the other side of the fence

            I had helped to plan the trip, but as our departure drew closer I grew weary.  Something didn’t seem right.  There were discussions behind closed doors, with people I had never seen before, to which I wasn’t invited.  What had started between my friend and her brother seemed to be growing out of control, international businessmen began to take over.  We had planned to go abroad and explore new places, but now, with hushed tones and paranoid glances, our trip had taken on sinister undertones.

            We headed out to the cars—dark sedans, tinted windows.  I had never seen them before.  This is really strange.  I slung my bag over my shoulder, filled with a couple changes of clothes, a book, and toiletries, and pretended not to be alarmed.  My friend, her brother, and I piled into the cars along with the businessmen.  Since when were they coming, too?  I plastered a little smile on my face, trying to look as if this was only to be expected.

            When we disembarked from the cars, we weren’t at the departure terminal of the airport.  Instead, we were in a large hangar with three Boeing 737s.  I saw that one of the planes was boarding and noticed that a group of young woman, with bags much like my own, huddled nearby.

            After the cabin door shut, engines whirring, mechanical arms extended from the sides of the airplane.  I blinked hard and shook my head; I have to be imagining this.  When I opened my eyes, the young women had formed two lines, fear and uncertainty covering their faces, as an official-looking man shouted orders.  One by one, the mechanical arms wrapped around the women and held them above the ground.

            Is anyone going to stop this?  I looked around frantically.  People were going about their business like this was normal.  A similar group of young women had formed around me.  Am I next?  I tried to hold my fear at bay.  No way.  This is going to be a fun trip with friends!  I tried to console myself.  But my situation was growing far too similar to the one I was witnessing.  When the mechanical arms of the plane secured all the women, the plane pulled out of the hangar.  My breathing stopped and my blood ran cold.  What   is   going   on?

            One of the remaining airplanes pulled up to the group with which I stood.  The cabin door opened and steps were rolled up so that boarding might begin.  The businessmen climbed aboard, as did my friend’s brother.  My friend was nowhere to be seen.

            The cabin door closed, the stairs were rolled away, and the engines growled.   The women made two lines on either side of the plane, as ordered, and mechanical arms began to reach out.  I looked to either side of me as the metal claw wrapped around my torso.  The same thing was happening to the other women as well.  Terror filled their eyes. 

            Then, another man appeared, a grin playing at his lips.  He walked with a sense of power in his wing-tipped shoes and smart black suit.  He peered at each of the women, searching their faces.  He approached me and leaned forward to inspect my face and my uncomfortable situation.  I wanted to ask what was going on, but no sounds escaped.  He could sense my fear was changing to anger.  “Humph,” he looked at me down his nose one last time as he moved on to the next women.

            I looked down at the arm around my waist, trying to wiggle free.  I have to escape.  What are they trying to do? Why? What are their plans? Why aren’t we safe inside the plane?  At 30,000 feet we’ll freeze!  We’ll suffocate! Suddenly an image flashed into my mind.  In it, each woman was dropped from the plane.  We aren’t going to die, it will be worse.  They would make sure of that.  But they didn’t need to treat us like people, because to them, we weren’t human—we’re a commodity.

            The man in the suit made his way to the end of the line and the official-looking man stayed close to him.  There was no one else guarding the plane.  I took my chance and began prying open the metal claw as much as I could.  I slipped to the ground, holding my bag close, and ran as fast as I possible out of the hangar into the daylight. 

            A high chain link fence surrounded the hangar, with a large gate to let out the planes.  Businessmen walked about, talking in hushed voices, and guards with large automatic rifles slung walked the perimeter.  I kept running.  I knew my running would draw attention, but they would see me either way—I was not a businessman, nor was I a guard.  But if I kept running, they would have less time to act.

            I ran toward the gate as it began to close.  A guard stood directly in my path, but I didn’t hesitate.  Every moment counted.  For a split second he stared at me, shocked that someone would try to escape.  Then he began yelling orders to the others.  I ran faster and faster, trying to get to the gate before it closed completely, trapping me inside this strange compound. 

            And then I was there, at the gate, sliding through the narrow opening.  I didn’t know what would be on the other side of the fence.  Most likely it was a wide-open tarmac over which I would have to run before I got to safety.  Or there could be more guards waiting to capture me.  Or it could be something completely different—it could be a field of wildflowers with butterflies drinking their sweet nectar and birds flittering about in the sun, with a path leading into a quiet lush forest, just for me. 

            But before I could find out, everything went black.

the answer for which I had been searching

             About a year ago, I took a six-week art class on Altered Books at the Arts Center in Carrboro.  At the first class, my classmates and I were instructed to choose a theme for the book—it very possibly might evolve as we worked, but that was expected.  I chose, “Transitions.” 

            I had already moved from a place where my mind and body were on the same path, to a place where they were not.  I was hoping to go back to that original path, but with more than when I had left—something like wisdom.  I hoped, when I am done with this book, my transformation will be complete!  It was a naïve thought.  We are always in transition.  We are always evolving.  Every morning when we wake up, we are a bit different from when we awoke the previous day.  But in hoping that my transformation would be complete, I hoped that my pain would cease and my energy would return.  In creating this Altered Book on transitions, I hoped to find the answer for which I had been searching even since Hurricane Katrina had struck the Gulf Coast.

            Now I have finished my Altered Book.  In the process, I did not complete my transformation or find some key piece of information that was missing.  However, the process of creating this book may have helped to illuminate the path before me.  Through some curves in the road, I was led to Mindfulness.  Through Mindfulness, I realized that there is no key piece that I am missing.  And by quieting my mind with Mindfulness, I was able to complete the book.  

"ecotone, n. a transition area between two adjacent ecological communities

It has some of the characteristics of each bordering community and often has a greater number of species than are found in either flanking community.  Some organisms need a transitional area for activities such as courtship, nesting, or foraging for food.

For example, the Chihuahuan Desert giving way to glistening gypsum sand dunes."

"The atom moves an intricate course, swerving here and there, myriadly attracted, myriadly repelled, seeming to give, seeming to respond —always remaining free and alone."

 

        "accept

                   your

                          reality

          and

              permit yourself

                                      to

                                         fly"

       "Four: Some Practical Conclusions for the                         Survival of Man"

                    "dynamism of the whole

                           the universe is not rational.

                     revolutionary, dreams

                           'fellow traveler'

                     transition, harmony

                           true person"

Here is a video tour of my Altered Book, "Transitions"
(To see more detail, click the "YouTube" icon here, then at the original video link, click the bottom right square for full screen.)

with every push of the pedal

            As my pain has increased and my energy has decreased, I haven’t ridden a bicycle.  It became too difficult—no longer any fun.  In Pittsburgh, it was one of my main modes of transportation, along with walking and city buses.  It was always an adventure going from one place to another, never knowing what might happen between the two points.

            I was taking the long way, riding on dirt roads trying to remember where and when to turn, road names and distances.  I wasn’t sure of my destination, but that didn’t worry me.  With every push of the pedal, I passed stands of trees, mailboxes next to gravel driveways, and fields of tall grasses swaying in the light breeze.  The air filled my nostrils, sweet with pollen from flowers and trees as they woke up from the long winter.  The sky was an expansive blue, dotted by light cottony clouds, sunrays gently reaching through fresh green leaves to dance alongside my bicycle on the brown earth.

  

            The road narrowed and I wondered if I had missed my turn.  That could have been it there, but that seemed too soon.  I kept pedaling, looking out for my turn.  Soon, the trees opened up to a large field with a house sitting in the middle, on a small hill.  Beautiful, I thought.  What a nice place to live, in peace and quiet.  The house, painted white, had two stories with a porch that wrapped around the first floor.  It looked like an old farmhouse, but there was no farm nearby.  It was in good condition but I couldn’t see any sign of life inside or out, other than the swallows diving across the field to catch their meal.

            I continued forward, even though at this point I was sure I had missed my turn.  Just passed the house, the land ended, replaced by beautiful calm water reflecting the sky.  This is not supposed to be here.  I am far from any lake or sea.  Confused, I slowed down as I kept riding on the little dirt road.  It curved with the edge of the water.  I was on a peninsula, consisting of nothing but the old farmhouse and the field on which it stood.  It was a stunning picture; the sunrays now playing in the grass, the breeze now carrying the salty sent of ocean.  But I had definitely missed my turn.

            I turned around, making a half circle in the grass, returned to the narrow dirt road, headed back the way I had come.  I hoped to find my turn.  I passed the house and the field, left the water behind me and entered a dense stand of trees.  I passed mailboxes next to gravel driveways and the ground beneath my wheels grew damp.  Where did that come from?  It hadn’t rained since I had been through here and there had been absolutely no water nearby.  Soon, the water in the road was an inch deep.  And then it was two. 

            The water was perfectly clear, not muddied by the dirt it covered, or by the wheels of my bike as I pedaled through.  I continued passed fields of tall grasses and into another stand of trees.  The ground sloped down to the left of the road. I hadn’t noticed that before. And I saw that it, too, was covered by clear water.  Where was this water coming from?  It seemed to be seeping up from below.  Why?  Puzzled by the secret sea and the mysterious water covering the ground, I kept pedaling forward, searching for my missed turn.

visible here and now

            Waking up this morning—later than I had hoped, in more pain than I had hoped—I never imagined that I was about to have such an incredible day.

            As I drove to my weekly physical therapy appointment, I began to feel better.  I knew that by working my body, inhibiting some muscles and activating others, tension would be released and I would feel like a better-oiled machine.  A smile played at my lips as I listened to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young almost getting a haircut and heading to Woodstock, really, just loving everybody.

            Slowing down as I entered Pittsboro town limits, I noticed something in the road, just to the right of the double yellow line.  Closer, I saw that it was a box turtle, flipped on its back, legs flailing.  In a moment, my internal Rolodex flipped to the answer to the question I didn't ask.  I have to get that turtle out of the road!  I waited for a break in traffic, turned around in the nearest driveway and pulled to the side of the road. 

            The woman in the black SUV behind me called out, “Are you okay?”

            I held up my hand in reply and ran out into the road to collect the turtle.  I waved a “thank you” to everyone who had slowed down.  I quickly looked over the turtle, its legs were fine but its head was pulled into its shell, a thick coat of viscous red blood covered its snout and face, dripping out of its shell.  Its nosed was cracked, I could tell if there was any more damage, I hoped not.  “Damn it!”  I yelled to whatever could hear me.  I couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes.  I set it down in the grass, shaded by the trees and hoped that either it would heal or nature would take its course.  Back in my car, a few sobs escaped as I watched a police car drive by, patrolling the busy street. 

            I pulled into the road, still on my way to my appointment.  In the rearview mirror I saw a vulture circle above the road where the turtle had been, landing in a tree to watch for other casualties.  No!  I can’t  let nature “take its course.”  Nature did not harm the turtle.  It was the hurried person behind the wheel of the speeding car on the asphalt road that cuts through its habitat that hurt the turtle. 

            I showed up to my appointment, greeted with smiles, and I slumped down by the wall,  “I can’t do this now.  I have to save a turtle.”  I regaled them with my story, asking if it was possible to come back later since I knew I would only be thinking of the turtle if I had my appointment as scheduled.

            Seeing my distraught expression, my physical therapist agreed that it would do no good to keep me there.  She knew I had to save that turtle.  I rushed out the door and hopped in my car, cardboard box in hand.  I found the turtle a couple feet from where I had left it.  “You’re going to be okay,” I tried to comfort it.  But I think that was more for me.

            When I called a local veterinary clinic I was referred to the Triangle Wildlife Rehabilitation Clinic in Durham.  When the man at the other end of the line gave me the go-ahead, I hit the road again.  The turtle did not like air conditioning, so I lowered the windows and allowed the hot air to swirl into the car.  The turtle, however, did enjoy the Beatles.  I knew it was still alive by its labored breathing and occasional scooting in the box.  I glanced at it every few minutes, trying to reassure both the turtle and myself that we would arrive soon.

            Finally I spotted the small white building and pulled into the gravel parking lot.  The front office was small and cramped—a desk with a computer, file cabinets, a mini fridge with microwave on top, two chairs and a door opening to the rest of the building.  I was greeted by their intern and filled out paperwork stating who I was and where I had found the turtle.  The turtle was whisked away and I asked, “So, what happens now?”  I didn’t want to leave the box turtle.

            “Well, someone will check its condition and start to fix it.  If we can’t do it here, we will send it to the Turtle Team.  They have a lot of equipment we don’t have, so they might be better.  Once rehabilitated, we release it by a water source as close as possible to where is was found.”  She wrote the turtle’s case file number on a post-it and handed it to me, “You can call and see how it’s doing if its still here.  Or we’ll tell you it went to the Turtle Team.”

            “Thank you,” I smiled, and stood up to leave.  A man had come in with a box of baby Starlings that had fallen out of their nest in his yard.  His daughter wanted him to bring them in since one had already died.  “Have a nice day,” I told the man.  Tired, I was filled with hope that the little turtle would be okay and glad that I had helped it.

            I drove back into Pittsboro for my later appointment.  It was everything I had hoped it would be.  Through the exercises, I felt as if my chest had opened up and my neck and shoulder muscles relaxed.  I left feeling centered and grounded.

           

            Back home, I evaluated how I felt: wiped out, but better than before.  My mindfulness teacher had told my class about a talk held this evening by international meditation teacher, Leigh Brasington, at Triangle Insight on Duke’s campus.  I weighed whether I should go or not, whether my body could handle it.  I quickly decided to go; this was a rare opportunity.  I drove back to Durham.

            Leigh Brasington is both a Buddhist scholar and a meditation teacher and practitioner.  Usually, a person is one or the other, so he is unique.  His area of focus is concentration and insight meditation, which I find to be very interesting and something I look forward to attempting.  We began with a simple 30-minute mindfulness meditation, the room packed with people looking to deepen their practice.  We were called back to the room by the ringing of a singing bowl.

            He then told us a story from the Digha Nikaya, which is the dialogue of the Buddha.  Called, “The Fruits of Spiritual Life,” the story is of a king who is wracked with guilt for killing his father.  Wanting to quiet his mind, he seeks out the Buddha and asked him to point out any “fruits of leading a spiritual life that are visible here and now.”  The Buddha proceeds to describe the entire path of training from beginning to full Enlightenment.  The whole story is very interesting and strengthened my resolve even more to continue my mindfulness practice.

            After a short question-and-answer period, followed by a short loving-kindness meditation, we broke for refreshments.  As I headed to the door I looked back, wanting to say something to Leigh, to meet him, but feeling a bit inadequate.  What the heck.  I turned around and approached the small circle consisting of three of the founders of Triangle Insight, including my teacher, the founder of the MBSR program at Duke, Jeff Brantley, and Leigh. 

            When there was a break in conversation, I smiled, thanked Leigh for coming, and offered my hand.  He accepted my hand with both of his and thanked me for being there.  My teacher said, “Lindsay is one of my students in the MBSR class that just finished.”  Leigh looked at me approvingly. 

            “It’s great,” I stammered.  “I feel as if I am... blossoming!” 

            One of the teachers turned to me, “You look as if you were blossoming.”  Jeff Brantley chuckled.

            “I’m happy to have begun this so early,” I said.  “I mean, I was the youngest one in the class. And I have so much more to learn.”

            “I hope to see you at one of my retreats,” Leigh replied.

            “Some day you will!”  I said.  “I look forward to continuing down this path.”

            We all smiled and I thanked them all again and waved goodbye as I walked out the door.

            The night was beautiful and warm.  The sky clear, perfect sliver of the moon above the western horizon, sweet blossoms carried by the breeze.   I drove home, recalling the extraordinary events of the day.  A simple story, turned beautiful by gently cupping each moment in my hands as it passed, held in wonder, watched with compassion, precious.

           

or there was nowhere else to go

             I stood in line at an Asian café, trying to make sense of the pictures and the characters on the menu board behind the counter.  Ahead of me, two women discussed their own selections in a language I had never heard before.  Its cadence and inflection was like nothing else and the words were completely unfamiliar.  When it was their turn to order, one woman translated for the other to the woman taking their order from behind the register.

            “Where are you from?” The woman behind the register asked when she heard the unfamiliar words.

            “Bermuda,” the translator replied.

            Bermuda?  I thought to myself.  As in the Bermuda Triangle? I didn’t know it had such a unique language.  I wracked my brain; searching all of my files to see what information I had on Bermuda.  Not much.  Strange.

            Soon it was my turn to order and I still had not figured out what was on the menu.  There was a picture of a noodle dish on the menu board.  Anything will work.  “Do you have something like Pad Thai?”

            The woman behind the register gave me a questioning look and opened up a notebook with everything they had to offer.  “Um, we don’t have that, but we have other noodle dishes.”  She showed me the list of noodle dishes, written in the same foreign characters.  It wasn’t Mandarin, Korean, or Japanese.  It was definitely not Thai, or Russian for that matter.

            Eventually I just pointed to something and hoped it would taste good.  As I waited for my tray of food, I looked around at the tables.  Every seat seemed to be taken.  Either the food was that good or there was nowhere else to go.

            When my food was ready, it looked fine, and I was hungry.  I weaved my way through the crowd and found one empty chair at a table where five people already sat.  I asked if it would be all right if I joined them and they looked at me vacantly for a moment and shrugged.  I took it as a yes, and settled down at their table.

            They were an odd bunch, I realized on closer examination.  There were three men and two women, grouped into pairs, with an odd man out.  Each of the couples fawned over one another and occasionally looked at everyone else around them in disgust.  The third man seemed to be their friend, exchanging a few words here and there, but he was not enjoying himself.  He was handsome, but not overly so.  He had a full head of brown hair, cut short, but not so short that it was a buzz cut.  He had sharp jaw-line and healthy physique, brown eyes brooding, but also kind.

            Suddenly the two couples turned to look at me.  About to take a bite, I lowered my fork and sat back, guarding myself.  In their eyes, all I could see was hatred. They reached out to me, as if to grab me, one holding a knife.  I have done nothing to these people.  They inched toward me with an evil purpose, eyes and intention unwavering.

            I slowly slid my chair back across the tile floor, looking around for an ally.  My eyes met those of the third man and he motioned for me to come with him.  Summoning up all of my strength and courage, I broke through the wall of evil and followed him out the door.

            It was dark outside, the stars and moon blocked by a blanket of clouds.  No light escaped the windows of the Asian café.  When did it become night?  How long was inside?  I had just gone there for lunch.  I shook my head, trying to straighten out my thoughts; nothing made any sense.

            “Thank you for saving me in there,” I offered.  “I have no idea what just happened.”

            Giving no explanation, the man put an arm around me and stared into the night.  I rested my head on his shoulder.  Having no idea who this man was, I felt safer than I had in a very long time.  We sat on the concrete steps outside the café for a long time.  Although no words were passed between us, I began to gain an understanding of his goodness and of his hopes and desires and his own past pain.

            The next day, I thought about what had happened.  It was all so strange and seemed completely unreal.  I tried to sort out the previous days events.  I went to lunch and there were two women speaking a language that resembled no other language in the world.  The menu was also written in a strange language.  I found a seat at a crowded table when, suddenly, the two couples started to attack me... very slowly.  And their friend saved me. Or was he their friend?  Maybe he was there for the very purpose of saving me.  We sat outside for a while and then he left.  As I continued my attempts to rationalize the events, they made less and less sense.  I have to find that man.

             Running errands around town, I scanned the streets and sidewalks for the man from the day before.  There were a lot of people going about their business; it was a busy day for everyone. 

             I stopped by the library, and the bank, and was heading to the grocery store when I saw him.  He was walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the street.  I stopped to watch him, wondering what I should do.  I wanted to talk to him, to be in his presence, but did he want to see me?  I didn’t know.  If I don’t go over to him now, I might never see him again.  I would never be able to live with myself if that happened.

            Straightening out my shoulders, I walked across the street with decisive intention in every step.  Walking up behind him, I hesitated again, wondering if I should really do this.  He looked ordinary in every way—just another busy person going about his business on a beautiful spring day.  But I knew he wasn't ordinary.  I have to talk to him.  I’m too close.  I reached out and tapped his shoulder.

            As he turned toward me, I smiled nervously.  “Hi,” I said.  “I don’t know if you want to see me, but…”

            Before I could continue, a smile spread across his face, eyes sparkling.  He reached out to me and enveloped me in a warm hug.  “Of course,” he replied.  “Of course I want to see you.”

            I closed my eyes, safe again in his arms.  I felt his warmth, goodness, kindness, and hopes intertwine with my own.

            “I feel as if I am twelve again,” he said to me.  And I understood.

an openhearted, kind awareness of the present moment

            Almost two months ago I started the Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) course at Duke Integrative Medicine.  Over the past year, I have worked with many wonderful health practitioners who have led me to a deeper my understanding of my own inner-workings.  As I gained insight into the connections between emotion, stress, trauma, psychological pain, and bodily pain, my therapist suggested I look into the mindfulness class.  At first, I wasn’t ready to commit to such an exploration, but after a few months went by, I took the plunge.  Mindfulness can be difficult because it goes against everything we have been taught or conditioned to believe.  Instead of pushing ourselves into a bigger and better future, mindfulness cultivates an openhearted, kind awareness of the present moment. 

            Duke’s MBSR class is based on a program created by Dr. Jon Kabat-Zinn, at the University of Massachusetts Medical School.  In 1972, he began conducting research on the mind-body interaction in healing, on clinical applications of mindfulness meditation practice for patience with chronic pain or stress-related disorders, and on the effects of MBSR on the brain and immune system. 

            Stress, especially prolonged periods of stress, can have devastating effects on the body such as elevated levels of glucose and insulin, a weakened immune system, increased blood pressure, and digestive disturbances.  Chronic stress depletes endorphins, the body’s natural painkillers, which can result in more headaches, backaches, and arthritis pain.  If stress goes unmanaged, it is associated with increased illness and mortality.  However, through cultivating the “relaxation response,” as opposed to the flight or fight response, a person allows the body to discharge tension that has built up due to constant stress. 

            Scientific research continues to illuminate the benefits of mindfulness.  Studies have shown that mindfulness can affect the structure and neural patterns of the brain by increasing activity in the left prefrontal cortical region of the brain, where greater activity is associated with increased well being.  Also, mindfulness meditation has the potential to improve immune function and levels of cortisol in breast and prostate cancer outpatients. The eight-week MBSR course has been shown to halve the incidence of relapse in depression in those recovering from a depressive episode.  In addition, the class potentially may increase self-compassion and reduced stress in participating individuals.  Increasingly, mindfulness practices are being integrated into patient health plans.

            Before beginning any mindfulness practice, the “seven essential attitudes” must be understood.  First is non-judging, by which one is an impartial witness to the constant stream of judging and reacting to both inner and outer experiences.  The habits of judging and reacting separate us from directly experiencing each moment of our lives.  When judging arises, don’t judge the judging; just acknowledge that it is present.  Next is patience, allowing things to unfold on their own schedule.  Patience leads us to maintain a stronger connection with each moment as it unfolds.  Third is beginner’s mind—thinking that we understand the present moment keeps us from experiencing its beauty and richness.  To practice beginner’s mind is to experience each moment as if we are experiencing the world for the first time, like a child feeling her first drop of rain.

            Also, as you become more aware of your life, you must learn to trust yourself and your feelings in order to understand what it means to be yourself.  Next, it is important to cultivate a non-striving attitude, to pay attention to whatever happens without striving to change things.  If there is a sense of striving, then notice that it is there, without judging.  In order to achieve your meditative goals, you must paradoxically back away and focus on accepting things as they are.  Next, one must cultivate this acceptance, this willingness to see things exactly as they are in the present moment.  The last “essential attitude” is letting go, or letting be.  Often, we cling to beliefs about ourselves, others, and situations, which obscure the true essence of each moment.  Through mindfulness, we learn to stop focusing on these ideas and just let our experience be what it is.  By becoming aware of the attitudes of non-judging, patience, beginner’s mind, trust, non-striving, acceptance, and letting go, you may already find relief from daily stress.

            Living in such a fast-paced, egocentric society, I think everyone could benefit from Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction—if not to gain insight into their own being, then to reduce their stress and improve their health.  I believe that if everyone practiced mindfulness, the world would be a better, more tolerant and caring, place to be.

nowhere to go but up

 

            The beach holds a special draw to me.  When I am relaxed and unthinking, that is where I seem to go.

            With light steps and a light heart, I walked across the sand dunes from the village streets, heading toward the beach.  It was a beautiful day.  The sun shone brightly and a few perfectly white clouds moved slowly across the deep blue sky.  I had my daypack strapped across my back with my towel, book, sunscreen, snacks, and camera inside.  I searched for a place to sit, but it was so crowded that everyone stood, watching the ocean.  Few people ventured into the warm water.  It looked calm, but everyone stared anxiously at the water, waiting for something to happen.  No one was relaxed.

            Without warning, a large wave stretched up, forming a wall of water between the beach and the horizon.  All I could do was stare in shock.  I looked just like all of the other spectators, watching the water, wondering what might happen next.  The wave did not move toward the shore, or retreat to the horizon, it remained stationary.  I could see water moving within the wave, but it neither grew nor shrunk. Seagulls, pelicans, and sandpipers had do gain altitude in order to fly to the other side of the wave.

            Looking down the beach to my left, I noticed two other waves had formed just like the first.   These waves were even stranger.  They were perpendicular to the first, and they actually crossed over the beach.  There was a small gap between the waves, like an entrance into a different world.  I looked behind me and nothing made sense.  Waves had risen where the sand dunes had been.  Two of them, with a gap in between.  In the space between the waves, I could see a brick building in the village.  A large tree grew from it roof, its trunk twisted and gnarly, leaning over the side, trying to reach its branches to the sun.

            I turned back to face the first wave just as it fell down from the sky.  The water was calm, as if nothing had happened.  I looked where the other waves had been and they had also disappeared.   

            But suddenly the ocean began to rise, and everyone bunched tighter together, too scared to enter the water, but too shocked to run away.  And then the waves rose up again, closer than before.  We were surrounded by walls of water on every side and the ocean continued to rise.  People pushed and shoved, getting as far away from the water as they could.  But there was no more, “away.”  The water reached our feet, then our ankles, and soon our knees.  There was nowhere to go but up.

           

            I cannot seem to get away from water and waves for any significant amount of time.  If water represents emotion, I guess that waves must be the rising of emotion.  Would positive emotions take the form of waves, or just negative ones?  When standing on a beach, faced by turbulent surf of tall waves, I don’t feel calm, peaceful, and safe.  I feel the opposite.  I am careful to keep my distance so that I am not swept into the powerful waves, to be taken away.  Therefore, waves must represent difficult emotions.  In the form of a wave, fear or anger or sadness can no longer be ignored.  The emotions want to be recognized.  They want to release their energy like the ocean, using waves as a metaphor, so that they may be recognized, accepted, and move through the body, to be replaced by the peaceful sea.

searching my dusty mind

 

            “U.S. aims to halt memory disorder.”  This headline appeared on the front page of the local newspaper today, from Melissa Healy of the Los Angeles Times.  Dr. Francis Collins, the director of the National Institute of Health, “promised a raft of new research aimed at preventing, stopping and reversing the memory-robbing disorder by the year 2025.” 

            I’ve seen too many minds and bodies affected by Alzheimer’s disease.  The view through a window of an open lawn transforms into a bustling train station.  Patience is lost, replaced by frustration and anger.  Having always welcomed guests graciously, bodies curl up in bed, unresponsive to family’s touch.  Bright eyes lose their luster and become vacant.  Smiles turn into permanent frowns.  I hope that this new research is successful, for the benefit of future patients and their families, friends, and caretakers, and everyone in between.

            The experience of brain fog is incredibly frustrating and confusing and stressful, however I do not mean to equate this experience with that of Alzheimer’s disease.  Brain fog is a symptom that is common to depression, Fibromyalgia, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and Sjögren’s Syndrome, but is not limited to these.  To experience brain fog is similar to the sensation of “being out of it” or the sluggishness one feels after taking cold or allergy medicine. 

            I always felt like I had a good, solid memory.  Not like perfect recall, that would have been interesting, if not burdensome, but I was able to memorize things easily and remember events and conversations in detail.  I still maintain some of my ability, but a couple years ago started noticing some disturbing changes.

            My mind is not like it used to be, I’d tell myself, shaking my head.  I was partially joking, being in my early twenties, my mind had no reason to be losing track.  But I still would lose my train of thought in the middle of telling a story.  I’d be describing something to friends, get stuck, and then hint at the word for which I was searching my dusty mind.  An avid reader, I also began having difficulties focusing on the words on the page and following the story.  Becoming frustrated, I stopped forcing myself and watched television programs instead.  I also started to forget things that I had just done.  What is happening to me?  I wondered.

            These symptoms continued, along with getting overwhelmed when my surroundings grew noisy, and starting to mix up the orders of words and letters when I spoke.  In order to counter these instances, I did crossword puzzles and Sudoku.  Shortly after starting, I stopped doing these puzzles because, one, I did not enjoy struggling through Will Shortz’s tricky clues, and, two, I got bored of Sudoku.  Eventually, I was diagnosed with all of the illnesses I listed above.  At least it wasn’t my imagination that these things were happening, there seemed to be a reason. 

            Although recognized as a serious problem, brain fog, or cognitive dysfunction, is not widely understood.  Hypotheses are that brain fog could be a result of lack of restorative sleep, mental distraction due to pain, brain abnormalities, or premature brain aging.  Another idea is that some etiologies disturb regulating parts of the brain, affecting the overall level of consciousness.  Chronic stress might also cause brain fog, overstimulating the brain and effecting sleep.

            Even though I continue to suffer from these episodes when my brain seems to be hijacked into another world, I have begun to cope.  Slowly, I eased back into reading, and now if I don’t read an hour every day, I feel like I missed something.  I carry a book wherever I go.  Also, I am learning how to cultivate mindfulness, giving me the ability to let these episodes pass without being so hard on myself.   Sometimes I get glimpses of that awesome memory of which I was always proud, recalling exact words in conversations and remembering details of trivial events.

           

no other living thing dare tread on its surface

 

            A while back, I was riding on a bus full of passengers both young and old, from all walks of life.  The miles passing under the wheels of the bus and its straining engine were the only sounds in the cabin.  Everyone stared out of the windows at the barren landscape, burnt tumbleweeds rolling alongside the bus.  The sun scorched the clear sky and evaporated every hint of moisture.

            I awoke from my desert reverie when a commotion broke out just ahead of me on the bus.  The driver strode back and pointed a hand, skin as rough as a sunning alligator’s, directly in my face.  “You,” he grumbled.  “Get off my bus.  Now.”  Startled, I looked around at the other passengers.  They all watched me, waiting for me to disembark.  I peered out the window, at the miles of hot, dry sand, and looked back at him questioningly.  Browned skin stretched taught across his face, salt stains spreading through his white button down shirt, he waited with his hands on hips. 

            Does he mean to leave me in the middle of the desert on a road where we have seen no other cars?  I slowly rose, distributing my weight between my two quaking legs and looked at him once more.  He caught my gaze and lowered his eyes in a slow nod, waiting for me to pass.  I walked to the front and went down the steps.  I stepped onto the road, so hot that heat shimmered above it and no other living thing dare tread on its surface.  

            Through the windows, I watched the driver deliberately walk to his seat behind the wheel and close the doors with a hiss.  The passengers turned back to their windows, staring at the Martian landscape as if nothing had happened.   The driver put the bus in gear and began accelerating down the road. 

            Shocked, I couldn’t believe what was happening.  I had nothing with me except the clothes on my back and my worn out shoes.  My bags!  My belongings!  They’re still on the bus!  I took off running as fast as I could in the dusty exhaust trail.  Running faster and faster, I gained on the bus, only for the bus to pull ahead.  “Stop!”  I yelled.  “Wait!”

            I kept running, anxiety mounting and sweat evaporating the second it oozed through my pores, leaving a salty film behind.  “Stop!” Everything is on that bus!  All of my things.  My history.  My whole being and the contents connected to me.  The bus showed no signs of stopping.

            Suddenly, a man ran next to me.  “I can help you!”  He yelled over the sound of the bus’s engine, “Just keep running!”  I nodded in agreement as my feet continued pounding the hot asphalt.  Who are you?  I wanted to ask, but all I could do was croak a strange sound. 

            Soon, he picked up speed, approaching the back of the bus and leapt onto the rear bumper.  My things we piled with everyone else’s, and I could see them through the back window.  He opened the window and stuck the top of his body into the bus, still standing on the narrow bumper.  I kept running.

            As he began to pull himself out of the window, the bus made a sharp turn.  I had been so busy watching the man, I hadn’t noticed the approach of distant buildings.  The bus slowed down and pulled into the station.  The man jumped off, holding my large black duffle back.  My baggage!  I instantly stopped running, exhausted from the harsh heat coming from the sun and the road. 

            The man handed me my bag and I graciously accepted it.  Reunited with my possessions and with myself, I breathed a sigh of relief.

           

it wasn't great by any means, but it was perfect

            A couple of years ago, I took a painting class at the Pittsburgh Center for the Arts.  I had always enjoyed making art, but got away from my creative side in high school while I focused on math and science classes.  I liked getting absorbed in complex problems to which I could find a definite solution.  Math and science just made sense to me.  If I followed the rules, I was rewarded by an answer that made perfect sense.

            After a couple years in college, I wandered into an art supply store on South Craig Street.  I didn’t really have anything in mind; I just felt the need to create something from within myself.  I bought a canvas, a couple brushes, and a few tubes of paint.  In my shared apartment, I spread newspaper over the coffee table, put some water in a cup, and arranged my new supplies. 

            For two hours, I furiously brushed paint across the canvas.  I had nothing resembling practiced technique; I just let it all flow without judgment.  The resulting painting was something of a self-portrait, I suppose.  I never actually gave it that label until now.  It was a rough portrait of a woman with wild hair blowing around her face with a dark orange background.  Her eyes were mine, though.  And her slightly pained  expression—of confusion or loss of control—was mine when I painted it.  When I finished, I was pleased with the image.  It wasn’t great, by any means, but it was perfect.  It was the first time I really got a glimpse of what had been trapped inside since Hurricane Katrina—frustration, hopelessness, guilt, sadness, maybe even some anger.

            After graduation, I still had a lot of feelings I needed to access and the only way I could think to do so was through painting.  I had kept painting occasionally, picking up a brush every few months, but I never continuously experimented and practiced with the art form.  So, I thought a painting class would be a good way to add some technique and structure to my need for art.

            Everyone in my class was nice, but not overfriendly, and my teacher was very talented and kind.  However, I found it incredibly stressful to test different techniques in class each week with ten other students at easels on either side of my own.  I couldn’t help but peek at their progress and compare it to my own.  Usually, I concluded that mine looked much worse than theirs, and I judge and criticize until I just stopped and stared at the few strokes I had made while everyone else continued. 

            I worked better in my apartment, while my roommate was away or at least in another room.  I turned on soothing music, poured myself a glass of wine, and tried to follow the instructions for that week’s assignment.  One week the homework was to make a black-and-white still life—so I painted a cup I had borrowed from work.  Another week we had to coat the canvas with a layer of paint, wipe a bit off, and then shade in the clean parts.  I never got the hang of this technique.  Everything I did was ugly and lopsided, which was completely unacceptable to me.  Later, we made landscapes and the teacher declared that this was my calling.  I captured the sun shining through a forest of bare trees, the ground covered in snow.  I styled it off of a photograph I had taken the day my grandmother died the previous year. 

            Finally, we were told to create a self-portrait so I started painting my face in class.  I was going to have my hair blowing around with a bird flying out of it, completely free.  When I tried to continue it at home, I couldn’t even look at what was to become an image of my face without feeling anxious.  This was never going to work.  I stared into the small bathroom mirror, looking at myself from different angles and blocking bits of my face.  When I covered up the bottom half of my face, I knew that was the only way I could paint a self-portrait.

            My eyes stare straight forward, expressionless, with my hair hanging down on either side of my face.  Entangled in my hair are the roots of a small tree, its leaves just budding in the springtime.  I have been obsessed by that image—a tree in the springtime—for many years, now.  It’s even tattooed on my right side.  To me, it represents new life, hope, dreams, strength, stability…everything that I’ve been searching for since August 29, 2005.  I may not be a great painter, but it allows me to express emotions that I am unable to put into words.  That's what counts.

no sound escaped through its walls

            Many times I’ve walked up and down these strange structures.  Although definitely not stairs, that is the way they are used.  They resemble two stone towers reaching from the ground all the way up to the top of a huge brick wall that keeps the cliff from crumbling down onto the streets below.  There is a narrow opening all the way from top to bottom, splitting one side of each tower to permit people to enter and exit, and allowing sunlight light the insides. These towers have no internal framework that normal working buildings have.  There are no floors or ceilings, no rooms and no staircases or hallways.  Instead, there are piles and piles of colorful fabrics that are stacked and moved around by people whose only purpose is to do so.  Some of the piles are only one or two feet tall, while others reach all the way up to the top of the brick wall, and there are all heights in between.  Climbing these stacks of fabric is the only way that a person can get from the village to the top of the cliff.  While climbing, the workers continue to shift the piles of fabric around, forcing the travelers to change their routes.  No words are ever exchanged between the stackers and the villagers—that’s how it had to be.

            I stepped, climbed, and scrambled my way to the top of the fabric filled tower, relieved when I planted both feet on the sturdy ground above.  Looking back, it looked like I had just come from Madurodam in The Hague.  The streets of the village, lined with rustic stone and brick buildings with trees and parks sprinkled here and there, seemed to have shrunk into miniature.  Toy cars inched down the winding roads and little people went in and out of shops and cafés like ants picking up supplies to bring back to the colony.

            I followed the stone path from the cliff’s edge to the long brick building.  The stones in the path were worn down, polished and smooth from the constant foot traffic.  The landscape was a lush green.  There were few trees and some flowering bushes here and there, but the land was mostly made up of the soft grass that invites passersby to lie back and forget the day. 

            Finally, I approached my destination.  The single story building looked like something between a school and a prison.  It had few windows and no sound escaped through its walls.  It was not inviting and gave me the sense that my breath would be stolen away as soon as I passed through its large main doors.  This certainly did not seem like a place where people went for medical care.  But it was—this building was a hospital.

            Benches lined the walk leading up to its entrance.  The reception area sat just outside the main doors and was covered by a large awning.  As I walked by, I gave the receptionists a quick nod before pushing open the heavy doors.  As they thudded shut behind me, I was plunged into an eerie silence and I knew something was wrong.  Something evil was lurking inside.  I tiptoed down the abandoned hallway.  The overhead lights seemed too dim and all of the doors to the patient’s rooms were closed and I knew what evil thing was here.

            He was here.  By the quality of the silence and the slightly acrid smell in the air, I knew he was in the building.  He’s chased me through countless city streets, into empty parking garages, but he’s never caught me.  And this time, I am the one chasing him.  And I had found him.  But why here?  Why a hospital?  And why this one? 

            I spun around and ran back the way I had come in.  Bursting through the doors, I stumbled up to reception.  “I need to borrow you phone.  I have to make a call.  It’s an emergency!”  I wheezed.  A receptionist held the phone to her ear with dark red manicured nails and looked at me blankly.  Another replied, “We don’t have a phone that you can use.”  I opened my mouth to persuade her to let me use that phone when she continued, “But there’s a pay phone over there.”

            I followed her gaze down the path and saw the payphone between a bench and a tree.  Once I registered the phone’s location, I briskly turned in its direction, thrusting my hands into the depths of my pockets to locate some change.  They were empty, but I ran to the phone anyway.  I’ll call Collect, I grumbled to myself without actually saying a word. 

            As I picked up the receiver, I spotted a Quarter on the ground.  Face up.  I shoved it into the coin slot and dialed my friend’s number.  While it rang, I glanced around at the people sitting on the benches and the nurses taking their patients outside.  They all seemed to be staring at me.

            Finally, she picked up with a casual, “Hello?”  There was no time for pleasantries.  “Listen,” I hissed into the phone.  “He’s here.  I need back up.  You need to get over here as soon as possible.”  Without asking who “he” was or to where she was supposed to rush off, she agreed.  She was always able to fill in the blanks.

            I put the receiver back into its cradle and leaned against the payphone, trying to calm down while I waited for her to arrive.  I couldn’t stand still.  I peered down the walkway to see if she was on her way, but I couldn’t make her out.  She wasn’t coming soon enough.  I walked back to the building, feeling the eyes of the reception staff following me.  “Humph.  I wonder what’s wrong with her?”  Someone whispered loud enough for me to hear.  Whatever.  I’m about to save everyone in this place.

            I crept down the hallway again, lights still dim and doors still closed.  I continued my sweep of the hospital.  Deliberately walking down every hallway, I looked for something out of place.  It seemed completely deserted inside. There weren’t even any gurneys or food trays in the hallways.  Where is everyone?  Hopefully safely behind the closed doors.  It was much safer for everyone if they were, but I felt completely exposed and alone.  But I was determined and I knew I could do this.

            I came upon a door that led into a ward with heightened security.  The patients in this wing were at risk for wandering off or running away.  I realized there were actually two sets of doors to pass through before entering the ward and the second required a security pass.  I’ll swipe one from a nurse if I need a card.  I looked through the window of the door and was surprised to see a man in a wheelchair, his back to me.  That’s the first person I’ve seen inside here today.  I hesitated at the door, looking around to see if my friend had arrived yet.  No one was coming. 

            I looked back through the window as the man began to turn around.  When I saw his face, I took a sharp breath.  It took every ounce of courage to not take a step back.  I couldn’t let him see my fear.  His eyes locked on mine and a grotesque smile played at his lips, grossly distorting his face.  He was waiting for me.