O Emmanuel, our King and our Law-giver, Longing of the Gentiles, yea, and salvation thereof, come to save us, O Lord our God!
December 23, 2008
O Antiphon -- December 23
Something special for today's Antiphon, the last before Christmas Eve. (Who knew you could find all these things on YouTube?)
O Emmanuel, our King and our Law-giver, Longing of the Gentiles, yea, and salvation thereof, come to save us, O Lord our God!
O Emmanuel, our King and our Law-giver, Longing of the Gentiles, yea, and salvation thereof, come to save us, O Lord our God!
Today's hymn
I love this hymn. It's not strictly Christmas, but then again -- why not? I've listened to several different performances and arrangements of it, but I still really like the version Margaret has on CD by Sufjan Stevens:
Come, thou Fount of every blessing,
tune my heart to sing thy grace;
streams of mercy, never ceasing,
call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it,
mount of thy unchanging love.
Here I raise mine Ebenezer;
hither by thy help I'm come;
and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
wandering from the fold of God;
he, to rescue me from danger,
interposed his precious blood.
O to grace how great a debtor
daily I'm constrained to be!
Let thy grace now, like a fetter,
bind my wandering heart to thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love;
here's my heart, O take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above.
[Oh -- and props to anyone who can explain what an "Ebenezer" is!]
Come, thou Fount of every blessing,
tune my heart to sing thy grace;
streams of mercy, never ceasing,
call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it,
mount of thy unchanging love.
Here I raise mine Ebenezer;
hither by thy help I'm come;
and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
wandering from the fold of God;
he, to rescue me from danger,
interposed his precious blood.
O to grace how great a debtor
daily I'm constrained to be!
Let thy grace now, like a fetter,
bind my wandering heart to thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love;
here's my heart, O take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above.
[Oh -- and props to anyone who can explain what an "Ebenezer" is!]
December 22, 2008
More poems
A few people commented on my first poem post and submitted their own favorites. "Wasichu" gave the very beautiful poem by G.K. Chesterton about the Christ-Child and his glowing, burning hair. Here's another poem I love (again, by Robert Southwell) in keeping with the theme of the Incendiary Jesus. (Believe it or not, I have a third one up my sleeve, but it will have to keep until tomorrow.)
The Burning Babe
As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, though scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his tears were fed.
"Alas," quoth he, "but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts, or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."
With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas Day.
The Burning Babe
As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, though scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his tears were fed.
"Alas," quoth he, "but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts, or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."
With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas Day.
O Antiphon -- December 22
O King of the Gentiles and the Desired of them, Thou Cornerstone that dost make both one, come and deliver man, whom Thou didst form out of the dust of the earth.
December 21, 2008
O Antiphon -- December 21st
O Dayspring, brightness of the everlasting light, Son of justice, come to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death!
December 20, 2008
A favorite Christmas hymn...
...from the 5th century. (I tried to find a link with the music for this hymn, but I haven't had luck so far. I'll keep looking!)
Of the Father's love begotten
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the source, the ending he,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see,
Evermore and evermore!
This is he whom seers and sages
Chanted of old with one accord,
Whom the voices of the prophets
Herald in their faithful word;
Now he shines, the long-expected;
Let creation praise its Lord,
Evermore and evermore!
O ye heights of heav'n, adore him;
Angel hosts, his praises sing;
All dominions, bow before him,
And extol our God and King;
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Ev'ry voice in concert ring,
Evermore and evermore!
Thee let age and thee let manhood,
Thee let boys in chorus sing;
Matrons, virgins, little maidens,
With glad voices answering;
Let their guileless songs reecho,
And their heart its music bring,
Evermore and evermore!
Christ, to thee, with God the Father,
And, O Holy Ghost, to thee,
Hymn, and chant, and high thanksgiving,
And unwearied praises be,
Honor, glory, and dominion,
And eternal victory,
Evermore and evermore!
Of the Father's love begotten
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the source, the ending he,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see,
Evermore and evermore!
This is he whom seers and sages
Chanted of old with one accord,
Whom the voices of the prophets
Herald in their faithful word;
Now he shines, the long-expected;
Let creation praise its Lord,
Evermore and evermore!
O ye heights of heav'n, adore him;
Angel hosts, his praises sing;
All dominions, bow before him,
And extol our God and King;
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Ev'ry voice in concert ring,
Evermore and evermore!
Thee let age and thee let manhood,
Thee let boys in chorus sing;
Matrons, virgins, little maidens,
With glad voices answering;
Let their guileless songs reecho,
And their heart its music bring,
Evermore and evermore!
Christ, to thee, with God the Father,
And, O Holy Ghost, to thee,
Hymn, and chant, and high thanksgiving,
And unwearied praises be,
Honor, glory, and dominion,
And eternal victory,
Evermore and evermore!
O Antiphon -- December 20th
O Key of David and Sceptre of the house of Israel, Who dost open and no man doth shut, Who dost shut and no man doth open, come and bring forth from his prisonhouse the captive that sitteth in darkness and in the shadow of death.
December 19, 2008
O Antiphon -- December 19th
O Root of Jesse, who stands for an ensign of the peoples,
Before whom kings are mute and to whom the nations will do homage: Come quickly to deliver us.
Winter prose
A little look-in for winter itself, from my favorite children's book:
"It was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering-- even exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea."
--The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame
"It was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering-- even exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea."
--The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame
December 18, 2008
Christmas poems!
I hope to keep adding more of my Advent and Christmas "favorites" in the days leading up to the feast. It's especially fitting now, since Advent has kicked into overdrive, so to speak -- the "O Antiphons" began yesterday! This is the time of Advent that feels a little breathless with expectation, like hearing long-awaited footsteps at the door or that time I *swore* I heard jingle-bells on the roof one Christmas Eve.
So here is one favorite for today. (These poems over the next few days all come from the back of the Divine Office for the Advent and Christmas seasons, and I used to read these over and over in the convent.)
Behold the father is his daughter's son,
The bird that built the nest is hatched therein,
The old of years an hour hat not outrun,
Eternal life to live doth now begin,
The Word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep,
Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep.
O dying souls, behold your living spring;
O dazzled eyes, behold your sun of grace;
Dull ears, attend what word this Word doth bring;
Up, heavy hearts, with joy your Joy embrace.
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despair:
This life, this light, this Word, this joy repairs.
Gift better than himself God doth not know;
Gift better than his God no man can see.
This gift doth here the giver given bestow;
Gift to this gift let each receiver be.
God is my gift; himself he freely gave me;
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.
Man altered was by sin from man to beast;
Beast's food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh.
Now God is flesh and lies in manger pressed
As hay, the brutest sinner to refresh.
O happy field wherein this fodder grew,
Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew.
--Robert Southwell
More to come tomorrow! What about all of you? Any favorite Christmas poems to share?
So here is one favorite for today. (These poems over the next few days all come from the back of the Divine Office for the Advent and Christmas seasons, and I used to read these over and over in the convent.)
Behold the father is his daughter's son,
The bird that built the nest is hatched therein,
The old of years an hour hat not outrun,
Eternal life to live doth now begin,
The Word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep,
Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep.
O dying souls, behold your living spring;
O dazzled eyes, behold your sun of grace;
Dull ears, attend what word this Word doth bring;
Up, heavy hearts, with joy your Joy embrace.
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despair:
This life, this light, this Word, this joy repairs.
Gift better than himself God doth not know;
Gift better than his God no man can see.
This gift doth here the giver given bestow;
Gift to this gift let each receiver be.
God is my gift; himself he freely gave me;
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.
Man altered was by sin from man to beast;
Beast's food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh.
Now God is flesh and lies in manger pressed
As hay, the brutest sinner to refresh.
O happy field wherein this fodder grew,
Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew.
--Robert Southwell
More to come tomorrow! What about all of you? Any favorite Christmas poems to share?
December 17, 2008
December 5, 2008
Beautiful Music for Advent
This was Fr. Barry's contribution to my day. It's not properly for Advent, but the birth of Christ is as much about our redemption as His passion and death, so enjoy!
"Salvation is created in the midst of the earth, O God. Alleluia."
The "Hail Mary", of course, does properly belong in Advent, so here's another clip, courtesy of the same.
Thanks, "Father!"
"Salvation is created in the midst of the earth, O God. Alleluia."
The "Hail Mary", of course, does properly belong in Advent, so here's another clip, courtesy of the same.
Thanks, "Father!"
October 25, 2008
Collecting things
I haven't felt like I've had much to say in the past two months. So far, I'm not sure I've really had much of an idea of what this blog was supposed to be for. Updating friends and family on my progress back towards health was well and good...for a while. But now I'm mostly there in major ways, and one day looks pretty much like the next at this point. I will be going back to DC within the week. I think it will be difficult in some ways, but I'm also confident that it's time now.
Today I've spent some time preparing for the trip: going through my clothes -- summer and winter -- and taking the cast-offs and never-worns to Good Will; gathering odds and ends together from all corners of the house; and doing a bit of shopping for some wintertime essentials. My activity these days still has to be interspersed with down-time in my chair to give my back a rest, and I'm increasingly fidgety in these moments. I don't want to be wasting time any more, but I haven't yet worked back up the momentum that allows me to enjoy being busy most every moment of every day. Hopefully that will come once I'm back at the school and surrounded by bustle and activity again.
In one of these down-times today I was idly poking around the internet, a bit irritated for being so idle and half-heartedly looking for some passive entertainment. Through a series of completely random links (this isn't web-surfing so much as web-wandering) I found a beautiful new blog to enjoy. The photography is stunning and his subject matter really touches me. His commentary is also great, whether applying an apt quote or analyzing the different components and movement in his photos.
And it reminded me of one of my other original purposes for this blog: to collect things I love, whenever I happen to run across them. Many of the blog's photos are inspired by the paintings of Andrew Wyeth. (Interestingly, Wyeth's paintings were also the inspiration for the set designs for one of my favorite movies, The Village.)
The minimalism and "cleanness" of the paintings remind me of another, newish favorite of mine: Edward Hopper. I love his paintings: the watercolors and the oils, the early period and the late period. I suppose this is very cliche among art afficionados, but I find the sparseness of his paintings oddly moving. If people are inclined to look down on Wyeth and Hopper as being conventional and pedestrian (the way intellectual elitists might look down on "family values"), I can only say I think they're simple and beautiful, and worth loving for that reason. Hopper's paintings draw you in to the interior lives of ordinary people. In fact, they remind me very much of O. Henry's short stories. I'd love one day to edit an collection of O. Henry stories illustrated by Hopper.
Today I've spent some time preparing for the trip: going through my clothes -- summer and winter -- and taking the cast-offs and never-worns to Good Will; gathering odds and ends together from all corners of the house; and doing a bit of shopping for some wintertime essentials. My activity these days still has to be interspersed with down-time in my chair to give my back a rest, and I'm increasingly fidgety in these moments. I don't want to be wasting time any more, but I haven't yet worked back up the momentum that allows me to enjoy being busy most every moment of every day. Hopefully that will come once I'm back at the school and surrounded by bustle and activity again.
In one of these down-times today I was idly poking around the internet, a bit irritated for being so idle and half-heartedly looking for some passive entertainment. Through a series of completely random links (this isn't web-surfing so much as web-wandering) I found a beautiful new blog to enjoy. The photography is stunning and his subject matter really touches me. His commentary is also great, whether applying an apt quote or analyzing the different components and movement in his photos.
And it reminded me of one of my other original purposes for this blog: to collect things I love, whenever I happen to run across them. Many of the blog's photos are inspired by the paintings of Andrew Wyeth. (Interestingly, Wyeth's paintings were also the inspiration for the set designs for one of my favorite movies, The Village.)
The minimalism and "cleanness" of the paintings remind me of another, newish favorite of mine: Edward Hopper. I love his paintings: the watercolors and the oils, the early period and the late period. I suppose this is very cliche among art afficionados, but I find the sparseness of his paintings oddly moving. If people are inclined to look down on Wyeth and Hopper as being conventional and pedestrian (the way intellectual elitists might look down on "family values"), I can only say I think they're simple and beautiful, and worth loving for that reason. Hopper's paintings draw you in to the interior lives of ordinary people. In fact, they remind me very much of O. Henry's short stories. I'd love one day to edit an collection of O. Henry stories illustrated by Hopper.
August 28, 2008
Dinner with Calvin
Mealtimes with the twins have become a lot more exciting since Addie decided that eating is a predatory affair. Karen and I took them to The Restaurant the other day and installed them in their highchairs, each with their handy-dandy roll-up placemat in front of them. Gabe contentedly ate his pea-crisps and gazed around at the other customers, grinning and flirting with the women passing behind his chair. Addie, on the other hand, was all business. As soon as the Cheerios were dropped on her placemat, she furrowed her brow, hunched over, and grabbed them one after another in rapid-fire succession, stuffing each in her mouth with a little bark of triumph.
After Cheerios came fruit pieces in a little black plastic cup that came with the twins' meal. Karen began by putting a few pieces at a time on the kids' placemats, but this was not sufficient for Addie; she wanted to take them out of the cup herself. "Meh, fine," Karen thought. Addie's eyes got bigger and gleamed mischievously as she began grabbing the fruit from the cup in Karen's hand. Furrowed brow, wicked grin, and barks of triumph as the fruit rapidly disappeared.
This became a bit messy after a while, though, as the juice dripped everywhere. Finally, Karen decided just to give Addie the whole cup and be done with it. As she held the cup out to Addie, that beautiful, sweet, utterly feminine little girl stared wide-eyed at the unexpected gift for one fraction of a second, then -- faster than eye could see -- grabbed the cup, hugged it to her chest, and did this:
I honestly don't know what's going to become of this child...
After Cheerios came fruit pieces in a little black plastic cup that came with the twins' meal. Karen began by putting a few pieces at a time on the kids' placemats, but this was not sufficient for Addie; she wanted to take them out of the cup herself. "Meh, fine," Karen thought. Addie's eyes got bigger and gleamed mischievously as she began grabbing the fruit from the cup in Karen's hand. Furrowed brow, wicked grin, and barks of triumph as the fruit rapidly disappeared.
This became a bit messy after a while, though, as the juice dripped everywhere. Finally, Karen decided just to give Addie the whole cup and be done with it. As she held the cup out to Addie, that beautiful, sweet, utterly feminine little girl stared wide-eyed at the unexpected gift for one fraction of a second, then -- faster than eye could see -- grabbed the cup, hugged it to her chest, and did this:
I honestly don't know what's going to become of this child...
August 23, 2008
...and presenting...
The best photo of all. (Yeah, not from the Fairgrounds. From the previous roll.)
Why I love the Raleigh flea market, and my camera in general
It's a gorgeous day today -- a few white fluffy clouds and the thermometer hovering around 77 degrees. It's one of those days we get periodically towards the end of summer that hints that autumn is on its way: the air is just a bit cooler, a bit crisper. Without the usual overwhelming mugginess, I notice the light from the sun much more than the heat. A perfect day to use up a remaining roll of film! Accordingly, I grabbed my camera and headed to the flea market at the State Fairgrounds at 9:00 this morning.
These days I've pretty much defaulted to using my (mediocre) digital camera. It's quick, it's cheap, and -- with a few adjustments to color and contrast on my Photoshop program -- it produces fairly decent pictures. But I'd forgotten just what a difference a good speed film in my other camera makes. The following photos are from this morning, all of them completely untouched except for some cropping. (This tells me I either need to get a better quality digital camera, or suck up the cost of printing and go back to "old school.") I'd forgotten just how much I love photography, especially when I get results like this!
Okay, those last two are from our rose garden; I didn't quite finish the roll at the market. But -- look at these photos! I can't believe how much light and color the film picked up, even when the sun was behind the clouds. ...now if I can just figure out how to take shots of people without the camera picking up and magnifying every minute variation of skin tone. My portraits are pretty darn unflattering. Any suggestions, Father Barry?
These days I've pretty much defaulted to using my (mediocre) digital camera. It's quick, it's cheap, and -- with a few adjustments to color and contrast on my Photoshop program -- it produces fairly decent pictures. But I'd forgotten just what a difference a good speed film in my other camera makes. The following photos are from this morning, all of them completely untouched except for some cropping. (This tells me I either need to get a better quality digital camera, or suck up the cost of printing and go back to "old school.") I'd forgotten just how much I love photography, especially when I get results like this!
Okay, those last two are from our rose garden; I didn't quite finish the roll at the market. But -- look at these photos! I can't believe how much light and color the film picked up, even when the sun was behind the clouds. ...now if I can just figure out how to take shots of people without the camera picking up and magnifying every minute variation of skin tone. My portraits are pretty darn unflattering. Any suggestions, Father Barry?
July 31, 2008
The Twilight Zone
My body appears to be on a mission to assert itself to me. It reminds me of my 3-year-old nephew that way. (His mother says he loves to announce to her, "I'm not going to do it! I'm not," even when she hasn't told him to do anything at all.) I no longer have any illusion whatsoever that I have control of my body.
I went for an eye exam today and passed out cold. Yes -- an eye exam. Why did it happen? Because the doctor told me what she was looking at and what she was seeing as she went along: lovely information about my optic nerves, the pressure in my eyes, the spacing of the blood vessels, and so forth. My brain said, "Oh! Good to know!" The rest of my body said, "....unnnnghhh...." and fainted.
Now, I've become an expert at fainting. I know exactly when it's going to happen to me, what needs to be done, and what the various experiences of coming out of it can be like, depending on the position my body is in and so forth. But there are two things about fainting: first, it's a tremendous annoyance. It seems I can't go anywhere these days without feeling that catastrophic dizziness and racing pulse at the slightest mention of blood or injury. Second: it's extremely unpleasant and very frightening, even when you know exactly what's happening. On the occasions when I come around very slowly, it's particularly disturbing; my consciousness starts out as just a tiny center of awareness surrounded by sights and sounds that don't make any sense. I'm physically very uncomfortable, but don't have any sense of having a body at all, so the physical sensations are completely unintelligible. I often wonder if that's what newborn babies feel like.
On the other hand, there are really some interesting things about it. This seems like a pretty dumb, navel-gazing excuse for a post, but really, it's kind of intriguing. Anyway, it's the closest thing I've had to an out-of-body experience, so bear with me.
First, I've dreamt while in a faint. I've had this habit of fainting at the sight of blood since I was a kid; the first time I have a clear memory of fainting was when I was about six years old. My older sister and I had been bouncing around on her bed when I tripped over the footboard and landed on something sharp on the floor. Mom sat me down on the toilet seat lid while she bandaged my knee, and over I went. But this is the cool part: I had an extremely vivid dream that I was back in the Old West. I was standing on the front porch of a saloon looking out into the dusty street at two gunfighters who were about to face off. Mom, complete with prairie gown and bonnet, didn't want me to witness the impending violence, so she began calling me in to lunch. (Did we live in the saloon? I have no idea. Who said dreams make sense?) I ignored her for a while, riveted by the gunslingers who seemed frozen in the street, but she wouldn't quit calling me. Finally I began to come to and realized Mom had been calling my name the whole time. Since then, I don't think I've ever remembered a dream as such. But I always have the feeling that I've been thinking or experiencing something important, and that coming around has just knocked it from my memory.
Alright. Now here's the really fascinating part, and I'd be really interested to see if anyone has ever had the same experience, whether from fainting or from coming out of anesthesia (I've experienced it both ways): in that window between complete unconsciousness and full consciousness, when I'm first beginning to come around, I very often have a feeling of sadness. It seems to me that I've been somewhere wonderful, and my first reaction on realizing where I am is deep disappointment. I have the distinct feeling of crossing dimensions, and going from somewhere solid and meaningful to somewhere very thin and trivial; the real world feels less "real" than wherever I've been. In fact, mixed in with my disappointment is almost always surprise as I realize where I am: "You're kidding. I'm actually here? People are actually doing these things? Why?" Ironically, I always have the added thought, "...I thought all of this was just a dream I had!"
So. What does it mean? Well, it would be lovely to say it's some kind of foretaste of the spiritual dimension. It would fit our theology, after all: more real, beautiful, and meaningful, compared with which our present existence would feel thin and trivial. It would fit with the experiences of people who have reportedly died and been resuscitated, including a few saints. But the one time that would have been the most plausible (aside from the general implausibility of it due to my own lack of holiness) was the one time I don't recall having this feeling. When I was being tested by my cardiologist for this tendency to faint, the fainting spell they induced in me caused my heart to stop for 30 seconds. During what was the most difficult and bewildering waking-up process I've ever had, I didn't have the sense of having been somewhere else. Which makes sense, I suppose -- it's plausible that my brain activity stopped with my heart. As "Mrs. Barry" likes to say, with some black humor, "You were dead for half a minute!"
Well, I have to admit to having no visions of lights at the end of the tunnel or the sense of being blissfully happy or of seeing the faces of deceased friends and family members. There was just profound nothingness, which I became aware of only as I slowly crawled out of it. So I regretfully conclude that my experiences of being "in a better place" on other occasions (when my heart and brain are still working just fine) are probably not actual experiences. My brain synapses are just firing strangely, due to lack of oxygen. How sad.
And yet... I don't know. Intriguing, isn't it?
Anybody have any clue what I'm talking about? Have you had similar experiences?
I went for an eye exam today and passed out cold. Yes -- an eye exam. Why did it happen? Because the doctor told me what she was looking at and what she was seeing as she went along: lovely information about my optic nerves, the pressure in my eyes, the spacing of the blood vessels, and so forth. My brain said, "Oh! Good to know!" The rest of my body said, "....unnnnghhh...." and fainted.
Now, I've become an expert at fainting. I know exactly when it's going to happen to me, what needs to be done, and what the various experiences of coming out of it can be like, depending on the position my body is in and so forth. But there are two things about fainting: first, it's a tremendous annoyance. It seems I can't go anywhere these days without feeling that catastrophic dizziness and racing pulse at the slightest mention of blood or injury. Second: it's extremely unpleasant and very frightening, even when you know exactly what's happening. On the occasions when I come around very slowly, it's particularly disturbing; my consciousness starts out as just a tiny center of awareness surrounded by sights and sounds that don't make any sense. I'm physically very uncomfortable, but don't have any sense of having a body at all, so the physical sensations are completely unintelligible. I often wonder if that's what newborn babies feel like.
On the other hand, there are really some interesting things about it. This seems like a pretty dumb, navel-gazing excuse for a post, but really, it's kind of intriguing. Anyway, it's the closest thing I've had to an out-of-body experience, so bear with me.
First, I've dreamt while in a faint. I've had this habit of fainting at the sight of blood since I was a kid; the first time I have a clear memory of fainting was when I was about six years old. My older sister and I had been bouncing around on her bed when I tripped over the footboard and landed on something sharp on the floor. Mom sat me down on the toilet seat lid while she bandaged my knee, and over I went. But this is the cool part: I had an extremely vivid dream that I was back in the Old West. I was standing on the front porch of a saloon looking out into the dusty street at two gunfighters who were about to face off. Mom, complete with prairie gown and bonnet, didn't want me to witness the impending violence, so she began calling me in to lunch. (Did we live in the saloon? I have no idea. Who said dreams make sense?) I ignored her for a while, riveted by the gunslingers who seemed frozen in the street, but she wouldn't quit calling me. Finally I began to come to and realized Mom had been calling my name the whole time. Since then, I don't think I've ever remembered a dream as such. But I always have the feeling that I've been thinking or experiencing something important, and that coming around has just knocked it from my memory.
Alright. Now here's the really fascinating part, and I'd be really interested to see if anyone has ever had the same experience, whether from fainting or from coming out of anesthesia (I've experienced it both ways): in that window between complete unconsciousness and full consciousness, when I'm first beginning to come around, I very often have a feeling of sadness. It seems to me that I've been somewhere wonderful, and my first reaction on realizing where I am is deep disappointment. I have the distinct feeling of crossing dimensions, and going from somewhere solid and meaningful to somewhere very thin and trivial; the real world feels less "real" than wherever I've been. In fact, mixed in with my disappointment is almost always surprise as I realize where I am: "You're kidding. I'm actually here? People are actually doing these things? Why?" Ironically, I always have the added thought, "...I thought all of this was just a dream I had!"
So. What does it mean? Well, it would be lovely to say it's some kind of foretaste of the spiritual dimension. It would fit our theology, after all: more real, beautiful, and meaningful, compared with which our present existence would feel thin and trivial. It would fit with the experiences of people who have reportedly died and been resuscitated, including a few saints. But the one time that would have been the most plausible (aside from the general implausibility of it due to my own lack of holiness) was the one time I don't recall having this feeling. When I was being tested by my cardiologist for this tendency to faint, the fainting spell they induced in me caused my heart to stop for 30 seconds. During what was the most difficult and bewildering waking-up process I've ever had, I didn't have the sense of having been somewhere else. Which makes sense, I suppose -- it's plausible that my brain activity stopped with my heart. As "Mrs. Barry" likes to say, with some black humor, "You were dead for half a minute!"
Well, I have to admit to having no visions of lights at the end of the tunnel or the sense of being blissfully happy or of seeing the faces of deceased friends and family members. There was just profound nothingness, which I became aware of only as I slowly crawled out of it. So I regretfully conclude that my experiences of being "in a better place" on other occasions (when my heart and brain are still working just fine) are probably not actual experiences. My brain synapses are just firing strangely, due to lack of oxygen. How sad.
And yet... I don't know. Intriguing, isn't it?
Anybody have any clue what I'm talking about? Have you had similar experiences?
July 30, 2008
Guilt-induced posting
Okay. A sister (who shall remain nameless) is trying to get her other (equally nameless) sisters to get off their duffs and get back to blogging so she can have something to read when she ought to be working.
Just kidding. The other sisters have adorable children whom their aunts miss every single minute they're not around, and we're all desperate for photos and stories of their adorableness. [I agree with her demands in their cases: get back to posting, ladies! I've started hearing more about these children from third-party sources than from you. Fix this.]
So what does the childless sister have to offer information-wise? Well, to be honest, I think I haven't developed the necessary blogger's spirit yet. The fact that my posts can be read by EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD somehow inhibits my desire to write about anything too personal. Of course, the fact that my blog is so anonymous my own father didn't realize who it belonged to when I directed him to it should give me some comfort. Well, I'll see what I can do.
Here's a snippet of something I was thinking about today: Inside Catholic has an article about Catholic art, which was a very good read (though I feel like I walked into a conversation half-way along. Anybody else feel like they need a bit more of an introduction to Degas' approach to painting and the Impressionist movement in general?)
The post in the combox that mentions Kinkade made me think of this awesome post from a lady who, sadly, has retired from the blogging business. A bit of back story before you read it: the day before, she posted a visual comparison of great artists, ending with a painting by Thomas Kinkade. This sparked a flood of commentary by readers, including the two she quotes at the beginning of this post.
Yes, I'm the Jen she's referring to. Ah, the fame. Also, Sister Mary Martha commented on my last post. ...and did I mention James Lileks once included an entire e-mail from me in one of his columns? I'm a virtual celebrity. :)
Just kidding. The other sisters have adorable children whom their aunts miss every single minute they're not around, and we're all desperate for photos and stories of their adorableness. [I agree with her demands in their cases: get back to posting, ladies! I've started hearing more about these children from third-party sources than from you. Fix this.]
So what does the childless sister have to offer information-wise? Well, to be honest, I think I haven't developed the necessary blogger's spirit yet. The fact that my posts can be read by EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD somehow inhibits my desire to write about anything too personal. Of course, the fact that my blog is so anonymous my own father didn't realize who it belonged to when I directed him to it should give me some comfort. Well, I'll see what I can do.
Here's a snippet of something I was thinking about today: Inside Catholic has an article about Catholic art, which was a very good read (though I feel like I walked into a conversation half-way along. Anybody else feel like they need a bit more of an introduction to Degas' approach to painting and the Impressionist movement in general?)
The post in the combox that mentions Kinkade made me think of this awesome post from a lady who, sadly, has retired from the blogging business. A bit of back story before you read it: the day before, she posted a visual comparison of great artists, ending with a painting by Thomas Kinkade. This sparked a flood of commentary by readers, including the two she quotes at the beginning of this post.
Yes, I'm the Jen she's referring to. Ah, the fame. Also, Sister Mary Martha commented on my last post. ...and did I mention James Lileks once included an entire e-mail from me in one of his columns? I'm a virtual celebrity. :)
July 9, 2008
Summer blockbuster controversy
One of the frustrating things about my back injury is having to miss out on all the great films that are coming out practically every few weeks this summer! Sitting in a squishy theater seat for two hours with my neck craned backwards and my feet stuck fast to the grimy floor is probably not the best thing for my lumbar.
But, like all things, this might be a mixed blessing. Practically every blockbuster season comes with its share of controversy over the current remake, be it a modern remake of an old film, a film adaptation of a well-known book, or what have you. Could be wonderful, could be a beloved- memory-destroying disaster, and it will cost you $10 to find out which. This year, however, the inevitable criticism from die-hard fans was prompted by a bold move from Paramount Pictures to make a full-length film version out of last year's teaser trailer for Iron Man.
You can get the full story here, if you haven't been following the talk on this. Personally, I'm feeling nervous that it won't live up to expectations.
But, like all things, this might be a mixed blessing. Practically every blockbuster season comes with its share of controversy over the current remake, be it a modern remake of an old film, a film adaptation of a well-known book, or what have you. Could be wonderful, could be a beloved- memory-destroying disaster, and it will cost you $10 to find out which. This year, however, the inevitable criticism from die-hard fans was prompted by a bold move from Paramount Pictures to make a full-length film version out of last year's teaser trailer for Iron Man.
You can get the full story here, if you haven't been following the talk on this. Personally, I'm feeling nervous that it won't live up to expectations.
The continuing stooooooooory of a quack who's gone to the dogs....
(Nope, sorry -- no stories of the lake yet. But since most people who read this were there, I'm not feeling too pressed.)
Plot summary for Season 2, Episode ...er, 5 of "Jen's Back Saga". (This is a doozy; a special two-part episode!) Dad and I went for my follow-up appointment with the neurosurgeon yesterday, and got a lot more information than we had before, possibly because we only got to meet with his PA at the first visit. First, he told us more about what the surgery option would look like, and the short of it is, not good. It would be much more extensive than just a fusion, since (enter new information) I not only have a problem with my disks, but the vertebrae joints are arthritic. Surgery would have to deal with that problem, too, and it would involve metal plates, screws, and rods and a six-month recovery time. Up to that point, Dad and I had both been thinking, why not just do the fusion, fix the problem, and get it over with? Well, yeah...that's why not.
So the good news is, no surgery! And of course, that's also the bad news, since there is no other "fix." The injection two weeks ago helped, but it only took care of the radiating pain in my legs; it won't actually help the pain in my back. (Yeah. Ironic.) They're going to start me on an intensive course of physical therapy to build up my core muscles, give me some lower-grade pain meds, and we'll try some different injections to target the arthritis. He wouldn't make any predictions about how long it would take to get me feeling better, but it sounds like it's going to be a while yet. He used that horrible phrase "lifestyle changes".
After we came home, Dad and I talked for a while about what I ought to do in the fall. Finally it seemed like the most sensible thing to do would be to turn down my externship with Children's National Medical Center, take courses part-time at IPS, and see if they could give me an on-site externship that would allow me to gradually get back into seeing clients as I felt ready. I went through a lot of fretting and agonizing over the decision, since the externship was a great thing for me, but in the end I sent the e-mail to their supervisor and started talking with IPS professors about my plan. They were cautiously optimistic about working something out.
"Okay, so that's that!" I thought. Difficult decision finally made, but it will all be for the best. I took a deep breath and settled down to mentally adjust to the change. ...then I got a phone call from the supervisor at Children's at about 7:30pm. She was very kind and sympathetic, but essentially said, "No, we can't function this year without you. There's no way." I explained, she explained -- all very reasonable on both sides, and completely unworkable for both.
Then there was a pause.
"Well," she said, "I think we could manage to shift things around so that we could cover your work for 8 weeks, but definitely not longer than that. The official start-date is September 1, so... do you think you could start with us in November?"
November! Four months away! Of course I can do that! She gave me a list of assessments to begin learning and practicing on my own, we chatted about the program and this and that, she told me to keep her posted on my progress, and we hung up happy. I still have my externship position, and I have enough time to recuperate so that the work won't set me back. Great news!
There was one last little bonus to the day. I was puttering away on my computer and saw that I had a new e-mail. From my statistics professor, of all people. "I was thinking about this final exam you still have to take for me," he said, "and I looked at your grades from the semester. Figuring the scores you got on your two mid-terms and deducting the 25 points from the final exam that covered material you haven't been tested on yet, you could skip the final and still get a B for the semester. What do you think?"
Please. I never answered an e-mail so fast in my life! God is pulling the technical details together for me, with a few nice little surprises on the side. :)
Plot summary for Season 2, Episode ...er, 5 of "Jen's Back Saga". (This is a doozy; a special two-part episode!) Dad and I went for my follow-up appointment with the neurosurgeon yesterday, and got a lot more information than we had before, possibly because we only got to meet with his PA at the first visit. First, he told us more about what the surgery option would look like, and the short of it is, not good. It would be much more extensive than just a fusion, since (enter new information) I not only have a problem with my disks, but the vertebrae joints are arthritic. Surgery would have to deal with that problem, too, and it would involve metal plates, screws, and rods and a six-month recovery time. Up to that point, Dad and I had both been thinking, why not just do the fusion, fix the problem, and get it over with? Well, yeah...that's why not.
So the good news is, no surgery! And of course, that's also the bad news, since there is no other "fix." The injection two weeks ago helped, but it only took care of the radiating pain in my legs; it won't actually help the pain in my back. (Yeah. Ironic.) They're going to start me on an intensive course of physical therapy to build up my core muscles, give me some lower-grade pain meds, and we'll try some different injections to target the arthritis. He wouldn't make any predictions about how long it would take to get me feeling better, but it sounds like it's going to be a while yet. He used that horrible phrase "lifestyle changes".
After we came home, Dad and I talked for a while about what I ought to do in the fall. Finally it seemed like the most sensible thing to do would be to turn down my externship with Children's National Medical Center, take courses part-time at IPS, and see if they could give me an on-site externship that would allow me to gradually get back into seeing clients as I felt ready. I went through a lot of fretting and agonizing over the decision, since the externship was a great thing for me, but in the end I sent the e-mail to their supervisor and started talking with IPS professors about my plan. They were cautiously optimistic about working something out.
"Okay, so that's that!" I thought. Difficult decision finally made, but it will all be for the best. I took a deep breath and settled down to mentally adjust to the change. ...then I got a phone call from the supervisor at Children's at about 7:30pm. She was very kind and sympathetic, but essentially said, "No, we can't function this year without you. There's no way." I explained, she explained -- all very reasonable on both sides, and completely unworkable for both.
Then there was a pause.
"Well," she said, "I think we could manage to shift things around so that we could cover your work for 8 weeks, but definitely not longer than that. The official start-date is September 1, so... do you think you could start with us in November?"
November! Four months away! Of course I can do that! She gave me a list of assessments to begin learning and practicing on my own, we chatted about the program and this and that, she told me to keep her posted on my progress, and we hung up happy. I still have my externship position, and I have enough time to recuperate so that the work won't set me back. Great news!
There was one last little bonus to the day. I was puttering away on my computer and saw that I had a new e-mail. From my statistics professor, of all people. "I was thinking about this final exam you still have to take for me," he said, "and I looked at your grades from the semester. Figuring the scores you got on your two mid-terms and deducting the 25 points from the final exam that covered material you haven't been tested on yet, you could skip the final and still get a B for the semester. What do you think?"
Please. I never answered an e-mail so fast in my life! God is pulling the technical details together for me, with a few nice little surprises on the side. :)
July 6, 2008
Lake Gaston
Pictures from our week at the lake are up! I'll come back in a bit and write up something about it. Right now, I can't be bothered -- the twins are here!
June 23, 2008
Pins and needles
I'm back from my "procedure." (Nice euphemism, isn't it? Sounds a lot better than "We're going to schedule an appointment to stick a really big needle in your spine...")
So, I got stuck with a really big needle in my spine. It wasn't too bad, really. I'd had this done before, so I knew it really wouldn't be. I'm a bit sore and it was uncomfortable at points, but mostly it's a mental game: the trick is keeping your mind otherwise occupied so you don't think about what's going on. Oh -- and keeping your eyes front and center so you don't see what's going on in the X-ray image that guides the doctor during the sticking. That's seriously weird. Given that I'm the woman who passed out during the brain surgery scene in Master and Commander, I can't be too careful. (I think the scene ran something like this: [ship's mate]: "Coo, wa's that? 'Ere, are those his brains?" [Doctor Maturin]: "What, that? Oh no -- that's just a bit of dried blood. THOSE are his brains -- hand me that spoon, would you?" *loud thunk as I hit the theater floor*)
It's always a mental game with these sorts of things. I didn't start getting nervous until last night, then I dreamt about it at least three times. After the third and most vivid dream, I woke up thinking, "Well, thank heavens that's over wi-- oh. Shoot." So by far the worst part of this morning's ordeal was being kept waiting for an hour and a half before they finally ushered me into the "procedure" room. After all that time for anxiety and nerves to build up, I'm feeling drained and peevish. I hereby give myself license to lie around all day and eat chocolate!
So, I got stuck with a really big needle in my spine. It wasn't too bad, really. I'd had this done before, so I knew it really wouldn't be. I'm a bit sore and it was uncomfortable at points, but mostly it's a mental game: the trick is keeping your mind otherwise occupied so you don't think about what's going on. Oh -- and keeping your eyes front and center so you don't see what's going on in the X-ray image that guides the doctor during the sticking. That's seriously weird. Given that I'm the woman who passed out during the brain surgery scene in Master and Commander, I can't be too careful. (I think the scene ran something like this: [ship's mate]: "Coo, wa's that? 'Ere, are those his brains?" [Doctor Maturin]: "What, that? Oh no -- that's just a bit of dried blood. THOSE are his brains -- hand me that spoon, would you?" *loud thunk as I hit the theater floor*)
It's always a mental game with these sorts of things. I didn't start getting nervous until last night, then I dreamt about it at least three times. After the third and most vivid dream, I woke up thinking, "Well, thank heavens that's over wi-- oh. Shoot." So by far the worst part of this morning's ordeal was being kept waiting for an hour and a half before they finally ushered me into the "procedure" room. After all that time for anxiety and nerves to build up, I'm feeling drained and peevish. I hereby give myself license to lie around all day and eat chocolate!
June 21, 2008
Aunt Jenny
Margaret turned me on to reading James Lileks' very funny columns and blog years ago. His column in the Minneapolis Star Tribune has been since discontinued (more's the pity), and I stopped visiting his site some time ago. Some article or blog post -- perhaps at Inside Catholic -- made reference to him yesterday, though, so I thought I'd drop back by this morning and see what he's up to.
Today he has up some bit about "Aunt Jenny", the fictional spokesman for Spry Shortening from 1937 to 1956, whom he featured in his first book The Gallery of Regrettable Food. (This, if you haven't come across it, is a not-so nostalgic compilation of some truly horrible dishes from the 1950's, particularly those based heavily on canned or otherwise "convenience" foods. Meat Pie with Meat Crust! Baked Peppers with Creamy Marshmallow Sauce! Yeowch.)
Anyway, here's his take on the character:
But now, on to more auntly things. As I think must be officially documented somewhere in the Auntly Handbook, the chief duties of any aunt are: 1) to thoroughly spoil her nieces and nephews with gifts and affection, and 2) to digitally document their every waking moment spent in her presence. I am therefore presenting for other aunts, grandparents, and great-grandparents (and, oh yes -- the mother) the following:
(I could just eat these children up. Somebody bring me a spoon...)
Today he has up some bit about "Aunt Jenny", the fictional spokesman for Spry Shortening from 1937 to 1956, whom he featured in his first book The Gallery of Regrettable Food. (This, if you haven't come across it, is a not-so nostalgic compilation of some truly horrible dishes from the 1950's, particularly those based heavily on canned or otherwise "convenience" foods. Meat Pie with Meat Crust! Baked Peppers with Creamy Marshmallow Sauce! Yeowch.)
Anyway, here's his take on the character:
Aunt Jenny always struck me as someone in the mold of the nice manless lady who ran the Hooterville Hotel – certainly more country, but more sensible than that nattering old hen Ma Clampett.Well, my children, there you have it -- I shall endeavor to live up to my namesake: to be nice, sensible, and manless, and I promise never to natter. (The "country" bit I won't promise to.)
But now, on to more auntly things. As I think must be officially documented somewhere in the Auntly Handbook, the chief duties of any aunt are: 1) to thoroughly spoil her nieces and nephews with gifts and affection, and 2) to digitally document their every waking moment spent in her presence. I am therefore presenting for other aunts, grandparents, and great-grandparents (and, oh yes -- the mother) the following:
(I could just eat these children up. Somebody bring me a spoon...)
June 18, 2008
test
I'm just playing around with my photo-posting options; if you happen to see this, enjoy it now! I'll be taking it down soon. ...isn't he just so precious.....
June 17, 2008
Update
I saw the neurosurgeon today. (I went yesterday but they told me I can only see the doctor on the day that I have an appointment for, so... Ahem.) So, here's the deal:
1. ...well, make this preliminary comment a: that turn for the worse I took on Friday has gotten no better. Maybe a tiny bit better. 'kay. Onto the meat.
1. I have degenerative disk disease: "your disks, which are like jelly donuts, are beginning to dry out inside, making them hard and brittle and liable to crack in places." The three lowest disks in my spine are dried out; the topmost one is bulging (herniated) into the spinal column, causing pain down my legs. The bottommost disk is torn, leaking out "disk jelly", (which is apparently very nasty stuff, as far as the rest of my body is concerned), causing severe inflammation and the pain in my low back.
2. There's no cure. My options for treatment are, in order of aggressiveness: another course of steroids, epidural steroid injections (which do the same thing only more so), and surgery. Because there are three disks involved and a lot of damage, it would be major surgery: they would fuse the lowest three vertebrae together, probably very much like they did for Dad 10 years ago. Recovery time for the surgery would only be about a month all-told, but they wouldn't be able to get me in until September, thus wrecking complete havoc on my studies and clinic work.
3. Not surprisingly, we voted for option #2, at least to start out with. I have the first injection next Monday, and I can have up to a total of three, probably 1-2 weeks apart. If they don't work, we'll go to surgery. So we're still in a holding pattern, in a sense: I could be back in DC starting my new externship in August, or I might have to rework my entire doctoral program schedule. Time will tell! All we can do is wait and see.
At the moment, I don't have much of an emotional reaction to all of this. I wish I could get some definite timetable, especially since big changes will start happening awfully fast if I'm unable to meet certain deadlines. Meanwhile, Dad bought me this and this. Now, at least, I should be able to get back to work and finish those papers and projects. Yay! ...yay?
1. ...well, make this preliminary comment a: that turn for the worse I took on Friday has gotten no better. Maybe a tiny bit better. 'kay. Onto the meat.
1. I have degenerative disk disease: "your disks, which are like jelly donuts, are beginning to dry out inside, making them hard and brittle and liable to crack in places." The three lowest disks in my spine are dried out; the topmost one is bulging (herniated) into the spinal column, causing pain down my legs. The bottommost disk is torn, leaking out "disk jelly", (which is apparently very nasty stuff, as far as the rest of my body is concerned), causing severe inflammation and the pain in my low back.
2. There's no cure. My options for treatment are, in order of aggressiveness: another course of steroids, epidural steroid injections (which do the same thing only more so), and surgery. Because there are three disks involved and a lot of damage, it would be major surgery: they would fuse the lowest three vertebrae together, probably very much like they did for Dad 10 years ago. Recovery time for the surgery would only be about a month all-told, but they wouldn't be able to get me in until September, thus wrecking complete havoc on my studies and clinic work.
3. Not surprisingly, we voted for option #2, at least to start out with. I have the first injection next Monday, and I can have up to a total of three, probably 1-2 weeks apart. If they don't work, we'll go to surgery. So we're still in a holding pattern, in a sense: I could be back in DC starting my new externship in August, or I might have to rework my entire doctoral program schedule. Time will tell! All we can do is wait and see.
At the moment, I don't have much of an emotional reaction to all of this. I wish I could get some definite timetable, especially since big changes will start happening awfully fast if I'm unable to meet certain deadlines. Meanwhile, Dad bought me this and this. Now, at least, I should be able to get back to work and finish those papers and projects. Yay! ...yay?
June 14, 2008
Amazing progress and a set-back
The past several days have been low-interest from a posting-standpoint, but good ones. No spectacular sudden recovery, of course, but each day my back pain continued to steadily decrease, my walks got steadily longer, and the length of time up and about each day grew. I may go on record as the first Cabaniss to say, wholeheartedly, "God bless Prednisone!" (Though Uncle Ned, who's visiting right now, developed an eye condition while he was here and was prescribed Prednisone eye-drops. Steroids in the eye. What a weird thing this is.)
Yesterday was my first physical therapy appointment down here, and I chalked it up as a success. My therapist seems competent, kindly, and knowledgeable, but with that look all good therapists have that says, "I promise to cause you pain, and you will take it and thank me for it." He explained why my first therapist's approach was understandable but completely wrong given my acute state; (this is becoming a given for me -- physical therapists never agree with one another. They're like chiropractors that way.) He laid out a new plan of attack for me: starting out very slowly, trying to change the direction of the pressure on the herniated disk to allow it to go back to its normal shape, then gradually adding strengthening exercises. He was very confident that we can make excellent progress by my August 1st deadline: "Plenty of time, plenty of time," he reassured me.
...so WHY did I suddenly have terrible back pain yesterday evening that was unaffected by two Percocets and which greeted me this morning with added pain radiating down my leg? This can be a normal reaction to starting PT, of course. But the exercises he gave me to do -- gently and slowly! -- seem to make it much worse. We're putting (ever-so-gentle and slow!) pressure on the disk, and the disk seems to be having none of it. After a few tears of frustration and worry and some prayers for patience and trust, I'm back on the couch in the sunroom, drinking coffee and reading blogs. Time will tell, I see the neurosurgeon on Monday, and this might all be gone by then. In the meantime, extra prayers would be greatly appreciated! Very possibly I'll put up a post tomorrow saying everything is fine.
Yesterday was my first physical therapy appointment down here, and I chalked it up as a success. My therapist seems competent, kindly, and knowledgeable, but with that look all good therapists have that says, "I promise to cause you pain, and you will take it and thank me for it." He explained why my first therapist's approach was understandable but completely wrong given my acute state; (this is becoming a given for me -- physical therapists never agree with one another. They're like chiropractors that way.) He laid out a new plan of attack for me: starting out very slowly, trying to change the direction of the pressure on the herniated disk to allow it to go back to its normal shape, then gradually adding strengthening exercises. He was very confident that we can make excellent progress by my August 1st deadline: "Plenty of time, plenty of time," he reassured me.
...so WHY did I suddenly have terrible back pain yesterday evening that was unaffected by two Percocets and which greeted me this morning with added pain radiating down my leg? This can be a normal reaction to starting PT, of course. But the exercises he gave me to do -- gently and slowly! -- seem to make it much worse. We're putting (ever-so-gentle and slow!) pressure on the disk, and the disk seems to be having none of it. After a few tears of frustration and worry and some prayers for patience and trust, I'm back on the couch in the sunroom, drinking coffee and reading blogs. Time will tell, I see the neurosurgeon on Monday, and this might all be gone by then. In the meantime, extra prayers would be greatly appreciated! Very possibly I'll put up a post tomorrow saying everything is fine.
June 8, 2008
Another great post
(Not mine.)
Sister Mary Martha usually has something good going on over at her blog, but I thought this was particularly good. Note to self: "Get holy. Shut up." ...and tell everybody else about it on your blog. This is going to be hard.
It reminds me of the little "Litany of Humility" fiasco we had in the Novitiate once upon a time: Sister Faustina Marie was in charge of cleaning the upstairs Novitiate bathroom and decided she'd do her part for the spread of piety by posting the litany on the inside of the door to each stall. This led to a long lecture by the Novice Mistress during our weekly meeting about forcing personal devotions upon the helpless and unsuspecting. Sister Faustina Marie was very humiliated indeed, and we were hugely entertained, so we figured the thing had been a success all-round.
[Preempting Fr. Barry's response: "Convent humor. Good times."]
Sister Mary Martha usually has something good going on over at her blog, but I thought this was particularly good. Note to self: "Get holy. Shut up." ...and tell everybody else about it on your blog. This is going to be hard.
It reminds me of the little "Litany of Humility" fiasco we had in the Novitiate once upon a time: Sister Faustina Marie was in charge of cleaning the upstairs Novitiate bathroom and decided she'd do her part for the spread of piety by posting the litany on the inside of the door to each stall. This led to a long lecture by the Novice Mistress during our weekly meeting about forcing personal devotions upon the helpless and unsuspecting. Sister Faustina Marie was very humiliated indeed, and we were hugely entertained, so we figured the thing had been a success all-round.
[Preempting Fr. Barry's response: "Convent humor. Good times."]
Baby steps out of the house...
Four days ago, I decided to try to take a little walk. I didn't make it out of our yard; I made two laps around the roses and my back informed me that that was plenty for our first trip. No sense getting too ambitious, it said.
Three days ago, I took a strong stance: "Today, we're going to go down that driveway." My back hemmed and hawed and made worried noises about the hill, but I ignored it. We made it to the end of the driveway. Pleased with my success and the pleasantness of the evening, I nudged it along to the next-door neighbor's house with the promise of seeing some fireflies. One appeared in the Leech's front yard, then my back promptly demanded we go back, complaining all the way.
Two days ago, I lost the argument altogether. My back and I kept an uneasy truce lying on the couch in a semi-drugged state most of the day. We grumbled at each other.
Yesterday, I became brave again. "Down the street," I said, speaking to it firmly. "Besides, I need the sun." The 95 degree heat was more than enough excuse to take it easy. Walking at a very gentle pace (and wondering the whole time how this whole "walking" mechanism was supposed to work -- is it step first, then swing the arm? and should my hips be moving more than this?) I was surprised to discover we'd made it all the way down the cul-de-sac and back. My upper back was pleased to chime in at this point and remind me that swinging the arms takes effort, too, thank you very much, and could we please not get too far ahead of ourselves?
Today, I got my whole self out the door without argument. Down the street and back, then down to the next street before heading around for home. I am positively flushed with success. Also, just generally flushed. (Ye gods, it's hot out there!)
Three days ago, I took a strong stance: "Today, we're going to go down that driveway." My back hemmed and hawed and made worried noises about the hill, but I ignored it. We made it to the end of the driveway. Pleased with my success and the pleasantness of the evening, I nudged it along to the next-door neighbor's house with the promise of seeing some fireflies. One appeared in the Leech's front yard, then my back promptly demanded we go back, complaining all the way.
Two days ago, I lost the argument altogether. My back and I kept an uneasy truce lying on the couch in a semi-drugged state most of the day. We grumbled at each other.
Yesterday, I became brave again. "Down the street," I said, speaking to it firmly. "Besides, I need the sun." The 95 degree heat was more than enough excuse to take it easy. Walking at a very gentle pace (and wondering the whole time how this whole "walking" mechanism was supposed to work -- is it step first, then swing the arm? and should my hips be moving more than this?) I was surprised to discover we'd made it all the way down the cul-de-sac and back. My upper back was pleased to chime in at this point and remind me that swinging the arms takes effort, too, thank you very much, and could we please not get too far ahead of ourselves?
Today, I got my whole self out the door without argument. Down the street and back, then down to the next street before heading around for home. I am positively flushed with success. Also, just generally flushed. (Ye gods, it's hot out there!)
June 6, 2008
Away
After posting several times a day when I first started this thing, I've noticed that I haven't touched it for a week. The thing is, I mostly created this as a way to make contact with the world outside my bedroom -- to keep in touch with the folks I was away from, and now I'm back home. So suddenly the urge to write has fizzled. ("Why do I need to write about what I'm doing? I've been rescued! Mom and Dad are sitting on the other side of the room...") Of course, everyone I left behind in DC (or Baltimore or Boonsboro) is now "away", and there are still those who are always "away" from me. So I will try to haul myself up by my bootstraps and get back to writing!
I'm spending most of my time now lying on the couch in the sunroom, surrounded by large windows looking out over the sunny, leafy backyard, listening to the potted ficus plants whispering in the breeze from the air conditioning, drinking coffee, and reading blogs. It's all very peaceful and cheery. Dad picked up a few books from the library for me that I've been wanting to read; they're stacked on the end table on top of the books I brought home for my dissertation, ready to hand and conveniently blocking the others from view.
Mom has been very busy with errands and appointments since we got home, so Dad and I usually spend the day lolling about together. Periodically I'll pull him away from his computer in the den for a game of backgammon or go lie on my back on the carpet by his chair to chat about this and that. The cat seems to approve of all this lying about; she occasionally leaves her hiding spot under a couch or in the sunbeam by a window to rub against a leg and be petted before disappearing again.
I have also rediscovered food, as you will all be happy to learn, thanks mostly to Dad's amazing cooking and my steroid medication. I get three ready-prepared meals handed to me every day, and Dad fills the plates himself -- with about three times what I would normally eat, and I'm surprised to see how quickly it all disappears. If I do not go back to DC at least 15 pounds heavier, it will not be his fault.
...which gets me to the more technical part of this update. The day before I left DC, Mom went with me all over town, meeting with doctors, picking up X-ray films, and filling prescriptions. We were able to meet with my GP, who explained the MRI results better than the back specialist had (thus reinforcing my perception of specialists: if the tests don't show anything terribly out of the ordinary, it's hard to get them invested in your case. Eight weeks of debilitating pain? "Meh. Cry me a river. Tests say you're fine.")
My doctor explained that there's a tear in one of the disks in my spine, which means that spinal fluid seeps into the sac (...or, out of it ...or something), causing all kinds of intense inflammation and irritation. It can't heal until the inflammation goes down, which (I think) explains why my pain has continually gotten worse rather than better. So he put me on steroids to reduce the inflammation and help it to heal, along with two kinds of pain medication. So far I haven't felt any improvement, but I am so pepped at the thought of actually treating the problem, I expect relief right around the corner! Once things calm down a bit, I'll go back into physical therapy.
I will also be meeting with a neurosurgeon next week to cover all my bases, but I don't expect much more interest from him. (Let's hope so, anyway. "Interest" from him would mean surgery, which I am decidedly NOT interested in.) Meanwhile, the pain medication makes me almost perpetually happy and sentimental; if you have a sob story you'd like someone to listen to with rapt attention and a few gratifying tears of sympathy, I'm your woman!
I'm spending most of my time now lying on the couch in the sunroom, surrounded by large windows looking out over the sunny, leafy backyard, listening to the potted ficus plants whispering in the breeze from the air conditioning, drinking coffee, and reading blogs. It's all very peaceful and cheery. Dad picked up a few books from the library for me that I've been wanting to read; they're stacked on the end table on top of the books I brought home for my dissertation, ready to hand and conveniently blocking the others from view.
Mom has been very busy with errands and appointments since we got home, so Dad and I usually spend the day lolling about together. Periodically I'll pull him away from his computer in the den for a game of backgammon or go lie on my back on the carpet by his chair to chat about this and that. The cat seems to approve of all this lying about; she occasionally leaves her hiding spot under a couch or in the sunbeam by a window to rub against a leg and be petted before disappearing again.
I have also rediscovered food, as you will all be happy to learn, thanks mostly to Dad's amazing cooking and my steroid medication. I get three ready-prepared meals handed to me every day, and Dad fills the plates himself -- with about three times what I would normally eat, and I'm surprised to see how quickly it all disappears. If I do not go back to DC at least 15 pounds heavier, it will not be his fault.
...which gets me to the more technical part of this update. The day before I left DC, Mom went with me all over town, meeting with doctors, picking up X-ray films, and filling prescriptions. We were able to meet with my GP, who explained the MRI results better than the back specialist had (thus reinforcing my perception of specialists: if the tests don't show anything terribly out of the ordinary, it's hard to get them invested in your case. Eight weeks of debilitating pain? "Meh. Cry me a river. Tests say you're fine.")
My doctor explained that there's a tear in one of the disks in my spine, which means that spinal fluid seeps into the sac (...or, out of it ...or something), causing all kinds of intense inflammation and irritation. It can't heal until the inflammation goes down, which (I think) explains why my pain has continually gotten worse rather than better. So he put me on steroids to reduce the inflammation and help it to heal, along with two kinds of pain medication. So far I haven't felt any improvement, but I am so pepped at the thought of actually treating the problem, I expect relief right around the corner! Once things calm down a bit, I'll go back into physical therapy.
I will also be meeting with a neurosurgeon next week to cover all my bases, but I don't expect much more interest from him. (Let's hope so, anyway. "Interest" from him would mean surgery, which I am decidedly NOT interested in.) Meanwhile, the pain medication makes me almost perpetually happy and sentimental; if you have a sob story you'd like someone to listen to with rapt attention and a few gratifying tears of sympathy, I'm your woman!
May 30, 2008
And now for something disturbing...
...from the New York Times. (Always a good place to go for that.) Check out this article on the future of billboards. New technology has apparently been developed that enables tiny cameras hidden on billboards to gather various demographic details about the people looking at the signs. (All impersonally, they say; they don't actually store images of people!) The ultimate goal, apparently, is to increase the efficacy of ads by tailoring what is displayed on the board to whomever is currently looking at it. Obviously lots of invasion of privacy concerns and the general sense that modern technology is just getting way too personal.
This was a great line, regarding places that already use the bugged billboards:
This was a great line, regarding places that already use the bugged billboards:
“I think a big part of why it’s accepted is that people don’t know about it,” said Lee Tien, senior staff attorney for the Electronic Frontier Foundation, a civil liberties group.Gee, really? Does this creep anyone else out?
The Good Padre
[Since I've made no claims about what I will and will not post here, I feel completely free to write about whatever random thing comes into my head. No one may complain; you have fair warning.]
I just came back from confession at St. Rita's, my parish in the Arlington diocese. I have to say: I think we've been blessed with an unusual number of excellent priests here, and the ones at St. Rita's are especially good. The "celebrity" priest there is Father Scalia, son of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. He is as rock-solid as they come, and old-school in a way that is awesome in the pulpit and slightly unnerving in the confessional. (The one time I went to confession with him, I came out feeling like I had been walking blithely along a country footpath in the hills, only to come around a bend in the road and find the brink of Hell falling sharply to one side.)
But I think Father Donahue, the pastor, is the parish favorite. He has a boyish-young face with rosy cheeks, a gentle voice, and a perpetually cheerful expression. His homilies are solid, but not earth-shaking; they generally have a teaching tone to them, aimed at about a 5th grade CCD level. It's the man himself who is impressive. When I called him this afternoon to set up an appointment, he told me he'd be sitting in the church praying his breviary at 4:30 and I was welcome to come then. I arrived a little before him and was praying in preparation for the sacrament, when I heard him come in.
Actually, what I heard was the sound of his crutches; he walks with the aid of two braces like those used by polio victims. The story that goes around the parish (first related to me by my gregarious Italian next-door neighbor) is that Father was hit in the leg in a random drive-by shooting when he was in his early 20's. Apparently there was some damage to his spine as well, perhaps from ricochet, though I'm fuzzy on that. He only makes the full trek down the center aisle for the Sunday Processional, using the more direct route to and from the sacristy at the front of the church at all other times. He sits on a barstool behind the altar for most of the Mass, and an acolyte brings it down to the front of the sanctuary for him to sit on while administering Communion; another acolyte holds the ciborium for him so he can steady himself on his crutch with one hand. (I've heard the altar servers love him, and they're the best-trained little group of 6-10 year olds I've seen.)
Father hobbled his way into the pew ahead of me, pulled a seat cushion apparently out of thin air, and settled himself down. As I slid over behind him, he glanced around the church, noted that it was empty except for us two, then smiled at me and asked in a normal tone, "So what can I do for you?" I leaned on the back of his pew and launched into a confession that was more like a neighborly chat over a picket fence; he nodded thoughtfully and calmly with that half-smile on his face as I went along, and it was obvious I'd have to come out with some real whoppers to get anywhere close to shocking this man. We talked, among other things, about the difficulty of getting to Mass because of physical pain, and he commiserated in a way that made it clear he is often in terrible pain himself, though he never really said so.
In fact, I can't now remember exactly what he said, but he gave me the sense that he understood pain and its effects on a person, that he is peaceful about his own, and that it's something that can be gently incorporated into a person's life. I mean, there's the knocking-one's-head-against-a-brick-wall approach that rails pointlessly against something that can't be changed; there's the helpless victim approach that takes ailment as an excuse to back out of every reasonable obligation; and then there's his approach: accept it gracefully as a mystery permitted by God, continue to do the best you can, and understand that the "best" may be comparatively little. Push yourself to do even that little bit, and it will have the weight of the outwardly impressive acts of virtue performed by the (enviably) hale and hearty. End of story.
Sometimes it's frustrating to have things put so simply: "You don't understand! The circumstances! The complications! The intricacy of the psychological--" Hooey. It is that simple. But not even Father Donahue would claim that "simple" equals "easy", so I can still find wiggle-room for complaining. Until my next confession, anyway...
I just came back from confession at St. Rita's, my parish in the Arlington diocese. I have to say: I think we've been blessed with an unusual number of excellent priests here, and the ones at St. Rita's are especially good. The "celebrity" priest there is Father Scalia, son of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. He is as rock-solid as they come, and old-school in a way that is awesome in the pulpit and slightly unnerving in the confessional. (The one time I went to confession with him, I came out feeling like I had been walking blithely along a country footpath in the hills, only to come around a bend in the road and find the brink of Hell falling sharply to one side.)
But I think Father Donahue, the pastor, is the parish favorite. He has a boyish-young face with rosy cheeks, a gentle voice, and a perpetually cheerful expression. His homilies are solid, but not earth-shaking; they generally have a teaching tone to them, aimed at about a 5th grade CCD level. It's the man himself who is impressive. When I called him this afternoon to set up an appointment, he told me he'd be sitting in the church praying his breviary at 4:30 and I was welcome to come then. I arrived a little before him and was praying in preparation for the sacrament, when I heard him come in.
Actually, what I heard was the sound of his crutches; he walks with the aid of two braces like those used by polio victims. The story that goes around the parish (first related to me by my gregarious Italian next-door neighbor) is that Father was hit in the leg in a random drive-by shooting when he was in his early 20's. Apparently there was some damage to his spine as well, perhaps from ricochet, though I'm fuzzy on that. He only makes the full trek down the center aisle for the Sunday Processional, using the more direct route to and from the sacristy at the front of the church at all other times. He sits on a barstool behind the altar for most of the Mass, and an acolyte brings it down to the front of the sanctuary for him to sit on while administering Communion; another acolyte holds the ciborium for him so he can steady himself on his crutch with one hand. (I've heard the altar servers love him, and they're the best-trained little group of 6-10 year olds I've seen.)
Father hobbled his way into the pew ahead of me, pulled a seat cushion apparently out of thin air, and settled himself down. As I slid over behind him, he glanced around the church, noted that it was empty except for us two, then smiled at me and asked in a normal tone, "So what can I do for you?" I leaned on the back of his pew and launched into a confession that was more like a neighborly chat over a picket fence; he nodded thoughtfully and calmly with that half-smile on his face as I went along, and it was obvious I'd have to come out with some real whoppers to get anywhere close to shocking this man. We talked, among other things, about the difficulty of getting to Mass because of physical pain, and he commiserated in a way that made it clear he is often in terrible pain himself, though he never really said so.
In fact, I can't now remember exactly what he said, but he gave me the sense that he understood pain and its effects on a person, that he is peaceful about his own, and that it's something that can be gently incorporated into a person's life. I mean, there's the knocking-one's-head-against-a-brick-wall approach that rails pointlessly against something that can't be changed; there's the helpless victim approach that takes ailment as an excuse to back out of every reasonable obligation; and then there's his approach: accept it gracefully as a mystery permitted by God, continue to do the best you can, and understand that the "best" may be comparatively little. Push yourself to do even that little bit, and it will have the weight of the outwardly impressive acts of virtue performed by the (enviably) hale and hearty. End of story.
Sometimes it's frustrating to have things put so simply: "You don't understand! The circumstances! The complications! The intricacy of the psychological--" Hooey. It is that simple. But not even Father Donahue would claim that "simple" equals "easy", so I can still find wiggle-room for complaining. Until my next confession, anyway...
May 29, 2008
Recipe!
Next on the list of "good things recently discovered": the definitive Cuban recipe for mojitos. Mmmm...
I had my first mojito at Paradise Cove -- a fairly old restaurant that sits directly on the sandy beach of Malibu, where movie stars used to go during the 40's and 50's. (Long wait for your dinner? No worries! Go sit in an Adirondack chair on the sand under a tiki torch and listen to the pounding surf...) Since then, I haven't yet found any other restaurant that can make one of these decently, though I've been craving them ever since. My "How to Cook Everything" cookbook apparently didn't think them worth mentioning. One website that claimed to provide the "official Cuban recipe" made something that tasted like Tom's of Maine Herbal Cough Syrup.
My friend Cristina is half Cuban, so when I told her of my mojito frustrations, she obligingly called her uncle in Havana. This is what he gave us:
I had my first mojito at Paradise Cove -- a fairly old restaurant that sits directly on the sandy beach of Malibu, where movie stars used to go during the 40's and 50's. (Long wait for your dinner? No worries! Go sit in an Adirondack chair on the sand under a tiki torch and listen to the pounding surf...) Since then, I haven't yet found any other restaurant that can make one of these decently, though I've been craving them ever since. My "How to Cook Everything" cookbook apparently didn't think them worth mentioning. One website that claimed to provide the "official Cuban recipe" made something that tasted like Tom's of Maine Herbal Cough Syrup.
My friend Cristina is half Cuban, so when I told her of my mojito frustrations, she obligingly called her uncle in Havana. This is what he gave us:
In a glass, add 4 mint leaves, 3 tsp. powdered sugar, and the juice of 1/2 a lime. Muddle. [This evidently means "smash together with the end of a blunt object until the sugar is dissolved, but the mint leaves are still recognizable as such."] Add 1 oz. rum and "some" shaved ice. Stir. Add 1 oz. club soda or sparkling water. Serves 1. [Well, you'll probably want more than one.]They're absolutely wonderful.
Something productive
I am one of those people who usually champion the idea of "being" over "doing." You know -- slow down and figure out why you're doing all these things to begin with! What if we're all just meant to "exist beautifully", as a friend said recently? What would that look like? And I usually have some notion of it including things like reading more great books, spending leisurely hours out-of-doors, noticing little beautiful things, and so on.
But my seven weeks of inactivity have led me to the sorrowful conclusion that I don't know what this looks like and am not naturally inclined towards it even if I did. I could be writing letters, spending time in contemplative prayer, picking up those books I have thoughtfully earmarked for "later", whenever that is. Instead, I'm shocked to discover that May is almost over and I've spent most of it online. Doing nothing. (I don't consider spending hours on YouTube "something.")
Well, not nothing, exactly. I have watched a lot of classic films that have been on my list to see for quite a while. But nothing beyond that. So even while I'm hoping that my confinement is going to end soon, I'm now somewhat wishing it could go on a bit longer to give me time to do it "right." The discussion about great Catholic literature at Inside Catholic is partly responsible for this; I've read about half those books, but could definitely stand to reread all of them. And the others I've never even heard of! More to add to that list of "laters!" Or better yet, start making later "now."
So, to all my fledgling readers: what would you read if you had the leisure? What else would you do, if lying on your back were all you could do? Be creative! I sure haven't been...
But my seven weeks of inactivity have led me to the sorrowful conclusion that I don't know what this looks like and am not naturally inclined towards it even if I did. I could be writing letters, spending time in contemplative prayer, picking up those books I have thoughtfully earmarked for "later", whenever that is. Instead, I'm shocked to discover that May is almost over and I've spent most of it online. Doing nothing. (I don't consider spending hours on YouTube "something.")
Well, not nothing, exactly. I have watched a lot of classic films that have been on my list to see for quite a while. But nothing beyond that. So even while I'm hoping that my confinement is going to end soon, I'm now somewhat wishing it could go on a bit longer to give me time to do it "right." The discussion about great Catholic literature at Inside Catholic is partly responsible for this; I've read about half those books, but could definitely stand to reread all of them. And the others I've never even heard of! More to add to that list of "laters!" Or better yet, start making later "now."
So, to all my fledgling readers: what would you read if you had the leisure? What else would you do, if lying on your back were all you could do? Be creative! I sure haven't been...
Good stuff
First entry on the list of "good things I enjoy" that I've recently discovered is this guy. I can't say I really care as much for his original songs, but his covers of classics, like this one, are fantastic. In fact... I think they're better than the originals in some cases.
Oh, and speaking of which, look out Rat Pack -- here comes Charlie Green! (Where do 10-year-old kids get this kind of poise and self-confidence? To say nothing of charm... good grief.)
Oh, and speaking of which, look out Rat Pack -- here comes Charlie Green! (Where do 10-year-old kids get this kind of poise and self-confidence? To say nothing of charm... good grief.)
May 28, 2008
A new experiment
As I'm on week I-forget-exactly-which of my enforced confinement -- seven come this Friday, I think -- it seems like a good time to try to do something constructive with all of the time on my hands. This is highly experimental yet, of course; once I'm back up and running, I'm not sure what a full-time graduate student with classes, a dissertation, an assistantship, and an externship will be able to produce of any interest or length. (Other than extremely long sentences, like that one. I'm always able to produce those.)
Whatever else I might end up doing with this, I will hopefully never again be guilty of neglecting to inform friends or family members of key events in my very-frenetic-but-strangely-difficult- to-describe life. Like -- oh, being on bed-rest for seven weeks due to a back injury, as a random example. (*cough, Joseph cough, cough*)
Beyond that, a friend once recommended keeping a list of all the things in life one particularly enjoys as a defense against gloominess. I started one, once; I think it contained everything from Easter Vigil Mass to glass-fronted cupboards and the smell of warm pine needles. I want this blog to be something like that list, somehow: an outlet for remembering and remarking on all the other things in life besides graduate school -- a place to "leave comfort root-room."
Whatever else I might end up doing with this, I will hopefully never again be guilty of neglecting to inform friends or family members of key events in my very-frenetic-but-strangely-difficult- to-describe life. Like -- oh, being on bed-rest for seven weeks due to a back injury, as a random example. (*cough, Joseph cough, cough*)
Beyond that, a friend once recommended keeping a list of all the things in life one particularly enjoys as a defense against gloominess. I started one, once; I think it contained everything from Easter Vigil Mass to glass-fronted cupboards and the smell of warm pine needles. I want this blog to be something like that list, somehow: an outlet for remembering and remarking on all the other things in life besides graduate school -- a place to "leave comfort root-room."
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