Losing One's Point of Reference Makes All Things Possible

"What's on the top floor?" she asked, peering up the twisting wooden stairway.

The owner winced. "Nothing safe. Nothing good."

"Well, then," she whispered, already on the third stair.

At the top, she stood alone, looking around at gleaming plank floors, mostly bare of furniture. Wide windows, no curtains, The light streaming in had a foreign, rushing quality; she'd never seen anything like it.

"We're at the very top, you know. We're going very fast."

She jumped in surprise. She hadn't seen the man sitting quietly on a cushion in the alcove to her right.

"The top? Of what? The house?"

He smiled, knowing. "The world." Nodding toward the window, he sat back and waited.

She was grateful she'd put her hands on the window frame, because the sight of everything flying beneath her at unimaginable speed shook her; she crumpled to the floor.

"How? How is this possible? How can you just sit there?"

"Because we are all traveling unbelievably fast. Always. We're just the ones who can see, you and I. Try again."

More cautiously this time, she edged to the window.

She was in the front seat of the roller coaster. In the engine of the train. On the back of an eagle.

"That we are standing still, safely on the ground, is illusion. No one is. But most of the time, we don't know to look out the windows. Sit with me a while. Try to hold both these thoughts in your mind: safely sitting on a rug on the floor, and at the same time precariously flying through everything we've ever known."

She sat with the small man. He inched closer so his knee was touching hers. They both sat perfectly still, racing at top speed through the universe.

Tales From the (Massage) Table: First, Do No Harm. In Fact, Be Gentle. Really, Really Gentle.

There is a wonderful, lovely woman.  She has lots of health issues, and as a result, goes to lots of doctors, therapists, x-ray people, and so on.  It hurts her to stand, to move, to sit, to ... pretty much everything hurts.

When I first saw her, she had been to a physician, a radiologist, and another healthcare person.  The first had scolded her, the second had rushed her and moved her body abruptly for the scans, and the last tried to be calming, but still insisted on prodding her (probably for good reason -- who knows?).

Bu the time she got to me, she was looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. She was suffering, and not just physically. She was breathless, wild-eyed, worried, panicky, and limping.

The recommendation from one of her providers was that she "needed deep work on her glutes, etc."

Then I heard as her husband helped her get on the massage table, propping her with pillows, adding an icepack onto an aching limb, and positioning her just so. She was nearly crying with pain.  She sounded so hopeless, so upset.  So frantic.

When I came in, she was breathing hard, and talking at me about her aches and pains. Not to me.  At me.  Protecting herself with words.

I stood near her, still.  I said that the recommendation was that she needed "deep work," but perhaps that the last thing she needed today was someone else hurting her.

She stopped talking for a moment.

"What?"

"Well, I thought that perhaps instead of doing anything that would cause you distress or pain, I could just help you feel a little better."

"Oh. Well, ok."

I began lightly, gently, to apply warmed lotion to her back. As I moved over her back, shoulders, and arms, I tucked the other parts into the warm, fluffy blanket so she stayed warm.  I kept my movements steady, rhythmic, gentle.  Her shoulders and arms didn't hurt at all, so I spent some time kneading them, taking advantage of the fact that making something feel good can release endorphins in the body.  Endorphins can start a wonderful cascade of relaxation leading to enjoyment, leading to more relaxation.

Within minutes, I heard her breath slow; I felt her relax.  I gently started working on the "problem areas" on her low back and glutes.  They initially tensed up.  I told her quietly that I was only going to do what the muscles let me, and that I would not try to "fix" them, but just warm them up and help the blood flow more easily.  Before long, her surface muscles let go, and then the deeper muscles began to be more flexible.  I did not attempt any deep pressure or any "goal-related" work.  I just tried to let her muscles know that someone out there was not planning on hurting them today.

After our 30 minute massage (that was all she thought she'd be able to handle), her husband helped her off of the table.  He came out while she dressed, saying, "I can't believe it.  She got such relief in just 30 minutes!"
She came out and hugged me, thanked me, and then walked -- WALKED, not limped -- out.

They came in the very next day for another massage.  This time, she looked like an entirely different person.  She had her hair done, some lipstick on, and she actually looked right at me and smiled.  No talking at me.

This massage was different.  She trusted me immediately, and before long, fell asleep.  At the end, I gently shook her shoulder and said that it was time to rejoin the world she was amazed she had slept.

Because she got such tremendous relief from just a 30 minute massage, she has scheduled two to three short massages a week for the next few months.  I can only hope that she continues to feel better.

Crazy Passionate Post

Oh, what a night.

I'm talking about music, friendship, and more music.  And PEOPLE!  you see, there's this guy -- Bobby Carcasses.  He's a musician from Cuba, and is probably in his 70s.  He sings, plays piano and flugelhorn, drums, you name it.  Oh, and he came here to give a massive concert Friday night.  He was the resident artist for a few days at the university, and then gave a sell-out concert at a big hall.

Last night, we got a call from a colleague of Dr. Smartypantz's, saying that he was having a little reception at his house for Bobby, and would we like to come?  Bring the kids!  Um.  YES!?!

Bobby Carcasses

We show up, and over the next hour or so, people trickle in.  Our kids played with the host's kids and some others who came later.  Soon, the catered food arrived (Jamaican chicken, rice/beans, oxtail, cabbage, and plantains).  A total of maybe 20 adults finally settled in to eat, drink, and be merry.

However, two of Rodney's (the host) kids had had birthdays recently and he had been in Indonesia playing some concerts, so there were birthday cakes!  The kids began clamoring for cake.  Well, you can't have cake without singing "Happy Birthday," right?

Rodney is a bassist, and he has one of his basses in the corner of the living room, along with a cello and various other instruments (electric keyboards, amps, etc.).. 

Rodney

I heard from the living room "ba doom boom boom ba DOOMP ba doo DOOP" being played on the bass.  One of Rodney's students was trying it out, for fun.  Then Rodney took over.  More "baDOOMping."  Then a percussionist grabbed a cardboard box that had held the kids' CapriSun juice packs and ripped it artfully, making a drum pad.  He had his sticks and brushes with him, and so he started sssssshhh-ssshhhh-sshshshhshh--ing.  Somebody else grabbed a tin of Altoid mints and used them as a maraca.

Then the electric piano (in the next room) was being used to get the crowd singing Happy Birthday.  Let me tell you -- that was the best damned version of Happy Birthday I've ever heard.  Bobby started singing along, the two female gospel singers started twirling and flying their beautiful voices over the melody...

Pretty soon, all the instruments got corralled into one room, and they started to play.  Trumpets, 'drums,' piano, singers, Altoids, a beer bottle being tapped with a fountain pen in lieu of a cowbell.  Clapping, stomping, singing, hooting....

Then.  Bobby wanted to sing.  He sat at the keyboard and began.  Gorgeous, soulful Cuban songs.  There were tears in the eyes of so many of us.  He segued to something upbeat and hot.  The drummer joined in, then the trumpets.  Rodney's student played bass.  Pretty soon, Rodney's 3-year-old son grabbed the cello form the other room and planted himself next to the singer and pretended it was a bass.  Nobody stopped him.  Bobby smiled a bit.

Bobby asked the other musicians if they could accompany him on "My FUnny Valentine" in d minor.  And off we went.  He sang.  It was rough -- gravelly.  Gorgeous.  Then he picked up his flugelhorn and played.  One woman was a club singer (jazz mostly) and she started to croon, to sing over his flugelhorn solos.

The best way to describe it was this: imagine being in a room full of regular brown birds.  And every so often, one of them opened up their tailfeathers and became a peacock.  And they would show their azure feathers like it was nothing at all.  Then they'd close them back up, go about their business, as another little brown bird turned into a thing of beauty.

You'd never ever know how amazing these people were from just looking.  There were no stylish fashions.  No Botox or perfect bodies.  No riveting drama.  NOBODY handed out business cards.  Nobody exchanged phone numbers.  No flirting.  No arguing.  No crying in a bathroom.  No tension.

Just people.  Trading places at the piano or the bass.  Dancing in the hallway.  Dancing with the kids. 
Plopping down on the couch next to one of the most famous Cuban musicians in the world.

Allie's Words of Wisdom About DADT

My daughter is 10, and is full of wisdom.  It surprises me from time to time.

When "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was repealed recently, she and I were discussing it.  She is very up on current events, and just couldn't get past why DADT had ever been enacted. 

Her concise, brilliant comment was this:

"The US is supposed to be the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.  You can't be free if you have to lie about who you are, and the government isn't being very brave if they're afraid of gays."

That's my girl.