T was rolling up the living room rug when I entered. I had been greeted at the door by K with a hug and by an unknown Indian or Pakistani gent who smiled delightedly and said, "Welcome, come in!" as if he were the host and I his most honored guest.
I had been driving for 45 minutes from the late closing at the library, through the canyons of moving steel and roaring concrete, following the river of red tail lights. I left the highway with relief and sailed through the downtown and over the Hawthorne bridge, planning the best possible route to Mt Tabor. But I'd forgotten about Peacock Lane and the throngs of sightseers. The walkers weren't so bad: they came in chunks, like a nerve impulse through the sodium-potassium pump. You could drive between them. But the people in cars, just like the the people in the mall parking lots, gave no space and no quarter. They were on their mission: to see the lights from the comfort of their own cars. They didn't care about the exhaust they were pumping out or the exhaust they were breathing or the other drivers who just wanted to get on down the road. They sat in their queues, idling and blocking the road.
I made it past, grumbling to myself, and thought, "I have to make sure to take another route home from the party." D called just after that: it was his 3rd holiday party in 3 nights, and he was grumpy because he had to bus and because I was late, and the rooms were claustrophobic and people were standing in groups and blocking access to food and doorways. Sort of a party version of Peacock Lane. Great, I thought.
And then, I was greeted with delight, T smiled up at me from the floor, K told me where to find D but suggested I get some food first, and I had entered into the light and cheer of the annual Solstice Party.
D had brought the candles and a bottle of wine for our contribution. I had just started in on my plate of food (salads and quinoa: this being a UU event, meat was not on the potluck menu), when T started herding us all into the living/dining area. It was time for the candle lighting ceremony.
I found a chair to rest my tired self, and continued to eat while T was reminding everyone of the routine: be mindful of the fire, try to not drip wax (she's finding driblets in June), be safe. She was moving around the rooms, turning out lights. A gentlemen with a basket of candles came through, handing out to those in need. D had found me and was standing close enough that I heard him say loudly and curtly, "I have one in my hand, sir." It was his impatient voice and I sighed internally. I really didn't want this negative energy.
It was time to put out the tree, which was an artful collection of bare branches, arranged in an enormous copper pot and encircled in wide golden ribbons and small white lights, with shiny round gold and silver balls hanging from the branches. The lights were out, except for the fireplace and the candle T held. The tree continued to twinkle, though, as the balls reflected the fireplace.
M played his 30-year song, written for his not-yet-born daughter and sung every year since. Towards the end, the group knew the chorus well enough to join in. "I love you like the thunder, like the mountains." I set down my plate and reached for D's hand. He held mine, massaging with his thumb. I thought, good, we are being quiet and loving together. This is what we want.
Then the ritual began. T held her lit candle upright, the person next to her dipped his wick in the flame and said a word about winter. "Icicles." One by one, the candles were lit and the words and phrases spoken. "Bright leaves frozen in puddles;" "snowshoe trails;" "cold air in my lungs all day;" "sledding;" "bird nests showing in bare branches;" "snowflakes;" "sun sparkling on the frozen pond;" The light was growing, the words kept coming, each one adding a layer of memory and anticipation. Last year I said "making s'mores at the fireplace." This year I said, "the return of spring birds." The people evoked smells, sights, experiences, feelings, sounds. I thought, I should have said "the smell of daphne." But it was all okay....the individual offerings were not the point, the sharing and the increasing of light was the point.
It was time to go. The lights were back on, the last song sung, the last poem read. I had finished my dinner, I had an editing job to finish, and D was still grumpy. I put away my plate, gathered up my coat and purse, and stopped to say goodbye to T. "Thank you so much: I have been so busy with working 3 jobs and trying to do the holiday stuff, it was good to spend a few peaceful moments thinking about things that really matter. Thank you for creating the space for that." She listened, concerned about my work situation, her white fluffy hair framing her thin face, with the wide smile, blue eyes, pointed nose, just enough wrinkles to show her wisdom. Then she smiled in gratitude for my gratitude. A hug, and we're out the door.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
Good news/bad news, diabetics division
Yesterday started with a trip to the National College of Natural Medicine, aka NCNM. It's located in a little triangle between Barbur and the Ross Island Bridge's on and off streets. I have been driving past it for years, without knowing it was there. And it's quite a large campus. The main building is an old elementary school, a long brick 3-story building with tall windows and imposing entrance, the sort of school McMenamin's might want to renovate. I know, because instead of going to the clinic, I walked up the steps into the school. Long hallways, with stairwells at the ends, tall tall ceilings, transoms over the doors, wood moldings, linoleum floors, the unmistakable scent of old school building.
I walked down the echoing, gleaming hall, transported back to my high school days. The place seemed empty of life, except for one door to my right, which was ajar with light streaming out. Glancing at the door, the sign said nothing about research, so I walked past it to the end of the hall, which T'd into another hall that led to stairwells and side entrances. Straight ahead it led down stairs to another entrance. It was the typical grid arrangement, with no sign of offices or lobbies or auditoria, although there were some comfy chairs lining the walls at strategic points. It didn't seem like a place to meet a research associate, so I turned back to the open door
It didn't look like it had ever been a classroom, but it was possible that it had been chopped up into a suite of rooms. The entry area had a desk situated at right angles to the open doorway, with a nice young woman seated behind a computer. I asked for my contact, H, and she puzzled over it a few moments: did I want her office? No, I think she was planning to meet me in the lobby, but I didn't see any lobby. I pulled up the message, which I had fortunately left open on Paddy (the iPad.) Ah yes, the clinic, not the school. So she walked me into the hall, pointed back the way I had come and directed me to go out and to the left. The clinic would be at the base of the small hill/street, with a sign on the side.
Indeed, the sign covered the whole top half of the building, visible from the bridge, now that I knew where to look. It was a much less charming building, a typical office building, 70's style, with open window-walled stairwells to the left of the door. I found the lobby area, complete with tea offerings in which I was not allowed to partake, as I was on a 12-hour water fast.
H arrived and took me to a windowless office upstairs, where we went through the details of the study, I signed consent forms, gave her info about the drugs I was taking, and allowed her to take a blood pressure cuff to my wrist and a tape measure to my waist. I am not revealing the number, but it was not a happy moment. Then we walked down the hall to a scale. I am the same height I ever was, and the weight was back down to what has become my current level. Back down the stairs to the lab, where we waited for Nikki the needle woman.
All of this was preparation for possible participation in a test of a new form of hibiscus, prepared to help with glucose and cholesterol levels in pre-diabetics. I was being tested for the 5 qualifying conditions: waist over 35", high blood pressure, blood glucose over 100, cholesterol over 200, LDL over 146, triglycerides over 150. What was in it for me? a free blood test worth $100, and, if I qualified, $100. Also, in the long term, the possible production of a helpful formulary.
My blood pressure was the usual low number. I liked the cuff. Instead of pushing my sleeve up to my armpit and pumping away at the cuff, H took a grey puffy bracelet and clipped it around my left wrist. I put my left hand on my right shoulder and my left elbow was propped up by my right hand. Sitting in this modified sphinx position, I waited while H pushed a button on the cuff and it slowly squeezed tight and released. I read the digital display. 117/63. Typical. We waited a moment, then tried again. A little higher on the top number. Third time, a little lower. I'm mellow as a cello, and dying for my morning coffee.
Nikki is a vivacious Goth type. Her name tag reads Nikki Tesla, and I ponder whether to comment on it. Finally I say, "do you get many comments on your name?" Turns out it's a leftover from Halloween. Usually she dresses as a vampire and comes into the room saying, "oh good, lunch!" This year she was a mad scientist. I get bonus points for recognizing the joke.
The needle is deftly, almost painlessly inserted, and she massages my wrists. I'm unclear as to the reason: is she getting the blood to flow, or trying to relax my jitters? In either case, it works. And then I'm done. H promises to call me the next day with the results, and as I walk to the car, I notice a labyrinth off to the side of the clinic. Although walking a labyrinth just off the highway doesn't appeal, I decide to try it on my next visit, if I am qualified for the study.
And I am. The details: Cholesterol, 236. Triglycerides, 191. LDL, 146. Glucose levels, 106. Oy.
I walked down the echoing, gleaming hall, transported back to my high school days. The place seemed empty of life, except for one door to my right, which was ajar with light streaming out. Glancing at the door, the sign said nothing about research, so I walked past it to the end of the hall, which T'd into another hall that led to stairwells and side entrances. Straight ahead it led down stairs to another entrance. It was the typical grid arrangement, with no sign of offices or lobbies or auditoria, although there were some comfy chairs lining the walls at strategic points. It didn't seem like a place to meet a research associate, so I turned back to the open door
It didn't look like it had ever been a classroom, but it was possible that it had been chopped up into a suite of rooms. The entry area had a desk situated at right angles to the open doorway, with a nice young woman seated behind a computer. I asked for my contact, H, and she puzzled over it a few moments: did I want her office? No, I think she was planning to meet me in the lobby, but I didn't see any lobby. I pulled up the message, which I had fortunately left open on Paddy (the iPad.) Ah yes, the clinic, not the school. So she walked me into the hall, pointed back the way I had come and directed me to go out and to the left. The clinic would be at the base of the small hill/street, with a sign on the side.
Indeed, the sign covered the whole top half of the building, visible from the bridge, now that I knew where to look. It was a much less charming building, a typical office building, 70's style, with open window-walled stairwells to the left of the door. I found the lobby area, complete with tea offerings in which I was not allowed to partake, as I was on a 12-hour water fast.
H arrived and took me to a windowless office upstairs, where we went through the details of the study, I signed consent forms, gave her info about the drugs I was taking, and allowed her to take a blood pressure cuff to my wrist and a tape measure to my waist. I am not revealing the number, but it was not a happy moment. Then we walked down the hall to a scale. I am the same height I ever was, and the weight was back down to what has become my current level. Back down the stairs to the lab, where we waited for Nikki the needle woman.
All of this was preparation for possible participation in a test of a new form of hibiscus, prepared to help with glucose and cholesterol levels in pre-diabetics. I was being tested for the 5 qualifying conditions: waist over 35", high blood pressure, blood glucose over 100, cholesterol over 200, LDL over 146, triglycerides over 150. What was in it for me? a free blood test worth $100, and, if I qualified, $100. Also, in the long term, the possible production of a helpful formulary.
My blood pressure was the usual low number. I liked the cuff. Instead of pushing my sleeve up to my armpit and pumping away at the cuff, H took a grey puffy bracelet and clipped it around my left wrist. I put my left hand on my right shoulder and my left elbow was propped up by my right hand. Sitting in this modified sphinx position, I waited while H pushed a button on the cuff and it slowly squeezed tight and released. I read the digital display. 117/63. Typical. We waited a moment, then tried again. A little higher on the top number. Third time, a little lower. I'm mellow as a cello, and dying for my morning coffee.
Nikki is a vivacious Goth type. Her name tag reads Nikki Tesla, and I ponder whether to comment on it. Finally I say, "do you get many comments on your name?" Turns out it's a leftover from Halloween. Usually she dresses as a vampire and comes into the room saying, "oh good, lunch!" This year she was a mad scientist. I get bonus points for recognizing the joke.
The needle is deftly, almost painlessly inserted, and she massages my wrists. I'm unclear as to the reason: is she getting the blood to flow, or trying to relax my jitters? In either case, it works. And then I'm done. H promises to call me the next day with the results, and as I walk to the car, I notice a labyrinth off to the side of the clinic. Although walking a labyrinth just off the highway doesn't appeal, I decide to try it on my next visit, if I am qualified for the study.
And I am. The details: Cholesterol, 236. Triglycerides, 191. LDL, 146. Glucose levels, 106. Oy.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Sleep vs work vs play
Last night I came home from work at 10 pm. I was greeted with the microwave crisis: sometimes it gets overloaded and stops working or displaying any signs of life. The key is to leave it alone for awhile. If you do that, it will emit a little beep, the electronic version of a deep breath. The lights will come back on, and it's ready to rock. D did not know this, so he had checked the breaker box and then shlepped the whole thing into the studio to test it on the plugs in there. No dice. He returned it to the kitchen, grumbling the whole way. I sashayed in, jiggled the plug, and voila! We once more had a working microwave.
But the damage was done. It had been an exhausting day for me: I got up early to walk the dog, then baked a pie and a quiche for tonight's gathering. Then I spent 2 hours doing virtual reference ("is there a site for table manners in Israel?") M stopped by to cut some juniper and cedar and gather some pine cones for her home decor. (Smells are the most important part of the seasonal activities: greenery, spices, baking.) During breaks, I edited some OLAQ articles. I did dishes, put away groceries, changed into khaki and white, and took off for the mall, which was frantically busy. Again, I spent a good 15 minutes hunting for a parking space that wasn't in another state.
It was so busy in the store that the cleanup happened after we locked the gates. It was my first time with the push broom. I didn't like it.
However, I was determined to spend an hour on decorating the tree and listening to Christmas music and enjoying the lights and the annual ornament discoveries (where's the pickle? the sailing santa? the skaters? the grandma ornaments?) Unfortunately, D did not recover so quickly from the microwave incident. We bickered, I fought with the tangle of lights. The usual discussion ensued re: process. I believe in deploying the glass balls symmetrically around the tree, making sure the reds and golds are evenly distributed. Then, I fill in the spaces with the ornaments. D thinks the balls take up too much space. Bicker, bicker, bicker.
By the time we were done with the main tree and the Charlie Brown tree in the studio, it was 1 am, and I had to get up for a 9 am rehearsal. But I was too wired from the events of the day to sleep, and I had forgotten my restless legs meds. So, it was another half hour of electronic scrabble, e-mail, etc before I got to sleep. Today I rehearse from 9-noon, work from 1-6, and dash home to make toffee and cut up fruit for the gathering, which starts at 7.
Next week I am essentially working every day, sometimes at two sites in one day.
I am starting to feel like the microwave.
But the damage was done. It had been an exhausting day for me: I got up early to walk the dog, then baked a pie and a quiche for tonight's gathering. Then I spent 2 hours doing virtual reference ("is there a site for table manners in Israel?") M stopped by to cut some juniper and cedar and gather some pine cones for her home decor. (Smells are the most important part of the seasonal activities: greenery, spices, baking.) During breaks, I edited some OLAQ articles. I did dishes, put away groceries, changed into khaki and white, and took off for the mall, which was frantically busy. Again, I spent a good 15 minutes hunting for a parking space that wasn't in another state.
It was so busy in the store that the cleanup happened after we locked the gates. It was my first time with the push broom. I didn't like it.
However, I was determined to spend an hour on decorating the tree and listening to Christmas music and enjoying the lights and the annual ornament discoveries (where's the pickle? the sailing santa? the skaters? the grandma ornaments?) Unfortunately, D did not recover so quickly from the microwave incident. We bickered, I fought with the tangle of lights. The usual discussion ensued re: process. I believe in deploying the glass balls symmetrically around the tree, making sure the reds and golds are evenly distributed. Then, I fill in the spaces with the ornaments. D thinks the balls take up too much space. Bicker, bicker, bicker.
By the time we were done with the main tree and the Charlie Brown tree in the studio, it was 1 am, and I had to get up for a 9 am rehearsal. But I was too wired from the events of the day to sleep, and I had forgotten my restless legs meds. So, it was another half hour of electronic scrabble, e-mail, etc before I got to sleep. Today I rehearse from 9-noon, work from 1-6, and dash home to make toffee and cut up fruit for the gathering, which starts at 7.
Next week I am essentially working every day, sometimes at two sites in one day.
I am starting to feel like the microwave.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Adventage
There is a certain disconnect between working in a mall and singing in a church choir in this season. At work an echoing cycle of really awful versions of really awful songs melds into the background noise of shoppers. In that whirling white noise, I straighten shelves and greet customers and ask them if I can help them find anything. I explain why we can't mail beer. I print up tags for the incoming shipments. I refold the t-shirts and replenish the birthday angels. I ask "Is that credit or debit? Do you want the receipt in your hand or in the bag? Shall I remove the price tags for you?" Then something pierces through and once again I hear Jose wishing me a Feliz Navidad, and the piano begins its Musak rendition of a familiar, banal, and bafflingly nameless tune. I ask everyone, "What IS that?" but they don't know. My co-worker sings along with Frank. And I remember my college music professor, whose goal was to make it impossible for us to treat music as a background thing.
Still, two days ago, I was singing for the second Sunday in Advent. My throat has been hosting an asthmatic cough for weeks, so I have missed many rehearsals and am scrambling to get the music in my ears and voice. I sat out in the pews for last Monday's rehearsal and hummed along with the other two second altos who were valiantly holding down that luscious low line. You couldn't call it marking, because I wasn't producing even half voice. But, I promised to know the music and have a voice on Sunday, and they let me.
On Saturday, E wrote out some pronunciation for the French piece, and it all started clicking. We were singing Chanticleer's version of "Noel Nouvelet," staccato followed by legato, a medieval chanson, a joyously melancholy minor tune. I missed the timbrel that I recalled from a long ago PBS radio program, taped with my first good stereo system back when I lived in the milk barn. But it was so much fun to be singing it myself.
We were singing in mixed position, which means I was surrounded by the other parts and had to know my own part very well. I stood at the end of the row, looking across the choir as the men started their plainsong chant of "O Come O Come Emmanuel." Then, deepening into rich polyphony: "Rejoice!" And back into the medieval sound of melody in fourths. I could see the wreaths hanging on the surrounding balconies, I could smell the fir and juniper. I missed the advent calendar, the ritual of adding a candle each Sunday, each one a little taller than its predecessor. But the chalice flame flickered as the familiar and beloved hymn soared over the congregation. And I was happy.
Our minister talked about prayer and Advent's past as a time of penitence and atonement. Although I'm aware of the religious history, I've never felt that way. Our culture has long since lost that ancient connection with the cycles, the dread that maybe the light won't come back. Some of us celebrate solstice with candles and celebratory drinks, but there is no propitiation to it. We may be depressed by the dark and the cold, but we don't take responsibility for it. And I for one see this as a season of unmitigated joys, some ritualized, some new. I like to decorate my home with old ornaments and new greens. I love the smells of fir and cinnamon and cloves. I like to make origami ornaments and Christmas cards, to think about my past year and try to make a coherent narrative of it in the annual Christmas letter. I love making spritzbakkelse and lefse, scattering flour about and consuming pounds of butter and sugar. Today I made my first batches of fudge and toffee, and I put together a mix for D's Advent basket of presents: when he opens it I'll make the Russian tea cakes which are his favorite holiday cookie.
Above all, I love the light and music and love that fill the air and heart. I sat in the choir loft, feeling the handbells' chimes resonating in my skull as they rang in my ears. I realized afresh how viscerally music is a part of us. It is not background, even though our mall culture relegates it to that place. Likewise, spirituality is not beside the point during these weeks. I may not be practicing my music, my mediation, or my tai chi. I may not be atoning for my sins and petitioning for the return of the light or the birth of the Savior. I may not even be "raging against the dying of the light." But I am rejoicing in what this season brings to me and mine.
So about that disconnect I mentioned at the beginning of this post.....B sent suggestions to get me through my temporary work at the mall. (Drink water, take your breaks, eat your meals, recognize that people will be unreasonable, use your imagination.) She said, "don't let retail spoil what you love about this season." I won't.
Still, two days ago, I was singing for the second Sunday in Advent. My throat has been hosting an asthmatic cough for weeks, so I have missed many rehearsals and am scrambling to get the music in my ears and voice. I sat out in the pews for last Monday's rehearsal and hummed along with the other two second altos who were valiantly holding down that luscious low line. You couldn't call it marking, because I wasn't producing even half voice. But, I promised to know the music and have a voice on Sunday, and they let me.
On Saturday, E wrote out some pronunciation for the French piece, and it all started clicking. We were singing Chanticleer's version of "Noel Nouvelet," staccato followed by legato, a medieval chanson, a joyously melancholy minor tune. I missed the timbrel that I recalled from a long ago PBS radio program, taped with my first good stereo system back when I lived in the milk barn. But it was so much fun to be singing it myself.
We were singing in mixed position, which means I was surrounded by the other parts and had to know my own part very well. I stood at the end of the row, looking across the choir as the men started their plainsong chant of "O Come O Come Emmanuel." Then, deepening into rich polyphony: "Rejoice!" And back into the medieval sound of melody in fourths. I could see the wreaths hanging on the surrounding balconies, I could smell the fir and juniper. I missed the advent calendar, the ritual of adding a candle each Sunday, each one a little taller than its predecessor. But the chalice flame flickered as the familiar and beloved hymn soared over the congregation. And I was happy.
Our minister talked about prayer and Advent's past as a time of penitence and atonement. Although I'm aware of the religious history, I've never felt that way. Our culture has long since lost that ancient connection with the cycles, the dread that maybe the light won't come back. Some of us celebrate solstice with candles and celebratory drinks, but there is no propitiation to it. We may be depressed by the dark and the cold, but we don't take responsibility for it. And I for one see this as a season of unmitigated joys, some ritualized, some new. I like to decorate my home with old ornaments and new greens. I love the smells of fir and cinnamon and cloves. I like to make origami ornaments and Christmas cards, to think about my past year and try to make a coherent narrative of it in the annual Christmas letter. I love making spritzbakkelse and lefse, scattering flour about and consuming pounds of butter and sugar. Today I made my first batches of fudge and toffee, and I put together a mix for D's Advent basket of presents: when he opens it I'll make the Russian tea cakes which are his favorite holiday cookie.
Above all, I love the light and music and love that fill the air and heart. I sat in the choir loft, feeling the handbells' chimes resonating in my skull as they rang in my ears. I realized afresh how viscerally music is a part of us. It is not background, even though our mall culture relegates it to that place. Likewise, spirituality is not beside the point during these weeks. I may not be practicing my music, my mediation, or my tai chi. I may not be atoning for my sins and petitioning for the return of the light or the birth of the Savior. I may not even be "raging against the dying of the light." But I am rejoicing in what this season brings to me and mine.
So about that disconnect I mentioned at the beginning of this post.....B sent suggestions to get me through my temporary work at the mall. (Drink water, take your breaks, eat your meals, recognize that people will be unreasonable, use your imagination.) She said, "don't let retail spoil what you love about this season." I won't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)