Thirteen years ago, at the lowest point in my life, I was in a treatment center. Every morning at the community meeting each person was required to stand and say an affirmation for the day. After the first day another patient, John, a veteran of several weeks, said, “Jim, I have an affirmation for you.” “What is it?” “I’m good enough the way I am.”
I liked it. I repeated it over and over. It was what I needed. It fit. “Thanks, John!”
At the meeting the next day I rose and my mind was blank. I just could not remember that phrase I had been given so I blurted out something else. After the meeting I went to John and asked him to repeat it. This time I said it repeatedly all day. “I’m good enough the way I am.”
For the next two days, the same thing happened. I stood and could not retrieve the phrase. I returned to John for the words and worked hard to remember them. But I could not remember them. Finally, I wrote the sentence down. At the meeting on the fourth day, I rose and read my affirmation, “I’m good enough the way I am.”
I was unable to make that phrase a part of me because I did not believe the words. In my mind I was not good enough the way I was. I could have given you a whole list of reasons. Or maybe you could have just looked at the mess that was my life and known the truth about me.
So I have spent the years since trying to improve myself – trying to create a me that is acceptable to me. Like the houses that are rebuilt on “This Old House,” “This Old Jim” has been under reconstruction. Let’s make Jim newer, stronger and updated. Get rid of his old plumbing and wiring. Put in some new windows and skylights so that he will be lighter and brighter.
How many hours of therapy does it take? How many retreats and workshops? I guarantee that I have already done many more than the average required.
Have you ever lived in the middle of house renovations? If you have you know how wearing they can be. I am tired. I am tired of being under construction. I am tired of trying to get to somewhere else. It is time to live. I just want to live my life.
At what age do you say that this is who I am and I am okay? “I’m good enough the way I am.” How about age 85? Well, certainly by then. How about 75? I am not sure. What about 65? Maybe. 55? Why not? Why not just grab today how I am? Why would I wait another thirty years?
I have given up the reconstruction. What I see is what I get. And it is okay. Please note that I did not say, “What you see is what you get” What YOU see is not important to me. Your approval is not required. That is part of the letting go.
I am no saner today than I was last week, last month or last year. But I am more at peace. I am not searching, grasping and holding on. I am not looking for the next thing to fix a part of me. I am relaxing into what is – reality as is.
I have stopped the fight. The king has not returned triumphant. He realized that the fight was not worth it. Instead he has settled into the forest with his Queen and they are planting gardens and taking naps. He is breathing easier.
April 22, 2005
April 17, 2005
All Gone to Look For America
“America”
by Simon and Garfunkel
’let us be lovers we’ll marry our fortunes together’
’I’ve got some real estate here in my bag’So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies
And we walked off to look for America
’Kathy,’ I said as we boarded a greyhound in Pittsburgh
’Michigan seems like a dream to me now’
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I’ve gone to look for America
Laughing on the bus
Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said ’be careful his bowtie is really a camera’
’toss me a cigarette, I think there’s one in my raincoat’
’we smoked the last one an hour ago’
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field
’Kathy, I’m lost,’ I said, though I knew she was sleeping
I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike
They’ve all gone to look for America
All gone to look for America
All gone to look for America
The song “America” has been rolling around in my brain since 1968. It has taken up space not casually like many other songs from that era, but it has occupied the space reserved for “unfinished business.” It haunts me. When I sing it to myself, dark and melancholy feelings rush to the surface.
About nine months ago I started to get restless. In my journal I was writing about the need to let go and to create more open space in my life. I had no idea why. I just knew that I had to do it. Now I had a pretty lean schedule to start with. I had more open space than most people. But I wanted more. So I began to give up some responsibilities and cut back on some commitments. I knew that if I created an opening in my life, something would fill it.
I had been threatening to take a road trip for many years – just jump into my car and go. In May I became energized to do it and I headed for Charlottesville, Virginia, the home of Thomas Jefferson. I stayed in a cabin in a campground and pretty much lived out of my car. I loved the “on the road” lifestyle.
I had a great time in Virginia learning all about Thomas Jefferson. I had never been interested in history much, but now I could not get enough. All my life I had lamented the fact that I was not a very curious person. But now my curiosity about many things just started to flow. Something shifted.
And that is how I stumbled onto my obsession: RV’s. I was not looking for an obsession. But I love my obsession and it loves me. For many years I have had a fantasy of owning a small motorhome. I wanted something not much bigger than a car. I did not want a big monster to drive and I did not want to tow anything. I was sure that anything towed would fall off on the highway due to my mechanical incompetence.
This fantasy was about hitting the road. The line “all gone to look for America” was running through my head for almost forty years. The fantasy was about freedom, travel and adventure. It would build upon my experiences hiking and backpacking.
After the Virginia trip I began to research RV’s. I learned way more than you would want to know. I narrowed down my choices and visited two dealers to actually go inside an RV and drive one for the first time. It was not long before I bought an old RV on ebay.
You must understand that I did not do this in my spare time. It took all of my time. I began waking up every day at 4 AM to hit the computer. I became obsessed. A writer, Dan Koeppel, recently said that an obsession “is like an oil spill. It covers everything up and eventually becomes all you can see.” That was me.
An obsession is fine and great if you do not have a life – if you do not have work, family or friends. It is so energizing! My focus could go on an on for hours and days. However, I was unable to be in relationship during this time. I could not be present to anything that did not have to do with RV’s. I tried, but everything else just paled in comparison. RV’s were just so much fun! There was so much to learn! There was always more! My wife said that living with me was “challenging.” She was being overly kind.
My first trip with my new motorhome, “Rosie,” was a great adventure. I picked it up at the airport in Chicago and drove off with little instruction. I made all the mistakes of a naïve buyer. At my first campground water gushed out the back. No, it is not supposed to do that. The vehicle needed, and still needs, lots of repair. It is nothing that $1,000 a day cannot cure. Oh well, money is meant for fun, right? And I am having fun!
On my trip back home I visited old friends that I had not seen in years. I stayed in campgrounds under the full moon with the fireflies dazzling. I visited wonderful Frank Lloyd Wright houses. I was off “to look for America.”
The song was released in April, 1968, during my last few months of high school. I was preparing for the first big adventure of my life – going off to college. I would be moving eight hundred miles away from home. I wanted to enter into the world after high school with courage. I wanted to be brave like the young couple in the song traveling across the country. I wanted to taste freedom.
I remember the high of the first few months of college. I sucked in the newness and the freedom. But after awhile, the euphoria gave way to sadness and depression. The album was played often on our turntables and eight tracks. “Kathy, I’m lost,” I said, though I knew she was sleeping. I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why”. My college years were lost and lonely too. These were supposed to be the best years of my life. And yet I was “empty and aching.” And I had no clue about why. In fact it would be twenty four years before I found out why.
My first year college roommate and I lost track of each other after graduation. On my trip back from Chicago we reconnected and I learned that immediately after college he took off for a couple of years “to look for America” by thumb and VW Bug. I asked him why he did it? “Because I was unhappy.” I had no idea that he was so unhappy. We lived together, both unhappy, and yet did not know that about each other.
After college I did not hit the road. I stayed on the straight and narrow path: graduate school, profession, marriage and family. My roommate eventually got on the same path, but much later. He married at age thirty seven and now has small children.
As I was leaving his house in my RV, he said, “Jim, I’m jealous.” He also wanted to explore the back roads.
“But you already did this,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess you are doing the same thing that I did. We just did it in a different sequence.”
But the sequence matters. I am not off “to look for America” because I am unhappy. I see my now sudden urge for travel and adventure as an add-on to my life. I am not lost. I am able to do this now because I feel secure in my foundation at home. I am moving forward with great energy.
And yet there is still a melancholy stream coming to me from that song. The eighteen year old in me still hears, “I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.” So perhaps there is also a part of me that is still looking for something, still “looking for America.” Only time on the road will tell.
March 17, 2005
Doors of Anxiety
Last week I stepped outside my house and heard birds singing. It had been so long since I had noticed their songs. Where had they been? No, wrong question. Where had I been?
I had been gone for so long, locked up in a struggle with anxiety. All of my efforts were focused on the future and I heard little of the present. I do not have clarity on the number of months that slipped by this way. I was going through the motions of life, doing the best I could, but the joy of life escaped me.
And my heart was closed. When I was anxious, I did not like myself and I did not want to be seen. When I do not want to be seen, I close my heart.
It was like being caught in a subway turnstile. Have you ever tried to rush through a turnstile? You put your token in and push quickly against the bar. It pulls you up short. So you push harder and faster. It does not give. To get through you must stop, have patience and gently push the bar forward. It unlocks and spins forward. In anxiety, I keep pushing harder and harder on the bar, getting more and more frantic. I was stuck.
Somehow I broke free a few weeks ago. Was it the couple’s weekend at Shalom Mountain? Was it a visit to New York City to see “The Gates?” Was it a bit of medication? I do not know.
Was it yoga? I have been going to a yoga studio regularly and frequently for about three months. Suddenly I was breathing deeply again. I was finding stillness and relaxation. I was finding a center. Did the yoga break the anxiety or did the break in anxiety open up the yoga? Who knows?
I have been conflicted about going to yoga. It takes time and a lot of my energy. And it does not add to the Gross National Product. It does not make a difference in the world, only in me. It is not productive. And if it is not productive, how could it have value?
“Productive” and “value” are loaded words for me. I was taught early that in order for me to have value in the world, I had to be productive. For many years I was very productive, doing volumes of work. It defined me. After I stopped working I struggled with my lack of production. So I convinced myself that the real issue was quality, not quantity. I was doing a low volume of things that directly helped people. That was better than a high volume of work that did nothing but produce money. This argument gave me my value back.
When I made yoga a focus in my life I did not fit into the measures of either quantity or quality. It had no production at all. So I was conflicted and I fought it.
At the last Gathering I was deep into a process with a partner in which I was asked, “What is your truth?” I would speak my truth and then the question would be asked again. Each time the answer came from a deeper place. Suddenly I voiced that my truth was that I wanted to make yoga the priority in my life. I felt a rush of freedom and relief. I was no longer bound by production and value. This was true letting go. I knew that my truth was right for me.
Since that night I have been breathing deeply a lot. When people ask me how I am I reply that I am happy. I describe my energy as calm and smooth. They ask, “Who are you and what have you done with Jim?”
I have known intuitively for some time that my life is now about surrender and letting go. But I fight it. I like to take things on. Instead, I am dropping things off and sitting in the stillness. I am providing an opening and watching for what shows up.
All of this is very new. I do not trust it. Part of me is waiting for it to end. I am so used to the three sectioned revolving door of anxiety, depression and living. The smallest section was living as I constantly revolved through the three.
Today I am sitting outside the door. I am not going anywhere. To my surprise, I often smile to myself. I feel blessed. And my heart is open again.
I could not have done this without all of you. I could not have done this without my family, friends, fellow retreatants, walkers on the paths of Central Park, the students at the yoga studio and those at the Gatherings. I could not do what I do in a vacuum. I need all of you to help me through and to continuously call me to love and be loved.
I had been gone for so long, locked up in a struggle with anxiety. All of my efforts were focused on the future and I heard little of the present. I do not have clarity on the number of months that slipped by this way. I was going through the motions of life, doing the best I could, but the joy of life escaped me.
And my heart was closed. When I was anxious, I did not like myself and I did not want to be seen. When I do not want to be seen, I close my heart.
It was like being caught in a subway turnstile. Have you ever tried to rush through a turnstile? You put your token in and push quickly against the bar. It pulls you up short. So you push harder and faster. It does not give. To get through you must stop, have patience and gently push the bar forward. It unlocks and spins forward. In anxiety, I keep pushing harder and harder on the bar, getting more and more frantic. I was stuck.
Somehow I broke free a few weeks ago. Was it the couple’s weekend at Shalom Mountain? Was it a visit to New York City to see “The Gates?” Was it a bit of medication? I do not know.
Was it yoga? I have been going to a yoga studio regularly and frequently for about three months. Suddenly I was breathing deeply again. I was finding stillness and relaxation. I was finding a center. Did the yoga break the anxiety or did the break in anxiety open up the yoga? Who knows?
I have been conflicted about going to yoga. It takes time and a lot of my energy. And it does not add to the Gross National Product. It does not make a difference in the world, only in me. It is not productive. And if it is not productive, how could it have value?
“Productive” and “value” are loaded words for me. I was taught early that in order for me to have value in the world, I had to be productive. For many years I was very productive, doing volumes of work. It defined me. After I stopped working I struggled with my lack of production. So I convinced myself that the real issue was quality, not quantity. I was doing a low volume of things that directly helped people. That was better than a high volume of work that did nothing but produce money. This argument gave me my value back.
When I made yoga a focus in my life I did not fit into the measures of either quantity or quality. It had no production at all. So I was conflicted and I fought it.
At the last Gathering I was deep into a process with a partner in which I was asked, “What is your truth?” I would speak my truth and then the question would be asked again. Each time the answer came from a deeper place. Suddenly I voiced that my truth was that I wanted to make yoga the priority in my life. I felt a rush of freedom and relief. I was no longer bound by production and value. This was true letting go. I knew that my truth was right for me.
Since that night I have been breathing deeply a lot. When people ask me how I am I reply that I am happy. I describe my energy as calm and smooth. They ask, “Who are you and what have you done with Jim?”
I have known intuitively for some time that my life is now about surrender and letting go. But I fight it. I like to take things on. Instead, I am dropping things off and sitting in the stillness. I am providing an opening and watching for what shows up.
All of this is very new. I do not trust it. Part of me is waiting for it to end. I am so used to the three sectioned revolving door of anxiety, depression and living. The smallest section was living as I constantly revolved through the three.
Today I am sitting outside the door. I am not going anywhere. To my surprise, I often smile to myself. I feel blessed. And my heart is open again.
I could not have done this without all of you. I could not have done this without my family, friends, fellow retreatants, walkers on the paths of Central Park, the students at the yoga studio and those at the Gatherings. I could not do what I do in a vacuum. I need all of you to help me through and to continuously call me to love and be loved.
February 25, 2005
Donuts for Sex
You never know when just the right information will hit your email inbox. Atkins Nutritionals sent me the following official information: “Losing weight can improve your sex life.” Seven little words have changed my life.
It thought that things like a weekend of tantra at Shalom Mountain would improve my sex life. But it seems that the key to ecstasy is shedding pounds. I cannot wait to get started.
I have a problem when it comes to dieting. I do not have pounds to spare. So I am going to have to gain weight in order to diet.
This is like the double bonus on Jeopardy. Instead of buying a lifetime gym membership, I am calling Krispy Kreme today. I want a permanent seat next to the luscious waterfall of liquid sugar that cascades over each donut as it comes down the assembly line. A small side funnel should not hurt the flow.
And where is all of the leftover Valentine’s candy? I am ready for it now. How far off is Halloween?
I figure it will take me a week to gain twenty pounds. And then it will take about two years to lose it. Who cares? For two years my sex life will be improving every day. Talk about learning to suffer!
At the end of two years of constant enjoyment, I will have to slink my way back to Krispy Kreme to start the cycle all over again. I will be the one who looks tired but is wearing a big smile.
It thought that things like a weekend of tantra at Shalom Mountain would improve my sex life. But it seems that the key to ecstasy is shedding pounds. I cannot wait to get started.
I have a problem when it comes to dieting. I do not have pounds to spare. So I am going to have to gain weight in order to diet.
This is like the double bonus on Jeopardy. Instead of buying a lifetime gym membership, I am calling Krispy Kreme today. I want a permanent seat next to the luscious waterfall of liquid sugar that cascades over each donut as it comes down the assembly line. A small side funnel should not hurt the flow.
And where is all of the leftover Valentine’s candy? I am ready for it now. How far off is Halloween?
I figure it will take me a week to gain twenty pounds. And then it will take about two years to lose it. Who cares? For two years my sex life will be improving every day. Talk about learning to suffer!
At the end of two years of constant enjoyment, I will have to slink my way back to Krispy Kreme to start the cycle all over again. I will be the one who looks tired but is wearing a big smile.
January 19, 2005
Three Yellow Buses
On my bulletin board hangs a drawing made by a three year old with the caption “Awaken to the Exuberance of the Day.” The usual stick figure and swirl of primary colors were created by me during an art process at a Gathering at least twelve months ago. I do not remember the process. I do not remember the instructions. But I remember the results.
My intent was to create an image of how I wanted to wake up every morning. I am not one of those people who slides out of bed and feels the way to the coffee pot. For them only deep breathing will do until the caffeine hits the bloodstream. I am one of those obnoxious perky people who hits the floor running with a smile and a cheery greeting. At least sometimes I am. On good days I am.
The moment of waking is a crucial part of my day. It is at that critical place that I decide how my day will be. This morning I awoke from a dream in which I was spending my time at work doing nothing, trying to look like I was doing something, and hiding out. How was I going to fill out my time sheets to bill clients if I was doing nothing? Doing nothing at work is hard. I have not worked in thirteen years. Some things just do not let go.
My malaise at work in my dream hit the reality of my awakened state and stuck. Today was not going to be a good day. I did not have any particular word that I attached to my beginning attitude, but if I had had one, it would not have been “exuberance.”
A morning attitude, good or bad, is like a pair of glasses that I put on for the day. Sometimes it comes from a dream. Sometimes it is like a hangover from the night before. These glasses are a filter through which all of the events of the day will be processed. How I greet these events will depend on whether I put on a good filter or a bad filter.
“Good” and “bad” sound judgmental and God forbid I should be judging myself. I have searched for other words. Several years ago I used to wake up every day convinced that the nature of the day ahead was written on my bedroom wall. Up at the top of the beige blank slate was one of two words: “shitty” or “good.” You can probably guess which one prevailed. So you see, good and bad are a step up in my world.
I am learning that there are other worlds out there. Better systems of morning attitudinal adjustment exist. I was wowed by the system of Christopher, the fifteen year old autistic narrator of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon. He counts the cars he sees from his morning school bus. If he passes four red cars in a row, it will be a Good Day. Three red cars in a row means a Quite Good Day. Five red cars means a Super Good Day. Four yellow cars in a row means a Black Day. On a Black Day he will not speak to anyone, will not eat lunch, will sit alone in the corner all day and will take no risks.
I love his system. It is orderly, even if illogical. Even he could see that it was not logical, but it worked for him. Is it any more illogical than my system of looking for words on the bedroom wall? Or just waiting for some lousy attitude to descend?
My system is not working. I am not “embracing the exuberance” too often. Too often my pair of glasses is dark and smoky. So I am adopting a new system. If I see two yellow school buses in a row, it will be a Good Day. If I see three yellow school buses in a row, it will be an Exuberant Day. If I see seven red school buses, it will be a Black Day. Who wants a Black Day anyway? I would miss lunch.
I have more to say about this, but the school day is starting soon and I have to hurry down to the elementary school before I wake up.
My intent was to create an image of how I wanted to wake up every morning. I am not one of those people who slides out of bed and feels the way to the coffee pot. For them only deep breathing will do until the caffeine hits the bloodstream. I am one of those obnoxious perky people who hits the floor running with a smile and a cheery greeting. At least sometimes I am. On good days I am.
The moment of waking is a crucial part of my day. It is at that critical place that I decide how my day will be. This morning I awoke from a dream in which I was spending my time at work doing nothing, trying to look like I was doing something, and hiding out. How was I going to fill out my time sheets to bill clients if I was doing nothing? Doing nothing at work is hard. I have not worked in thirteen years. Some things just do not let go.
My malaise at work in my dream hit the reality of my awakened state and stuck. Today was not going to be a good day. I did not have any particular word that I attached to my beginning attitude, but if I had had one, it would not have been “exuberance.”
A morning attitude, good or bad, is like a pair of glasses that I put on for the day. Sometimes it comes from a dream. Sometimes it is like a hangover from the night before. These glasses are a filter through which all of the events of the day will be processed. How I greet these events will depend on whether I put on a good filter or a bad filter.
“Good” and “bad” sound judgmental and God forbid I should be judging myself. I have searched for other words. Several years ago I used to wake up every day convinced that the nature of the day ahead was written on my bedroom wall. Up at the top of the beige blank slate was one of two words: “shitty” or “good.” You can probably guess which one prevailed. So you see, good and bad are a step up in my world.
I am learning that there are other worlds out there. Better systems of morning attitudinal adjustment exist. I was wowed by the system of Christopher, the fifteen year old autistic narrator of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon. He counts the cars he sees from his morning school bus. If he passes four red cars in a row, it will be a Good Day. Three red cars in a row means a Quite Good Day. Five red cars means a Super Good Day. Four yellow cars in a row means a Black Day. On a Black Day he will not speak to anyone, will not eat lunch, will sit alone in the corner all day and will take no risks.
I love his system. It is orderly, even if illogical. Even he could see that it was not logical, but it worked for him. Is it any more illogical than my system of looking for words on the bedroom wall? Or just waiting for some lousy attitude to descend?
My system is not working. I am not “embracing the exuberance” too often. Too often my pair of glasses is dark and smoky. So I am adopting a new system. If I see two yellow school buses in a row, it will be a Good Day. If I see three yellow school buses in a row, it will be an Exuberant Day. If I see seven red school buses, it will be a Black Day. Who wants a Black Day anyway? I would miss lunch.
I have more to say about this, but the school day is starting soon and I have to hurry down to the elementary school before I wake up.
November 21, 2004
A Good Dose
Everyone needs a good dose once in awhile. Or daily. My mother was a believer in the wonders of castor liver oil. I believe that I was in the last generation who received this remedy. I can still see that swooping serving spoon coming at me. I would wrinkle my face and my mother would always say, “It’s good for you.” Then I would be hit with the first belt of bitterness and the oil would ooze from the corners of my mouth. At the final swallow I would blanch with eyes scrunched and face grimaced. There, I was done for the day. I got what I needed.
Sometimes the thought of a dose of intimacy creates a similar feeling for me. I know that I need it because I have been told so. But I do not really believe that it is going to feel good. In my mind it could hurt more than it might help.
Connection comes hard for me. Disconnection is more my natural state, my default mode. I would rather pursue rugged individualism. When a Gathering is coming up I never say or feel, “Won’t it be great to be with a bunch of people Wednesday night?” Because I have been to many Gatherings, I know in my head that it will be great. But I cannot make that connection with my heart. I cannot make the connection to anticipate the joy.
Despite this limitation, I work hard at intimacy. I define intimacy as two or more people sharing their feelings and what is truly going on in their lives. I work hard at it because it has transformed my life.
Twelve years ago I was at the ground zero of my life. Everything had been blasted away and I was dealing with a blank slate. My days were fairly vacant. At first I spent most of the day at home alone with my books. I knew I needed people and eventually I would go out at midday to the mall so that I would be near people. I could eat lunch and read my books in the midst of strangers. It was the best that I could do at intimacy.
But over time I progressed. At some point I needed a calendar to keep track of my events. I started consciously scheduling luncheons with friends so that the white blocks on my calendar would not look so white. I would get on a roll and schedule two or three, and they would happen over the next two or three weeks. And then my calendar would be blank again and I would start another round of calls. But in the meantime there would be a gap. Eventually I learned to make rolling calls to get rid of those gaps.
All of that took hard work and it still does. But my calendar now regularly contains many events of intimacy. I checked on November: a Gathering, the Couples Festival, one artist opening, two dinners, one meeting for coffee, seven lunches and five men’s group meetings. All of these events were wonderful and I had great times.
And all of this is in addition to the intimacy in my nuclear family, who gives me the greatest and most important opportunities for intimacy.
Intimacy does not come naturally for me. And yet I do it anyway. I hope that some day I will be all excited about some upcoming events. But until then, I will keep filling up my dance card and dance with wonderful people. I do this because I have experienced the difference it makes in my life. I get a good dose of what I need.
Sometimes the thought of a dose of intimacy creates a similar feeling for me. I know that I need it because I have been told so. But I do not really believe that it is going to feel good. In my mind it could hurt more than it might help.
Connection comes hard for me. Disconnection is more my natural state, my default mode. I would rather pursue rugged individualism. When a Gathering is coming up I never say or feel, “Won’t it be great to be with a bunch of people Wednesday night?” Because I have been to many Gatherings, I know in my head that it will be great. But I cannot make that connection with my heart. I cannot make the connection to anticipate the joy.
Despite this limitation, I work hard at intimacy. I define intimacy as two or more people sharing their feelings and what is truly going on in their lives. I work hard at it because it has transformed my life.
Twelve years ago I was at the ground zero of my life. Everything had been blasted away and I was dealing with a blank slate. My days were fairly vacant. At first I spent most of the day at home alone with my books. I knew I needed people and eventually I would go out at midday to the mall so that I would be near people. I could eat lunch and read my books in the midst of strangers. It was the best that I could do at intimacy.
But over time I progressed. At some point I needed a calendar to keep track of my events. I started consciously scheduling luncheons with friends so that the white blocks on my calendar would not look so white. I would get on a roll and schedule two or three, and they would happen over the next two or three weeks. And then my calendar would be blank again and I would start another round of calls. But in the meantime there would be a gap. Eventually I learned to make rolling calls to get rid of those gaps.
All of that took hard work and it still does. But my calendar now regularly contains many events of intimacy. I checked on November: a Gathering, the Couples Festival, one artist opening, two dinners, one meeting for coffee, seven lunches and five men’s group meetings. All of these events were wonderful and I had great times.
And all of this is in addition to the intimacy in my nuclear family, who gives me the greatest and most important opportunities for intimacy.
Intimacy does not come naturally for me. And yet I do it anyway. I hope that some day I will be all excited about some upcoming events. But until then, I will keep filling up my dance card and dance with wonderful people. I do this because I have experienced the difference it makes in my life. I get a good dose of what I need.
September 21, 2004
Oto Noto
It has been awhile since I have written anything. Two months ago I was stopped dead in my tracks by vertigo. I will save you all the details about how sick I was because I am tired of talking about it. It is old news.
Some people have urged me to look for the lesson in this illness. Those folks I have shot, so they will not be reading this newsletter. Instead I would prefer to look at the humor in all of this. I have had to look very hard because for a long time there was no humor.
My favorite day was my trip to the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. This is the holy grail in the Boston area for any malady from the neck up. It took many weeks of letting my suburban doctors tell me how much they did not know before I could get to Boston.
Due to an insurance snafu I spent a long time in registration that day. After awhile I was struck by how many blind people were in one place. They kept coming through the lobby. I had not been to Boston for a long time, so I figured it had to be a city thing. Blind people must live in the city. About twenty minutes later it dawned on me where I was – in an EYE Infirmary. My brain was a little slow.
I was released from registration on probationary status and ascended to the medical offices of Otoneurology. That is where they drive through your brain. The secretary proceeded to tell me in a very loud voice about all the forms I was to fill out. Why was she shouting at me? I tried to fill out the forms but she kept shouting at everyone that came in.
I asked my wife, "Why is everyone in here yelling?" Her answer was clear, "Because people can't hear. This is an EAR place. Oto means ear." More evidence that my brain was a little slow.
But my brain was not missing. I have proof now – an MRI of my brain. My nickname in childhood, given by my loving older brothers, was "Head" due to my oversized noggin. I guess they were right because my MRI pictures come in a very large size. I like to think they are oversized because there is so much information stored in my oversized brain. My brothers still say otherwise
I met my new doctor and of course he was younger than me. That seems to happen more and more. Do they send these people directly from nursery school to medical school? What ever happened to more mature doctors?
He wanted to make sure I qualified to be in his hallowed office. So he took my head and shook it in every direction he could think of and then looked at my eye reaction. Did he do this just once? Oh no! Have I felt worse since seeing him? Oh yes!
I have a few more tests before this Harvard Medical School doctor can definitely say that he does not know what is causing my illness. Up to now the medical ignorance is just speculative. Next up is the Full Battery Vestibular Test. They hook up your ears to a car battery and see if they can get smoke to come out your eyes. That will be followed by a VEMP test. That stands for Very Energetic Mind Pummeling. I cannot wait.
After all of this testing I will be easy to spot. I will be the guy with the big head, droopy ears and fire breathing eyes.
Some people have urged me to look for the lesson in this illness. Those folks I have shot, so they will not be reading this newsletter. Instead I would prefer to look at the humor in all of this. I have had to look very hard because for a long time there was no humor.
My favorite day was my trip to the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. This is the holy grail in the Boston area for any malady from the neck up. It took many weeks of letting my suburban doctors tell me how much they did not know before I could get to Boston.
Due to an insurance snafu I spent a long time in registration that day. After awhile I was struck by how many blind people were in one place. They kept coming through the lobby. I had not been to Boston for a long time, so I figured it had to be a city thing. Blind people must live in the city. About twenty minutes later it dawned on me where I was – in an EYE Infirmary. My brain was a little slow.
I was released from registration on probationary status and ascended to the medical offices of Otoneurology. That is where they drive through your brain. The secretary proceeded to tell me in a very loud voice about all the forms I was to fill out. Why was she shouting at me? I tried to fill out the forms but she kept shouting at everyone that came in.
I asked my wife, "Why is everyone in here yelling?" Her answer was clear, "Because people can't hear. This is an EAR place. Oto means ear." More evidence that my brain was a little slow.
But my brain was not missing. I have proof now – an MRI of my brain. My nickname in childhood, given by my loving older brothers, was "Head" due to my oversized noggin. I guess they were right because my MRI pictures come in a very large size. I like to think they are oversized because there is so much information stored in my oversized brain. My brothers still say otherwise
I met my new doctor and of course he was younger than me. That seems to happen more and more. Do they send these people directly from nursery school to medical school? What ever happened to more mature doctors?
He wanted to make sure I qualified to be in his hallowed office. So he took my head and shook it in every direction he could think of and then looked at my eye reaction. Did he do this just once? Oh no! Have I felt worse since seeing him? Oh yes!
I have a few more tests before this Harvard Medical School doctor can definitely say that he does not know what is causing my illness. Up to now the medical ignorance is just speculative. Next up is the Full Battery Vestibular Test. They hook up your ears to a car battery and see if they can get smoke to come out your eyes. That will be followed by a VEMP test. That stands for Very Energetic Mind Pummeling. I cannot wait.
After all of this testing I will be easy to spot. I will be the guy with the big head, droopy ears and fire breathing eyes.
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