the beach. I can hear it through the trees, less than a mile away. The moon pulls, the ocean engorges; an ancient rhythmic dance   they’ve enjoyed since the beginning of time.

I’ve begun musing about things I’ve done by the light of La Luna.

I’ve sat in a cemetery, leaning up against a cold headstone, counting the stars. In my teens, this was a standard date option with almost every guy I went out with during the warm months.  (Take the fast girls to lovers’ lane; take the undertaker’s daughter to the cemetery.)

I once took a guided moonlit hike into the middle of the woods with a group of women to sing and invoke the Goddess. 

I’ve walked many a beach at night by the light of full moon, bundled up in the arms of a loved one. I have walked many more beaches in the solitude of my own scintillating company.

I’ve walked out of midnight mass into fresh snow with the blue cast of the moon reflecting off it.


(Wait a minute, let me go get a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers.)

There is a slight breeze breathing on the trees behind my home, now. The eucalyptus leaves are swaying; and, Mookie is rolling around on the pavement and then sliding forward on his side, before he flops onto his other side to repeat. He is impervious to FuBu as she swats as his tail each time he glides by her. They are not the least bit interesting in going inside, and now it’s almost midnight.

I’ve now position myself on the hood of my car, door open, a Carlos Santana CD in the player.

I learned to pee--standing up, by the light of a silver sliver on the edge of a lake, many moons ago. This was a skill a new boyfriend felt I needed in order to go on a week-end camping trip with him. Snuggling up tight to fit in one sleeping bag was on his mind. “Where will I go to the bathroom?” was on mine. (I was not born to rough it. My idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel with no in-room robe or room service!) Camper Guy and I did not stay together very long.

Of course, I’ve danced under the light of the moon with many fah-bu-lous, smooth dancers. This is my favorite of all the moonlight memories. I enjoy it as much as Mookie enjoys his autoerotic slithering on the pavement. I am air slithering right now. I’m trying to remember how to salsa as I listen to Santana’s Africa Bamba.

“Will I ever remember how to move my hips again?” I ask Mookie and FuBu. They are now looking up at me the way they had been looking at the moon just moments ago. Mezmerized. I am swaying to the music, trying to sync my feet, my hips, my shoulders, and my head.

I want to turn up the bass of the CD player, but all my neighbors’ lights are out. Mookie, FuBu and I are night creatures; they are early birds. I’m just getting into the swing of the music. I want to twirl. The cats take a look at me as I begin to spin in the moonlight and high tail it to the front door. Somewhere in the dark, their friends must be lurking. I think I have embarrassed them.

So I turn the music off, lock the car door, gather my empty wine glass, and pause to hear the breeze in the trees and the  lapping of the ocean one last time before I turn in. Before stepping back into my home, I ask Mother Moon, “Will I ever move fluidly to those ancient rhythms again? Will I romp and chase with abandon?"

A Piece of YaYa's Writing Story, Part II: The Pen is Mightier

Nora Ephron, acclaimed essayist, novelist, screenwriter, director, and the eldest of the prolific sisterly clan (which includes Delia, Amy, and Hallie)) often says of their mother:

“My mother wanted us to understand that the tragedies of your life one day have the potential to be comic stories the next.”

Thank you, Mama Ephron!

When Nora’s four year marriage to journalist Carl Bernstein (of Watergate fame) ended in 1980 (due to his flagrant affair with a British politician), Ephron was compelled to write the 1983 novel Heartburn, which was later made into a 1986 film starring Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep.

In the 2003 hit movie, Something’s Got to Give, when Diane Keaton’s character, Erica Barry, has her heart broken by Jack Nicholson’s character, Harry Sanborn, she does what any self-respecting playwright would do. She writes a scathing, Broadway comedy about it.

This is not about viciousness, vengefulness, or vindication, Dear Reader. This is about catching the curve ball and throwing it right back. This is about making lemonade out of lemons. This is about being the agent of your own life, the teller of your own tale.

There is a myriad of research that suggests acts of creativity, but especially writing, can help a person to process debilitative emotions such as anger, despair, fear, hopelessness, and loneliness. Writing through the pain, leads us to the lessons, the laughter, and on to a lighter life. Creativity heals.

Better to pick up a pen rather than a pill.
Better to write than to fight.

Better to share your experiences, strength, and hope.
Better to let go and flow.

A Piece of YaYa's Writing Story, Part I: How My Breasts Saved My Life

I have wanted to write ever since my parents and babysitters began reading to me and I understood the power of words and the magic of stories. Once my second grade teacher, Mrs. Cherry, confirmed I had talent, my course was set. At the time, the only black female writers I knew of were the poets Gwendolyn Brooks and Phyllis Wheatley (first published African American poet.)

I literally dreamed of writing. My father would bring home reams of paper from the trash bins of the stationers, who were customers of my grandfather’s rubbish business, just for me. (One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.) I read voraciously, just like my mother, and created books and magazines with my free paper. I even read the “how to become a writer” ads in the back of Richie Rich comic books, and I dreamed.

Every other Friday evening, I read Brenda Starr comic books as I sat in the chair at the beauty parlor, while Mrs. Grantham, the beautician, untangled the knots in my thick hair. She combed (it seemed like for hours) and I fantasized about myself as a black version of Brenda. Remember her?

"Brenda Starr, the tempestuous and flamboyant redhead was always impeccably dressed and coifed as she traveled the globe on one exciting assignment after another for her newspaper, The Flash.  Each adventure was filled with glamour, romance and intrigue as this remarkable heroine was perpetually torn between the demands of her career and the many loves of her personal life.

Brenda showed readers a new type of heroine as she fought, from the very first day on the job at The Flash, for her right to be treated as an equal.  Always on the cutting edge of fashion, Brenda has a sleek and sexy style that conveys the allure and independence of a workingwoman at the top of her career." www.effanbeedoll.com/2004BreandaStarr.htm

(Hey, what’s up with my emulation of redheads? See Hail to Pippi, my July 4 blog post.)


I excelled in English and creative writing in high school; I majored in English Literature and Journalism at Georgetown University. I worked for both Department of Defense’s and NASA’s public information offices while in Washington, D.C. Upon graduation in 1976, I was hired by my hometown daily newspaper. I was a feature writer there for a year when I was invited to apply for a public relations writer and editor position for a pharmaceutical company.

Truthfully, this is where I veered off the path I had navigated for myself. Enticed by the salary and my need to pay off college loans, I began a 10-year career of corporate writing and editing, moving further and further away from my dream to write literature.

I knew two years into my corporate career that being a creative type in companies like Warner-Lambert (now Pfizer) and Exxon (now ExxonMobile) was like being a conductor in a straight jacket. At this rate, I would never explore creative writing.

I loved my work as a public relations person, but the corporate mold was just too tight. I was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I was losing the ability to hear my creative voice. The only voice I could detect was a teeny-weeny one that seemed to be whimpering at the bottom of a well: “P-l-e-e-e-z e don’t do this to me. I’m dying in here. Let me out.”  (Kinda like Tinkerbelle on Quaaludes.)

And then there was the rumblings of my internal bully, Bruiser the Abuser: "Are you crazy! You'll never make this kind of money again. Buck up, shut up, and keep twisting your self into knots. Make money and invest. So what if you get an ulcer? So what if you have migraine headaches? So what if you are depressed?  Save those touchy-feely writing dreams until you are a millionaire and you have the time to write."

Eight years and four surgeries to remove (benign) breast tumors later, I decided to leave the stultifying corporate corridors. But not before a crisis occurred that became a defining moment in my life.


Before the last cancer scare, in 1985, the surgeon recommended that we remove both breasts as a preventive measure. I was 32-years-old with no history of breast cancer in my lineage. The doctor callously told me that since I had not breast-fed any babies at my age, I was at an increased risk for breast cancer. "One day, you are likely to have a tumor that is cancerous. And, since you have no plans to become a mother (yes, that part was true,)... you do not need them (the breasts!) anyway." What?!? So why not lop them off? (Oh, yes he did.)

By this time, a chorus had joined Tinkerbelle at the bottom of the well, and they were singing out to my heart: “This is a time of reckoning. Weigh your choice carefully. Be true to yourself and 1) save your life or 2) bet the breasts in order to stay in the rat race.” When your spirit serves it up that starkly, you'd better have some clarity when you make your decision.

So, I chose to change my lifestyle--its pace, its focus. I got off the merry-go-round. I packed my bags, packed my car, and drove across country to the San Francisco Bay Area. Trained to follow formal routes, I enrolled in graduate school rather than jump right into writing. I earned a MA in Speech and Communication Studies in 1990 with the hopes that I would write non-fiction pieces on communication and relationships while I tried to retrieve my creative writing self. I expected that I would teach during the day to support myself while I worked in the evenings and on the week-end on my own writing projects.

So far, so good, right? I was forging my own path, taking risks, growing in faith.

I met Chaz in 1991 while I was training to become a mediator.  Chaz was one of the workshop leaders. We would later joke that he “trained” me. The irony does not elude me!

To be continued next week.

YaYa's Gone to Washington

My Dear  Readers:

I am in our nation's capitol this week-end! 






I am here to attend a wedding, 

visit my Alma Mater (Georgetown University), 



  















and to make sure the White House staff is prepared to welcome
President Obama and his family in January 2009.

Letter to Myself

                                                                                 

This is a letter I wrote to myself on New Year's Eve, 2007                      


Dear YaYa:

I am sitting here looking at an envelope that holds my divorce papers, signed by Chaz, waiting my perusal and signatures. I received them this past Friday, December 28, but I just don’t want to deal

with the next tsunami of sorrow I expect when I read them, so I am putting it off for a few more days. I’d rather start the new year signing them than end this year reviewing them. One seems to have more of a promise of “possibilities” than the other.

Possibilities. I know they are hard to imagine. I can see you squinting for them in the distance; all you can make out is the mirage of your marriage…in ashes.


I just want to tell you that wherever you are in this process, it is okay.

                               It’s a zig-fu**ing-zag process:

                  

                                                                                   

It’s a roller coaster ride…
It’s a nightmare…
It’s anxiety-provoking…
It’s depression inducing…
It’s an opportunity to let go…
It’s an opportunity to turn it over…
It’s an electric prod…
It’s tears and nausea…
It’s recriminations…
It’s a dull ache…It’s a pit in the stomach…a knot in the throat…

It’s an opportunity to let yourself off the hook…
It’s a chance to get off life’s merry-go-round…
It’s a chance to rediscover your real rhythm and pace…
It’s a chance to learn to trust on a whole new level…
It’s a time for self-forgiveness…
It’s a time to accept the truth: you don’t know a fu**ing thing and you can’t control a fu**ing thing and we all will die…
It’s an opportunity to heal at a deeper level…
It’s an opportunity to experience Spirit’s grace.

Please do not pressure yourself to move through this at any prescribed pace. It just doesn’t work that way. You know that from other healing work you have done…and now you are learning it again…on a whole new plane.

All year, you slid between the heat of your anger and frozenness, waking up startled from nightmares of amputated limbs. But, somewhere, in an unnamed place, I am sensing a thawing. You will be all right.     

   My biggest hope is that you will reconnect with your creative self and allow her unfettered expression. Right now she is hidden, bound and gagged. But she will rise again.                                                           
Alas, you must give yourself all the time you need to heal. You will know, in a real organic kind of way, what you need and how to take care of yourself. In the meantime, rest on the prayers and well wishes of those who love you.

Happy New Year.
Love, YaYa