Depression for the Optimist

I think of so many things and remember so few. 

This morning I lay in bed taking an extremely detailed mental and emotional tour of Dorothy and Pud Frazee’s house.  They were the two sisters who lived next door when I grew up.  Then, without opening my eyes, I tried to remember if the house I live in now has an upstairs.  It does not.

It may be some medication I’m taking or early onset Alzheimer’s, but more than likely it’s this damned chronic depression I live with.  Are you tired of hearing about it?  Gee, I’m sorry.

I learned somewhere in school that the trademarks of depression are hopelessness, haplessness, helplessness.  I think I’ll write my own book about depression and call it Depression for Optimists. 

Depression, I’ve found is much more than being sad.  But it’s one of those diseases that everyone and his uncle has The Ultimate Cure for.  That is, if everyone and his uncle believe it even exists.  Lots of people and their uncles still believe it is laziness or sin or a character fault or all of the above.  If they do acknowledge that depression exists, they really want you to just get over it.  Pull yourself up, think happy thoughts, get a different job, pray more or differently, blah, blah, blah.  When in reality, these same people would probably not tell the same thing to a diabetic.

Oh, I’ll talk to you and probably make you laugh.   Lots of days I’ll put one foot in front of the other.  I’ll think very happy thoughts with you.  And when you leave, I’ll go to bed and cry.  Not about anything, except maybe what a total fraud I am and the fact that I have no idea what I did yesterday or what day of the week it is now. 

People tell me I’m not depressed.  That’s always fun.  I really want to believe them.  They say, “When Uncle Theo was depressed, he yelled at everyone.  You don’t yell at everyone.”  Or “I read a book about depression and it said that depressed people don’t talk much or write or smile at all.”   I read that book, too and I treated your Uncle Theo in therapy for a year and a half. 

People ask, “Why are you depressed,” and I answer because I have a chemical imbalance in my brain.  I’m not grieving for something or someone, though it feels like that a bit.  I have absolutely no reasons to be depressed that come from the outside.  I have enough of everything.  I’m blessed beyond any human comprehension.  And so I smile.

I didn’t used to be such a fraud.  But I learned to be because I really don’t want people I love to hurt, and when I’m depressed, people I love hurt. 

So what would help?  I really don’t know.  If I knew I’d surely do it.  I reckon there are lots of people with this disease who aren’t as optimistic as I am.  They probably don’t write blogs about it.   You see, I’m an expert.  I know I’ll still have periods of life when I feel good.   People with depression who aren’t as expert at it as I am, don’t know necessarily know this.  If you love someone like that, remind them often.  A little part of them might believe you.

.  

Fay of the Stardust Clan

My roommate (OK, so we haven't lived together since college and that was a year or two ago, but I still consider her, My Roommate) is very into genealogy.  And she looked into my family tree for me.  I had some questions about my heritage.  It's just amazing the stuff I'm finding out.  So far, my ancestors seem to share an affinity for marrying the hired help and growing great beards.  You should see Great Aunt Hazel!

My mind continues to be blown regarding this genealogy stuff, not because it's strange, but because it's news to me.  So many family secrets. It's hard to imagine a time (although I understand it) when people felt as if they had to lose their "Jewishness" on the boat over here, or hide the fact that their father was "no good Irish." I'm trying to get my mind around feeling a part of any tribe of human beings. 

 

I was going to say I'm proud of my heritage and it's not untrue, however, I would be just as proud if my heritage reveals Inuit or African or Chinese or. . . . Gourd help me, Australian roots. The bottom line is we are all mammals on planet Earth, as far as I know. That's about the smallest tribe to which I'll identify. 

 

In fact, I feel more at ease with trees and other animals than I do with most human beings. Maybe my tribe is "living" beings on Planet Earth. Well, you know, I've always had a strong attraction to many rocks - geodes, mica, those smooth black river stones - and the rivers.  The Mississippi River and I are in love.  Maybe my tribe is Things on Planet Earth. Or maybe it's just Planet Earth.

 

Come to think of it, we are all of us born of stardust. We are all of us the Universe.

 

Hello, I'm happy to meet you.  I am Fay of the Stardust Clan.

 

Now what was my question about heritage, again?

Recession TV

I'll be so happy when this economy is straightened out.  And it's not just the housing and inventing crisis that are bothering me today.  Oh, no, I'm concerned about something that touches every American where it hurts - Recession TV. I long for the good ol' days when television producers actually made entertaining shows with that stuff they used to use - talent.

Now we can choose among any reality show one can imagine as long as ones imagination is the size of a pea.  If one show gets a good share of viewers, there is no need to come up with a new idea, just beat that dead horse until it reincarnates as an ice road crab fisherman.  And not only are the show concepts enough to send a Sophomore to the library, they often spotlight the worst of humanity.

I give you Say Yes to the Dress. This is an ongoing program about spoiled suburban brats demanding that Daddy spends $12,000 on wedding gowns while Nana and 17 bridesmaids huff and puff and a fa-laming designer nearly pulls out his perfect hair in frustration.  Riveting.

How about Storage Wars, a heart wrenching look at the same stereotyped characters bidding on unseen contents of storage buildings?  Wow!    Or the show about cake decorating in which real people put their lives on the line for their profession.  Speaking of careers, you can watch shows about beauty parlors, hotels, tattoo parlors or restaurants which are run by morons and saved by bloodless experts who come in and make everyone cry.  Come one, who doesn't want to watch that!

Do you like programs about the supernatural?  Oh, good, because you can watch Ghost Hunters, Ghost Hunters, International, My Ghost Story Caught on Tape, Celebrity Ghost Stories, Haunted History, America's Most Haunted, The Haunting and I understand new next season, Ghost Storage Wars.

Or maybe you prefer programs about UFOs.  Well, if you do, you are in luck, Baby.  UFO Hunters, Ancient Aliens, UFO Files, UFOs Caught on Tape are some of your choices, not that you're going to be able which one you're watching.  There really are only a hand full of experts on the subject and they are all on each show.

I have my own idea for a completely new show and I think it's going to be a huge success.  I'm going to call it,  My Big Fat Cajun Swamp Alien Wedding Cake Storage Wars.

A Star Is Born - Goodbye Charlie Callahan

My friend Charlie recently died after an extended illness.  That's a polite way of saying that he struggled for every breath he took for a long, long time. 

I got to know Charlie through his blog and we became friends.  I was always amazed that he wanted to be my friend.  I was always astounded and very, very proud when he took the time to comment on my writing because Charlie was one heck of a wordsmith. The best.

He had a razor-sharp wit with which he attempted to cover a heart of glowing gold-white light.  He didn't fool me.  He lived a lot harder than a lot of people.  He took full responsibility for harming his body with his nasty habits.  That's a polite way of saying addictions.  He was in recovery from the drugs, but unfortunately they had already done their dirty work. I'm not telling secrets out of school, by the way.  Charlie became an educator about alcoholism.  An educator that knew his time was precious and he wasted none of it judging people.

He did, however, judge books.  He critiqued them.  A wise, well-read, spark-shooting, honest, intelligent (oh, I can hear him now telling me to cut the crap) man who understood the value of adding four legged folks to ones family.

As you might imagine, Charlie had a large following, including lots of women of all ages who regularly professed their love and emailed their hugs to him.  Alas, Charlie had Martha,  to whom he often referred.  I only know her through Charlie's writings, but I reckon she must be a sort of ever-patient angel who wasn't afraid to use a cattle prod when necessary.  The perfect woman for him.

I so wanted to write a perfect column for him.   Maybe a breath-taking poem (Oh, sorry about that pun, Charlie!).  And maybe I'll be able to do that one day soon.  But right now, I'm crying too hard to think about meter and rhythm and rhyme and I'll be damned if I'll write a half-assed poem for Charlie.  

I like the idea that the Universe continues to expand because every good person's death becomes a new star.  The Heavens will be lit quite well now.

To say I'll miss him is such an understatement that it misses the point.  So I'll just say, Thanks, Charlie.  I'll catch you later.

What ever gets you through the night

As we settle into the election process for the most powerful person in the world (maybe) I just can't get myself to feel much except embarrassment.  Really?  This is the best we can do?  A bunch of used tissues that know how to put down the competition and do it readily with lots of money that comes from. . . .where do you reckon? 

But the headline says Actress stuns in plunging lace gown!

You don't really still believe in a democracy sort of thing where one person gets one vote and those elected actually care about individuals?  I mean, you actually know that whole idea is a unicorn, right?  Pay no attention to those corporations behind the curtain.  It's so much easier that way.

Who will continue on American Idol?

My spring flowers are blooming.  It's January.  I'm so relieved to remember that global warming is just a bit of liberal propaganda!  Whew!  And really, as far as I know there is no such thing as a Polar Bear anyway. And even if they do exist, what have they done for me lately?

New evidence proves Big Foot is in charge of Area 51!

The sheriff of a neighboring county has publicly encouraged women to get concealed weapons permits and stay armed.  A customer in a waffle house saw a young man demanding cash from the cashier.  The customer pulled his weapon and shot the young man dead.  No charges were filed, but the customer got his breakfast for free.

Photograph shows Dalai Lama eating cheese burger!

In the past year there was legislation proposed in at least one state to outlaw fast food restaurants from giving toys away in kids' meals because it encouraged childhood obesity.  No one seemed to realize that children seldom drive themselves to the drive thru.  More importantly, what we teach in school cafeterias is vastly different from what we teach in nutrition and health classes.  But dang, vegetables are expensive, aren't they?  I mean, I heard they were. 

The one cosmetic surgery you can't afford to go without!

The free clinic isn't taking new patients.  They are over-burdened and certainly underfunded.   But the emergency room down the street is taking the overflow. Oh, sure, it's the most expensive health care in the Universe, but so what?   Wait. . . . who ends up paying for that in the end? We don't have a broken health care system, but those without insurance have no health care system at all.

Eight herbs that can help you live to 100!

How much do you reckon we spend on law enforcement to make sure no one smokes cannabis, a plant that's been considered medicinal for millennia?  Can't be that much, right?  Besides, I heard it leads to hard drug use.  Why can't those people just have a martini like normal people?

It's a miracle! Picture of Jesus found in stain on mental hospital floor

I don't pretend that supporting a big fancy building that sits empty most of the week makes me a better person or that it helps the community one iota.  But it might help me keep my job.  Let's just come out with it, it's got more to do with Benjamin than Jesus.

But hey, if you want to pretend that money doesn't buy elections, that anyone with a will to succeed in America can do so, that Jesus will save you from obesity, or that the tooth fairie is going to make your next mortgage payment; you just go right ahead.   It's all right.  It's all right.

Frosty Roads

It was in the seventh grade that I first read The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost.  At first read it was the image of being in leafy woods, alone with Nature, that drew me closer.  I could smell the leaves, yellow and brown and I drew a still closer.  The air was crisp and once I reached down to feel the softness of the grass I couldn't help myself .  I tumbled headlong into that poem and have never really left it.        

A bit older than when I first fell into the poem, but certainly not wise, I truly believed there was one best road for me and if I looked carefully enough I would see which one it was.  They all looked good to me then.  And although I couldn't see what lay beyond the bend in the road, there was no reason to believe that it would be anything less perfect than what I could see from that painless vantage. 

And so we, my friends and I, like woodland faeries scattered with the breeze.  Some landed well. They found destinations. But I wasn't ready for a destination, and I thought that I could always find my way back to where the roads split and make a different choice.  It couldn't be that serious.  It was only beautiful, timeless, carefree routes through a lovely wood. I thought to know all the roads.  My plan was to do it all.  Simple.  Spring, summer, autumn days stretched out endlessly with not a sign of winter.

And down the road I went and found so many turns.  A tree fallen across the path.  A bridge washed out, but never mind.  I trekked to the nearest, clearest turn, sometimes cross-country.  Sometimes through moss, sometimes though briers.  I began to understand that way leads on to way and I doubted that I would ever go back.
II found a fellow traveler, and tired of choosing by myself, followed him for a while.   Sometimes the road was rocky and the grass overgrazed and brown and I longed for those first two roads, both beautiful and inviting.  Only two. So easy.  I thought about the title.  It is not The Road Less Travelled.  It is The Road Not Taken.  

And so I tell my story with a sigh.  Did the poem mean a sign of regret?  Of joy?  Of frustration? If we quickly turn to see where we've been the setting sun temporarily blinds us and we see only that - the setting sun.

I chose.  We all chose.  We chose our roads without seriousness or guilt, but with every consequence.  And I continue to choose, refusing the illusion of a destination. And every time I choose it makes all the difference.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
For it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Though knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood , and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Even if the World Continues

I wish you all a happy Wear Brown Shoes Day, Civil Aviation Day, Bathtub Party Day, Eat Red Apple Day, Roof Over Your Head Day, Maple Syrup Day, Ice Cream Day, Chocolate Covered Anything Day, Cotton Candy Day, St. Nicholas' Day, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Lemon Cupcake Day, Bake Cookies Day, Chocolate Day, Eggnog Day, Fruitcake Day, Boxing Day, Date Nut Bread Day, Chanukah, Pumpkin Pie Day and Bicarbonate of Soda Day.  I poo you not, these are all holidays in December.  No wonder I'm voluptuous and confused.

And I hope you all have a happy new year.  I reckon that even before the world ends less than a year from now, 2012 will be an interesting year.  I have broken my resolution to never make an other resolution and have resolved the following:

1)  I resolve to not waste what isn't mine and remember it's all borrowed.
2)  I resolve to be conscious of the times I am not kind and try to minimize them.
3)  I resolve to not miss an opportunity to dance - even if I'm relatively sure I'll fall down.
4)  I resolve to turn my consciousness to here and now when I catch myself thinking of when and then.
5)  I resolve to look at the sky and be grateful daily.
6)  I resolve to waste less, and drink more, water.
7)  I resolve to waste less time on negative emotion and laugh more.
8)  I resolve to remember always that life is short and try to widen it.
9)  I resolve to celebrate more and mourn less.
10) I resolve to be in awe daily.

Ten is a lot of resolutions for someone who hasn't made one in a few decades.  If you see me behaving as if these were not my resolutions, please knock me up side the head, or remind me in some gentler way.  And in case the world doesn't end next December, remind me to resolve these again next year.

Oh, and have a happy Festivus!

Words to Scratch By

A million years ago when I rode my dinosaur to grad (how to be a psychotherapist) school, the other grad asses and I kept a quote board.  The rule was that you actually had to have heard or read the statement in order to post it.  I recreate it here from memory and have added worthy quotes I've run across more recently.

I can't stand intolerance.

Oh, Israel, to conquer Death you only have to die.

They said I had a bad attitude, but I don't give a shit.

Delusions of grandeur make me feel better about myself.

I'm glad I'm not an alcoholic because then I'd have to quit and I don't think I could.

I have a very highly focused sense of vagueness.

Give me ambiguity or give me something else.

It takes a big man to admit he's small.

I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.

Some people are sane all their lives.  How boring they must be!

The here and now ain't what it used to be.

It's better to be mad and know it than to be sane and have ones doubts.

It is a dangerous man who has rationalized his emotions.

Sometimes the only sane thing to do is become mad.

I don't recommend psychosis for everyone, but it works for me.

It's a mighty fine delusion to believe you're free of them.

Doubt is uncomfortable.  Certainty is ridiculous.

Life is like a waterfall.  (Don't ask, I've no idea.)

She was as deaf as a bat.

Now, it isn't every day that you need one of these gems of wisdom.  But it's good to have them handy, just in case.

Honey Memories

When I was sixteen I was incredibly spoiled.  My parents gave me my grandfather's old car.  She was a tan-ish '66 Ford Galaxy 500 - square tail lights - with a white top, four doors, an AM Philco, and 352 under the hood.  I don't know what that last bit means, but someone told me that, and when other cool kids asked, "So, what's she got inner?"  I'd say "352," and nod knowingly.   Her name was Honey and I and 5 of my closest friends could ride around in her all night.  All night meant till possibly midnight on a weekend. 

Riding around was the main activity in the early '70s in Carthage Illinois. We'd do the square and then do the lake, and maybe even do the college, then back to the square.  I don't know how we did it, but we could recognize a friend's car's head or tail lights.  Just practice, I guess.  It's a very good thing gas was cheap because Honey probably didn't get more than 10 mpg.

It's not that riding around was all we did.  Sometimes I'd get a wild hair and I'd drag race Honey on the red bridge road.  I could take anyone in ten telephone poles.  Couldn't take anyone in five.  Honey took a bit to get going, but once she got there, she just took off. Fifteen years ago, when my father was dying and couldn't get out of a wheelchair, I told him about racing Honey.  He gave me The Look, which had actually stopped having the desired effect on me a few decades earlier, and said, "You raced that car!"  I said, "Not only did I race her, but I also dragged in your Cougar."  He asked, "Did you win?"  I said "Always."  He said, "That's good."  It's a good thing Mom wasn't present or I'd still be grounded.

Sometimes there would be a party at the lake.  We'd all pile in Honey and ride around until we got up enough nerve and then we'd join a bunch of others at the lower circle or the spillway and try to act cool, while not actually drinking any of the Boones Farm.  However, once one of the Dion boys taught me how to inhale a cigarette and blow smoke through my nose.  Those Dion boys!  Sure they looked innocent enough, but you really had to watch them.  In fact, dating a Dion or two was sort of a right of passage back then in Carthage.

Sometimes, my friend Jacque and I, budding wannabe hippy folk singers that we were, would actually take our guitars and sit and play and sing on the court house steps - right in the middle of the square.  Talk about bold.  Oh, we were out there! And Nichols and I. . . .well, we had "urinary incidents" allllll over that town.  We'd get to laughing and it was all over.  Yep.  We were cool.  Sometimes we'd even go riding around after a the lot of us got together and made and ate spaghetti at one or an other's house.

We'd keep track of all the big news.  Who was goin' with whom.  Who was sitting close to whom in the car (pre-bucket seats).  Possibly even who had gone all the way.  Though certainly none of my girlfriends did that at sixteen!  My girls and I were especially nerdy, even for Carthage in the early '70s.  I'm not sure we knew what second base was.  Just ask any Dion.

Honey saw it all and heard it all.  She was a great car.  A tank of a car.  A boat of a car.  Several people could and did fit in her trunk in cases of drive-in economics or dumping freshmen (catch a freshman, stick him in the trunk and then drop him off in the country somewhere).

Honey was simple and friendly, just the right things for the time and the place. The engine made sense.  You could see the parts.  If she got flooded, I'd take off the air filter and hold down the butterfly valve while someone else started her. Easy-peasy.

Now I'm all concerned about fuel-savings and XM radios with ten gazillion stations and I just expect things like air bags and GPS and all sorts of gadgets to break and go wrong.  The cars I'm looking at now would nearly fit in Honey's trunk.  If I could have that car back for a weekend in 1972 - just one weekend would be enough, mind you - I'd fit the whole spaghetti group in her and we'd do that square and park out at the lower circle and we would look up at the millions of stars and we would know just how incredibly fortunate we were.

A Middle-aged Leaf

I asked for a dream that would help me and I dreamed of a colorful maple leaf floating on a still lake.

My friend said the maple leaf has no ability to manipulate its path or change its destination. He said it's controlled by the flow of the lake and will eventually be washed onto shore and left, as the water continues on its path.

I'm glad it wasn't his dream.

I think the beautiful maple leaf was at the end of her season on the tree.  Once a yellow-green bud, she'd grown into a large green leaf - one of hundreds of thousands.  She worked hard with photosynthesis, providing shade for what was below, providing protection for bird, squirrel, and beings she didn't even know.  She often provided a meal for a small worm or two.  She turned her face to greet the sun each day.  Then over the course of a few day she turned red and yellow and seemed to shimmer in the autumn sun.

One day she just let go.  She floated gently down and landed on the silver lake beneath her branch.  She enjoyed being held and gently rocked there.  It was another season, though a shorter one.  She became a raft for dragonfly faeries and a nursery for water insects and a model for a photographer. The water grew colder and it pulled her down where she lay on the sand and rocks under the water. 

There she completed releasing her energy.  She was no longer leaf.  She became snail, fertile mud, insect, fish, oxygen, nitrogen and the cycle continued.

Answers to Musical Questions.

1.  If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why oh, why can't I?
    You are not a bird.

2. Why do fools fall in love?
    Non-fools know better.

3. Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?
    Those are vultures and you're on your last leg.

4. How much is that doggy in the window?
    It had better be a shelter window because no one should buy animals from pet shops.

5. What was that promise that you made?
    Never to tell you your zipper is down.

6. Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
    He's just been out riding fences without a saddle for too damn long.

7. Will you still love me tomorrow?
    Tomorrow maybe, next week. . . . not so sure.

8.  Why do the stars go on shining, the sea keep on rushing to shore?
     The light from millions of stars is just now reaching our atmosphere; usually it's the  gravitational pull of  the moon  which creates tides and the mixing of cold and warmer water which creates motion.  However, if a big earthquake happens or a big ol' space rock hits the ocean, it may cause a tsunami.

9.  How'd she get them trousers on?
     She got flat on her back on her bed and pulled and tugged at them, zipping them while a girlfriend pulled   the snaps together.

10.  Are the stars out tonight?
      They are there, though whether or not you see them depends on ambient light, cloud cover, your eyesight and whether or not there are trees or buildings in the line of sight.

God is where I live and move and have my being.

I think Moses, Christ, the Buddah, and Mohammed had some very nice ideas, but then people got carried away with interpretting and rephrasing and getting all anal about the whole thing.

Trees aren't like that. They grow against all odds into huge, kind beings. They are strong and resilient. They give and give and give, and then they give. That's all.

Water isn't like religions, either. All water is holy and we do well to remember that. It gives and gives and gives and then it gives. That's all. It continues. It cycles.

The air, the ground - these are the things that save us, just as they saved Jesus and Buddah and Mohammed, if indeed they existed. We know the Earth exists. Here She is. We are part of Her. There is no need to organize or make rules. She's already done that, physics, biology.  We just haven't learned them all yet.

Even when the Earth quakes, the rivers flood, the tornadoes use the trees as missiles or fires burn them - even in destruction they give.

We people fancy ourselves so important as to be able to make the rules, make gods in our image. What funny little fleas (no disrespect meant to fleas). We are incidental bothers, destroyers or appreciaters.

And yet even in our appreciation we receive a gift. Our gift of appreciation of the beauty in which we are enveloped is increased.

I'm reminded of a line from a song from Godspell, All Good Gifts. "No gift have we to offer, for all Thy love imparts, but that which Thou desirest, our humble thankful hearts."  But I don't really think Earth is holding Her breath waiting for us to be greatful. She's much bigger than that.

To me being a Pantheist does not mean that I am not a Christian or a Buddhist or a Flying Spaghettian. I believe Pantheism is just so much bigger than all those. It must include them all, because all they are is people and people are of the Earth.

Now THAT'S Offensive

I'm offended by the way people choose to be offended. 

Ben and Jerry's, a fine American institution to which I contribute regularly, makes arguably the best ice cream in the world.  I like ice cream.  I don't need it, but I like it very much.  So when I heard there was a new flavor out, I was ready, spoon in hand.  But I can not find the new flavor.  Evidently it offends some people.  Not the ice cream, but the name of the ice cream offends.

Jerry's Shweddy Balls flavor is fudge covered rum and chocolate balls in Ben and Jerry's incredibly wonderful vanilla ice cream.  Yum.  But evidently, other fine American institutions find the name of the ice cream so offensive that they have demanded it be taken off grocery shelves. 

Throughout the 1990's more than 100 million children died from illness and starvation. Those 100 million deaths could have been prevented for the price of ten Stealth bombers, or what the world spent on its military in two days!  Most recent statistics state over 13% of the world's population is hungry.

Humans slash and burn forests, shoot endangered species, continue to create and toss plastics, which produce dioxins (big, bad carcinogens) as well as pollute the planet for gazillions of years in the name of convenience.  We continue to drain the Earth of her oil and blast the tops off her mountains so we can burn fossil fuel instead of coming up with better ways to feed our energy addiction. Humans enslave women and children; torture, ridicule and kill each other in the name of God. 

We feed our children's minds on violent video games where they learn that might is right and blowing up other people is cool.  We feed their bodies with junk food including things much more dangerous than fancy ice cream, because they want it, then we pass laws to keep the toys out of happy meals because parents don't have balls enough - shweddy or otherwise - to say no to junk food or to keep them home and make a decent meal. 


44 million Americans have no health insurance coverage.  40 other countries have lower infant mortality rates than the U.S.A.  Do you reckon there might be a connection? 

These are the things that offend me.   

If you find it your moral obligation to save our children from naughty ice cream flavors, would you also spend some of that righteous indignation on filling up your local food pantry?  Would you help your child see the personal value in choosing a plain notebook and donating school supplies with the remainder of the  money?   Would you make recycling a priority.  Would you please at least take your pretty little face out of your ass long enough to see that there are some really important ways you could improve the world that have nothing to do with shweddy balls

I Love You, Dear CPAP

And here I am again,
In love with another machine, incapable of feeling.
But I don't care - you take my breath away and quickly give it back again.
You have given me new life!
You have given me back my dreams!
I wake refreshed, and leave you for the day
But I will always sleep with you, my love.

Connected, as we are,
My nose to your hose.

My Painting

I've been teasing my friend, Will, for years about my painting.  He's an incredible artist.  Beautiful, sensitive, gentle, passionate and very talented.  He'll call and the first thing and last thing I ask is always, "So how's my painting coming along?"  He always makes some excuse.  He once called me demanding, pushy and consuming.  We laugh about that.  He says he doesn't remember saying it.  And I call him Will, just to tick him off.  His name is Bill.

Will died last week. 

That is not supposed to happen.  Even though you've been warning me that you were dying, I just didn't believe you.  I mean, I knew you really weren't painting a picture for me and as long as I didn't have my painting, I just didn't think you'd leave me. 

I always said things like, "We're all dying.  Stop talking about it."  Because I'm selfish and I couldn't bear it.  I am so sorry, Will.  I wish I'd have listened better.

Death of loved ones is always a kick in the pants.  But Will, this has rolled over me like a tank.  I will write something original for you. You deserve at least that, even though I have a blank wall in my bedroom awaiting a painting that will never come.

But for now my friend, I'll let James Taylor do the talkin' for me.  I know you'll understand.

     The sun is surely sinking down, but the moon is slowly rising.
     So this old world must still be spinning 'round and I still love you.
     So close your eyes.  You can close your eyes, it's all right.

     I don't know no love songs, I can't sing the blues anymore.
     Oh, but I can sing this song
     And I will sing this song now you're gone.

I hope your new adventure is even more wondrous than your last.  I'll meet you in the ether, Darlin'.

Happy Equinox

5:04 is going to come pretty ding dang early in the morning.  But that's when I need to be awake, alert, and singing in the season. 

It's the Equinox, Babies!  I know, it will still be the Equinox even if I don't sing it in, but I want to make sure that Autumn knows how very, very welcome She is.  Bring on the crisp, cool air.  Bring on the bright blue days.  I miss these days in the Midwest when we can actually feel that first bite of cold air.  Out with the sauna air, in with the breathable air. 

The Autumnal Equinox is also a time to pray for peace.  I always feel so helpless in the face of all the war and unrest in the world, but the Equinox is a time to remember that I can be peace.  We can be joy.

I remember as a child raking mountains of bright colored leaves in Central Illinois, running and jumping into them. Hiding and popping out to "scare" my cooperative neighbors, Dorothy and Pud as they walked by. I remember the smell and the feel of the leaves and being able to see the strong structure of the naked trees. I remember a green corduroy jacket with plaid flannel lining, and slippery bits and earthy smell of carved bits of pumpkin.  Only Autumn joy and, in spite of my attempt to scare my friends, Autumn peace.

It's not quite time here in South Carolina to rake leaves yet.  I don't actually plan to rake them anyway.  I'll just let them be, no doubt to the dismay of my neighbors who all still believe burning them is a good thing to do.  But this Autumn I resolve to not be angry about that.  I will lead by peaceful example. 

And if any of my neighbors are awake at 5:04 a.m.  they may hear me singing Autumn in.
 (what the heck, they already know I'm nuts)

South Carolina Report

I have lived in South Carolina now for three years and 49 days.  Here is my report:

Language

For the most part, south Carolinians speak Southern, which is a language my Illinois English teacher, Miss Allison, would neither recognize or approve.  The town of Westminster is pronounced Westminister, Boiling Springs is called  Bowlin' Sprangs, and Horry County is understandably pronounced Orry County.

A South Carolinian will say "Bless your heart," when what she means is "You disgust me."  They say things such as "I'm fiddin' to carry Mama to the church suppah and fixer a plate to carry home.  She ain't upta stayin', bless her heart. I swan that woman can pitch a fit! S'about to get on my last nerve, Hon."   That bit of conversation would take about twelve minutes. 

What they call "tea" here is a syrupy sweet iced beverage that will rot your teeth within three minutes of drinking it.  One would assume dentists could make a lot of money here, but evidently, they don't.

Geography
I live in the Upstate, which is actually the northwest corner of the state.  Due West, SC is southeast of here.  Central is in the very northwest corner of the state and Centerville is in the northeast corner.  West Union is 80 miles as the crow flies west of Union.  With the very same crow flying, Ten Mile is about 211 miles from Six Mile.

North Carolina is to our north.  The only thing that separates South Carolina from Alabama is Georgia, a fact which scares me a lot.  The state has magnificent beaches, a touch of mountains and an historic ancient swampland. 

Flora and Fauna
South Carolina is the Palmetto State.  Palmettos are palm trees that are neither tall nor pretty.  While there are cute little lizards called skinks that are sometimes electric blue, there are also little scorpions, fire ants and crunchy grass, which makes going barefoot rather dangerous. The state also has bamboo, cacti and a great diversity of hard and soft wood trees.  There used to be a lot of cotton grown here, but that was before. . . you know. . . and everything was ruined.  I'm not sure why they don't start cropping and milling bamboo instead of trying to get rid of it, but I think it's because it might interrupt the pouting over. . . . you know.

The plants and wildlife are plentiful and diverse which is amazing since things have to grow in red clay instead of black dirt.

Religion
Religion here is quite diverse as well.  There are White Baptists, White Southern Baptists, White Pentacostals, White Independent Baptists, Black Baptists, Black Southern Baptists, Black Pentacostals,  Black Independent Baptists, and two Greek Orthodox Churches that throw a good festival each fall.

Entertainment
A lot of hunting and fishing goes on in South Carolina.  People are especially encouraged to hunt wild boars, which are dangerous, nasty, invasive critters set on taking vengeance on human kind for every hog factory in the country. South Carolinians invented shagging.  No, not that. . . . the dance.  Mostly people go to their church picnics, potlucks, revivals, and Bible study groups if they are not drinking, watching football or shagging.

Weather
South Carolina has hurricanes and heat.  Plenty of both. Three of the four seasons here are summer and winter lasts 2 weeks.  South Carolinians sweat more than the average annual rainfall in New Hampshire. Even Southern Ladies sweat, though it is referred to as glowing. 

Law
Generally this is something that South Carolinians like to handle themselves.  I'm not 100% certain, but I think it's illegal to have a house without at least one gun.  It's also highly recommended that pickup trucks and cars be equipped with a small gun that will fit handily in the glove compartment.  Vehicles usually come with a confederate flag on them somewhere.  Socially liberal drivers may add a bumper sticker that says, "It's Heritage, not Hate."

Food
The state vegetable is collard greens.  (Note to Yankees:  collard, not colored.) These are large, dense, dark green leaves that are wonderful sauteed in some olive oil with garlic and green onion, but any South Carolinian will tell you that is not the way it's done.  Here they boil any flavor out of them with some fat back and sugar.  They also boil peanuts here.  I have no idea why.  The average Sunday supper is something like fried pork chops, fried okra, mashed potatoes and gravy, grits and gravy, macaroni and cheese and sweet tea.  If you're lucky some sweet potato pie.  30.9% of adult South Carolinians are obese. 

History
South Carolina was the first proud state to secede from the Union when ruthless Yankees laid siege to Fort Sumter.  This Southern whooping of Yankee butt led to the War of Northern Aggression, sometimes referred to as That Recent Unpleasantness. If you don't drawl, you refer to it here as. . . you know.
People here generally don't know that the Civil War is over or that the North won.  Of course, the state is ranked 48th in high school graduation rate, so perhaps most people don't actually get to take a history class. 

The Big Question
It's a free country, contrary to some local beliefs, and I could choose to live elsewhere.  After all, the difference between a Yankee and a Damn Yankee is that Damn Yankees move here.

Despite my obvious distaste for much of South Carolina - and please note I didn't even touch on politics - I've met some nice folk down heah. Of course, if this blog gets read by many here, I'm sure I'll have offers to be escorted to the Mason-Dixon Line. My co-workers are gracious, patient people who usually tolerate my Yankeeness.  I love my little house in the woods, the flowers and birds, the ocean and the tiny bit of the Appalachian range that dips into the state. I love the real, honest hospitality I've received when visiting a few churches.  And now that I speak fluent Southern, I enjoy the impromptu conversations with total strangers.  Jesus help me, I've even learned to love cheesy grits.

Will I stay here forever?  The thought makes me about as comfortable as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rockers.  But I sho nuff ain't gettin' any youngah, so who knows?  Bless my heart.

Love Song to Leonard Cohen

It would certainly help if you were familiar with some Leonard Cohen lyrics. Actually, I'm hopeing that he'll read this and realize that all his life I'M what he's been missing. Of course, it will break Eric Clapton's heart when that happens, but hey, Eric's had his turn with me. Now it's Leonard's lucky day.





Look at me, Leonard, when I’m naked in my way
Not for one last time, with filmed vision every day.
Look upon me tenderly and look upon me long
And you’ll know that I’m half crazy just because of a few songs.

You hurt me with democracy
And your silky smooth soft honesty
(Using lint the gaps to fill in
From Buddha, Christ or Dylan
Mix it in with innate wisdom
You don’t even know you own)

But it’s ok and it is righteous
You are speaking to the rest of us
Your eyes and voice I feel so very deep.
And I’ll love you by the river, in the water and the reeds
Until we’re both swept under by the passion of our deeds
Some holy dove above us moves
What water isn’t holy, too?
And all the breaths we’ll breathe are now so few.
I’m sorry that we didn’t meet ‘fore my youth and beauty fleeted
I’m nothing if not a muse you never needed.

Becoming a New Sleeping Woman

I've been feeling as if I've been dragged behind a '73 Pinto with a bad exhaust system over gravel roads every night.  So I went to see Dougie and I told him it was hypothyroidism.  Sure, he's a doctor but I looked it up online. And besides I attended Sister Mary Imabitch's Institution for Emotionally Unstable Nursing Students less than a million years ago.

But that Dougie, he's wise beyond his years. "Do you snore?" he asked.
"Evidently about three husbands worth," I replied.
 He sent me to have a sleep study even though I told him I sleep all the time.  I even fell asleep on the toilet at work. Twice. Not good, really. Sleep study.  How tough can that be?  You go to the hospital and let them watch you while you sleep.  Piece of cake, right? 

So I arrived at the appointed hour and two people stuck 573 electrodes on my head and body.  The ones in my hair were adhered with a combination of Super Glue and Vaseline, and evidently my skin was too smooth so they had to rough it up with a wood rasp before rubbing it with alcohol in order to get the electrodes to stick to my legs, arms and chest.  Then they attached sensors around my eyes and under my nose and basically any place they could find to attach sensors.  Then they pointed out the camera that they'd be watching me with all night.  Then they said, "Goodnight. Sleep well."

One gets really tired being dragged around by a toxin belching Ford night after night, so I went to sleep in spite of all that, until I heard a very loud, deep voice coming from the air above me.

"Miss Campbell."

I immediately came to a sitting position, wires and all. "You can call me Fay, God."

"Miss Campbell, sleep on your back."

I think I usually begin the night on my side, but hey when God tells you to sleep on your back, whatcha gonna do?  I rolled over.  By my reckoning it was about every two seconds that this repeated. Eventually I heard, "Miss Campbell!"  God sounded a bit angry and I wasn't all that happy with him, either.  "Sleep on your back.  You stop breathing when you sleep on your back."

Say what? I thought you wanted me to breathe.  I began to suspect this wasn't God at all.  I rolled over.  Two seconds later. . . "Miss Campbell!  Damnit all anyway, I told you to sleep on your flipping back, now roll over before I come in there and start ripping those electrodes outta your hair!"

That last bit may not be an exact quote, but it had the same tone and intent.  I rolled over.  Again.

The result of the test was that I roused an average of 18.8 times per hour.  Well, duh.  Also I stopped breathing 124 times that night, but honestly, when God starts shouting you awake, I think it's a natural response. The average time of not breathing was 16 seconds and the longest was 47 seconds.  Excuse me?  I can't hold my breath for 47 seconds.  I tried after I read the report.  Couldn't I get some drain bamage from not breathing all those seconds?  Why didn't the technicians or God or whoever rush in and give me some oxygen or something?  

But the good news is, now I get to wear a Darth Vadar type mask at night now.  The mask is attached to a hose which is attached to a pump that forces air into my mouth and nose.  It also has a humidifier so my dainty little mucous membranes don't dry out.  I mean, we wouldn't want this to be uncomfortable.  There is a setting which will cause the pressure to sneak up on me over 20 minutes.  The machine goes from 2 to 16 and evidently I need 16 to make sure I breathe.  This is sort of like sticking the hose you use to fill your flat tires into your mouth and breathing naturally.  There is a learning curve.  And the coolest part is there is a little computer chip that allows my doctor and the insurance company (which actually runs the world) to know when I go to bed, how many times I get up to pee, how often I stop breathing, etc.  How comforting is that! 

But the very best news is that my pulmonologist told me I'd be a new woman once I started using this machine regularly.  She didn't say who. So I told Dougie, who is a genius, a miracle worker, and a really cool guy no matter what his wife says, that I wanted to be a 30 year old, happy, healthy, slim woman with long heavy black hair, green eyes, and the IQ I actually had when I was 30.  He said he'd see what he can do.  I'm psyched!

Happy Birthday Fiddy-Six

I'm fixin' to be fiddy-six.  Now, isn't that just a good enough age to be?  My hair is getting more and more silver, which is a beautiful color for hair.  I am free of trends and fashions.  I am comfortable in my thinning skin.  I laugh at myself. Sure I can speak my mind, but I can also speak my heart without embarrassment or fear.

I'm not crazy about the aches and pains and I'm certain  that I used to be smarter.  But I'm also certain I'm wiser now.  And at the end of the day, I reckon wisdom trumps smarts. 

I don't really understand the obsession our culture has with sustaining youth.  Just glance at those magazines in the checkout line.  Everyone of them promises the secret to feeling and looking younger.  Why is that?  At what age do we stop wishing to be a bit older and start wishing to be a bit younger?  I guess it must be around 27 for most people.  I think that's such a waste.  I'm so much cooler than I was at 27.

Why don't we just embrace the age we are now?  Right now, I'm older than I've ever been before and I'm really ok with that.  If I get smashed to death by a falling oak tree tomorrow, that would be ok with me, but I'd be a bit disappointed that I have so much more to do. My bucket list grows faster than my to-read list.   

There are a few pearls of wisdom I've collected from the great philosophers of the ages over my years.

• Life is short, but it's wide
• You can't always get what you want
• Obla di, obla da life goes on
• To everything there is a season and time to every purpose under heaven
• What you think about me is really none of my business
• Everything is holy now
• Sometimes you just gotta
• Listen
• Love and knowledge are never wasted
• Things will own you if you let them
• There's a big problem with perfection

I'm sure there are more, but you know, I don't remember things like I used to.  I think it's because I'm taking up valuable memory space with gems such as the exact words used to break my heart every single time it's been broken.  That's a lot of times.  Lucky for me that thing heals.  And how boring would life be if you didn't have your heart broken by cruel middle school kids or a forgotten anniversary or the death of a friend or loving someone who didn't love you back?  My bridge master told me that if I didn't go set a third of the time, I wasn't bidding bravely enough. 

Be fearless!  You get better at screwing up the  more you practice. 

In the seconds before that big oak tree falls on me if I have any regrets, I hope to honk they are for things I've done and not for things I haven't tried.