Digging Out

The saddest part of this whole saga is this:  when I went to Picasa to save the photos for this post, I created a folder, Messy Library.  When I opened Picasa, I found Mess in the Library and Suz Books Mess nestled right up against their newest sibling.  February 2012, March 2011, today.... there must be something in the air at this time of year which forces me to look my sinful ways in the eye and begin to dig out from under.

It's particularly egregious this time around. GRIN needs an office assistant, My schoolwork needs a contained space, and I really should unpack some of those bags. 

In addition to volunteerism and educational pursuits and household management tasks, there's the joyful addition of crocheting for all the new babies on their way into my life.  I probably should have gotten organized before I began a new passion, but the urge was overwhelming; I could not resist.

 

And then there is the problem of all these books.

The shelves go to the ceiling. 

They are full.

We've culled the collection several times over since we moved to Arizona.

I try to restrain myself, but.....

Big Cuter double stacks his library.

The problem is genetic, it seems.

 

I have made some progress.

These boxes contain files regarding houses and vehicles we no longer own.

There are tax files from well into the 20th century and NO I cannot shred them.

I asked.

They can live in the closet.

The garage was too far from ..... I'm not sure.

 

Those boxes left us with empty drawers.

I can fill one with yarn and needles and hooks.

I can fill one or two with GRIN paraphernalia.

I can leave them empty and see where the needs arise.

 

So many possibilities.

It's too bad that I have to do the work,

Would that the intention alone created the result.

My house would be immaculate every day.

Meditation 101

The Tucson Festival of Books has much more than books. 

Early in the morning, it looked like this.

But by mid-day this was more usual. 

Everything is so well thought out at the Festival.

The recycling is next to the garbage and both are recyclable containers. 

There was no trash on the ground.

 

This vertical garden was an interesting idea,

but the droopy leaf up there at the top made me question its efficacy in the desert. 

 When questioned, the grower couldn't disagree. 

I moved on to the books.

passing Authors Helping Authors

and this friendly fellow who happily smiled for a picture in The Burrow.

I gave him my card; I wonder if he'll comment and let us know that he's out there?

 

Of course, there were authors, too,

Robert Dugoni, John Lescroart, Mike Lawson

and I was able to sit up close to some old favorites and some new discoveries. 
Mike Lawson and I shared a brick ledge on Saturday afternoon, watching the last 3 seconds of the Arizona Pac-12 championship game unfold on my smartphone.  That's the best part of the Festival; the authors are as happy to chat with the patrons as the patrons are delighted to chat with them.

But none of this tells you about the title of this post.

UMC, which saved my life, is now called University of Arizona Medical Center.
They had a giant tent with interactive exhibits and free packages of Hallmark thank you notes.
 I had no idea why they were offered to me, but I took them just the same.
There was an obstacle course to prove that you can't walk - let alone drive - and text at the same time, and there were CPR dummies - but no infants - for a crash course in saving a life, and there was a social worker behind a table.

She had all sorts of leaflets, but there, in the center of the tablecloth, was one advertising a free meditation program at UAMC.  The social worker introduced herself as one of the leaders, and she seemed genuinely delighted to hear of my interest.  The Integrative Medicine doctor told me to add meditation to my life, assuring me that, in addition to the dozens of supplements on my list, it would change my life for the better.

I heard him but I didn't act.

Standing there, I made the commitment and today I attended my first class.... session... experience.... there weren't very many instructions.

She told us to sit comfortably,
to put our hands in a yoga mudra,

and then she started talking about rainbows and this being the luckiest day of your life

and then we were quiet for 15 minutes. 

 

She rang a gentle bell chime, and we shared our practice.

 

I walked out with a woman from Long Island, I found my car, and I drove home.

I drove very carefully.

I paid attention to everything around me.

I was calm in a deep inside me space.

 

At the time, I wasn't that impressed.

As the afternoon wears on, and the feeling continues and grows, I'm thinking there might just be something to this after all.

 

It's certainly better than swallowing all those capsules of stuff-that-is-good-for-me.

 

I wonder, when they planned the Tucson Festival of Books, if they knew it would be a life changing event?

 

 

 

Take-Aways from the TFOB

It was sunny and crowded and wonderful.  The lines were long but if you planned for them they created no problems.  Some of the chairs were small and uncomfortable, but most were cushioned and cozy.  The authors were, as always, brilliant and funny and open and honest.

It's the best weekend of the year in Tucson.

I was there from 9 - 5 on Saturday and Sunday. I am exhausted in body and in mind as I am uplifted in heart and soul.  My brain is capable of an overview; in depth analysis will have to wait for a long bath and a good night's sleep.  So, I offer you these quotes.  I hope they resonate with you as they did with me.

We live intertwined on this planet. (Lois Lowry)

People in movies don't go to the bathroom. (Lois Lowry).

I can write a book as bad as that one! (Mike Lawson)

The world is a better place when you're reading a good book. (Valerie Plame)

Scotty, what kind of life is this?  Locked up all day in a room with a pencil. (Scott Turow's grandfather)

Writing is like going upstairs to my study and playing with my imaginary friends. (Scott Turow)

The opposite of progress?  Congress.  (Merl Reagle... take a minute and look at the pro/con... remember that he writes crossword puzzles for a living, and then read on for two more of his groaners.)

Copy Cat is a foolish phrase; when did a cat do anything you asked it to? (Merl Reagle)

Why can't you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?  The P is silent. (Merl Reagle)

How do I imagine my antagonists?  I think of my older brother.  (Robert Dugoni)

I could have written books on baking a chocolate cake, but then I wouldn't get to have police ride alongs.  (Elizabeth Gunn)

As a mystery writer, do you put people you know in your books?  It's tempting, especially as victims. (Elizabeth Gunn).

There was more, much much more.  Someday, maybe you'll all come and join me.

Tucson Festival of Books

The fourth or seventh or something largest book festival in the USofA is coming to Tucson this weekend.  The tents have been up for ten days.  Volunteers have been publicizing and strategizing and organizing and the authors are arriving as you read this.  There's a dinner tonight and then session after session after session of writers, creators, designers, thinkers..... and tens of thousands of people.

Brenda Starr doesn't like crowds; she won't be joining me.  Elizibeth has plans, as 16 year olds will, so I won't be picking her up on my way downtown.  JannyLou is nursing an ailing daughter-in-law in Phoenix; she's not returning until Sunday.  I'm on my own, and that's just fine.

There's something quite wonderful about wandering around a space where wandering is not considered bizarre. I can stop and visit my friends at the Humanities Seminars booth without worrying that I am boring a companion.  I can choose to sit in on what interests me, and only what interests me.  It's self-indulgent, it's intellectually stimulating, and it's free.

Yes, free, from the parking to the presentations.  There are books and souvenirs for purchase, of course, but the circus performers and the Science Center and the story tellers and the musicians are there for the listening, no charge at all. 

In 2010, the first year I attended, I walked right in to hear Alice Hoffman and Elmore Leonard and Robert Crais.  Last year, the lines were out the door and down the staircase and out the next door... and that was an hour before the start of the talk.  I've found it more useful to seek out the smaller venues, the secondary presentations by the major authors, to follow my guilty pleasures (Tucson mystery writers) and indulge my inner geek (Merle Reagle). 

The only problem is deciding how to be in three places at the same time on Saturday morning at 10:30.

I have comfortable shoes, a carry-all for my water and my snack and my moleskine and some great pens and pencils.  I'll have my Kindle, because it's easier to track where I'm going on the bigger screen, but my phone will be charged and ready to photograph the scene.  There is an insert to last Sunday's paper sitting on my kitchen table.  It lists everything I need to know, organized in every way imaginable.  I'll drool over it tomorrow, then enter my plans on the Android App. 

I've always relied on the paper schedule, but this year the Festival's website has added a feature that makes electronics the obvious default - there's a locator feature which will tell me where I am and where I need to be.

I'm linking to the posts I've written from previous Festivals.  If you're in town, be sure to stop by.  I'll be tweeting my locations..... after all, I do have that app.... if you want to join me. 

Love at the TFOB

Smiling at the TFOB

Tucson Festival of Books

Words of Wisdom from the TFOB

Kathleen Sebelius Speaks

I was on the phone with the Secretary of Health and Human Services this morning. 

I'm enjoying that sentence.  Really, really enjoying that sentence.  I'm a 60-something blogger with a once-famous backstory. I am a member of the BlogHer community. I completed the Survey Monkey last week and today I had the privilege of being on a conference call with a member of the President's cabinet. 

BlogHer lists empowerment as one of its goals.  I am definitely feeling the strength right now.

There were twenty of us on the line.  Secretary Sebelius spoke first, then listened as two bloggers shared their stories of life before and after the Affordable Care Act.  There was time for three or four questions and then our thirty minutes close to fame came to an end. Throughout the conversation, women were tweeting and retweeting and letting the world know that we were involved and passionate about an issue that affects everyone.

One of my tweets was picked up and retweeted many times.

Number one cause of bankruptcy? Medical bills. #GetCovered at http://healthcare.gov . Protect yourself and your family. Disaster CAN strike!

Someone disagreed with the statistic, but the underlying fact remains.  Medical bills can stymie care, separate the patient from the treatment, and leave a family financially devastated.  Without the ACA, I would not have health insurance.  The bills from my hospitalization and rehabilitation exceeded my lifetime limits; Blue Cross Blue Shield of Arizona would have revoked my coverage on December 31, 2011 and I would have had no recourse. 

Certainly, I would not have been able to walk two miles, as I did at Reid Park this morning with my physical therapist.  Without acupuncture and Pilates and PT and massage, I'd be on the couch, moaning.  Being able to see a physiatrist, having my expenses reimbursed, knowing that the financial piece of the puzzle did not have to be on my worry list... I am sure that my life would be far different without that.

Not all policies cover alternative treatments.  The federal Witness Protection Fund has helped, too, reinforcing my mantra that, if you're going to get shot, you should do it 10' away from a serving Congressperson.  My situation is specific and at the far end of a normal bell curve.  Still, without the ACA I wouldn't be covered for a simple annual gynecology checkup.  I couldn't see an internist for help managing my cholesterol.  And there's no way I could visit Little Cuter and Flapjack as often as I plan if I were paying full price for the medications I take.

Obamacare has put a safety net under my life and I'm a fan.  It's not perfect, though Secretary Sebelius told us that since December 1st the website is good. There's a Spanish language version of the website.  There's a 24-hour hotline (800-318-2596) with trained personnel ready to take you all the way through to enrollment.  LocalHealth.healthcare.gov will send you to a local advisor, if you want to speak to someone in person.  All of this is important, because the deadline to enroll is March 31st, and I have it on good authority from the person in charge that there will be no extensions.

You snooze, you lose.  Don't sign up by March 31st and you'll have to wait until next year for open enrollment.  This is especially important for those 2o and 30 somethings who are masquerading as our independent and competent children.  The ACA only works if the young and the healthy are part of the pool.  Millennials and Gen-X'ers were put off by the website's intial glitches, and they don't seem to be coming back.  Ms. Sebelius is the mom of two of these people, one in graduate school and one, well, we're not quite sure what he is doing, but both of them are now insured. 

Are your children covered?  Secretary Sebelius wants you to ask them and to encourage them and to help them if need be.  Yes, your government is telling you to nag your children.  I love it when the law and I are on the same page. 

She suggests asking everyone you encounter, starting with cab drivers.  I'm not sure that I'm willing to be a publicist for a program that is in desperate need of professional guidance in that area, but I see her point.  Just as I didn't sit quietly when the cab driver was not wearing his seat belt, I should inquire and suggest that he become insured through healthcare.gov.

Perhaps. I'll consider it.  For now, I'm reveling in the aura of having my government reach out to me, using my social media power to extend its reach.  I feel connected to the women who spoke on the phone, and especially to the single mom, now insured for the first time, who left us with this:

I am so happy to pay my insurance bill every month.  I am doing this for my family, but I have to do this for myself.

 

Is 10 Old Enough?

Mr. 10 is nearly as tall as I am.  This has happened with alarming rapidity.  Last month I looked down at his shoulders; now they are bumping me in the chin.

There's a charming quasi-adultness in his demeanor.  The little boy giggles have turned into a tween's chortle.  There's kid-like joy combined with teen angst all mixed up in his heart before the sound bursts from his lips.

Is it okay to laugh? Is anyone watching? Will I be judged? The carefree child is now wondering about the world around him.  Always conscious of following the rules, his ten year old self is noticing that it's not only the grown-ups who are creating the constraints around his life. Suddenly, his peers are making an equally strong impression.

There's a new swagger in his step. He decorated and coordinated his family's Halloween extravaganza, dressed as Flo, the insurance saleswoman. The gender bending didn't upset him, not one bit.  The costume met my three rules (you must be able to sit, stand, and eat in your outfit) and evoked laughter from the audience.  He was delighted. 

Teasing his younger siblings has now developed into an art form.  It's no longer poke-and-run. Instead, there's planning and self-protection and just a hint of nastiness.  He's not comfortable with the mean streak that reveals its ugly head; it's our job as the grown ups to guide him toward a kinder path.  The power that comes with being older is heady.  Learning to control it is another story entirely.

In short, he's a typical, well-adjusted, smart, young man.  He's responsible and respectful and competent.  His teachers praise his work ethic.

Does he seem old enough to stay home without supervision?

I baby sat in fifth grade.  So did Little Cuter. We left the kids home, babysitting one another (yes, we paid them both), for short periods of time once Big Cuter hit double digits. Certainly, leaving them unattended for an hour after school, when the neighbors were home and the sun was shining, presented no problem for TBG or me.

Apparently, Mr. 10's dad sees things through another prism.  He refuses to consider the possibility that his son will be safe at home unless there is an adult present. 

There are two or three dogs living outside that house, dogs that alert anyone near or far to the approach of an intruder.  Across the ungated space behind their house lives a firefighter who is the step-dad's best friend.  He's home most afternoons, including the ones when Mr. 10 would be alone.  There's a land line in the house.  Mr. 10 has demonstrated competence with the microwave, the refrigerator, and his mouth; snacking is not an issue for him. 

Until his dad got wind of the situation, Mr. 10 was delighted to assume the adult responsibility of bringing in the mail, opening the garage door, fixing himself a treat, and having the house all to himself.  Given that his life consists of traveling between mom and dad, surrounded by siblings of all genders, ages, and relationships, playing the trumpet and doing homework and feeding the dogs, those moments of peace must have felt like heaven to him.

And now, they are gone. Until the custody battle is resolved, his father's worries must be considered.  His brief brush with freedom has been yanked away.  In its stead is a parade of grown up friends of his mother, people who will meet him and his brother in the driveway and sit with them in the house until their high school sister gets home. 

It's an hour at the most, and, for me, it's a time of pure joy.  That is, until I look at Mr. 10, wondering why I have to be there, intruding in what was, for a while, his own personal space.

If I had any inkling that the dad was really concerned about Mr. 10's safety, I would be less disgusted with the situation. But, knowing the players, I am convinced that this is more about judging the mom's parenting skills than it is about the competence of their son.  It's a power play, a way to interfere and interrupt and damage the mother-son relationship.

What he doesn't realize is that the son is noticing that his father has feet of clay.  Mr. 10 knows he's safe, and so does his mom.  It's sad that a judge will have the final say on the subject.

Sport Short - Phil Jackson

It's not just because he still carries that aging hippie vibe so well.  It's not because he still looks as though he forgot to take the hanger out of his jacket before he put it on. It's more the ironic smile, the look in his eyes when the question is too dumb for words, the recognition that it's really just a game.

Phil's who he is and the rest of the world can get on board or get out of the way.  He'll be happy to show you the path, to leave books in your locker, to encourage you to find your better self, because he knows that his life will be as enriched as yours by the transformation.

Phil's a big fan of The Peaceful Warrior Way.  Dan Millman, the author, is a self-help guru with none of the creepiness that might have just sent shivering up your spine.  We met at the Cuters' high school, parenting students in the same grade. He had the look that Phil sports, the one that makes you feel as if he knows the secret.... and that he'll share if you ask him.

I don't know what the secret is, but it's got something to do with quotes like

There are no ordinary moments

Willpower is the key to success; successful people strive no matter what they feel.

So today, as Tony Kornheiser dismissed the notion that Phil's presence on the Knick's management team would be of any value at all, I had to smile. Phil is not obsessed with the game, he has other interests, that makes him unable to bring his full attention to the job in the way like Larry Bird or Jerry West, and that makes him less than perfect for whatever job it is that the Knicks are offering.

That's right, denizens.  Without knowing what is on the table, he knows that Phil can't do it, won't be successful at it, won't make a difference in the long run.

I wish I were that certain about uncertainties.  I think it's time for another Peaceful Warrior quote:

Faith means living with uncertainty - feeling your way through life, letting your heart guide you like a lantern in the dark.

I have faith in Phil Jackson.

Grandparenting 101 - Shopping, the Preliminary Expedition

It was too cold to do much besides go from one warm space to another, so the kids and I went pre-shopping for the baby while TBG snuggled with Thomas-the-Wonder-Dog on Cozy Rosie, in front of the game.  What game?  Who knows.  He was happy and so were we. 

We started at the No Returns All Sales Final Open the Package and BE SURE IT'S RIGHT outlet for Land of Nod, and moved on to Buy Buy Baby, which turns out to be Bed Bath and Beyond for kids.

There were some pretty cool ideas

and some fairly awful ones.

As you can tell from Little Cuter's grimace,

we agreed that this would put you off Thanksgiving forever.

 

Someone in marketing had serious attitude issues,

as evidenced by  

and this 

Demand all you want, kiddo.

Cry to your heart's content.

As I told your mother, long long ago,

I'm not the one embarrassed by your antics;

I'm not the one wailing at the top of my lungs.

 

Someone with an ironic sense of humor works there, too.

and, I suspect the same person as having a love of the pun. 

There were absurdities, 

like this faux facial hair, 

designed to attach to a pacifier, 

despite the WARNING: Choking Hazard label right there on the front.

 

Imagine having to explain the reasoning behind this as a baby gift.

Perhaps it was just the punster at work?

 

We have this photo with our own little man reading his own big book on his own big boy seat.

It was a trip down memory lane...

right up to and including the moment at the very end when we came upon this

with its computer and front headlights and side lights and a price tag that brought Daddooooo right there into the store with me. 

As he said to me, thirty-one years ago,

I said to my daughter last weekend:

This damn thing costs more than my first car.

 

As the other grandparental units within hearing distance smiled and nodded,

I wiped a tear or two. 

Daddooooo loved his Jenny and she loved him right back.

It was unequivocal, non-judgmental, genuine joy.

For that moment, I was feeling it again.

 

This baby stuff is really quite wonderful.

 

 

Filling the Glass

A friend is recovering from a scary, awful surgery.  There's treatment to follow and the possibility of even more ugliness down the road. The test results, which will put those fears to rest, are months away.

It's enough to try the patience of even the Zen of humans.  MTF is not very Zen at all.

She's a doer, a problem solver, a great believer in facts.  If there are routines to be followed, she's got them mastered and incorporated into her daily regime.  These are admirable traits in every day life; they are less than salubrious while playing a waiting game.

There is nothing to be done to speed things along. She has all the information which is currently available. There are no problems to be solved because there may not be a problem at all.... or there might be and that's pretty frightening to contemplate.  It's a quandary, one she is resolving in a most unusual fashion.

She's looking at the glass of her life as half full.  She's concentrating on what's positive and helpful and healing and full of love, rather than focusing on all that is now or could in the future be wrong. For snarky, New York, heathens, this is most disturbing.

I remember her response to my saccharine smile and sigh over a particularly schmaltzy get well card.  In my defense, I was still in the hospital and the drugs were very very very.  Still, the look of horror on her face and the accompanying plaintive plea that I not become that kind of woman resonate to this day.

We kept our defenses up.  We knew that the world was sharp and barbed and we would not be taken by surprise.  There may have been water in the bottom of our glasses, but we were concentrating on the empty space above.

That worked quite well until I was shot and she was diagnosed.  Suddenly, the half empty part was not only dark and scary, it was very close to home.  Loss and fear and death are bad enough in the abstract; when you've looked them in the eye, when you've felt their power up close and personal, just peering down into the abyss is enough to ruin a perfectly good day.

Life is filled with perfectly good days. The bad ones are so bad that they run the risk of tainting everything else. Looking at a half empty glass is staring over the edge... and there's no benefit to anyone in that. That is not a powerful nor a positive position to assume.  Standing up tall, shoulders back, smile fixed firmly on face, we can greet the world with the veneer of a woman who is pleased to be here.  It may not reach down deep into our psyches at first, but, over time, I found that the behavior was the father of the internal change.

I smiled.  People smiled back.  I said I'm doing fine and that's what others saw.  I repeated my daily affirmation - The sun came up and I was here to see it.  By definition, it's a good day - and, again, over time, I found that I really did believe it.

I'm not looking for a silver lining in the very dark cloud which led us to this place.  An epiphany such as this is not worth the pain.  But, given that the pain is there, filling that glass with the joy that is found in the dawn and in the sunset, in the arms of friends and family, in the knowledge that we are stronger than we imagined possible.... filling our hearts and our minds with smiles and laughter is a much better place to be.

Fancy Dress

I wore my shiny green jacket on Saturday night. It went over my strapless, black, Lili Sami dress, the one with the built in stays.  I didn't need to be covered up for any reason other than the weather; the bridesmaids wore strapless grey dresses and didn't seem to feel out of place in the wintry temps.

That jacket came from Cache in the 1990's.  It was on the sale rack.  I had ten holiday party invitations and I didn't have ten outfits; that jacket improved dresses and palazzo pants and made the same thing look just a little bit different.  I moved it to Arizona knowing it would serve the same purpose here; it just took seven years and a trip to Illinois to prove that I was right.

I have a hard time clearing fancy clothes from my closet.  As I went through Little Cuter's storage boxes in search of baby items to send her way, I found a long peach gown and a long burgundy gown hanging in the back corner of her closet.  I remembered how beautiful she looked in those dresses as I realized that her older, maternal self will no longer be comfortable in clothing that fit her teenage body.

No matter.  The dresses are still hanging there, waiting for something.... I don't know what.

I'm not able to be any more ruthless with my own garments.  I bought a long. black-with-tiny-bright-yellow-flowers cotton number in Washington, D.C. in 1973. It smiled at me from the window of the boutique next door to the Blimpies where I made sandwiches that summer, tempting me, taunting me, torturing me.  I begged an advance on my salary and put down a deposit; it was my first and only experience with lay-away. The store manager allowed me to visit my dress every day, and I did so with lust in my heart.  Collecting the final payment in my hands, I exchanged the dollars for the dress and wore it that same night to Sans Souci, the fanciest restaurant in town.

We saw all kinds of political and media celebrities that night, but I knew that I was the most gorgeous woman in the room. There was no doubt.

Fancy clothes have that power.  Watching the bride walk down the aisle last Saturday night, it was easy to see her smile reflected in the beading on her dress.  She was a little princess, a dressed-up doll, a character starring in her own personal movie. The dress moved down the white satin walkway, carrying her along with it. She was BRIDE.  The outfit told us so. There was such joy in her expression; she was at one with the moment.  I have no doubt that the dress was a big part of what made it so.

I found a another long black dress, this one a slinky jersey, off one shoulder, with tiny glass sparklies semi-tastefully decorating the neckline. Purchased for a business holiday extravaganza, it caught the Cuters off guard.  I looked special, grown up, almost too fancy.  Without my jeans and tee shirt, they were flummoxed.  Who was I?  Would I return to normal in the morning?

I never worried about that; I always knew that fancy dress clothes were costumes I draped over the normal, more casual, me. Although I like putting them on once they have found their way to my closet, I hate the shopping and the accessorizing and the discomfort that goes along with heels and hose and drippy jewelry.

I didn't have to worry about sore feet last weekend; I don't even try to wear heels any more. I'm proud of the progress I've made while wearing sneakers and flats; there's no reason to topple over while trying to balance on stilettos. And topple over I surely would, as I proved to myself in my closet while trying on the beautiful but currently unwearable Bally heels to which I treated myself in Marin at the end of the last century. My patent and leather black flats with the discreet rubber soles looked just fine, and I didn't worry about falling down and making a scene.

Fancy dress and comfort - it's not an oxymoron.  Little Cuter's J Crew wedding dress, the one with the pockets, proved that to be true.  She wore Tom's on her feet, and she was gorgeous and bridal and comfortable all at the same time.

There's a lesson here. I hope Flapjack learns it early.

PWR!Moves

My friend wrote a book.

(Actually, I have several friends with new books to their name.  

This is the first of several shout-outs to those who have done what I've only fancied myself able to do.)

http://www.pwr4life.org/product/pwr-moves-book/

This book changes lives.  Not in the way Catcher in the Rye might have done when you were fifteen, but in the change-the-shape-and-abilities-of-your-brain way. Yes, denizens, a book can actually do that. Becky has the research to prove it.

I found Becky Farley, PT, MS, PhD, through a friend of a friend of a friend in the physiatric community.  Physiatrists are nerve, muscle, and bone experts who treat injuries or illnesses that affect how you move. I've written about her before, and if you're interested in pictures of the gym and a glimpse into where I was 18 months ago, click through... but come right back... because there's more to this than you can imagine. 

She uses a research based exercise program that plays to the brain's ability to change.  It's called neuro-plasticity.  She's talking about brain health and brain repair. 

Yes, brain repair.  

And the guiding principle is that it's all FUN!

The capitals are Becky's and they are reflected in her personality.  She's got boundless energy and enthusiasm; she's as delighted with my progress as I am.  Of course, she's the one standing on two good legs while encouraging me to make bigger and bolder and more powerful  movements on my less than stable one and a half legs..... except now it's more like one and three-quarter legs moving to seven-eighths. 

I bounded up the steps at the kids' house last week.  While it's true that my definition of bounding may differ somewhat from a totally able body person's, it certainly felt like bounding to me.  I put one foot on each step. I didn't hold on to the banister, nor was I bent over so that my hands could support my weight on the steps above my feet.  It made no difference if it was early morning or late at night; my body was responding to the effort I was putting into getting up there with gusto.

I heard Becky cheer leading behind me, in front of me, completely in my head.  She knew I could do it.  I believed her and swung my arms and lifted my knee and put all my weight on my right side and took care to use all the muscles in my leg and my foot to propel me up the stairs to the second floor of their house.  

I didn't even need to rest once I got there.

Little Cuter told me that, as far as she was concerned, there was no reason to baby me where ambulation is concerned.  I'm doing just fine.  I'm to tell her if I need to rest but she will treat me as if walking is not an issue.  I'm happy to report that taking big steps and swinging my torso and not holding myself stiffly to avoid aches and pains.... all of that approximates actual walking.... the kind of walking able bodied people do.... the kind of walking that was my goal when I signed up for physical therapy many months ago.

I wanted a fluid gait.  I'm recognizing that it is not an impossibility.  

Of course, the PWR!Moves handbook is 163 pages long.  The exercises are illustrated with photos and arrows and have detailed instructions on breathing and posture and that ever present exhortation to Work Harder/Do More/ Move BIGGER and FASTER EVERY day! but there are a lot of them.

It's not easy.  It's not pain free.  It's often frightening and it's always challenging.  But it's been proven to work and though I'm not a Parkinson patient, you are not your disease is a phrase that is as relevant to me as it is to those for whom the program is designed. It's an empowering notion, to define myself outside the broken pieces. I'm expecting more of myself, and in doing so I am creating more power and ability.  

I always knew that I would get better. Until I began to work at PWR!Gym, I didn't know that people with Parkinson Disease can, too.

*****

If you know someone with a diagnosis of PD, click here to order the book.  The earlier the work begins, the better the results.

An Antidote to Winter

I left Little Cuter and MOTG bemoaning their snow covered gardens.  

I hope they are still talking to me after this post.

We left the kids' warm and toasty home at 5:45am.

There was one lonely degree wandering aimlessly in the darkness.

Forty-five minutes later, at the airport, there were two of them.

We left our parkas in Illinois.

I was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and a polar fleece hat, gloves and winter work out pants.

Only my feet, clad in my hiking boots, were warm.

My ankles, rebelling against the low cut toe socks, were a disturbing shade of red.

We flew, we unpacked, we had lunch, and I went outside.  

I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

For those of you trapped beneath yet another snowfall, 

I hope this helps.

Just imagine smelling this desert mountain laurel flower

then turning around and seeing this

a volunteer who appeared last year and reappeared while we were gone.

There's another one on the south side of the house

right in front of the only salvia which survived .

I planted five. 

I'm still having trouble figuring out desert gardening.

As we enter our seventh spring, 

I'm beginning to realize that some cacti need more love than others.

The Old Man of Mexico is nearly parallel to the ground, seeking the sun.  

The bluebells are wildflowers which appear every winter.

They are small and pretty as foliage and then they burst into blueness all at once.

I planted none of them.  

Perhaps there is a lesson here?

There was a line of these gopher plants between our property and the street.

This one bloomed, so I've memorialized it

I'm not going to account for all the other ones. 

euphorbia rigida

I'm not a total failure.
I transplanted this aloe and she's doing quite nicely, thank you.
She has lots of babies, too.

Then, there are things that flummox me. 

The hibiscus never froze back this year, and I don't know what to do.

Usually, this is the time of year to prune it to a desirable shape.

Instead, I'm watching all that new growth.

It looks so healthy, reflected in the sunshine.

Yes, denizens, sunshine.

That warm stuff that lets you relax your shoulders and just breathe. 

It's a place where amazing things happen before your very eyes....

like this amaryllis which I planted in October for a December bloom.

It showed up the last week of February, 

and I was glad to see it.

I hope you are, too.

Snow

It covered the streets overnight, two inches of softness which SIR shoveled before the rest of us were downstairs and dressed.  He invested in a bent handled shovel, ergonomic and inexpensive and the perfect tool. He's in charge of the outside, so Little Cuter had no qualms about sleeping in while he was working.  He salted - with the puppy friendly crystals - and left his jacket on a hanger in the garage.
*****
I used to shovel the sidewalks in Chicago; it never seemed to snow on the weekends when TBG could be inveigled into the chore.  He left before the sun was up and returned after it had set and the city had a shovel within several hours after the last flake falls ordinance so it was my chore.

The Cuters would watch me from the window as I cleared the front of the house.  Living on a corner lot had many advantages; shoveling snow on two sides was certainly not one of them.  I'd start out bundled up and end up shedding layers along the way, stuffing scarf and hat into deep parka pockets. It was great exercise, burning many more calories than my half-hearted efforts on the treadmill.

It was satisfying to see the piles on one side of the newly revealed sidewalk.  I always dumped to the street side since my hostas were living alongside my fence.  I didn't want to to crush them any more than the flakes themselves had done.

G'ma came to visit one winter, and I shoveled three times in one day so that she would have a clear path from the taxi to the front door.  How was I to know that she'd have him drop her off in the unshoveled driveway?  Her wet feet were all the condemnation I needed.
*****
The kids are disappointed that most of the accumulation had melted away before we arrived here in Chicago.  The houses in her neighborhood are still adorned with Christmas decorations, even though it's March.  They say it's been too cold to go out and take them down, but honestly, how hard is it to lift a two foot tall plastic Santa?

I can understand not wanting to climb a ladder in sub-zero temperatures, so I give them a pass on the lights still attached to the gutters.  Little Cuter says that the plastic snowflake netting laid artfully on the bushes was covered from view until the weather warmed up last weekend.  Yesterday it just looked silly.

Not everyone in the neighborhood has been as diligent as SIR when it comes to snow removal.  We took Thomas the Wonder Dog for a walk yesterday afternoon, and spent much of it in the street instead of safely on the walkways.  The town didn't clear the path in the park, so we cruised the cul de sacs (culs de sac??). Thomas marked his territory as we admired the drifts and disparaged the remaining decor.  The sun was low on the horizon, the sky was gun metal grey, my parka was warm enough that my scarf and my hat were shoved into my pockets.
*****
And then it began to snow.  Softly at first, then thicker, then a steady stream of flakes.  It covered the driveway and didn't melt. The street became whiter and whiter as TBG became more and more anxious about driving to the wedding which had brought us to the midwest in wintertime in the first place.

Hours passed and the snow kept coming.  We showered and put on our fancy duds and our parkas and asked Little Cuter to bring our rental car into the garage so we didn't start out with wet feet.  We were calm until we left the driveway.

It was a forty minute trip which took us an hour and a half.  We passed nary a snow plow nor a salt truck on any of the three highways we traveled.  Our rear wheel drive rental car had no snow tires - that's a bad combination when the roads are slick. Traveling at forty miles an hour, picking our way through the slush and the piles and the ice, following another frightened driver.  People were passing us on the right, plowing through the unplowed accumulation with reckless abandon.

On the other hand, had we proper tires and a vehicle made for the weather, we might have been one of those fools, too.  Since we were not properly equipped, we stressed and drove slowly... very very slowly.  We worried as we entered and exited, fearing the uphill, trying not to skid.

There are many reasons to love living in the desert.  Not having to drive in this kind of weather has now risen to the top of that list.