Manipulations

non-subject: haunted
aww ~ 10/30/13

******

I am discouraged. I again feel I am groping along trying to find answers for the nerve damage in my limbs.

I thought, I hoped, I wanted to believe that I had found an osteopath with whom I could work; but I've had too many red flags. I've now had five appointments with her; but I didn't receive my first osteopathic manipulation from her until my fourth appointment, two weeks ago. Her manipulation, which was a deep tissue massage on my arms and wrists and hands, surprised me. At the time all I said was, "Is this okay for damaged nerves?" I was already on the table, face down; she was pulling on my arms and hands. It was painful. I endured thinking I've hurt before with body work when the pain is temporary and in the long run beneficial. Plus I didn't want to offend her. Maybe this process was okay?

Back in February my hand surgeon had directed me to not receive massage on the damaged nerve tissue, that compressing the nerves could make the damage worse. I recognize that is his opinion based on his experience and knowledge. I recognize that a different kind of practitioner may have different experience and additional knowledge. Yet his expertise was contrary to the treatment I was then receiving from the osteopath, and I wasn't quite comfortable with these two contradictory opinions floating around in my head.

Years ago I saw an osteopath; he was my general practitioner. His approach helped me incredibly. Together we navigated the chronic issues I had at that time - severe asthma and allergies, various unexplainable pains throughout my body, hormone issues, fatigue, depression, mood swings. It took a few years, but I got well. I was able to wean off all my medications and eventually don a backpack and hit the trails. To my recollection, his osteopathic manipulations never involved deep tissue massage but rather subtle manipulations on my spine and limbs. I especially benefited from cranial sacral therapy. But, I didn't have nerve damage back then.

The contradictory information between my hand surgeon and the current osteopath isn't the main issue I have with the current osteopath; my issue is the communication aspect. I feel that the current osteopath has to put me in my place. There is an air of authoritarian ego. I picked up this ego-type signal at my first appointment with her, back in July. I set it aside, thinking the signal was just me with crossed wires projecting. But, the static has continued with each subsequent visit. I've considered and pondered that the problem could be me, maybe I'm not communicating well. Perhaps that's true.

But Carol...how many times have you been through this scenario dismissing your gut, giving yourself less credit, thinking another knows what is personally best for you? How often has that been the right thing to do, to go against your gut? How often has it been the wrong thing to do?

I was supposed to receive another osteopathic treatment yesterday, but I had questions and wanted to make sure I had communicated clearly regarding my symptoms and diagnosis. So instead of a treatment, I had a consultation with the osteopath. I think she took offense to my concerns.

The past week, I've taken to asking my heart to help me and guide my next moves in regard to my health. Part of that asking has been when I fall asleep. I say to myself, "I will recall from my dreams what I need to recall." Trying to tap my unconscious, thinking maybe therein I can find direction. It's helped before, why not now?

I have had three recurring dreams in the last five or so days. Each time, I am in a car, driving in reverse and the brakes do not work efficiently. With my foot I press the brake. It gives some resistance but not enough to stop the car. I am not traveling at a high speed, but still I can't stop going backwards and I can't stop the car with the brake.

The other night, in my dream, I was able to stop because I ran into another car. Last night, I was able to stop because I backed into a field of dense grass and the natural cushiony pillow of the thick grass stopped the car. I can't recall how or if I stopped the car in the first dream.

As my son picked me up yesterday from my osteopath manipulation-turned-to-consult appointment, he asked, "Is this doctor a narcissist?" I was taken aback by his question; I had shared absolutely nothing with him about any of my appointments and the red flags.

"Why on earth would you ask that?" I responded.

"The name of her practice, 'Chambre de la Vie.' What kind of doctor names their practice that?"

It is an odd name for a doctor's office.

********

The Darkness

aww ~ october 23, 2013
"the darkness"

*****

Darkness.
Is a magical place when in the woods, at night, amongst the deer, amongst the night sounds of crickets and tree frogs, the starlight, the moonlight, critter eyes that peer curiously through the woods.

But.
If in the darkness the woods are totally quiet when there are supposed to be crickets and such, the essence is quite unnatural. If I am not diligent, fear can take hold and sleep never comes, ears listen for every little crack and crumble, as I lay alone in my tent. Such surroundings present an eerie ambiance.

Darkness.
Is a tunnel with no light at the end. All I have is perhaps a candle or low flashlight to traverse the elements. The darkest elements are the corners of my psyche, emotional snares that, in the moment, seem impossible to conquer.

"Conquer" is probably not the right word. I don't "conquer" life. I don't really like that word - "conquer." For me "conquer" implies conquest.

I am unable to conquer darkness.

I am able to move through darkness, feeling my way, slowly putting one foot in front of another. The conquest is not over the darkness, but rather, over my perceived inability to move. I must keep moving. It is fine to rest awhile. But I must get up again and move.

I rode my bike today along a mountain trail among the autumn leaves in the Shenandoah. These are old mountains. The hills vibrate with wisdom and gentle slopes, again reminding me that the wilderness is.

I rode, hiking and pushing my bike along some of the rockier parts of the trail, to a huge meadow. There were no humans. Fifteen birds of prey circled the sky nearby. I dismounted and sat in the meadow.

The sky was filled with gray, billowy clouds. The air was chilly; I put on my purple and black gloves. The breeze kissed my cheeks. Like so many times before, I breathed in, tasting home. I felt centered, connected. I was cheating a bit because I was listening to music in my earpiece. Grateful Dead. Then Steely Dan.

I looked around.
I could see no human eyes, though there may have been some in the distance somewhere.
I arose and I danced,
Alone.
In the meadow.
I smiled.
I love the earth.
I love the heavens.
Even though I know both can be unforgiving.

I remounted my bike.
I rode through and out the meadow.
And down the mountain.
I called aloud to the crows.
I called aloud to the woods,
The sky,
The critters that might be peering.

After fifteen minutes I arrived back at the dirt parking area where I had parked my 1999 gray Ford Explorer. When I had left the parking area earlier to embark my ride, there was only one other truck. Now there were six.

A lone man was standing by his army green pick-up truck to hide himself from the road on the other side as he pulled up his pants to get ready and warm for his ride. He didn't hear or see me approaching from the mountain trail. I saw his fleshy buttocks. I shouted, "I see that!" And I laughed. At first he was embarrassed, but then he laughed too.

His name was Billy. He too is a hiker and backpacker along the Appalachian Trail. We chatted a bit.

Yes, home.

I love the woods, even in their darkness, and especially in my own.

Two more John Hartford songs...

As a youngster, I had unknowingly seen and listened to Hartford on the television show, Glen Campbell.
When I was around 15, my brother turned me on to the album Aeroplane. That's when I learned who John Hartford was, and the tunes and lyrics and voice were forever etched into memory.
We listened to vinyl then.

(I was unable to get the lyrics below to format properly, but at least they are legible.)

First Girl I Loved by John Hartford
I was in love with you, well-before I knew,
it meant more than just wanting to be with you
I used to look for other girls that looked like you
But the laws of nature said, 'forget it, son'
'least that's what somebody told me
I worried about it a little bit, but that's all
I dreamt that you were Joan-of Arc
And I was Don Quixote
And everywhere we went the world was tin-foil
But I gave up dreaming, and became a priest
It put it right out of my system
I worried about it a little bit, but that's all
Now you used to play the guitar
We worked in a country band
I hung out down on the river bank, on Sunday
Your brother was my closest friend,
he drove a pickup truck
he used to bring me home sometimes, from high school
Now I was fifteen, oh the very first time
Love broke completely inside me
We were young, and we were learning about it together
And we had enough of what we thought we'd need
Of those well-known secret fables
We worried about it a little bit, but that's all
I regret my life won't be long enough
To make love to all the women that I'd like to
Or least of all, to live with the ones I've loved
And I've never regretted a love affair,
except one and that's all over
I worried about it a little bit, but that's all
Now I heard you lived a-way up north
Your kids are fat and plenty
And I haven't seen your brother since a-way last Easter
And if every other girl in the whole wide world
Was just a little bit more like you
I'd worry about it a little bit, but that's all
Now you used to play the guitar
We worked in a country band
I hung out down on the river bank, on Sunday
Your brother was my closest friend,
he drove a pickup truck
he used to bring me home sometimes, from high school
*******
Back in the Goodle Days by John Hartford

Some day about twenty-five years from now,
When we've all grown old from a-wondering how,
Oh we'll all sit down at the city dump,
And talk about the Goodle Days.
Oh you'll pass the joint and I'll pass the wine,
And anything good from a-down the line.
A lot of good things went down one time,
Back in the Goodle Days.

Chorus:
And the Good Old Days are past and gone.
A lot of good people have done gone on.
That's my life when I sing this song about
Back in the Goodle Days

Sometimes I get to thinkin' that we're almost done,
And there ain't nothin' left that we can figure out.
And I guess it must have seemed a lot more like that
Back in the Goodle Days,
But when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.
There's always somebody don'tcha know,
A-hangin' round a-sayin' "Well I told you so",
Back in the Goodle Days.

*chorus*

Oh we'll all join hands and we'll gather round,
When that old guitar starts to make that sound.
A lot of good things went down down down,
Back in the Goodle Days.
We's in love with the people that we hadn't even met,
Out for anything that we could get.
Oh we did it then and we'll do it yet,
Back in the Goodle Days.

*chorus*

Lunchin' with Gus

One of my best friends is named Gus.

Gus is ninety-one years old in people-years. In dog age, he is thirteen years old.

Most weeks I visit Gus Monday through Friday at the lunching hour. I enter his quiet home located in Gus's quiet neighborhood. I check the different rooms where Mr. Gus likes to dawg. He's almost always asleep, usually snuggled under his blankie on his doggie bed in the den. I don't wake him right away; I like to sit with him momentarily while he slumbers and dreams.

When ready, I'll address him softly, "Hey Mr. Gustard. You ready to wake up?"

If he doesn't budge, I'll gently give a light push to the side of his cushiony doggie bed. He'll then raise his head slightly peering out from under his snuggly blanket.

"Hey feller. How you doin' today?"

"I'm doing dandy Miss Carol. It's good to see you." Gus replies with his face and eyes and ears.

"It's good to see you too Gus. You wanna get up and go outside?"

Gus arises and gives a dachshund doggie stretch.

Gus is a brown dachshund with a gray face. He is missing a front tooth but manages to eat just fine which is evident by his stocky body and his belly.

Once he is stretched and ready, he usually runs to the door. When Gus runs, its more like a skippity-hop. His front legs land on the ground one after the other, but his hind legs hop landing at the same time.

I carry Gus's leash in hand and open the door. Gus jumps down the small step onto the small, squared, red-brick front porch. He then hops down another step onto the half-circle, red-brick stoop. One more downward hop, and Gus gently lands on the red-brick, winding sidewalk that leads from the home to the concrete driveway.

Gus walks into the grassy front yard at the edge of the sidewalk and relieves his bladder. Then its hopppity-skippity-hop down the brick sidewalk, onto the driveway, and up to my 1999 gray Ford Explorer; unless I've ridden my bicycle that day. If I've ridden and parked my bike in the driveway, Gus isn't quite sure what to do. But with the Explorer, Gus always wants to go for a ride. Most days we don't go for an Explorer ride; Gus needs to walk and skippity-hop to get some exercise.

As Gus bounces up and down on his front legs and exchanges looks between me and the Explorer door, I carefully pick him up so as not to hurt his back.

"It's not an Explorer day today, Gus. You know you need some exercise."

Gus doesn't mind.

I carry him on my left side, his body supported with my left arm extended under his belly up to his neck. My right hand comes across and interlocks with my left hand at Gus's chest to a form a stable arm-bed for Gus. Gus rests in my arm between my upper left torso and left hip.

I speak with Gus as we walk into the short, dead end, paved street and take a left turn. We cross another street and make our way toward what I call "the green."

"So are you having a good day Mr. Gus? Maybe some neighbors will be out today."

Many of Gus's neighbors are elderly; and we oftentimes visit with at least one neighbor. All the neighbors know and love Gus. It'd be an odd person who didn't love Gus.

Once we arrive at "the green," I walk across the small, square-with-rounded-corners grassed and treed area. A concrete sidewalk winds through the middle and connects with the concrete sidewalk that goes all the way around the outside of "the green." On the west side of "the green," three red-brick steps ascend to a red-brick sidewalk that leads to a raised gazebo. The gazebo has twelve white pillars, three at each corner, that support a black peaked roof. Three wooden park benches sit in between three of the pillar sets.

Gus and I bypass the gazebo area. I walk, Gus in arm, to the east end and sit on the wooden bench under some pin oak trees. I place Gus on the bench on my left side, his head at my thigh.

"Miss Carol, I must lick your hand you know. Nothing personal; I'm a dog and that's what us dogs do."

"That's fine Gus."

I massage Gus's back and chest. I rub Gus under his collar and around his ears.

"If I were a dog I'd get real tired of a collar. I bet that feels good doesn't it Gustard?"

After our ten-minute bench routine, I carefully place Gus on the ground. Gus's back can be finnicky so I always try to keep his back properly supported.

Once on the ground, Gus usually puts his nose in the air to catch scents and breezes unless he is distracted by the sight of a neighbor or squirrels.

Gus decides our direction. Most days I don't have to put Gus on leash. But some days he wants to skippity-hop into any open garage in the neighborhood; those are leash days.

Some days, we slowly walk and meander. Other days Gus hoppity-skips around or across the tiny park back to his house.

Once we are in route to Gus's house, he is in the let's-get-there mode. "I'm ready to go inside Miss Carol. Come on!! I want to play 'Paw!'"

He hops up the two small red-brick steps from the red-brick sidewalk onto the small red-brick porch. I open the door and he hops up the third small step into the house.

Gus hoppity-skips across the wood floor to the kitchen cabinet where his dried, low-fat liver treats are kept.

"Barkity-yelp!" "Barkity-yelp!"

Liver treats are the key component when we play "Paw."

Once Upon a Dining Room

aww ~ 9/25
non-subject: "leaving home"

*********

I sit in our dining room which we no longer use for dining. Instead, I have the maple dining room table flush against the east wall. I use the table as an office desk. My mother-in-law sold us the table for three dollars over twenty-five years ago. Three dollars; she's funny like that. One time we paid her one dollar for a car, a Buick LeSabre.

There are no windows on the east wall of the dining room. Vertical-lined stripped wall paper in alternating hues of greens and maroons and taupes stretch from the cream-colored chair rail to the cream-colored molding at the ceiling. Beneath the chair rail the drywall is painted a cream color down to the cream-colored floor molding. The floors are natural oak. Natural oak toe molding lies at the base of the cream-colored floor molding.

A black iron candle holder, with a mirror at its center and a cream-colored candle in front of the mirror, hangs in the center of the east wall. Catty cornered to each side of the candle holder hang two different five-inch by seven-inch gold-framed prints; a couple red roses in each print. On the south end of the east wall, a Thomas Kinkade cottage puzzle print hangs in a gold frame. The unassembled puzzle came with our house purchase when we bought the house in 2003. I assembled the puzzle, glued it, framed it, and hung it.

I sit at the end of the table on the south side with the Kinkade puzzle print to my right. The wall perpendicular behind me extends our for about two feet. Then a six-foot wide doorway opens into the living room. But there are no doors and no evidence of hinges, just an open doorway. The wall picks up again for another couple feet to corner at the west wall of the dining room which we no longer for dining.

Flush against the middle of the west wall sits the china cabinet that I inherited from my Aunt Flossie. Or maybe it belonged to Uncle Bright. The wood is dark; I guess a cherry stain and maybe cherry wood. I don't know enough about the design to know if there is a known design label for the handles on the drawers and lower cabinets; they are an oval-shaped metal with oval indentations. The same pattern was prevalent in Mom's furniture. I speculate the style was once in the Drum family. Drum was Mom's maiden name. Mom was one of thirteen children. Flossie was her oldest sister; Bright was one of her brothers. The china cabinet displays china and crystal behind its glass doors.

The south corner of the west wall catties a small cabinet, about chest high, light-colored wood. I picked it up from Mom's place after she died and my siblings and I sold the home place. It holds some office supplies.

In the north corner of the west wall is another doorway, large enough for a single door. There are no hinges or evidence that there ever were hinges; just an open doorway that leads into the kitchen.

From my chair I face the north wall. Two paned window sets rest in the north wall, twelve panes in each set. I have no curtains in my home; I have blinds. I don't like curtains. These blinds in the dining room which we don't use for dining stay fully drawn so that nothing but transparent air covers the windows. I have a tassel hanging from the hardware of each window set. A two-and-one-half inch by one-and-one-half inch glass art piece hangs with the tassel on the west window. A small tree is painted on the small glass art piece.

Both windowsills are lined with ten pieces of miniature block art made by various artists, most of whom I know. There is one small bronze sculpture of a soccer player and another of a small boxer; each sculpture was made by some village folks in Africa. Two colorful wooden bird whistles sit on the windowsills, one whistle on each sill. Both whistles were made by some folks in Nicaragua where my husband visits and will sometimes bring home small tokens from local Nicaraguan artisans. Two small sculpted vases sit on one windowsill.

Except for the whistles, all the art pieces on the two windowsills are crafted by Artomat artists; so is the small glass art piece that hangs from the hardware in the west window.

On a music stand in the middle of an right beneath the two windows, a twenty-four-inch by eighteen-inch black framed photo is displayed. The photo was taken by my son. It's an incredible photograph of a lake mirroring the giant mountains and sky from his backpacking trip to Glacier National Park in 2012.

To the left of the photo and music stand, a small empty thigh-high curio cabinet sits on the floor. A salt lamp which I seldom turn off sits on top of the small cabinet.

To the right of the windows, a lawyers book shelf with glass doors catties the east corner. I bought the book shelf and put it together. Right now, children's picture books line one of the shelves. It's the only piece of furniture in the room that I paid more than three dollars for; well, except for the music stand.

On top of the book shelf a giant oriental fan is spread displaying its floral print on gold paper with bamboo reeds. In front of the fan sits a potted ivy silk plant; an Artomat block miniature painting of my dog-friend Jethro; and an analog table clock that ticks.

I like the sound of the tick-tock.