Why I Write

Words live inside me.  In my chest.  They bounce around like pinballs; vaulting off my heart and springing against my ribcage. I can’t sleep with them pushing, shoving and pulsating.  They tear at me and eat away the fleshy parts of my lungs leaving me breathless.  They bore into my heart and cause palpitations. They test the integrity of my diaphragm, leaning into it until my stomach cries foul and heartburn rears its ugly head.  

I can’t really blame them, these words. They are looking for order in a chaotic world.  They want to find their way out. They want to have meaning.  And they want to be heard.  That is why I write.  

You see, writing has a magnetic pull.  Words are automatically drawn by this mystical force.  Pen in hand these words line up neatly along my arm and march out on to the page.   

And then they are free.  And I am free.  And we both can rest. 

Animal ER

“I need someone to take the biting end,” said the traveling neurosurgeon to no one in particular.  I looked around the hospital. The cages were full and my technicians were busy.  

“I guess that’d be me,” I said and followed him to our patient, a 178 pound Great Dane.  The surgeon was going to pinch the dane’s rear toes, clamp down on them as hard as he could with hemostats, to determine if the dog could feel deep pain.  Deep pain was good.  It meant the neurologic circuit between the feet and brain was intact.  This dog couldn’t walk.  We wanted deep pain.  

My job was to ensure the surgeon did not get bit.  I’m not particularly interested in revealing my weight but suffice it to say I am five foot two and weigh less than this dog.  

I sat down on the speckled brown floor, a surface made for fancy garages.  We thought the material would be good in our hospital; classy, not too slippery and not showing dirt. I eyed a region that looked suspiciously like dried blood.  So much for hiding muck.    

I wrapped my arms around the dog’s neck and said a fleeting prayer.  I felt like a little girl with my arms wrapped around our Great Pyrenees -- Pepi.  An amiable dog that put up with all my prepubescent poking and prodding.  I only hoped this dog would be as gentle. Because the truth of the matter was if the biting end wanted to bite he was going to do so.  And I would be the likely recipient of said interaction.

But luck was on my side.  Our patient was just that -- patient.  He had deep pain and he did not bite.  Win-win.  

I heaved a heavy sigh and found myself utterly grateful for this gentle giant.  After our encounter I was beginning to feel bonded and was glad for his prognosis.  He probably had a fibrocartilagenous emboli (a stroke to the spinal cord). Given time he might recover. I rested my head on his, thanked him for being good, then got up to talk to his owners.  

The treatment portion of our hospital was separated from the exam rooms and reception area by swinging aluminum doors.  I went through the first set of these doors and skittered past the exam rooms with as much stealth as I could muster.  The rooms were full of clients waiting for my attention.  I went through the second set of swinging doors and out into the lobby. 

The dane’s people were sitting by a large plate glass window that overlooked the strip mall parking lot.  It was dark outside and I instinctively looked for the tree covered in white lights -- my beacon in the darkness.  But the tree wasn’t lit up.  Damn.  

I pulled up a chair, a gaudy fabric covered seat upholstered in a contemporary design, and began to review their case.  

I’d only just begun when the front door swung open and a gust of frigid air poured into the lobby. I shivered. It felt as if a spirit had passed through me and for a brief moment I was creeped out. 

A woman with a nose ring barreled through the door.  In her arms was a small scruffy dog who was actively seizing.  I excused myself, pried the dog from her arms and went back through the aluminum doors leaving them swinging in my wake. 

We gave the seizing dog an injection of valium. The medication worked immediately and our patient’s tremors began to slow.  He looked like an over medicated parkinson patient -- limbs flailing this way and that.  

Then I did it.  I opened my stupid mouth. 

“I’ll bet this dog couldn’t bite if he wanted to.”  

Dumb, dumb, dumb.  Though we practice medicine, science, we also wholeheartedly believe in the power of the jinx.  I had just cast a spell which all but mandated that this dog was going to bite us.   

My technician shot me a nasty look, a well deserved one at that, and took the dog to the scale where, as per my prophesy, he exploded. He threw himself off the scale, a mere inch off the ground, and slammed his head onto the floor. He bit his tongue and began to bleed profusely.  He shat himself and expressed his anal glands perfusing the clinic with an aroma of unsullied fear. 

Though this dog could not walk he began to scoot himself across the clinic with surprising speed, blood and feces smeared in his wake.  Each attempt to catch him was met with a mess of gnarling gnashing teeth.  He was barking, screaming and growling.  I knew, with fair certainty, everyone in the hospital could hear his tantrum, including his owner who remained in the lobby.  

I began hopping back and forth on my danskos muttering “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”  The tasmanian devil of a dog was headed across the treatment area -- straight for the great dane.  The dane, who was too big to fit in a kennel, was lying on the floor. 

Now the dane had been gentle with me.  But I had no idea how he felt about other dogs, much less, those of tasmanian descent.  Time slowed and I imagined this dane opening his mouth, cranking it back 150 degrees like a snake, and swallowing the terrier whole.  

And this entire incident would be all my fault. Vexes aside the buck stopped with me. If either of these dogs were injured I would ultimately be to blame.  

I ran over to the dane hoping to intercept any potential interaction but did not move fast enough.  The biting, slithering, mess of a terrier slid right up to our gargantuan patient.  And that gentle giant of a dog simply cocked his head in curiosity.   

Oh thank you!  Thank you!  I was becoming more and more bonded with this fabulous black beast.  

We threw a towel over the terrier and tackled him.  He was muzzled and subsequently subdued with medication.  Oh me oh my!

A bit worse for wear I returned to the lobby, reassured the terrier’s owner and resumed my conversation with the dane’s owners.  

Though his medical situation was not ideal the dane had a chance for recovery. With supportive care and time he may be able to walk again.  The couple didn’t say a word. Instead they looked at me, blinked, and then looked at each other.  And I knew.  Fuck.  Fuck it all to hell.  They were going to euthanize.  

They wanted to be present and wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. I pulled the sickly pink solution into a 20 cc syringe.  I sat in front of this wonderful dog and he looked at me, his mouth open and panting.  He trusted me.  We were friends.  

His owners stood over him and I gave the injection. I caught his bowling ball of a head as it fell to the ground.  His owners turned on their heels and left, leaving me on the speckled floor next to their precious dead dog.  I lowered my head to his once again and began to cry.  

Then the aluminum doors burst open and another emergency beckoned.  I stood, wiped my eyes and, with no other choice, returned to work.   

What I've Never Told You.

What I’ve never told you is I believe in magic. Irrational irrevocable magic.  

The sun, when it shines through the windshield spreading a layer of warmth across my chest -- that’s magic.  That’s the universe cradling me, holding my heart, as I make my way through the world.    

The stars, that twinkle at 2:00 am, as I step in the back alley of the the strip mall, a brief respite from the night shift.  These stars are crepuscular magical beacons. Luminaries from the heart of the beast.  

The dog, who twitches and trembles and growls in his sleep, chasing the squirrel of his dreams.  Then wakes -- abundantly happy, bouncing and bounding. A life lived in the moment. He is unadulterated magic.  

The frost that covers my windshield in intricate patterns, making me stop in my tracks to wonder at it’s magnificence. Pure magic.  

The child who hugs me with her whole self, the one who still holds my hand in public, the one who looks at me with those baby blues and melts my soul.  Tender magic. 

The early morning sun bouncing off snow capped mountains; a golden pink alpenglow punctuating an unwelcome morning commute.  Unexpected magic.  

Leaves that twist and turn; waving at me like a beauty contestant.  The universe shouting hello.  Discounted magic. 

The orange, rusts and golds of fall.  The pure white of fresh fallen snow.  Verdant buds pushing through frozen ground.  Abundant greens bursting everywhere.  Sun and sand and water and heat. Colorful seasonal magic. 

An owl hooting in the night.  Wondering who.  Who?  Who?  

A spotted baby deer frozen in her tracks.  A doe who bounds an elegant retreat; all four limbs off the ground.  Instinctual magic. 

The smell of onions and garlic simmering on the stove.  Hot apple cider, pumpkin pie, and pomegranates.  Coffee and cream.  Friends and family and red red wine.  Teeth purple with the first sip. Ritualistic magic. 

Welcoming fires that crackle and pop.  Glorious smoky perfume.  Pajamas and slippers, blankets slung over shoulders.  Books in hand.  Football on TV.  Comforting magic. 

Sheep who give wool.  Wool which turns to yarn.  Yarn that turns to blankets and hats, gloves and sweaters.  Enterprising magic. 

Words that spill onto the page. 

Serendipity, providence, coincidence.  Being at the right place at the right time. 

It’s all magic.  

So when you ask; How’d you do that?  Where’d that come from?  How’d you know?  

My answer will always be one simple word:  Magic.  

The Red Bench

As most of you know school has begun.  The older kids are taking advanced literature classes and I must confess -- I am envious.  You should hear them complain as they shlump their shoulders and drag their feet, "We haaaave to read and write."  Boo hoo!  Me?  I'd be hooting and hollering I GET TO READ AND WRITE!

But the jealousy doesn't end there. This week I had a client who happens to be a surgeon.  He has been practicing for 20-years and is about to give up his practice.  His plan?  Go into semi-retirement and pursue an MFA in writing.  What?  I wanted to shove him like Elaine from Seinfield.  Get out!  So green with envy.  

Well I can't quit my job and it's unlikely I'll go back to school anytime soon.  However that doesn't prevent me from writing.  

My daughter has an assignment; write a essay about a place or vacation that has personal meaning for you. She's at a loss and doesn't know where to begin.  I thought, to provide inspiration and show solidarity that I, too, would tackle this project.  

As I have no professor to report to I am turning my completed assignment in to you.  Enjoy!

***   ***   ***

The Red Bench

On my piano, along with music, rests a photograph.  Actually two photographs back-to-back.  The first is of an old man asleep on a bench.  On the day this photograph was taken this sweet man, whom I didn’t know in the least, was wearing khaki pants, a turquoise shirt that fit snugly over his rotund belly and navy sport coat. On his feet were sensible shoes for touring about town.  A cane rested on his thigh and his chin rested on his chest.  The heel of his right foot touched the ground and his toes pointed to the sky; I imagined him as a marionette, if his head lifted his toes would go down and vice versa, the connecting string a tendon along his back.  

The bench was a perfect pop of red.  And he, so sound asleep, was simply precious.  I couldn’t help but snap a photo. 

“Wouldn’t it be funny”  I said after taking my first shot, “wouldn’t it be cute, if the kids sat next to him on the bench?”    

“Could we?  Should we?” the kids wondered out loud.  It seemed somehow criminal; an invasion of privacy.  And yet.  What fun! 

We stood there a few moments, giggling nervously, debating the pros and cons of our voyeurism. What if he woke up?  Finally the older kids took the bait. They posed on the far side of the bench in joyful mischievousness.  And my second photograph captured what I can only call their "shit eating grins".  

The kids were so young; braces on the boy, a sun hat on the girl, flowers on her shirt and a fleece jacket tied around his waist.  Oh how they’ve grown and changed! Today, looking at that photograph, I feel as old as the nameless man. Before long I’ll be a geriatric woman, nonchalantly snoring and probably drooling, taking my afternoon siesta in a public square.  

Holding this photo I'm filled with a syrupy sweet nostalgia; that life, the one before now, has a gaussian blur. Times were simpler. Beauty was lizards crossing your path, dandelions ripe for the picking and posing on a bench next to a sleeping old man.

The kids got such a thrill sitting next to him; an action hardly worth noting. And yet that moment became the pinnacle of our trip. Not the Golden Gate Bridge nor the Japanese Tea Gardens or Pier 39.  Not clam chowder in a bread bowl, guffawing sea lions or Alcatraz.  No. 

The moment we still talk about from our trip to San Francisco was the simple act of sitting.  And because of this moment, the place that means the most to me, the thing I most adore, is a magnificent red bench smack dab in the middle of Ghirardelli Square.   

This bench reminds me to take time to love the little things in life.  For these little things are what make life worth living.    

xo.  

Thousands of Bananas Wash Up on Shore

Florence, Oregon

A woman searching for sea glass gingerly picks her way through the wanton fruit; it’s still green, taken before its time. Her feet bare she curls her toes in the clammy sand at water’s edge and discounts the waves tugging at her ankles. The bananas remind her of beached whales, one leading and others following to certain death; only now it’s fruit, a mass suicide of fruit. She spots a fleshy sea star among the green tubers and picks it up for closer examination; it’s different, there’s something shiny on one of its arms, it’s a ring, a wedding ring. Retching violently she falls to her knees. The ocean, aided by the pull of the moon, envelops her and drags the found hand back to the sea.

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

A call comes through the satellite - heavy storm ahead; 35-foot waves and 45-knot winds. The call’s too late, the ship is already scudding before the wind; plunging into a perilous tango with the sea in a rhythmic heave ho, water greedily licking starboard then port side then starboard again. Cloistered in the bridge the captain and first mate struggle to face the bow into the swells. A deck officer scrambles over cargo containers securing lashings, sliding topside as if skating on ice. Lashings fail on the stern and a fulminating boom reverberates across the vessel. It's silenced by the wind. Two cargo containers slip unceremoniously into the tempestuous water. The officer races lee side seeking shelter but trips in a scuttle and slams onto the deck, sliding to and fro at heaven’s mercy. He catches a cable and wraps it around his arm as a third wayward container looms over him; it hesitates, as if deciding to spare a life, then slams onto the deck and releases 12,000 banana bunches into the ocean.

Uraba, Colombia

A full moon, floating along the horizon, spawns a billowy wake leading to the harbor. Torches illuminate a path from wooden warehouse to steel ship. Paramilitary guards wield semi-automatic weapons while they monitor civilian activity. An American supervisor stands nearby scanning for bushels of rotten fruit, tossing it overboard. Dissapointed puffer fish sample the fruity fare. The cartel busily alters two of the ship’s containers, replacing insulation with cocaine. A scuffle behind the palm grove arouses little suspicion. A guard drags a lifeless body onto the beach and slices it to pieces with a machete; a warning to union supporters. The body is discarded with the rotten fruit, each piece tossed like a football into the ocean. Plum-striped triggerfish flash in the moonlight as they swarm and devour the meaty flesh; beauty and obscenity tangled in time. One hand, the left, with a gold band on the ring-finger is thrown long and far. It lands in a container of bananas. Nobody notices. The bananas continue their journey.

+++++++


I've been without my lap top for over a week now. The verdict is not yet in although it may just be the keyboard -- hopefully I'll have more information today. In the interim I've been reading a lot. I finished Friday Night Knitting Club by Kate Jacobs and Simple Prosperity; Finding Real Wealth in a Sustainable Lifestyle by David Wann. The second book really resonated with me; we, as a society, need to find happiness in a simple sustainable lifestyle. What is the real cost of materialism? Money to be sure but there are also environmental and social impacts to consider.

'Tis the season of excess; I certainly don't need a new car or diamond ring or plasma television this year. Perhaps a pair of locally made earrings. Maybe some macaroni ramekins. I'd be wonderfully content knowing we were environmentally responsible and not in the poorhouse this holiday season. And yes the economy is bad. But spending is not the answer; "Go out and shop" merely fuels corporate greed. Maybe, just maybe, we need an economic revolution and a new way of thinking about our world.

"When money is plenty this is a man's world. When money is scarce it is a woman's world. When all else seems to have failed, the woman's instinct comes in."

--Ladie Home Journal, 1932

There are so many wonderful, inventive, pioneering and forward-thinking woman on the blogosphere it boggles my mind. These are the people at the leading edge of a new future; one that "...moves you in the direction of less stress, more health, lower consumption, more spirituality, more respect for the earth and the diversity with and among the species..." (quote from Paul Ray of Cultural Creatives). I continue to be humbled and amazed by this spectacular group of women who are at the forefront of the simplicity movement. These are the people who inspire me to keep up with the non-Jones as it were.

And in the spirit of keeping up ... I've continued knitting and sewing like crazy; four-felted bags, three pairs of slippers, two grocery bags and cotton ba-aaa-bbby sweater (sorry - the partridge left the pear tree). Even so I'm not yet ready for Christmas which is a mere two weeks away. So I'm back to my projects and back to drumming my fingers on the table waiting to hear about my computer. I don't need a plasma television, I don't need a fancy car but I do want my computer back. Hey - nobody's perfect!

+++++++

Addendum: I heard from the computer store.  The good news ... the computer is repairable.  The bad news ... to the tune of $450.00.  Ouch.  I am having it repaired (that was one expensive bottle of wine!).  But I'm also going to scour my house to see what unneeded items I can purge on Ebay.  Hmmm - anyone want to buy an ancient television?  ;o)