Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

Keep It Simple Stupid!

Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials. ~Lin Yutang

I have no idea who Lin Yutang is (or was,) but he’s a wise man (or woman.) You see, I created a lot of pressure for myself in trying to write both for my blog and my book. I haven’t figured out how to do both. When I’m concentrating on one, the other suffers. So last week, when the juices started flowing for the book, (which I confess, they haven’t done in some time,) I wondered how on earth I would get it all done.

Then my friend (and fellow writer,) Mary, suggested I focus on the book and forget the blog. At first my inner type A was indignant. It scoffed at the idea. And then I thought, yes. Why not? Will I get scads of angry e-mails from hundreds of disappointed readers? I don’t flatter myself that there are that many. Besides, the purpose of the blog is to familiarize people with my writing so they will buy my book. So, I finished another memoir chapter and I’m writing this in the final hour.

So much of our stress is self-induced. Feeling short on time? Do you really have to make that yoga class a third time this week? If it’s stressing you out just to get there, you’re kind of defeating the purpose. Will you or your family have to go naked if you skip the laundry this weekend? Throw in a load of socks and underwear and be done with it. Let it go. You may find, like me, that once you let yourself off the hook, things are much easier to accomplish. Sometimes it’s not the items themselves on the list that cause the tension, just the fact that there’s a list in the first place. I’ll try to remember that next week.

July 10, 2011 5

Riding the Short Bus: An Excerpt

One evening, I was on my way home from the outpatient gym. I’ve fallen into a bad habit since the hemorrhage. Or maybe it’s not so much bad habit as it is human nature. I’ve been comparing. I see a lot of disabilities now and I decide in my head if someone is better or worse off than me. It’s terrible I know, but it’s what I do. Amputee? Better off. Prostheses are amazing now. Mentally challenged but can walk? Worse off. I don’t think I’d trade my mind for any physical ability.

A blind woman was already on the bus when I was picked up. I realized she was blind when I said hello and she responded in my general direction but seemed to make eye contact with my left shoulder. Her eyes looked layered over with coke bottle glass.

Next we picked up a woman obviously coming from work. She suffered from dwarfism. I believe the politically correct statement is that she was a little person. She couldn’t have been much over three feet high and she dragged a suitcase on wheels. Her pudgy fingers were wrapped around a handle, that if extended, would have been well over her head. I watched her begin the laborious climb up the three steps of the bus. First she heaved the bag up one step and rested her hands on top of it while she positioned her feet on the step below. The driver offered to help but she declined. I stole a glance as she buckled her seat belt. Her legs extended flat across the seat, her feet barely dangled over it. Occasionally, I run across things I can’t reach or a car blocking my access to a curb. I hate it when friends or well-meaning people put stuff in the very back of my freezer. Or on the bar in the kitchen or on top of the fridge. Or any other of the multitude of places that I can’t get to. But this is only on occasion. Her entire world is oversized.

Our motley crew continued on down Beach Boulevard when the driver stopped for a light. I heard music coming from a Ford Explorer in the next lane. A blonde had the window rolled down and her elbow out, resting on her knee. I used to drive like that. One foot tucked up under me.

The blonde turned to look at the bus and I felt grateful for the tinted windows. I used to look at the short busses too, the blue handicapped symbol on the back, and wonder about the poor souls on board. Now I’m on the inside.

The sun was setting so spectacularly that evening that I’m sure it would have warranted comment by the driver or passengers if one of those passengers hadn’t been a blind woman. So instead, we all sat respectively silent in the warm glow of pinks and reds. I watched as the woman adeptly handled her cell phone to call a friend, then a Chinese take-out place, something I can never do without misdialing or dropping the phone altogether. Then I listened as she inquired about the specials and placed her order. This is also something I cannot do as I’m hard to understand and often misunderstood or hung up on like a prank caller. I thought about her eating her fried rice, something I avoid because it falls off the fork. Then I turned in time to see the last of the pink sun sink beneath the horizon.

July 3, 2011 8

Feeling stressed? Walk a dog!

I admit to feeling a little frazzled lately. You see, my mother was recently released from the hospital. Since I have a variety of handicaps, the majority of the caregiving burden fell, and is still falling, to a good friend of hers. This doesn’t mean I get off scott free. There’s still family and friends to update, finances to figure, and plenty of general worry left to go around. Not to mention, the full-time care of a particular white devil named Frankie.

I’ve always defined myself as a cat person. Cats seem to fit seamlessly into the writer’s lifestyle. Dogs? Not so much. I’m no sooner pecking away at the keyboard than I hear a loud crash in the other room and wheel in to find Frankie standing on top of a table, surrounded by scattered picture frames. Cats will let you be when you’re on a roll. Dogs need constant attention. Dogs need to go out.

In fact, I’ve found that the amount of havoc The White Devil wreaks is inversely proportional to the amount of exercise he gets. I know we need the rain, but a rainy day for me is, well … hell. Weather permitting, chances are, Frankie’s out for a walk.

And as a reluctant dog owner, no I’ll call myself a dog guardian, I can tell you the benefits are many. There seem to be few problems a brisk walk around the block with a four-legged friend will not solve.

First, it’s virtually impossible to keep your mind on your problems. There are other dogs and owners to greet, meetings to supervise, and optimal bathroom locations to scout out. If your dog is especially popular, the meet and greet portions can go on indefinitely. Sometimes I think Frankie is running for mayor of my small beach town. It particularly amuses me when he knows someone that I do not. This happens a lot, as he is my mother’s dog and frequently goes places with her instead of me: on walks, to the groomer’s, doggie daycare. Several times, we’ve passed people that wave and call out, “Hi Frankie!” And I don’t have a clue who they are.

6035809125553_ORIG — Stress-free Frankie

There’s also the benefit of communing with nature. I realize not everyone is lucky enough to have a view of the Atlantic as part of their daily stroll, but nature can be found in even the most suburban of gated communities. There’s dew on the grass of those manicured lawns and the warm pink glow of a sunset is beautiful in any neighborhood.

And hey, let’s face it. You just can’t rush a good … poop. If you are trying to hurry home to your list of a million things to do — forget it. It takes what it takes. You might as well surrender to it and enjoy your moment of peace. If Frankie could read, (and talk!) I’m sure he’d ask for a newspaper. After all, there are some mysterious inner workings at play here. It’s an intricate process, one whose steps cannot be skipped. I’ve watched and waited while Frankie does so many circles, I’m sure he must be dizzy. When he finally goes, inside I’m dancing a jig.

Lastly, there’s the benefit of all this exercise. To you. Personally, I miss out on this one, with my power chair on high and Frankie trotting along beside me, but everyone knows how physical exercise reduces stress. So, pick up the pace! Unless your dog is doing circles. In which case, slow it down and think zen.

June 26, 2011 5

Perfectly Imperfect

Killian McDonnell’s poem “Perfection, Perfection “ starts out, “I have had it with perfection. I have packed my bags, I’m out of here. Gone.” It ends, “Hints I could have taken: Even the perfect chiseled form of Michelangelo’s radiant David squints, the Venus De Milo has no arms, the Liberty Bell is cracked.”

I love that. And it’s a good lesson. I’ve known perfectionists, myself included, who agonize over each word, each comma, each turn of phrase. I know a writer who tinkers with her work until she worries she’s tinkered the clever right out of it. I know an artist who’d prefer to hang her paintings herself lest they not receive proper placement for optimal appreciation. I, myself, read my words over so many times that I know them by heart. It’s an illness, this perfectionism. I think about that sculptor laying awake at night fretting over the Venus De Milo’s arms. Maybe their shape wasn’t coming out quite right. And those sleepless nights. What were they all for?

I give you the serenity prayer: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference. A very wise woman (my mother) once asked me “why worry about what you can’t control?” If I may put it into my own words: do your best work (like the sculptor,) but then let it go. Don’t lose sleep over it. The arms may fall off anyway. It’s probably still a masterpiece.

June 19, 2011 5

The Kindness of Strangers

“How many people are here?” Ed asked me.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “A hundred?”

It was almost three times that. You would think the smoke that hung thick in the air that day would have discouraged some, but it was a large turnout for the Life Rolls On “They Will Surf Again” event in Jacksonville Beach, June 4th.

I saw the advantage of owning my own beach wheelchair right away, but other beach chairs were on hand at the lifeguard station to ferry people over the soft sand or into the water. Some folks braved the sand in their regular wheelchairs. Ed pushed my chair down by the water to wait my turn at “surfing.” He was a friend of my friend, Amy, and I’d just met him, but he had volunteered his truck to tote my dune buggy of a beach chair to the event.

I’d done this once before (this was Life Rolls On’s fifth year in Jacksonville,) but I was struck again at the large number of volunteers. There were 12 able-bodied volunteers for every disabled surfer. When it came my turn, I understood why. It took six or seven people just to get me out to where the waves were breaking, then shove me off in time to catch one. And volunteers were lined up all the way to the shore to grab me wherever I happened to fall off.

A subsidiary of the Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation, Life Rolls On originally started the “They Will Surf Again” program for people affected by spinal cord injury. The number of participating disabilities has grown to include brain injuries, amputees, varied birth defects and others.

After about my third ride to shore and face full of salt water, I remembered overhearing someone talk about surfing on their knees. Anxious to avoid the stinging spray from my position lying down on the board, I asked if I could try sitting up. This meant a volunteer would ride tandem. This video is the first of two rides I made like that. Now that I know it’s an option, I’m certain there will be many more. My own hooting and hollering was drowned out by that of the volunteers.

I was touched by the enthusiasm, positive attitude and smiling face of each person who assisted that day. I’m not sure who got more out of the experience, the surfers or all those willing to lend a helping hand.

If you’ve followed my blog you know I like to say “disability has its perks.” Here’s another one: being disabled allows me to see the good in people. I’m in the unique position of seeing people at their best. I am reminded of the generosity of the human spirit almost every day when someone holds open a door, untangles Frankie’s leash or waits for me to slowly cross the road in my power chair. And it’s a good thing too, because with a little help, life does indeed, roll on.

June 12, 2011 7

Lanes 29 and 30: Intro to Adaptive Bowling

I don’t feel like going. I have homebody tendencies that have only increased since becoming disabled. I wasn’t crazy about social situations before, but at least I fit in. Now I’m in a wheelchair, don’t like eating around groups because I’ll shake and be lucky to hit my mouth, and have to drink through a straw. I always had beer at the bowling alley. And I ask you, what’s bowling without beer?

But, I go for several reasons. I’ve met many nice people in the program (Brooks Adaptive Sports and Recreation Program) that I want to see. And my mother has drilled this concept of “socialization” into my head. I should connect with my peers. In other words, it’s important to have disabled, as well as able-bodied, friends.

It’s always interesting, being part of this group. I’ve done things I never imagined doing again. I’ve played pool, ridden horseback, and rowed the St. John’s River. None of them well, but still. I can’t fathom how I will bowl when I picture my old long-legged approach. But to think technique is to miss the point.

The last two lanes closest to the ramp that lead to the polished wood floors belong to our motley crew. Nearly all of us are in wheelchairs. Some of us, like me, take erratic swings in the lane with the “gutter guards,” those rails that keep the ball traveling toward the pins. Some of us chuck the ball down the lane with a loud crash. Some of us, lacking grip, use metal ball ramps to release the ball. All of us begin at the foul line.

It would be far easier to stay in than worry about if there will be steps, or if I can eat something there, or how silly my beer will look with a straw sticking out of it. But, if I only surrounded myself with able-bodied people, I’d never measure up. I’d always see things in terms of what I couldn’t do, instead of what I could. I’d stay home and play hostess to my own one woman pity party.

As I am leaving someone uses a phone to look up my new website and reads about what happened to me. He is an amputee. “How sad,” he says. “I’m sorry.” I am momentarily taken aback. No one disabled has ever said this to me. And then I realize. Maybe I make him feel grateful.

Remember, there is always someone worse off than you. Today, do something that keeps you grateful.

June 5, 2011 5

Trouble … Worry, Worry, Worry

A little white dog keeps hiding and re-hiding his bone. As the soulful melody plays on, he worries and digs it up, only to bury it again. This is the Travelers Insurance commercial. I don’t know why I thought only movie dogs and dogs on television behaved this way. But this is real behavior attributed to real dogs. I’ve seen Frankie in action.

The first time I witnessed this, Frankie was pacing back and forth so much I thought he had to pee. I didn’t see the bone he had tucked in his mouth. Outside, I watched in fascination as he dug a hole, placed his treasure inside, and shoveled the dirt back with his nose. Then proceeded to have a sneezing fit.

I called a friend. “Did you know dogs really do this?” She knew. She and her husband had stopped giving their Westie bones because he never ate them. Instead, he proceeded directly to the backyard.

Since Frankie’s an indoor dog, I’ve found them all over the house. At the bottom of the laundry basket, behind books on the bottom shelf, between sofa cushions. Whenever I enter to find books spilled out on the living room floor, I know Frankie’s been digging again.

Having him around has been good for my obsessive compulsive-ness. It used to be my house was neat and I knew where everything was. Yesterday, I found a half-chewed rawhide behind the pages of my old high school photo album, along with a shredded corsage from Prom 1986. Only the ribbon could be salvaged, which is really all I should’ve kept anyway.

Problem is, Frankie’s not like the dog in the commercial. His compulsion only seems to extend to the burying part, not the digging up part. Contrary to what everyone says, he does not seem to remember where they are. Nor does he ever look for them. Out of sight, out of mind. If I happen to sit on one, fine. But I’m certainly not digging in the dirt. The one outside will probably be unearthed 50 years from now like some old time capsule. Either way, Frankie’s not worried.

May 29, 2011 5

On Optimism

Enough has been said about writers and artists being a pessimistic bunch. In fact, they are so well known for being depressed, addicted and suicidal that many beginning talents think they have to be down and drunk to enjoy any real creative success! So, I’m here to talk about that supposed anomaly — the happy artist.

Plenty of creators were positive people. Charles Dickens, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Samuel Johnson (considered one of the most important authors of all time for publishing the Dictionary of the English Language) were all optimists. Paulo Coelho is a positive Brazilian author, famous for his spiritual teachings and best sellers, including The Alchemist.

Political leaders like Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln and Mahatma Gandhi were all eternal optimists, along with inventor, Henry T. Ford, and the man whose name will forever be synonymous with “genius,” Albert Einstein.

Robert Brault, a well known and frequently quoted writer said it best when he said, “After 5,000 years of recorded human history, you wonder, what part of 2,000,000 sunrises doesn’t a pessimist understand?”

In a Newsweek article on optimism it was reported that “researchers have claimed that a positive outlook motivates us to plan for our future and may even have an effect on our long-term physical health. It’s increasingly clear that your mental outlook can have a big effect on your physical health.”

I’ve been accused of being a Pollyanna, but I don’t really mind. I’m the kind of person that doesn’t watch the news. This drives my activist mother crazy. She believes it’s important to stay informed and get involved. CNN is on constantly at her house. But, I can’t live on a diet of murder and mayhem. I find out about hurricanes when there’s long lines at the grocery store.

I guess I’m sticking my head in the sand, but I was validated by Dr.Andrew Weil’s book Spontaneous Healing. He recommends “news fasts” as part of his program to a more efficient healing system. It’s easy to forget we have a choice as to whether we let negative information into our minds.

And for those beginning talents out there, remember what Helen Keller said, “No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars, or sailed to an unchartered land, or opened a new doorway for the human spirit.”

May 22, 2011 6

Calling All Gentlemen!

Hey guys! Want to know the secret to winning the heart of any woman? Chivalry. It’s not dead. It just needs resuscitation. It’s an idea that needs a little dusting off.

After all, it’s old. In the Middle Ages, chivalry was all the ideal qualifications of a knight. 13th Century conventions dictated that men should honor, serve, and do nothing to displease ladies and maidens. Sure, only the wealthiest women could become educated, own property, or work outside the home without being nuns. But hey, haven’t we always wanted it all? Equal rights and to be picked up without honking. Is that too much to ask?

It’s become so foreign to us gals, that we often don’t know how to behave when actually treated like a lady. Many years ago, a man pulled out the chair for me in a restaurant and I quickly moved to the opposite chair because I thought he wanted mine.

I think I can safely speak for all women, disabled or not, when I say that a simple gesture like opening a door goes a long way. Coming up to doors in a wheelchair can feel like approaching an obstacle course for the Navy Seals. Continue reading “Calling All Gentlemen!” →

May 15, 2011 3

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