Off The Grid

Soul Space

I’m on a new kick. Well, it’s not a new idea. It’s something I used to do and forgot about. And it’s worth remembering.

I used to surround myself with fresh cut flowers, relaxing music and good scents. I prided myself on my apartment always smelling like Pier 1 Imports. You know that smell. I think it’s the eucalyptus. And the candles.

But somewhere along the way I stopped. I know when and why. It was the brain hemorrhage. When you’re focused on trying to re-learn walking, speaking and eating, home decor tends to take a back seat. And then learning to live independently, I let certain things go, assuming I couldn’t handle them given my new disability.

Well, I’ve decided that’s ridiculous. There are ways around everything. Adaptive sports have taught me that. And why shouldn’t I be enveloped in a space that feeds my spirit, my creativity?

It all started with a “vision board” we made on my writing retreat in the mountains. My fellow writers and I cut and pasted from magazines those pictures that spoke to us. It was an exercise in manifesting the kinds of lives we wanted for ourselves. Some people had beautiful photographs of the exotic places they wanted to visit. One person found images of ballerinas and remembered a long forgotten dream of being a dancer. I found myself ripping out pictures of flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.

Then a few weeks ago, my writing coach read to us from a book she’s been reading called Soul Space by Xorin Balbes. The author believes in creating your space both to refect who you are and to transform yourself. To create the kind of environment where you can flourish, not just exist.

The final nudge I needed came from watching Dr. Oz the other day. He was extolling the virtues of flooding the senses with calming sights and sounds rather than chaotic ones. In his experiment, volunteers watched videos with emergency lights and sirens, crying babies and breaking glass, and then more calming videos with scenes of yoga and sounds of peaceful music. Not too surprising, the more relaxing input lowered the blood pressure and pulse rates of all three participants. The good doctor then prescribed meditating every day for just ten minutes.

I was sold. I don’t mean on meditating (though I am, it will probably be a separate post). But I set about making my home like it used to be — bringing in fresh flowers and burning incense. My mom began buying me battery operated candles years ago. I guess the glow’s all right, but it’s not the same. I’m going to buy some real candles. I know she doesn’t want to read this, but since moving in with her I worry less about burning the house down. (I figured with two of us there, the chance is cut in half, when really, it’s probably doubled.)

So, when I went to Publix this week I bought a bouquet of mixed flowers. To my dismay, I learned their sunflowers are $4 a piece! And I was further dissappointed by my mother’s flower arranging skills. (But really, fellow perfectionists, can anyone do as good a job as us? If you want something done right …) I plan on searching for a pair of clippers that I can easily operate. I think I can do the arranging as long as someone else fills the vase up with water. And Dr. Oz would be happy to know that flower arranging is considered an art form with meditative qualities.

And look what a friend found for me!

How’s that for solving the expense problem? I’ll grow my own flowers to cut! I told you I was on a kick. Apparently, now that the book is done, I have creative energy to spare. What are you doing with yours?

October 13, 2013 6

Birthdays

Today is my mom’s birthday. I’ll go ahead and relieve the suspence now– I’m not throwing her a surprise party. I made that mistake one year before finding out she hates surprise parties. She does like the attention to her birthday, I think. Perhaps just not that much concentrated attention.

Some people would rather forget the anniversary of their birth entirely. Why? We’re all so excited for our birthdays when we’re young. What happens? Remember, it’s not easy to get old, but there are far too many who never got the gift you have been given — the gift of growing older. Happy Birthday, Mom.

And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years. ~Abraham Lincoln

There was a star danced, and under that I was born. ~William Shakespeare

Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. ~ Mark Twain

May you live all the days of your life. ~ Jonathan Swift

There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval. ~George Santayana

Old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative. ~ Maurice Chevalier

Birthdays are good for you. Statistics show that the people who have the most live the longest. ~ Reverend Larry Lorenzoni

Everything I know I learned after I was thirty. ~ Georges Clemenceau

The heyday of woman’s life is the shady side of fifty. ~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton

Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age. ~ French Proverb

At twenty years of age, the will reigns; at thirty, the wit; and at forty, the judgement. ~Benjamin Franklin

Pleased to look forward, pleased to look behind,
And count each birthday with a grateful mind. ~ Alexander Pope

Very early, I knew that the only object in life was to grow. ~ Margaret Fuller

September 15, 2013 4

Unpathed Waters

To unpathed waters, to undreamed shores.

~William Shakespeare

So this week, I couldn’t get enough of Diana Nyad, the first person to complete a marathon swim from Havana, Cuba to Key West, Florida without a shark cage. I guess I’m a sucker for those kinds of feel good, “follow your dream”, “it’s never too late” stories.

If you paid attention too, you already know it took 110 miles (or 53 hours), she’s 64, and this was her fifth attempt. Her first try had been at the age of 28. The rest, after the age of 60. The dream never died. Laid dormant for decades, but never went away. I read one article (by Chris Erskine of the LA Times) that called her the High Priestess of the Land of Try-Try Again. I like that. I wish I’d thought of it.

Fall seven times, stand up eight. ~Japanese proverb

But I know about nagging feelings that won’t go away. I have one. I won’t call it a dream. Maybe just a fantasy. A daydream, really. I want to become fluent in Spanish. It’s comical I know, since oftentimes my English can’t be understood, but there you have it. And I believe if you have a dream, or a recurring, nagging something that won’t be forgotten, you probably should be doing it. I used to think I yearned to know Spanish because some sexy Latin lover was going to whisk me away to foreign lands. Now I think it’s more likely an adopted dog that only knows Spanish is in my future. The point is, I’ve added it to my to do list. I have a friend in her fifties, learning to play the flute. She just wants to. You don’t have to know the reason. There doesn’t even have to be a reason. Just start.

You should do whatever it is that calls to you. If you need more inspiration, check out Diana Nyad’s TED talk in 2011 which she ends by paraphrasing Mary Oliver. This led me to look up the poem, but first I’ll close with a quote from the swimmer herself. “You tell me what your dreams are. What are you chasing? It’s not impossible. Name it.”

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?”

~ Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems

September 8, 2013 4

New Routines

I wasn’t sure about my new neighborhood when I first moved in. I missed seeing the ocean every morning. I missed hearing the seagulls overhead. Frankie seemed to miss his dog buddies. We hadn’t met a lot of new dogs or their owners on our walks at Mom’s.

“How’s it going?” a friend asked me.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “I might as well be in Mandarin.”

Now, don’t take offense if you live in Mandarin (or some other suburb of town). I’m not trying to pull a beach superiority complex on you. I just mean, I felt very far away. I moved half a mile down A1A, but when you don’t drive, it might as well be across town.

There were no more drop-ins at my friend Michele’s for coffee. No cruising down to the corner in my power chair for dinner out or a book signing. And no trips with Frankie to Jarboe Park to watch the ducks. Frankie and I did discover a park here, but all we can watch are the homeless people.

When I thought about my old morning routines, I felt sad. Then I thought about another, more major time of loss in my life. I compared the experiences and wondered. Is it possible I was more depressed about my move to Jax Beach than my move to a wheelchair? It sounds ludicrous yes, until you realize — it’s all about acceptance.

Everyone said I’d accepted my place in the disabled world quite well. I think I’ve figured out how. I mean, what choice did I have? Clinging to what might have been is no way to live. Spending the rest of my days woulda-coulda-shoulda-ing is not for me. And there’s the answer. I needed to let go of my past to be able to enjoy my present.

I had spent my first month here trying to enjoy my old routines. I could get to the ocean, but I hated crossing Third Street. I tried to make it to Michele’s, but it took so long now I had to leave by sunrise. And I knew better than to attempt to hit the corner spots for dinner unless I had a death wish.

When I stayed in my own neighborhood and developed a couple of new routes, we met some folks. We met Steve walking Sage, Larry with Luna, and Betty and Ed who don’t appear to have a dog, but drink coffee on their porch when we pass by around 7:45. The dogs, walkers and cyclists are fewer and farther between now, but they’re out here. It’s just taking longer to meet them. I’m trying to be patient. Frankie is beside himself when anyone stops to chat, especially with a dog. He’s dog-starved.

Of course, it helps me appreciate what I have when glimpsed through someone else’s eyes.

“It reminds me of the Keys back here,” said my friend Jamie, looking at the pool. “If I lived here, I’d be out here all the time.”

So I’ve started eating my breakfast out there. Bella and Frankie line up by the door every morning, part of our new routine. It’s ridiculous that they both wait for me to open the door when there’s a perfectly good dog door right there. But Bella, in true cat form, only uses it when no one’s looking. I know she’s figured it out, because she appears and disappears mysteriously. She probably doesn’t want to appear graceless or un-ladylike getting her rather portly body through the opening. I have no idea what goes through Frankie’s head or why he waits for me to let him out this one time when he flies in and out the dog door regularly.

So, I’m enjoying my mornings again. Only here, it’s chlorinated instead of salt water, cardinals instead of seagulls and retirees instead of twenty-something surfers. It all reminds me of a plaque that hangs in Michele’s garden, “Bloom where you are planted.” So, you know what? I’m blooming.

September 1, 2013 4

Spontaneity

Yesterday, two friends stopped by, separately and unexpectedly, and the blog post I had half-finished stayed that way.

This is something I find particularly difficult – letting go of my plans, giving up a measure of control. But life is more fun that way.

When was the last time you veered off a pre-planned course? Took a left turn instead of a right? Try not following the map for a change and see what happens.

“The fun stuff comes when someone is not so strict on sticking to the script. You’re allowed the spontaneity, and great moments can happen.”

~Jennifer Aniston

“Humor is a spontaneous, wonderful bit of an outburst that just comes. It’s unbridled, it’s unplanned, it’s full of surprises.”

~Erma Bombeck

“Our spontaneous action is always best. You cannot, with your best deliberation and heed, come so close to any question as your spontaneous glance shall bring you.”

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Why not seize the pleasure at once? — How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!”

~Jane Austen, Emma

“If you wait to do everything until you’re sure it’s right, you’ll probably never do much of anything.”

~Will Borden

August 25, 2013 1

House of Chairs

My mom has a chair problem. By that I mean to say she hoardes chairs. Or perhaps I should say she “collects” them. Hoarding implies she’s just days away from suffocating under a pile of dirty laundry and banana peels. It’s not that bad. She only has 24.

I began noticing we had an inordinately large number of chairs when I first moved in. Since then, she’s acquired three more. Mind you, these are only the outside chairs. I can’t begin to think of the inside chairs.

In her defense, most of them were free. Usually, they’re in someone’s trash by the side of the road. While I think, “they must be throwing them out for a reason,” Mom maintains that they’re perfectly fine. She watches all the salvage shows on HGTV. And you know the saying: One man’s rusted wrought iron is another man’s home-improvement-project-that-never-happens-so-it-sits-by-the-pool-growing-rustier.

The pretty red ones were acquired last week on a rare shopping outing. My mom agreed to take me to that OCDer’s heaven — Bed, Bath and Beyond. I could spend hours in the place just daydreaming about reorganizing my closet or checking out shelf liner. My mom, on the other hand, hates it and spends the entire time waiting on me up front, sitting in displays of patio furniture. This particular day, I’d only made it halfway through the kitchen gadgets when I received her telepathic message of distress. “Let’s go. Now.” She eyed the rainbow of magnetic bag clips in my hand, but refrained from saying, “Do you really need that?”

I know she’s glad she refrained, given the irony of what happened next. Having run into Home Depot for an extension cord, she came out with chairs number 23 and 24.

“What?” she said when I looked incredulous. “They were on sale.”

Like anyone in the throes of addiction, she passed through phases of anger and denial. Once I began counting the chairs, she became defensive.

“You can’t count the cheap stackables! Don’t count the outdoor dining chairs. Those are part of a set.”

Oh, I see. Part of a set. For the record, we have 14 chairs, not counting the cheap stackables or the outdoor dining chairs. They’re still chairs by the way, but whatever.

We’re ready to host a party of 50 at a moment’s notice.

When I went to take a picture of the chairs poolside, I noticed they’d all been moved. Much like a kindergartner moves food around on his plate, my mother had spread chairs all over the yard in groups of two and three, hoping to disguise the sheer volume of seating choices available. I guess that she’s aware enough to try to hide this is progress. And after all, the first step is admitting you have a problem.

August 4, 2013 10

Early Bird or Night Owl?

I’ve decided that there is an essential part of what makes you you that can’t be changed no matter how hard you try. Your propensity toward “morningness” or “nightness.” I know this because I’ve been trying, and failing, to change my routine.

It all centers around Frankie, of course, King of 6th Avenue and to his eyes, all of Jax Beach. Actually, in his own mind, he’s probably King of the World.

See, back when I lived alone, I could wake up when the partiers were just getting home and not hear a peep out of him — as long as it stayed dark around his crate. I kept the kitchen lights off and stayed out of the living room. Now, though I’m clear on the other side of the house and there’s a concrete wall between us, I have to creep around like a burglar well after 6:00 a.m.

The reason for this is Mom’s approach to his discipline (or lack thereof). She allowed him to bark when he woke up, getting up herself and letting him out of his crate. Now, he feels one of his responsibilities, along with alerting us to all manner of potential intruder, including lizards, is to act like her alarm clock every morning. Problem is, this alarm goes off whenever he wakes up, regardless of the hour. And he has supersonic, albeit selective, hearing. So after a couple mornings of 5:00 a.m. barking, I decided to try sleeping in (my version, in which I’m still out of bed by 7:00).

His Highness still needs to be walked however, and being that it’s summer and hot by 8:00, I decided to try to shower at night.

I’ve given up. Not only is it a complete pain to get off the couch during prime time viewing when I’m feeling vegetative and lazy, for me it’s also incredibly dangerous. My already severely compromised balance and motor control get even worse after 5 o’clock. This is not the time to be dancing around on my pole, transferring over slippery wet tile. As soon as I returned to my early bird routine, my mood improved dramatically. (So did my hygiene — I was no longer skipping showers.)

So, the moral of the story is — don’t bother fighting it. Several studies have shown that your preference is at least 50% genetic anyway. And to feel better about your type, here are some fun facts I picked up:

Night people tend to have higher IQ’s.
Morning people may be more reliable and apt to cooperate.
“Eveningness” is an evolutionary advancement that marks out more intelligent individuals.
Studies have shown that night owls may be more emotionally unstable or prone to addiction.

July 7, 2013 5

Press 1 for English

“Agent.” I said into the phone as clearly as possible. I was losing my cool.

The voice on the other end didn’t seem to care. She would never lose her cool. She wouldn’t get angry no matter how much I berated her. Knowing this just made me madder. “I’m sorry I seem to be having so much trouble understanding you. Please say the —”

“AGENT!” I hollered, cutting her off. This only made it worse.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice full of regret. “I still didn’t get that. Please say the —”

I hung up.

Hanging up on someone, even a computer, used to be so much more satisfying back in the day. Back when you could slam the earpiece into its cradle. And if you were really mad, the number tones sounded a reverberating jangle. There was an echo, an exclamation point to your anger. Now we’re stuck with clicking closed a cell phone – if you have a flip top. Otherwise, you can mash your thumb on the ‘end’ key. How satisfying is that? It doesn’t allow for much self-expression.

The call I had disconnected was my fifth attempt to try to talk to an actual human at the cable company. It’s very hard to get through to an actual human. Apparently, there’s only a few of them sitting around like royalty, waiting to talk to those of us patient or tricky enough to make it past their automated lackeys.

I thought I knew the secret. A rep sympathetic to the problem of my voice and a voice response system once told me to always respond “Agent” no matter the question. The reason for my call? Agent. My telephone number, beginning with the area code first? Agent. The extension number of the party I wish to speak to? The answer is always “Agent.” Don’t even start playing their game. Don’t press 1 for English. Don’t enter your account number or zip code. Give them nothing.Turns out, I could repeat “Agent” till my blood boiled over — it didn’t work. I’ve also tried playing deaf, dumb and mute. I just hang on the line in silence, hoping my inability to communicate at all will get me through to a live person. That usually doesn’t work either.

Lately, my favorite television ad is for Discover Card. In various versions, people call Discover Card reps very similar to themselves. “We treat you like you’d treat you,” they promise. Now I don’t have a Discover card, but they say you’ll get right to a live person when you call. Smart advertising. Even if it is a lie.

So next time you’re losing your cool with an automated voice or you’ve been the next caller for twenty minutes — think of me and try to laugh. I guarantee I’m having a harder time than you. If all else fails, just keep hitting 0. Or click your phone closed.

June 30, 2013 6

Mirror, Mirror

My magnifying mirror taught me an important lesson last week. Well, it’s already a belief of mine. Let’s just say, I was reminded that there’s wisdom in the saying: Ignorance is bliss.

My old mirror was loose at its base, so I figured I’d just pick up a new one during the move. Trouble being, Bed Bath and Beyond only had mirrors with a measley five-times magnification instead of the high-powered eight I was used to. No big deal, right? I mean, it’s only three times less. That’s what I thought — until I got it home. Less magnification together with poor lighting and the fact that the mirror hangs a bit too high meant I was missing all kinds of supposedly important details.

I’ve revised my opinion about what’s important.

“Do you really want all that information?” a friend asked me, when I picked out the mirror.

I thought I did, but I can say now that I definitely do not.

My self esteem is much better with the new mirror that tells lies. Well, not outright lies. Just lies by omission. Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s our policy. I was wondering why I looked better in my new place. It seemed like a miracle. Dark circles faded and blemishes disappeared. Was there something in the water here? Was I getting better sleep? Had I suddenly stopped sprouting rogue chin hairs? Then I remembered the new mirror. Three times less. I still had chin hairs. Heck, I was a billy goat. I just didn’t know I was a billy goat. Ignorance is bliss.

One of my favorite characters is Scarlett O’Hara who can look tragedy in the face and declare, “I can’t think about that today. I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Tomorrow is, after all, another day. And one of my favorite ending lines to a book is in The Sun Also Rises when Brett says, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Yes, it is. It is pretty to think my brows are perfectly tweezed and I’m not sporting spinach between my teeth when I leave the house. (Just kidding. My new mirror isn’t that bad.)

But really, why is it important to know these things? Other humans aren’t running around looking through bionic eyes with eight times magnification capability. Why should I have to give myself the once over with anything more than the naked eye?

I will say that sometimes you walk into a place with super-duper florescents, like an office building or a drugstore. Or the sun will back-light you in a way that exposes every hair that God and age have bestowed on you. The only advice I have in these situations is — move. Get the hell out. Of the drugstore or the office. And avoid the sun. It’s bad for you anyway. Besides, everyone knows candlelight and dusk are more flattering.

But if you happen to catch me in bad lighting that shows all my flaws – don’t say anything. I don’t want to know. I’m feeling pretty good about myself these days. But do feel free to tell me if I have spinach in my teeth.

June 16, 2013 2

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