“Ideals are like stars; you will not succeed in touching them with your hands. But like the seafaring man on the desert of waters, you choose them as your guides, and following them you will reach your destiny.” ~ Carl Schurz

Sun Reflected in Frosty River

 

“I have been in Sorrow’s kitchen and licked out all the pots. Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and sword in my hands.” ~ Zora Neale Hurston from Dust Tracks on the Road

Well, we survived Thanksgiving and my mother’s lovely running critical commentary throughout dinner. Had a bit of a snafu though: Alexis overslept because her electricity went out during the night, so her alarm did not go off, and as a result, the turkey went into the oven rather late. Since it was a 20-pound turkey, we didn’t eat dinner until 8 p.m., which doesn’t really bother most of us because we tend to eat late, but my mother was beside herself.

I called her at 2:30 to tell her that everything was going to be late and suggested that she eat a small meal, but that didn’t stop the bitching. “What do you mean . . . why? . . . how did her electricity go out in the middle of the night . . . I’ve never heard of such a thing . . . I can’t believe this . . .” Unfortunately, we could not cook the turkey here as we are still without natural gas, and our oven is a beautiful, large gas oven that is sitting unused, but that my friends, is a different saga.

This couple couldn't take the time to put on clothes

So the waiting became too much for eldest son as he had an urgent need to get to his girlfriend’s house; we sent him on his way with our blessings and suggested that he check back in later, although he didn’t.  In spite of the delay, dinner was delicious, not way too much food as it used to be, and we had open-faced hot turkey sandwiches on Friday night for dinner.

The madness that is Black Friday did not leave the country unscathed. No stampedes at Wal Marts this year because the stores allowed shoppers into the building; the catch was that no one was allowed to touch the early bird specials until 5 a.m. Everything was on pallets and covered with plastic. I know about this not because I was there (Wal Mart the day after Thanksgiving? me? shudder), but because Alexis’s friend Jennifer went and was out by 5:40 a.m. in time to go to work. Amazing.

I didn’t read any stories about fights in the aisles or mayhem, and the American consumer seemed to be more willing to part with dwindling cash, somewhat. Preliminary data show that shoppers deposited almost $41.2 billion into retail coffers (oh to have just .001 percent of that), this according to the National Retail Federation.  But the madness that normally plagues the pages of the news seemed to be less this year.

There was a shooting in which a man killed his adult sisters and a 6-year-old cousin on Thanksgiving day; another man locked his children in the trunk of his Trans Am while he ran into a sporting goods store (“They like to play in the trunk”). However, the most horrific thing that happened over the holiday weekend state side was the shooting of four Seattle police officers in a coffee shop early Sunday morning. The officers were sitting at a table with their laptops preparing their day when 37-year-old Maurice Clemmons walked in and opened fire. No other patrons were shot, only the officers. For more details on this story, click here.

“To receive everything, one must open one’s hands and give.” ~ Taisen Deshimaru

A Salvation Army Kettle

Oh, and one more on holiday cheer and good will towards all: In Toledo, Ohio, a man grabbed a Salvation Army kettle full of donations and pushed the bell ringer to the ground. Supposedly the man said, “I can’t stand you and your bell-ringing. I hate Christmas.” Clearly, this year’s winner for the Ebenezer Scrooge award. Personally, I love to see the kettles, but I miss seeing real Salvation Army members ringing the bells. I always try to put something in at least a few kettles each year.

And by the way, the rumor that bell-ringers receive part of the kettle coffers is absolutely false. Bell-ringing is done by civic organizations, scout troops, schools, etc, but the Salvation Army does employ people from shelters to be bell-ringers. These needy individuals receive minimum wage to stand out in the cold, snow, and rain collecting donations that are used to fund the Salvation Army’ s many charitable programs, including shelters, meal programs, after-school programs, to name but a few.

“You’re the love of my life
And the breath in my prayers
Take my hand, lead me there” ~ Dave Matthews Band

So with the one holiday over and the big one looming, Corey and I are in a kind of stasis. The bills continue to pile up, and the money continues to be non-existent. We have a huge payment due to the power company in just a few days, and absolutely no way to pay it. It’s hard to think about putting up Christmas lights when there might not be electricity to power them.

So that’s what I mean about stasis. We cannot really do anything as far as decorating until the living room undergoes a major clearing, but that is dependent upon painting the bedroom, and I had forgotten that one of the reasons that we didn’t move  the very heavy bureau into the bedroom before this is that the bedroom needs to be carpeted. Once that huge dresser is in place, it’s going to be very hard to move it. So do we wait to paint until we can carpet so that we move everything once? Do we move everything twice? And who is this we I speak of, Kemosabe . . .

I must admit that my recent renewed addiction to home renovation shows is not helping with my complete dissatisfaction with the state of our house. There are so many things that we could do to make the house better, less cluttered, easier to get around in if we just had a little cash. Having said that, using cash for renovations has to take a backseat to using it for bills, so once again, the infamous Catch 22 comes into play.

Oh well, moving along . . .

“We clasp the hands of those that go before us, and the hands of those who come after us.” ~ Wendell Berry

Brett's Hands

I have been thinking of hands lately. Don’t ask my why, but  I have. Hands that are moving through the air. Sunlight glowing through hands. Babies’ hands. My children’s hands, which are very much like my own. I have very long fingers, which was great when it came to playing the piano, and all three of my children have long thin fingers.

I remember my father’s hands. He had a degenerative condition in his right hand that caused the muscle to atrophy, so much so that he had to use his left hand to turn the ignition in his 1966 Ford Falcon.  I remember more than once looking at my father’s hands, so bent and worn with age and work, and being just amazed at how much those hands had accomplished over the years.

I really don’t remember anything that my father couldn’t do when he tried. He built things around the house, sewed things, fixed things, worked on his car (all of the time), and maintained the engines on those huge cargo ships that traveled all over the world. I know that my father was very good at his job because he had ship captains who routinely requested him.

In the end, when he was in the hospital, it was his hands that I watched. So small and shrunken, they knitted the sheets to and fro. This man who was never really still his entire life was working even in the midst of his morphine dreams. Watching that automatic movement day after day almost broke me.

But my thoughts about hands are not all painful. In my mind’s eye I see a pre-school craft project that Alexis made: a piece of muslin with small green handprints in a circle, forming a wreath. I still have that. Brett’s hands, specifically his thumb, which he sucked when he was a baby. I never really fretted that he sucked his thumb because I knew that he would stop when he was ready. Nine-year-old Eamonn’s long fingers scooped around a basketball, his slightly crooked smile as he stood for his team picture.

These memories are good memories. I can take the memory of my father’s hands when it is balanced against these memories from my children’s earlier days.

My hands when I had long manicured nails

I look down at my own hands as they skate aross the keys: long, thin fingers, the one vein on each hand that has always been prominent, cuticles a bit ragged from worrying them unconsciously. These hands have touched piano keys and computer keys; they have brushed my daughter’s long hair and finger-combed my son’s waves. These hands have held four babies, cupped their small heads and massaged their backs. These hands have polished a thousand pieces of furniture and cleaned thousands of dishes. They have planted countless flowers and strung colored lights year after year.

These hands are my strength and my weakness: For everything that these hands have allowed me to do, they have also felt the pain of being idle at times when doing something, anything, would have helped.

These hands stroked the soft dark hair on my daughter’s head as she lay dying in my arms, but these hands could not stop death. These hands held my father’s small, curled hands as he lay sleeping in a hospital bed, but these hands could not keep the pain at bay nor force death to wait.

These hands have held newborn babies, and puppies seconds from their mother’s womb. They have stroked the flanks of a chestnut mare and loosened the bolts in an engine. They have turned the pages of thousands of books and held countless cups of tea and coffee. Each morning, these hands move across a face that belies its age, while fingers probe for wrinkles that have yet to appear. These hands stroke Corey’s cheek when he is asleep, and rub the belly of my fat, spoiled dog as he lays snoring by my side.

Everything that is or has been me is within these hands, and when I hold them up to my eyes when the summer sun beats down relentlessly, my fingers seem to glow with life, and I am reminded of that scene in the old movie Ladyhawke when Isabeau raises her hands to the morning sun just before she transforms into the hawk.

I have my father’s hands. My desire is that when I am in the dusk of my life, my hands will have created more than they have destroyed, that they will have caressed more than they have repelled, that they will have calmed more than they have worried, and that they will have written a million words, filled with the myriad sides of myself, my life, and those who have used their own hands to help me, guide me, hold me, and teach me along the way.

More later. Peace.

This video of Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova’s “Falling Slowly” somehow seemed appropriate.

 

 

My Brain Is Going To Explode . . .

 alien-in-my-head

And Aliens Are Going To Pop Out . . .

 

I’m going on the fifth day of this migraine. I have to tell you that this particular one ranks right up there in the top ten of migraines. On the pain scale—you know, where 1 means that it’s an owie and 10 means that a collision with a bus would feel better—this one is a 43.

Of course, when you withdraw from your body a medicine that is supposed to prevent migraines, it logically follows that the physiological reaction might be a migraine. A migraine, yes. Republicans filibustering for four days in my head? Doesn’t the Geneva Convention have a clause for this?

A Little Light Reading Should Help

In today’s news, there were no fewer than three stories about migraines, one of which was a real beacon of light in my health news. According to a health news story by David Kohn of MSNBC, “Recent studies show those who suffer from something called migraine with aura have double, or perhaps triple, the risk of stroke or heart attack, compared with people who don’t get migraines at all.”

migraine-aura
Migraine Aura

Oh hooray. Another wonderful thing to which I can look forward in my bodily degeneration.

A migraine aura can include anything from spotted vision, to halos, to light streaks. I was once walking with my sister-in-law, when I suddenly saw heat streaks rise from the street and begin to cascade like waves. No, this was not one of my Mexicans in the Walls moments: it was a full-fledged migraine aura. But mine are usually accompanied by heightened sensitivity to smells and light of any kind.

Supposedly, migraine sufferers may have weakened blood vessels, not only in the head but throughout the body, which can raise the risk of stroke or heart attack. Kohn’s article cites a study conducted by the University of Toledo in which neurologist Gretchen Tietjen found that nearly a third of those with migraines had signs of blood vessel damage.

One third, huh?

Let’s see . . . had my first migraine when I was about 16, have been having them regularly ever since, at least one a month, some lasting for weeks . . . multiply, carry the seven, divide by 13 and factor in chocolate . . . which leaves me with 2 untouched blood vessels in my right big toe.

The article had lots more great information about possible causes of migraines, but I hurt too much to ingest all of it completely. To read more, go to http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29288759/.

Then there was the article about warm weather triggering migraines. I know that when it’s beastly hot here in Hampton Roads, which could happen in July or December, I get migraines. I also know that when there is a dramatic shift in the barometric pressure I get a migraine.

So it is not all in my head, so to speak. A study by Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston reveals that “each temperature increase of 5 degrees Celsius — about 9 degrees Fahrenheit — appeared to increase the risk of severe headaches by nearly 8 percent.” The study investigated factors such as air temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, and pollutants. For this complete article, visit http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29601879/.

But the most interesting article by far was David Kohn’s personal account of his life with migraines. Apparently, the science and medical writer has been suffering from migraines since childhood, since he was about four. Kohn describes vividly his “quiet agony,” including his wonderful experience with the medicine cafergot (yuck, tried that; didn’t work), butalbital (stopped working for me, too), and finally, his current medication, Imitrex.

Granted, Kohn is unusual in how early in life his migraines started. Kohn mentions the commonly known fact about females suffering more from migraines than men; however, I did not realize that the mean age at which males begin to have migraines is 11 versus 15 for females. Personally, I think hormones have a role in that.

If you are a fellow migraine sufferer, you might want to read Kohn’s account at http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29418328/.

But The Aliens Won’t Be Cute Like E.T.gerard-butler-in-as-leonidas-in-300

So far, I have tried the following with this particular migraine: ice, heat, darkness, eye masks, pain pills over varying strength, a combination of sudafed and ibuprofen in case it’s sinus related, my twice daily regimen of Axert . . . not to mention whimpering, crying, begging the dogs not to bark, and standing in a very hot shower trying to steam the migraine away. I even persuaded Corey that we needed to have sushi (not to hard to persuade him on that) so that I could get some Omega 3 and wasabi in my body in an attempt to drive out the migraine aliens. No joy there, either.

andrew-tiernan-as-ephialtes-in-300Need I point out that to date, none of the above have worked. This anvil-like pressure and its accompanying metal workers who are banging out weapons in my head will not be budged. Hephaestus is taking his time casting swords. Which leads me to ponder whether it is impertinent to ask the sword-maker to the gods to take five. Hmm . . . thinks that make you say hmm . . .

I have images of Spartans in tight little man-underwear with heaving pecs coming to my rescue by doing battle with this enemy, but try as I might, Gerard Butler has yet to offer his services. However, Ephialtes, the misshapen would-be warrior, seems to have taken up residence and is currently having a hell of a time keeping the metal smiths company.

If I do manage to fall asleep later, perhaps I’ll dream of Telios  (Michael Fassbender) instead. Here’s hoping. But with my luck, I’ll probably just keep seeing the Inamorta falling over the cliff. (Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m a 300 groupie).

michael-fassbender-as-stelios-in-300

I know that I should end the evening with a hot cup of herbal tea and no chocolate, but the insane side of me still yearns for some Oreos. I will yield to my better instincts, though, and stick to the peppermint tea and maybe some Jello (ooh, living dangerously) and forego that glass of Shiraz that would hit the spot. Besides, tomorrow morning I get to go have vials of blood drained to see how my cholesterol and blood sugars are doing, so I should probably stay on this side of the Hot Gates.

More later. Peace.