Monthly Archives: November 2011

The Healing Power of the Body: Everyday Magic, Day 449

I’m always astonished that one day I can feel like thousands of miniature aliens are wreaking havoc on my sinus system, and the next day, all is well (and so am I). I’m as dismayed by how quickly strange viruses or other little hassles of living in a body can take hold. In between, there is the story the illness is telling, even if it’s one I can’t completely understand, about what’s out of balance.

Our bodies can circulate our blood, build and re-knit our bones, stretch and reach beyond our old limits, and generally re-align with health in short order, and not just when we’re young and agile. Our bodies can turn the poison of chemotherapy into a healing agent, heal rips and tears in many manner of extenuating circumstances (from sports injuries to childbirth) and still get up in the morning to step into the bathtub with time to spare. We can survive little sleep, too much indulgence in sweets or drinks, and a dizzying array of trauma, grief and shock. None of this is to say that we’re bionic beings who bounce back from everything forever, but for the most part, being alive is a continue parade of barely-noticeable miracles.

I also think of what I’ve learned from Ursula Gilkeson, an energy healer I’ve worked with for years, about how our bodies are naturally attuned to heal themselves, and it’s our job to align ourselves with healing. She writes on her website,

It is my understanding that all true healing is about transformation. This occurs when we invite spirit into the areas of our lives where there are problems – physical, emotional or mental – with the intention to shift energy and expand consciousness. As much as the body stores information about the cause of a problem or an illness, the body also reveals what is needed in order to heal.

While I don’t always know why I get sick, or what precisely my body is telling me about whatever is needed, I do know that being sick is a way to come to ground, and in that place, listen to what this body needs to be whole again……and then, remarkably — and not so much from force of will as from the magic of what a body can do, the transformation comes. For this, I’m thankful.

Things To Notice When You’re Sick: Everyday Magic, Day 448

Sometimes all you can do is notice, and here’s what’s been occurring to me:

  • When it’s very quiet, it’s easy to hear/feel that pulse in the right ear.
  • It’s a bad idea indeed to step into any big box store the day after Thanksgiving when feeling feverish, and in such cases, it’s absolutely necessary to step out as quickly as possible.
  • Tea is good.
  • Many things in the house buzz or make low-level constant humming sounds.
  • Our pets are happy when we’re sick. They can lounge and sleep with and on us all day long.
  • Toast is extremely tasty.
  • Time moves slowly and deliberately. Movies and books help, but then again, it’s hard to concentrate.
  • There’s only so much sleeping a person can do, and after that, it’s a haze of half-asleep fleeting images and imaginary conversations with people or animals that may or may not exist.
  • If I sit absolutely still, everything is fine…..or not.
  • Baths: early and often.
  • Things that normally don’t taste good are suddenly very good. Things that usually are absolutely delicious lose their edge.
  • Late afternoon looks and feels like early morning.
  • Zen coans make sense. So does the weather. Little else does.
  • It’s best to mix up the upright and flat out time although the flat out time wins.
  • In such states, it’s hard to believe that health is coming, but it is.
  • There’s nothing to do, as in nothing that needs or wants to be done.

Thanksgiving for the Obvious Beyond the Obvious: Everyday Magic, Day 447

Thanksgiving, Forgiving, Thanks for Giving: It all comes together this time of the year, just on the cusp of the shortening of days and lengthening of nights, and to remind myself of this, I offer up my thanks for the obvious beyond the obvious (family, friends, home, work, etc.):

  • The weather which continually keeps me on my toes, knocks me over in surprise, dazzles me with light, confuses me with fast-dropping cold fronts, wears me out in the summers, points me inward in the winters, and never fails to change.
  • The sun. For everything.
  • The moon, especially when I remember to watch it rise, an orange ball above the treeline catalyzing howling through the valley that makes audible what’s usually invisible.
  • Sleep, particularly when I sink into it with such joyful exhaustion but even when it comes in slips of light between dark bouts of insomnia.
  • Waking even if it’s hard (which it usually needs) and needs the hindsight of 10 minutes out (and coffee) to see its glories.
  • Pencils, which feel great to use on the page. Pens too. Computers. Crayons. Watercolors. All other things I can put my hands to, and with their help, make something.
  • Shelves, counters, table tops and surfaces around the house that hold beloved stones, small vases, wooden altars with small glass owls, baskets of herbal supplements and vitamins, empty blue glass vases, tablecloths, the yoga clothes from yesterday, a new scarf for Natalie, magazines and books, toothpaste, hugging bear salt and pepper shakers, a square vase of four calla lilies that keep on going, and a large basket of bananas, apples and oranges.
  • All the floors: the Pergo ones we snapped together between running outside to use the table saw to make pieces that would fit, the carpeting installed, the linoleum I unrolled when six months’ pregnant with Forest, the wood floor made from stacks of planks in someone’s basement who salvaged them from the Osawatomie Mental Hospital.
  • Steps going to the basement, up to the porch, down from the deck to the yard.
  • The expanse of sky and land, lights in the distance and migrating plants and animals that fill all the windows.

From Kansas to Peru With Love: Installment #4

Jig for making push rim

When Gladys and Raoul got directions to Rumbos, the local grassroots wheelchair manufacturer, I wasn’t sure we’d be able to make it there. They said it was in a completely different section of this city of nearly 8 million people, which would entail not only driving onto the congested Pan American highway, but well off the beaten tracks, in a section of town where folks didn’t usually venture unless they lived there. But Gladys and Raoul decided to take the plunge, and we all headed across town into the less formal, more working class section of the town, where, as Todd Lefkowics told me, life was much more representative of the way folks lived in Peru.

After finding our way down innumerable side streets and asking directions toward the end, we found the modest storefront for “Rumbos Caminos una Esperanza” sandwiched between some other businesses in the Parque Industrial

Injection mold for making front casters

Villa El Salvador district. Inside the entrance, there was a very small room where a therapy table had been set up for children to receive occupational and physical therapy. A bit further down and to the right, the narrow hallway opened up into another work area, where me met Jose and his teenage son, who formed the heart of Rumbos. Also there to greet us was Manuel, the bilingual occupational therapist who Todd had introduced to me via email, as well as Manuel’s OT teacher and some other OT students and a family who came at Manuel’s invitation.

Jose proudly gave us a tour of his shop, where he and his son used their incredible metalworking skills to build wheelchairs from scratch out of steel tubing, which they bent using a homemade jig, then used another jig to hold the custom sized tubing in place to weld into side frames. I have seen no finer welding despite their having to make their own acetylene, combined with oxygen, and despite light to the shop being provided by opening up corrugated roofing to let the sunlight in and the fumes out. The simple jigs made of angle iron belied their accuracy, and Todd, the occupational therapist/engineer from

Joses, 14-year-old son and welder

Boeing who had worked with them over the years, had done an excellent job coming up with a simple but strong design, akin to the strength and simplicity of a good bike frame. The local paint shop did as fine a paint job as any wheelchair here in the US, and the handmade push rims were chromed locally and were flawless. Todd had worked with Jose to come up with a wide front caster that would negotiate the sandy, rocky surfaces that most folks would be using them on, and had made a mold for solid rubber injections, adding bearings to the built-in receivers.

But the tour was not complete without a wheelchair evaluation, where Manuel did a quick but comprehensive mat evaluation, followed by having the young girl sit in a mock up seating system jig that could adjust the seat depth, back height, foot plates, headrest and lateral pads to come up with the seating system designed to address anyone’s specific needs. The types of foam used to build the supportive seat, back, laterals and headrest were very simple—standard open cell foam and carpet foam for creating important supportive contours within the seating—but they were based on solid seating principles, and of course were finished in a most professional manner using an old upholstery sewing machine that Jose had.

Jig for making side frame

Manuel’s teacher, who couldn’t speak English, pointed to some pink 4 inch plastic water pipe, which I first didn’t understand, until I noticed that there was a sheet of pink low temperature plastic material next to it. We in occupational therapy create hand splints for a variety of purposes from such material, cutting pieces of the expensive material to shape into supportive splints that are custom designed to support a healing hand/wrist/elbow or to make a spastic hand more functional. Here once again was Peruvian ingenuity, where they were able to find a local substitute for something that would have otherwise been too expensive, extremely hard to get, or both. They had found that the water pipe plastic was malleable enough when heated up to unroll into sheets and then fashioned into splints that worked every bit as well as ones we in the US fashion out of our expensive low temperature plastic!

As our limited time was running out (Dale and I were to go back and make a presentation on seating principles), I made sure that everyone was invited to the presentation, and that they were welcome to participate in our wheelchair evaluation sesssions at CASP. In this case, misfortune worked in our favor, as Manuel had broken his foot and so could not work at his occupational therapy job, so he was able to join us for the rest of the week. Jose, his daughter, and many of the students were able to make the long trek to our presentation on seating and positioning principles and strategies. Julio, a CASP employee who depended on a power wheelchair, very capably had translated our presentation, and Liliana had lined up a very gracious and professional doctor to translate our English presentation that evening to around 100 doctors, therapists, families and folks with disabilities who showed up to hear us. Steve had taken out several sections of seats in the front so that those who sat in wheelchairs could attend.

The rest of the trip was like a whirlwind of assessments, modifications, repairs and fabrications for the rest of the week. After our talk, we added to our existing list of people, as Denisse took the names of people who attended the talk asked to be assessed or knew of others needing to be seen. We saw everyone from elderly adults with muscular dystrophy to very young children who were getting too big to be carried by their mothers much longer, and everyone in-between. We adjusted strollers, built inserts, pressure mapped folks in order to see if their seating provided enough pressure relief to prevent pressure sores, added obliquity pads and tried different types of supports to see what would enable folks to be more independent in their seating and mobility needs. I remember one child who had never been in a wheelchair at first too afraid of the wheels to even touch them, gradually relaxing enough to place his hands on the wheels, and discover that he could push the wheel to get across the room. We were able to go to a home in one case, and in some cases, talk to mothers just to reassure them that everything they were doing was the best possible thing to do, which was a big relief to some.

Chantal, who worked as a volunteer for CASP, was our bilingual interpreter, and kept up with our rapid chatter amazingly well, only once telling us exasperatedly, to slow down a bit. She also took pictures and organized our evaluations and paperwork for each person, which was invaluable since many of these folks were folks whom CASP had not seen before either. Manuel was able to provide valuable assistance to our assessments, being a therapist, helping position clients while I measured them, and also supplementing Chantal’s translating whenever needed. Cesar and other student occupational therapists were able to come at various times, learning by doing as well.

All the while Dale and I were doing our assessments and modifications, Steve and Mack were providing essential backup, using their considerable mechanical aptitude to make adjustments, swap our parts, build a wheelchair from parts, and pretty much whatever else we asked them to do. When there was a moment’s lapse between projects for them, they would disappear, off to do another project on the side somewhere on the CASP campus. At the end of the day midweek, we were told to wrap up our work on time, as Liliana wanted to invite us over to her place for supper. So we headed out to her home in La Punta, a very nice section of town, where she lived with her pharmacist father, Judith LeBlanc from KU, and several staff joined us for a sumptuous Peruvian feast that was gratefully appreciated.

I already miss the time we had with the wonderful folks we met and worked shoulder to shoulder with while we were in Lima. I cannot express enough gratitude to those who contributed funds to help make this trip possible and for us to leave some funds for the Rumbos folks to assist in building seating/wheelchairs for some of the folks we saw. For me, connecting up the Rumbos organization of wheelchair builders and therapists with CASP succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. Hopefully we provided a good enough foundation for their partnership to grow and grow to meet many more folks who have mobility needs, and what a better way to accomplish that than to help those folks to help themselves?

Sending the Book to the Publisher for Design: Everyday Magic, Day 446

I just hit the “send” button on the email to my publisher, releasing into the wilds between my novel after 16 years of writing and revising every speck and inch of this story. The Divorce Girl, the novel I’ve been writing in my head since I was about 15, is coming out this summer, thanks to Ice Cube Books.

It’s an astonishing and simple thing to give the work of a good part of a lifetime over to its ending as one kind of work and beginning as its own thing. The manuscript is finished being in-process at this moment and since I’ve lived over 36 years with it in-process in one way or another, I’m feeling a little sad, a lot happy, and eerily calm. Writing this book has been a life practice, a way of transforming the dysfunctions of my wacky childhood into material I could learn from, a meditation on where I came from, a love story about New Jersey and the girl I was (fictionalized into someone far taller and brighter than I was). Now the practice is on its way to becoming a thing, a vessel that will carry words and stories, images and rhythms, from the interior to the exterior.

This is not to say that a book is a stagnant thing. Having done readings far and near for some years, I love how, in the reading of a book, the story gains new dimensions, and I learn other things it has to say to me between its layers of words. But a published book is outrageously different than a book in process, kind of like going from land to sea, or earth to cosmos, or simply my little mind to readers’ minds.

So in sending the manuscript along, I’m letting that manuscript go, knowing it will return to me in another form, and also knowing that this particular chapter of my own story is finished, and I’m onto an empty and bright new page.

How Many Poets Does It Take To Go to the End of the World, Begin Again, and Spring Poetry on Strangers?: Everyday Magic, Day 445

Evidently, it takes 8 poets, which is what we had for our Southwest Kansas Begin Again: 150 Kansas Poems caravan, which took us across Kansas and over the edge of the world. Traveling in my van with Wyatt Townley, Roderick Townley, Liz Black, Ronda Miller and Karen Ohnesorge (whose last name, in German, literally means, “Whatever!”), I headed west, way west, early Friday morning. We were well-supplied: girl scout cookies, dark chocolate, gourmet rosemary-parmesan butter bookies, clementines, coffee, and in case of real emergency, two bags of frozen peas (for Liz’s knee).

First stop: Salina, where (after sharing stories of all the times any of us got arrested), I met the logical end result of telling Ronda I had never read poetry in Salina. Half-way through our sandwiches at Moka’s, Ronda had me up on the table reciting a poem to the lunch crowd after her shining introduction. Note to self: be careful what thoughts you say out loud but be ready to share a poem anywhere at anytime.

Next stop: Garden City. Here, we fell in love, remarking to each other that we could and might live here. Downtown was charming and full of life, the sky was large and loving, and Ramona McCallum, who organized all the Garden City events, was a sparkling fountain of delight, passion and joy. We also met up with Lee and Dennielle Mick from Cawker City (Lee is in the book with, of course, a poem about a giant ball of twine). After an astonishing Mexican dinner (Garden City: best restaurants in Kansas, and thanks to Ramona for raising funds to feed us), we gave a reading at the State Theater, a historic site being remodeled, where we had the pleasure of sharing poems with 70 people. Then, we marched down the street to the arts center, where we merged with a show of 10 fabulous women artists, sold books and ate too many cream puffs. Ramona soon has us whisked off to various homes, churches and guest houses for the night where each of us found two full gift bags: pens, pottery, lip balm and even stool softener from the local health food store.

The next morning, we trekked to Garden City Community College where I led a workshop on Writing in Community. Usually when I do such workshops, I get to meet with 10-15 people, but in Garden City, where people understand the value of poetry and Ramona is a whirlwind of outreach and purpose, we had 50 people ranging from tweens to elders. After moving the tables out and out and out, we immersed ourselves in writing, the writing life and the best cinnamon rolls on the planet (still hot too). Maybe it was the sugar talking, but after introductions, I was wondering if we had time to house-shop. The workshop was a feast of friendship and stories, and afterwards, of course, it was time to eat, so we went to the best Vietnamese restaurant in the world (Thanks for covering our lunch, special donor!).

Next up: Ulysses, where Liz grew up, and where the land changes to slopes of tumbleweed and stretches of endless skies and feedlots. The air dries out, especially in this drought year when the annual rainfall is closer to 2-3 inches, and the sky expands. The most beautiful sunset combined with more Mexican food in downtown Ulysses and then a reading at the lovely Artery, a cooperative gallery, where we met with several dozen Ulyssesians, drank wine, ate cookies and marveled at the art and hospitality. A night at Single Tree Inn (Sex and the Sing Tree, Roderick suggested as we played with the name) brought us sleep and a morning where many of us shared how much we don’t like or do morning well. Ulysses is especially stark and beautiful, and unlike any part of Kansas I’ve seen before. I loved hearing how Liz grew up in a dug-out without electricity and with an outhouse beneath the outrageous stars.

Next stop: Dodge City. Here, we were supposed to read at a local coffee shop, but no one in Dodge City seemed to know this. All was well because a) it was on our way, and b) we got to eat yet again. Having no actual audience who came for us, we assailed the strangers having lunch in a small room where we stood, one at a time reading a poem, between them and the front door. Most of them were quite polite even if they were surely realizing there were no escape routes.

The ride home was long, punctuated by more eating, and full of long talks about how we grew up, whether we preferred Mounds or Almond Joy, new ways to promote our writing, dancing days, growing up tall or short, young adult children and the marvels of migrating birds and rising Flint Hills.

800 or so miles later, we’re landed back into our homes and lives, but already I miss my fellow caravan-ers and I love how when we get together, poetry prevails.

Kansas: Size DOES Matter: Everyday Magic, Day 444

Tomorrow I drive a van load of poets about 400 miles to Southwestern Kansas for more of the Begin Again: 150 Kansas Poems tour. I’m amazed that I can drive 400 miles in my state and still be there, specifically because I grew up in a little state (New Jersey) that would fit into Kansas along with all of New England, Florida and several truckloads of chocolate. I’m also amazed that our very big state was given a less-than-big-hearted state slogan several years ago: “Kansas: As Big As You Think.” Such a slogan begs the question, “What if you think small?” Here are Ken and my suggestions for a better state slogan:

  • Kansas: Bigger Than Bulgaria
  • Kansas: Smaller Than Texas But Still Big
  • Kansas: Better Than Missouri (at least Kansans think so)
  • Kansas: More Than Just A Rest Stop Between You and Colorado
  • Kansas: Nice People Who Vote Funny
  • Kansas: Where Weather Rules
  • Kansas: Even Dorothy Felt Compelled To Come Back
  • Kansas: Jayhawks and Wildcats and Guerillas, Oh My!
  • Kansas: Not Nearly As Big As Russia
  • Kansas: We Like Pie
  • Kansas: Where All Gas Stations Are Required to Offer Public Restrooms
  • Kansas: Almost a Rectangle
  • Kansas: Way Bigger Than a Breadbox

and our favorite:

  • Kansas: Size DOES Matter!

So what your nominees for a new Kansas slogan?

Kitty Goes Away, Kitty Comes Back and the Stages In Between: Everyday Magic, Day 443

When the cat shot out the door Tuesday evening, so did my heart. We live in coyote territory, and having lost two cats already to the howling in the night, I especially didn’t want to lose Miyako, one of my favorite animals of all time. This is a cat who lives for love, focusing most of her energy, when she’s not sleeping (or sleeping on top of one of us), on showing great affection for all of us. She often sleeps on my chest at night or in the crook of my arm, and when she was little, Natalie and I carried her so much that I seriously considered getting a cloth baby carrier.

For hours, I opened the door, stepped outside and meowed because when she’s gotten out before, she has meowed back when she was close. I also called her at midnight, 1 a.m., 2 a.m., etc. By morning, I was frantic, especially since she wasn’t at the door. I climbed the hills looking for her, and drove all over the farm before having to leave for a gig in El Dorado. Daniel then spent three hours combing the land for any sign (or — let it not be! — remains). Throughout the day, I went through many kitty-is-gone stages of grief:

  • Bargaining: I promised all the gods and goddesses and any other entities out there that I would do the dishes more, be kinder to others, and show my kitty even more attention.
  • Denial: She’s right here, and if I can just meow enough, she’ll appear.
  • Depression: So there were tears. “It’s just a cat, Mom!” Daniel said, which made me most upset because “just a cat” is more than enough to break your heart.
  • Psychic Guessing: I imagined all kinds of scenarios and had friends tell me if they thought she was okay. “I think she is. I just feel it,” said Kris, and later, Natalie.
  • Facebook Mobilization: I asked friends to pray and wish for her return. I wasn’t completely surprised by how much people “got it.”
  • Thrashing Around: Banging things and making noise, not being able to get comfortable in my own skin.
  • Reluctance to eat, sleep, talk coherently or do anything with any concentration.

Finally, I escaped the stages of kitty-loss through kitty-return. I stepped outside, still weepy and depressed at 10 p.m. last night and meowed, but this time, I heard a response. We call-and-response meowed with each other for a while until Miyako came out from under the house, probably here all the time. I gathered her in my arms and cried in happiness. The utter joy of the prodigal cat can erase all those kitty loss stages in an instance. And what did I do after she was settled in? I washed the dishes.

Astonished By Your Support: Everyday Magic, Day 442

When I launched the campaign to raise funds for the poet laureate of Kansas program, I was hoping we could reach a benchmark goal of $1,500 toward the $5,000 total for the program. Within a month, we surpassed that $5,000 (the extra will pay processing fees and for a van’s worth of gas to and from Western Kansas this weekend for the Begin Again tour).

What can I say? I’m astonished, moved, delighted and yet not so completely surprised because in visiting with Kansans and people who support our state beyond our borders I’ve continually seen how much we believe in the power of the arts. More specifically, we know about the power of words, and how what we read and write, alone and together, can change our lives.

I share this small poem I wrote and sent to contributors to remind myself of all the world gives us, all the time, and to thank everyone who helped.

In Gratitude

The wind thanks you, unfurling over the worn horizon

so it can billow into night. The stars too, whether talismans

of light dying or just being born, behind the small birds

arriving or staying behind, who balance gratefully

on thin branches of the coming winter. The squirrel

in the field, the hidden fox, the mammals under and over

ground, find a way out of no way. The world is composed,

is composing itself, anew even in a narrow time: flashes

of red on a gray day just before the red-winged blackbird

folds back in silhouette. Whatever act of kindness flies

lands in the heart of a moment, a seasonal marker

to illuminate why we live, a song of gratitude.

Into the Woods and Back Out Again: Everyday Magic, Day 441

Every year, we go into the woods of Shantivanam, the forest of peace located on the eastern edge of Easton, Kansas. A Catholic retreat center focused on contemplation and solitude might seem an odd place to find a Jewish girl and her sweetie having their anniversary get-away, but it’s been perfect for us for the last 20 or so years.

We usually go in overlapping shifts, me hauling my cello and little suitcase to a small cabin in the woods on a Thursday, Ken showing up late on Friday, and me leaving before him on Sunday so that he can have some alone time too. But we always go with the intention of returning to the deep woods (not just a notion at Shantivanam, but a whole forest just south of the forest that holds cabins spaced far apart) and to each other. It’s our refuge, our time to just hang out without much interruption (although we do walk to high points in the field to call home and check with the kids), our space to just be alone and together.

The first day there, I’m more than a little all over the place, all the racing thoughts come home to roost and peck each other to death. It usually takes a good 24 hours before I calm down enough to stop spinning out thoughts about imaginary scenarios. What helps are the trees, sky, small pond where we can sit in the little tea house and watch what water does under the influence of wind. What helps is how much this place is imbued with decades of peace, the trails well-walked for years by people like us simply coming home to themselves. What helps is the big house — the main building — where we go to enter into a mostly-meditative stretch of prayer before meals (breakfast together although I always sleep through it, lunch communally, and a soup dinner in a thermos along with crackers and fruit we take back to our cabins).

The days are spent, when it’s cold or warm, in the woods as much as possible. We walk up and down hills, balance ourselves in leaves to see how quietly we can step, and occasionally lie down under tall trees and watch the brilliant sky. If it’s especially cold, we walk fast, take breaks to drink hot tea and read poetry or Pema Chodron aloud to each other, and head back out again. We sometimes watch sunsets or moon rises, and we always go to sleep when we like and wake when we wake.

Mostly we talk, tell stories, re-tell stories, walk paths, share soup and crackers, and marvel at the woods at the precise place they travel in the season. Sometimes we write to each other. Sometimes we watch a movie on our laptop, and then analyze every nuance of it. And we usually do yoga on the little deck. When we come out of the woods, we’re still ourselves, but more so, free of some of some of what distracts from the real.