Extra Special Gifts

 

This year, because I’m a woman of a certain age and can do it if I want, I gave myself a few holiday gifts (fortunately, the stuff I want is relatively inexpensive, otherwise it wouldn’t matter if I wanted to or not). Some of them I’ll share with The Husband; some will be shared with other people; some will be just for me alone.

I kind of think we should all give ourselves some stuff we know no one else will give us, either because they can’t possibly know we want it, or couldn’t possibly choose which one to get, or because that’s the only way we’re gonna get it because no one else understands why you could possibly want that thing. I had a friend back in junior high and high school who was a master at this; she used to get everyone in her family Christmas gifts that she wanted, knowing that her parents and grandparents and even her older siblings would thank her very much for them and then suggest she keep them for herself. That way, every year she got the multi-colored scented-ink pens she craved and that her mother wouldn’t use, the socks that were covered with glittery stuff that curiously didn’t fit her father but did fit her, the book of vampire stories her older brother wouldn’t read, and so on. She had it down to a science.

This year here’s what I gave me. You need to know up front, before you get all judgey,  that I’m not your average consumer – I rarely buy clothes or shoes (the stuff I wear is mostly at least a decade old because, oddly and fortunately, it rarely wears out), or electronics, or pretty much anything except necessities and stuff for the garden - which is mostly, but not always (wind-thingies and some pretty perennials) practical stuff; and I get most my books from the Five Colleges Book Sale (used; cheap):

*The big thing I got me and will share with the Husband is a bunch of tickets to local-theater-group plays, mostly at the Hatbox Theater in Concord, a couple at the Hop, one Tuesday-night cheap seat at Northern  Stage (King Lear – ya gotta see Shakespeare). We get to see almost one a month ‘til the Hatbox season ends late summer. And now we’re old farts, the tickets only cost around 15 bucks each.

*A liquid-soap bottle of fir-scented hand soap. Anyone using my bathroom can use this, but, oh, the smell just makes my heart sing. I get the liquid stuff – no, it isn’t ecologically responsible packaging – because I only do it once every so many years, and the bar soap loses its scent long before the bar’s used up. I’ve loved washing my hands for weeks, now.

*A package of 6 chocolate-covered cherries. Haven’t opened them yet. Enjoying thinking about them. But also, one of my very excellent patients brought me a tin of home-made chocolate-enrobed ginger to die for, and I’m eking those out, first. The Husband recently found where I’d hidden the chocolate ginger in the frig, so I expect I’ll be tasting the cherries before February.

*A small square of goat cheese with edible flowers, from Australia. It was gone in six bites, and it was worth it.

*A t-shirt that says: Let’s assume I’m right: It’ll save time. Because wearing it will save a lot of time. I shoulda got two.

*A handful of expensive but beautiful notecards that I’m enjoying looking at, and will eventually enjoy sending to a couple of friends who I know will also enjoy them when they get them. Yes, there are still people who write letters. 

*A bottle of peach-infused white balsamic vinegar. Haven’t opened it yet; I got The Husband one infused with mango, which we’re delicately enjoying now. This is vinegar you sip from a tiny little cup – just a little at a time. It’s quite wondrous. 

*Some books no one would ever think to get me, half of them used, and several I’ll pass on to someone else I know will enjoy them. I’m not going to tell you the titles because I know she’ll read this blog. One I’ll describe, however, because everyone should read at least one of these books, is a reprint of books made from letters written by Isabella Bird in the mid-1850s, as she traveled, by herself, around the world. She sent amazing descriptive letters to her sister at home in England, which were eventually given to the Royal Geographical Society, who as a result made her their first female fellow.

Her stories of where she went, what she saw, what she did, who she met, are remarkable, and not least because she traveled alone, but also because she did it on her doctor’s orders – she’d injured her back as a youngster, and her doctor prescribed travel as a way to keep herself and her back healthy after she healed. She went all around the world, including to the US, Hawai’i, Tibet, China, Japan, Estes Park Colorado, and so on, camping out, helping herd cattle, taking boat trips into the jungle – they’re fascinating and the books have been reprinted several times by different publishers.

One of her stories that I read earlier was about her trip to Estes, CO. She traveled there directly from visiting Hawai’i and didn’t have winter clothes with her. Even so, she went camping in the mountains with the men, rolling up in a blanket at night for sleeping, and managed to stay long enough that she got snowed in, so had to spend the winter. She went out on horseback to help the men round up the cattle to bring them into shelter for the winter, and stayed in a log cabin that was uncaulked and really meant for summer tourists. She wrote about waking up in the mornings and having to brush 8 inches of fresh snow off her blanket before she could get out of bed, then sweep the same amount out her door before going to the better- enclosed cabin of one of the families who’d settled there for breakfast.

I think of that, and of how much whining I’ve done this winter since our furnace is still not functional so we’re relying on the woodstove to heat the house; and I look out the window on this 7-degree night at the new snow illuminated by the almost-full moon, all glisteny and frigid, and think, “My god, how wimpy we’ve become!”

*A small cement winged gargoyle for the garden. Because gargoyles make me smile. As they should everyone.

All these treasures (except the ones I’ve eaten!) are scattered around my bedroom amidst the gifts I got from family and friends, and I look happily at them every night before bed, and every morning when I get up, and I feel rich, and blessed. 

And sometimes I think, b’god, I hope we don’t get bombed before I get a chance to read those and eat that!

Deb Marshall photo: Chickadee trying to decide whether to approach the seed-covered bird house Mom gave me for Christmas. A week later, the seeds had all been eaten.

Balancing on the Edge: From the Edge of Darkness 21

We balance on the knife’s edge.

We balance on the knife’s edge, and the view up here is astounding. 

Winter struts and wobbles as he edges towards us; in his hand, an icicle, aimed for our hearts, aimed for our souls.

We balance on the knife’s edge; on one side, the rocky fall, mossy and glorious; on the other, a sea of  cold snow, over fallen glorious leaves, piled up over invisible earth gone sere and hard and cracked with pits.

Winds buffet us; the sea waves crash about us. We balance. We balance.

Dozens – more than dozens – dead, shot by men who fell over the edge, men burdened by guns they had no problem buying, men whose minds became filled with the howling winds.

Dozens – more than dozens – reaching out from the darkness, clawed fingers grabbing, forked tongues spitting poison. Our nightmares become real, become enemies we don’t always recognize. They wear our human faces. They speak with our human voices.

The air about us is foetid; our eyes are misted with it. Pipe bombs, poison, fly through the air, land at our feet. Someones fell off the edge of sanity. Someones turned anger and fear into spew. Someones became lost and tumbled over, losing their finger-tip grip on the sharp edge. Someones hurled horror as they fell.

We balance on the knife’s edge.

We balance on the knife’s edge and the edge becomes sharper, narrower, harder to stay upright upon. Words rain down on our heads; words sharpen the edge. Words with one meaning on one side, with another on the other. Words that twist our senses into a nightmare so we doubt the reality of what we see and hear. Words that push against our balance, slip our toes off the edge, loosen the grip of those holding on, barely, by their fingertips.

We balance on the knife’s edge and we can’t see safe haven, we don’t know who to trust. We balance; we wobble. How long until we fall?

I am afraid of that man with the gun strapped to his thigh and his hoary righteous certainty. I am afraid of that mother with the gun in her purse and her anxious, hyper-sensitized determination. I am afraid of that person spewing warped ideas, warped words, warped emotions. I’m afraid of that person who sees a path to his own richness and fame along this narrow edge we balance upon. I’m afraid because they have no idea they’re sleepwalking and can’t split reality from their encompassing dream.

If we fall the fall will be spectacular. As we fall, we will think we’re glorious, flying and untouchable. If we fall we will slice off our tethers. If we fall – when we fall – if we fall – when we fall – 

If we fall there will be no one left to catch us. We will plunge into the unknown. The knife’s edge will have become too thin to balance upon. If we fall – when we fall – if we fall –

We’ve turned away our neighbors who are falling, pushed them over into the abyss, children ripped from arms, souls wailing. We’ve turned our backs on neighbors who are going about their common business, putting our feet out, trying to trip them. We’ve hurled mudballs; we’ve dragged slime from swamps long past and formed it into masks, into earplugs, into mouthpieces that bend our meaning, bend all meaning, and so adorned, we face our neighbors and smile – leer – grimace - show our teeth.

We balance on the knife’s edge. We gather weapons, animosity, corruption, betrayals, exhaustion, ennui, heart-sickness, hard-heartedness, fear, spooks and bogeymen, monsters in closets, frustration, confusion, misdirection, anger, wounds long tended like precious jewels, chips long carried on shoulders grown irritable, smoke and mirrors, lies in enticing make-up, lies that enervate, lies that harden our backbone and dispel flexibility, lies that excite, lies that destroy, lies that dance about us in pretty dresses: alluring, luring, captivating. We carry it all on our backs, balance it in our minds. 

We wobble. Winter’s here, with its frost, ice and sleet, hail and slippery slopes, its pounding, pressing winds.

We balance on the knife’s edge. The view up here is astounding.

Published 6 January 2020 in the Concord Monitor as “A World Balancing on the Edge.” 

Those of you who have been long-time readers will recognize this article as a slightly re-written version of “We Balance on the Knife’s Edge,” Oct 31, 2018, in my blog. It took awhile to get published, but seems even more relevant now.

New Year's Rant - From the Edge of Darkness 20

This is a New Year’s rant.

Several times in the last month, I’ve bumped into people who have opinions about something they know nothing about; and because they know nothing about that thing, they get all whiney +/or grumpy +/or offended +/or audibly ignorant and inevitablycause harm to others. Having an opinion on something you know nothing about is not the same as understanding that thing and having wisdom about it.

I think that building false belief structures out of opinions that are based on smoke is something human beings tend to do. I’ve noticed that once people have those foundationless opinions in place, you can’t budge them. You can’t convince them. You can’t even usually get them to re-examine the topic.

Years ago, when I was a newly-hatched Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner, I worked at an office associated with a hospital whose CEO was on the cutting edge of a new trend whereby western hospitals and docs encouraged western medicine and alternative medical practitioners to work together. He encouraged us other folks – massage therapists, acupuncturists, naturopaths, etc – to apply for hospital privileges; he encouraged the MDs working there to make appropriate referrals to us, and to let patients request treatments from us while they were in the hospital. 

This worked really well for the other practitioners, but we Chinese medicine types seemed to never get requests; or when we did, they came the day the patient was scheduled to be discharged. What, we wondered, was going on? 

Eventually we found a friendly MD and asked if it was true that no patients were asking for treatments from us. “No,” she replied, “lots of patients are asking. Are you not getting the requests?”

No, indeed, we weren’t. Turns out that all in-patient requests had to go through the hospitalist; and he didn’t believe in Chinese medicine. I hustled over one day to ask him about this.

“It’s voodoo,” he said. “It doesn’t work. It’s dangerous. I’m not going to process those requests, so you can just forget about it.” 

Had he ever tried acupuncture? I wondered. No. Did he know anyone who had? Only those foolish patients who believed it would be good for them. Had he read anything about Chinese medicine safety and efficacy? No. Not even the World Health Organization’s recommendations? What did they know? So your opinion is based on…? I just know; it’s obvious. It has no scientific basis. If it did, it’d be part of western medicine. Can I give you a treatment so you can see what it feels like, and explain how it works? Are you kidding me? I’m not going to let you touch me with those needles! You do know they’re sterile, right? I don’t care! This is the end of this conversation!

Yup. Well, we eventually talked to the CEO, came up with a work-around, treated some patients in the hospital in spite of the hospitalist, no one died or became ill and some improved a lot, and the hospitalist didn’t change his opinion. Didn’t want to, wasn’t going to, wouldn’t do any research on it, he knew what he knew.

Years later, but still long ago, Dr. C. Everett Koop, who had been the Surgeon General of the US, used to tell a story on himself, and he told it to me in person, once. The story was about when he was a young surgeon, and the US and China had recently opened up to each other again, after the long time when China had gone dark. During the newly-opened time, there was a government program by which western-medicine-trained MDs in China came to the US and were partnered with US doctors in their same specialty, to catch up on advances that we’d made in the west while China was closed down. 

Dr. Koop was partnered with a young Chinese surgeon who was about his age, and they had a lot in common: their children were the same ages, they’d been married about the same length of time, they had similar interests otherwise, and best of all, the Chinese doc spoke English. Koop and the Chinese doc became great friends; after his friend returned to China, they wrote to each other and once in awhile made an expensive phone call; when the internet became functional and long-distance calls were more reasonable, they talked often by email and phone.

One day, Koop told me, he was thumbing through a medical journal and happened upon an article written by his Chinese buddy, describing how, in China, they were using acupuncture to cure something considered incurable here in the west. “Yeah, right,” he thought to himself, and fired off a quick email to his friend that essentially said, “Ha, ha, ha, do you really expect me to believe that you can cure with acupuncture something we’ve been searching for a cure for, for 20 years, and have had no luck?” Then he forgot about it.

In the middle of the night, his phone rang, and he jumped out of bed to find out what emergency he’d need to respond to. Instead, on the other end of the line, was his really pissed-off Chinese friend.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” his friend shouted.

“No of course I don’t, you’re one of the smartest people I know!”

“Do you think the Chinese people are stupid?” more shouting from China.

“No, no, of course not!”

“Then do you think we’d stick needles in each other for thousands of years if it didn’t work??!” more shouting.

At that point, Dr. Koop told me, he had a revelation: just because he didn’t understand it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

After he told me that story, Dr. Koop asked me to teach him to insert acupuncture needles, and we had a long talk about Chinese medicine theory because, even though he was retired, he was still curious, and interested, and willing to learn.

Here’s the thing: the hospitalist, in spite of being highly educated, was ignorant and was determined to remain so. Dr. Koop was also ignorant, but he was able to break that limitation and allow that he didn’t know everything there was to know about medicine, and to learn about a part he’d been, up to that point, ignorant about.

The hospitalist was like a lot of people: for some reason afraid of stuff he didn’t know; unwilling to see or admit his ignorance; unwilling to learn; dead-set on believing what he believed in spite of an opportunity to learn better. Those of us who, today, are climate-change deniers; who believe journalists can’t be trusted; who arm themselves with unchangeable opinions based on something they feel, or heard on the internet or from their equally-ignorant friends, are just like the hospitalist. You may be highly educated, but that doesn’t mean you know anything about everything. You may confuse yourself into believing that you’re educating yourselves when you listen to half-baked theories or opinions from other people who are ignorant about whatever topic they’re adamant about; but you aren’t getting educated that way. And in your ignorance, you’re hurting not only yourselves, but other people.

The hospitalist, it turns out, had been in a bad accident several years before I confronted him, and lived with chronic pain that western medicine was incapable of controlling. By choosing ignorance over education, he condemned himself to pain that we might have been able to ameliorate or even eliminate. He also hurt all the in-patients who requested our treatments, who didn’t get them because he didn’t believe in our medicine. Yes, there are people claiming to be “alternative practitioners” whose alternative has no basis in anything; but just because those people exist, doesn’t mean Chinese medicine, for example, doesn’t work.

Those of you who don’t believe in climate change and aren’t scientists who study the subject are, in spite of your beliefs, ignorant, and acting on them as you vote, or pollute,  or otherwise diminish what needs to be done, harms yourselves, your neighbors, your children, your grandchildren. You can argue about that all you want, but your arguments are built on smoke. You don’t know what you’re talking about, plain and simple. Yes, there are scientists who aren’t climate scientists who are also ignorant; and yes, there was a time when the evidence wasn’t clearly compelling. But that doesn’t mean that our climate isn’t changing, that the evidence isn’t now compelling, and that we don’t need to do everything we can, urgently, about it.

Those of you who believe that you can’t trust journalists, and have never been one, are ignorant about what actually goes on to investigate and report a story, to ensure it’s accurate, to present it properly. Your opinion is based on smoke, and it’s incorrect. Yes, there are people out there who pretend to be journalists, who can’t be believed: and on rare occasions, a real journalist will make a mistake and the system won’t catch it; but that doesn’t mean that journalists can’t be trusted. If you’re reading or listening to stuff from established, respectable sources, you can trust it, whether you like what’s being said or not. But if you choose instead to go with your ignorance, you’re harming yourself by staying uninformed or incorrectly informed; and that ignorant stubbornness will lead you to think unrealistically, to promote to other people's incorrect information, to act on untruths. You’re doing harm.

You can apply that to any number of things you believe that you actually know nothing about.  In this new year, we need to be brave: to get over ourselves. We need to face our ignorance and be like Dr. Koop. We need to learn to distinguish actual fact from nonsense.

It isn’t as easy as it seems.

3 January 2020
Published 19 January 20 in the Concord Monitor as "The Reign of Ignorance."

One Wind-Thingy in Winter; Deb Marshall photo