Yesterday, my long-lost secret sister Carolyn met my remaining sibling Marsha for the first time. I met my long-lost sister on New Year’s day this year. To imagine that she’d meet my other sister Marsha seemed unimaginable to me a year ago. I can’t describe how strange it is to think about how much was hidden. For years, I caught hell from some of my family for pursuing ancestry and DNA; most of them were compelled to silence me due to a misguided sense of family honor. Considering the things I already knew combined with the things I’ve forensically learned through research and stubbornness, I still don’t know what they were protecting. Like many families, the things I unearthed would fill a book. It’s amusing to me that their attempts to discourage me convinced me that there MUST be something they were hiding. It turns out, there were several “somethings.” To know that some of them kept the truth of a sister hidden astonishes me. Part of it for some of them was racism and shame; my Dad took advantage of a young black girl. After she was born, he fled Monroe County, as if he could escape the past. Luckily for all of us, the result of Dad’s misbehavior resulted in a fantastic human being, one who had a big family herself, full of love and stories.
Without bitterness, I still feel that if they would have spent 10% of that energy protecting us from the monstrous actions of some of my family, our paths would have been significantly brighter.
Almost all secrets come out, even 1/4 of a century after someone passes away.
I feel proud that my insistence and curiosity led me to find a sister I never knew I had. She’s smart, humble, and funny. My brother Mike missed the chance to meet the new sister Carolyn. His demons got the best of him. I’m hoping my new sister provides my sister Marsha a template for finding meaning and direction – and for building a new kind of relationship to sustain her.
Most of my family is gone, many of them chased and hounded by addiction into the grave. Soon enough, all of us will be stories and memories.
I’m tickled that I kept my curiosity sharpened; it led to yesterday.
No matter what comes of it, I count finding my new sister as one of my best accomplishments in life. People having access to their stories and truth is essential to make a good life.
It wasn’t until I sat down with a counselor to recap the last few months of my life that I realized how important the ritual of pushups had become. I started on June 1st, after listening to my cousin Lynette, aka Blue Dress Project. Part of my wish was to start doing only what could be sustainable. Pushups are an effective total-body workout – and they can be done anywhere, require no equipment, and are a tremendous incremental workout. Most of my shoulder pain disappeared as my ability to do a lot of pushups crescendoed. Lynette likes to tease me about my reluctance to add more physical activity to my life. I was cautious about further damage; all of that concern turned out to be pointless, and especially because it wasn’t my shoulder that turned traitorous to me. Isn’t it amusing that we worry about things, only to discover that almost none of what we expect comes to fruition – while the stuff we’d never expect blossoms and distracts us?
My job is much more physical than most people realize. When I was fat, it was hard for people to see me and imagine that I walked miles every day and moved tons of medical supplies. Now that I’m thin, people seem to have no doubts. It’s a lesson in self-image and the oddness of how your body sends messages to other people, even though we don’t like to think so. I don’t take it personally. I wish that we had a way to pull people aside and say, “I’m concerned. You’re overweight, and your health is probably suffering.” Yesterday, I went to work for a bit to celebrate a co-worker’s birthday and retirement. I’ve known her for 16+ years, and her absence will be a strange void, especially at 4 a.m. While I was at work for the short visit, a few people who’d not seen me in weeks were shocked at my transformation. They’d forgotten that I’d lost almost 90+ lbs before my emergency surgery. In the interim, my body shape has changed and become what it’s supposed to be, except, of course, for the permanent scar and reminder of life’s capriciousness. Though people have had months to watch my body melt away, they still have an old image of me in their heads. They laugh when I tell them, “Never again.” The other component of my transformation, the mental one, is invisible to me. That’ll take longer to percolate and replace the old me.
Since my surgery four-plus weeks ago, I haven’t been able to do many traditional pushups. In the last couple of days, I’ve done a few, a very few, carefully. I’ve also done more by leaning on the kitchen counter or deck landing to minimize any potential stress to my abdomen. I’ve given the dumbbells a lot of work, but it’s not quite the same, especially since I have to be extremely careful. A return to work is approaching like a snowball. After a few weeks with post-surgery dumbbells, I’ve discovered that I enjoy the ritual of repetitions and increasing fatigue.
My counselor knew I’d started doing pushups because my therapy slightly overlapped the date I started back in June. She looked at me in surprise when I told her I had made it to the point I could do 1500-plus in a day. I also told her that the irony was that I decided to limit myself to 500 a day three days before my emergency surgery. “Just 500?” she said and laughed.
I find myself shaking my head at the irony of spending a year eating healthily and getting in the best shape of my adult life, only to find myself hospitalized for the first time as an adult.
Until I had to stop doing them after surgery, I hadn’t connected the dots explicitly about how pushups are exercise and meditative. They incorporate counting, breathing, and a bit of simultaneous mindlessness. For anyone reading my posts about them, I admitted countless times that I often used them to counteract anxiety. Over the last five weeks, I realized that the habit and instinctive desire to do them was always in the back of my mind. I realized that I had been so successful early on because pushups were my single-best anxiety tool.
One of my most effective tools to help cope with anxiety was taken from me. I have a lot to be thankful for, regardless. Like so many other non-physical ailments, stress can quickly derail anyone, partly because it’s invisible to other people until it manifests itself with undesirable behavior.
It’s evident to me that pushups became an addiction. People scoff at the idea that something perceived as so healthy can be an addiction. It’s one of the reasons I’d already decided to reduce my maximum to 500 a day. It’s still a lot – but not crazy. Going back to work, there’s no doubt I will get more exercise than I probably want for a while.
I’m going back to work on Monday 4 weeks and 6 days after my emergency surgery.
People ask me about my most significant setback during my recovery.
It wasn’t the pain, the staples, regrets, or the disconnectedness I often experience.
It was the unexpected vomiting spell I had last Saturday. Don’t worry; it wasn’t physical. Because I’d hit my physical limit with exercise for the day, I didn’t have the easy tools to trick my mind into quietness. I WANTED to do several hundred pushups, don’t get me wrong. The stress and anxiety hit me like a brick. It was over relatively quickly. I knew immediately I’d oddly strained the muscles on the left side of my stomach, away from the vertical scar running down the valley of my middle. Though the external stressors hadn’t diminished, my focus shifted immediately to damage mode – and my mind sidestepped ongoing anxiety. After abdominal surgery, the surgeons give you constructive advice such as, “Don’t sneeze too much. Or cough. And especially don’t vomit. Or force yourself as you go to the bathroom. Don’t worry about a ‘little’ blood.” Thanks, Doc – now that’s all I can think about.
It was a moment of clarity.
The foolishness of letting external stress affect me like that washed over me. After losing all the weight and getting into surprising shape, I’d already survived an unexpected physical setback with the surgery. Even doing things well, the universe needed a laugh at my expense.
And so it was after I vomited. It reinforced my decision to see a counselor again. People are stressed more than ever, or so it seems. I don’t want to point fingers at the circumstances that led me to be quickly sick. The truth is that it is on me to continue to learn new habits and not internalize things, no matter how crazy, dramatic, or wild they may be. The world is inevitably going to shock me, and people will behave in self-destructive or ridiculous ways. (This explains why some people like rodeos or fashion shows.)
I have to learn to stand quietly, even if I’m in the eye of the storm.
I have to learn to stand quietly, even as people act disturbingly.
There will always be storms and also people to cause anguish.
To expect otherwise is both a form of attempted control and surrender of my peace. I’d forgotten to take control of the thoughts running through my head, justifying it because my concern was for someone else who couldn’t pull up out of their flight path.
I don’t want to disengage from people. Most people are pursuing their interests without inflicting damage. Now, more than ever, I need other people to share moments.
During this most prolonged dormant period of my adult life, I tried to take advantage of the downtime and channel my loneliness. People roll their eyes when I tell them I don’t understand boredom. There is SO much to do, books to read (all non-fiction in this irregular period), TED talks to watch and listen to, colorful art and projects to finish, and a universe idly waiting for me to engage. Not to mention my favorite, writing. I accidentally wrote a 100+ page story in the last few weeks, one so intensely personal that I don’t know if it will ever see the light of day. I became friends with the lengthy spiderweb of streets around my apartment, including many dogs who need attention.
I laugh when I think of all the surprises I’ve done within a few miles of my apartment. Some were noticed, but not all. Some undoubtedly caused happiness or laughter. Others? Probably confusion. I tried to do random acts of kindness (and many not so random). I can see a couple from the landing outside my apartment, one of them ridiculous. I can’t believe no one noticed or asked me, “How?”
I’m not sure what the message of this is supposed to be. And that’s okay. Not all sharing can be tied up with a bow.
Maybe you learned something about me. I learned something about myself. Not all of it is good. Anxiety is a real issue, and if you suffer from it, sleeplessness, or depression, or just want to feel better in life, there is help. All of it starts from within, in an attempt to be who you’re supposed to be. If you have a day or thirty years ahead of you, you might as well try to live in the best way you can. All of it centers on being honest and being surrounded by people who light you up.
Go find your fire. Start with an ember if you must. Just start.
One of the reasons that so many have problems with social media is that they don’t understand the psychology of argument, much less see themselves as other people do. You’re not going to affect someone’s opinion by using a megaphone. Or harsh words. Your volume will be heard – but never absorbed. You become background noise in a world that already has sufficient static to dishearten us. People need truth to be whispered to them, preferably with a velvet glove. Addicts don’t hear love, angry people don’t respond to outreach, and most of us must approach new information sideways, like human crabs. It takes time and compassion to affect someone. I hate that I only learn many of my lessons after the class of life is already over. I know I’m wrong about so much, because as confident as I was when I was younger, it is painfully clear that my ignorance held me captive. That process surely still continues, with future days looking back at today in surprise at my slow evolution.
Words are an important component of the process. Actions are another. If you’re polarizing, you are shouting on the internet. People will tune you out. Whether you’re blind to this truth or not, you should pause and consider what kind of conversations and communication have an impact on you. I’ll bet that your vision doesn’t include anger, shouting, or aggressive insistence. Communication requires comprehension. By being tersely aggressive, you’ve short-circuited your ability to not only reach people, but also to put a little bit of ‘you’ inside their heads, much less their hearts.
If your goal is to reach a person’s heart and mind, you must take the time to share a little piece of yourself in the process. People might respond if they recognize a bit of vulnerability in your words. It’s easier to accept someone if the listener observes a bit of humanity. People respect doubt, as it provides a common avenue for us all to recognize that we don’t have all the answers.
Take the time to share yourself. Include your opinions in the process. It’s social media. If you understand the social component, you’ll wisely avoid the urge to do the equivalent of standing on the street corner shouting. You’ll get further by shaking hands, hugging, and relating to people in a way they can understand.
If you can find a way to express yourself with love, it will shine through in your words. Everyone will be richer for it.
We want to get to know other people. We feel like we already know you if your tone and tenor is not tender.
I’ll give an example: I wish we had universal health care for everyone. Life can hammer any of us to the point of bankruptcy, whether we’re lucky enough to have insurance or not. Not only would providing healthcare be cheaper per capita, but it sends the message that we are willing to collectively help one another. It is the purest practical expression of love and compassion. “Do unto others” compels me to agree that everyone should have health care equal to me. Health is the often ignored common denominator to a happier life. In the last year, I abandoned so many bad habits and transformed my life and body. Despite doing it right, my body still threw me a red flag and almost killed me. People don’t deserve the physical terrors of cancer and a list of other diseases. When I hear arguments about universal health care, I don’t hear practical arguments: I hear a lack of “do unto others.”
Don’t “@me” that you don’t know how to write. It’s not about that. It’s about openly sharing your thoughts and yourself. Language is never an impediment to sentiment and feelings that brim over and out of your heart. You will always find a way to express the best emotions. We’re hard-wired to do so. All of us.
P.S. If you want to really break free, open your closet of secrets. So much of our anguish is contained in the things we don’t want other people to know. You’ll never be authentically loved if your secrets and locked in a closet.
Though I start by talking about a movie, these words aren’t really about the movie. Most of the things that strike a chord in us are really about recognizing something magical or true in ourselves as if we’re hearing an old truth in a new way.
“Arrival” is already a thought-provoking movie about language, time, and destiny. I loved that the main character was seeing her own bitter future and lived it anyway.
Last night, I watched “Arrival” again, this time in Spanish. I intended to spend just a few minutes immersed in it. Instead, I watched a movie that initially fascinated me in its approach to language. Ingesting it in Spanish lit my curiosity zone on fire. Before I knew it, the film was over. I curled up with my bear Azon as my cat Güino laid next to my hip, an unusual place for him. Dreams hit me like an avalanche.
All of the evenfall (another word I love) and the penumbra of the night held me captive, my dreams bursting in Spanish. In one of the best parts, my Grandma Nellie and I sat in her house on Shumard Street in Brinkley, both of us speaking only Spanish. She’d scoff at the idea of her ever speaking another tongue. But our conversation was about life and love and a little bit about salt pork and bacon for breakfast. (She was one to concern herself that no one was starving in her house – or so full we could barely walk to the front door, for that matter.) Though I knew I was dreaming, my heart sang as I sat with her. She died in 2000, at 91. It’s been a while since I dreamed about her or heard her voice so expressively in my head. Though she would have never done so in life, she asked me to drive her to Monroe to see the old haunts. As we drove, my dream shifted to early morning. As we neared Rich and Monroe, I noticed that we’d moved in time, too, traveling through an odd mix of several decades. Monroe was once again a bustling place, with farmers and passersby everywhere. We stopped at the Mercantile, once a hub of life in the small community. “I’m going to get out here if you don’t mind. I need to visit. Call me when you get home!” she said, always one to insist that we let her know we’d arrived at home alive. “If I’m dead on the roadside, how will I call you?” I asked her. It was an old joke that I loved telling her.
When Grandma exited the car and shut the door, I woke up. A few tears pooled in my eyes. It was 12:15 a.m. I felt like I’d lived a year in the dream. Güino was still next to me, his body heat oddly comforting.
This morning, I wandered around the apartment, my brain still in a slight fog, listening to my internal voice whisper to me in Spanish.
Even though I did so inexpertly, I attempted to colorize a picture of her and my Aunt Betty. I love that it’s not complete; it’s an evocative mix of black and white and color. I let my imperfections have the last word. But Grandma’s face is revived, so many decades later. The picture was probably taken 60 or 70 years ago. For a moment, last night, time became a bridge, and I walked across it.
I feel like a little bit of me is still back there in the imaginary place where time and geography became fluid.
I walked a few times today. Though the sun beat down on me for the third walk, it was a beautiful day. Work is speeding toward me. Walking along a side street not far from the trail and Gregg, I saw what I knew to be someone’s wallet. This was one of the slim-design ones, with a narrow band to contain cards along both sides. Because of the volume of people passing through, I knew that the wallet had recently been dropped, most likely out of a cyclist’s pocket. This is the third wallet I’ve found this year. In both of the previous cases, I had to investigate their whereabouts on the internet. Both owners were very pleased that I’d found them.
Today’s wallet had a bit of cash, a driver’s license, as well as the person’s social security card, and two credit cards. Luckily for me (and for the owner), an internal slot had a couple of business cards. I called the number on the business card because the last name emblazoned on it matched the driver’s license surname.
When he answered, I said, “This isn’t a car warranty call! Do NOT hang up.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good pitch. What are you selling?” He was half-laughing.
“Car warranties,” I said, and laughed. “But no, really, if you’ll describe your wallet, I’ll tell you.”
He was silent for a couple of seconds. “Thank god. You found it?”
“Yes,” I think so. He described the wallet perfectly. Just to be funny, I said, “One last question: why do you have a punch card for Chuck E. Cheese in your wallet?”
“What? I don’t think so.” He was perplexed. I felt a flash of guilt for amusing myself, even as I laughed again.
“Where did you find it?” he asked.
“Over near Poplar and the trail. I assumed you lost it while riding your bicycle over here?”
“No, I think I left my wallet and drink on the toolbox of my truck and drove around with it. I can’t believe it fell there!” He laughed. “I don’t ride a bike. I’d crush the rims.”
We both laughed.
“If you can meet me right now, I’m going to walk past the Pack Rat Outdoor Center in a few minutes. Is that okay?”
“Yes, of course, thank you.”
A few minutes later, I stood in the parking lot of the store and watched the pond in front of the beautiful building. It’s a serene corner to observe.
He pulled in. I walked up to the vehicle and reached in and shook his hand as he thanked me. We exchanged a few pleasantries and jokes.
“You can get a bicycle you know. Go to Lewis And Clark and ask for a deal for a beginner.”
He smiled. “I just might. What can I give you as a reward?”
“Reward? No. Just pay it forward and that’s cool.”
“Do you want a ride to your house?” he asked me.
“Nah, that’s why I don’t need a bike. I walk a lot.”
“I’m glad you do,” he said. “Otherwise, I would have lost the money, the credit cards, and probably my identity.”
His name is Dan.
I’m going to take another walk now and enjoy the darkening, cloudy night. I hope it is as exquisite as last night’s stroll. \
And I hope you’re warm and loved wherever you are. If I find your wallet and call, don’t be alarmed by my car warranty joke.
“Math was easy until the damned letters got involved.”
This is one of the few instances when math helps you to see the obvious. Don’t let the formula fool you with round pizzas. A = π r² A = area π = 3.14 r = the radius, or 1/2 the circular size
The area of a pizza is easy to calculate. If the pizza is 18″, the radius is 9″. 9 x 9 X 3.14, or 254 inches of pizza.
An 8″ pizza is 3.14 X 4², or 50 inches of pizza. A 10″ pizza is 3.14 X 5², or 78 inches of pizza. A 12″ pizza is 3.14 X 6², or 113 inches of pizza. A 14″ pizza is 3.14 X 7², or 154 inches of pizza. A 16″ pizza is 3.14 X 8², or 201 inches of pizza. An 18″ pizza is 3.14 X 9², or 254 inches of pizza.
If you buy rectangular pizza, it is of course, easier to calculate. A = Length X Width
If you buy a triangular pizza, you’re high. Go sit down.
It is amazing how often people think a 16″ pizza is twice as much pizza as two 8″ pizzas. It’s not: it’s FOUR times as much. An 18″ pizza is FIVE times as much pizza as one 8″ pizza.
If you’re looking for maximum “fill,” don’t forget to take into account whether the pizza is thick, thin, or regular. You might as well get the best bang for your buck. One “normal” slice of pizza is on average 1/8 of your total caloric need for the day. That can be depressing, but don’t dwell on it. It’s okay to be a glutton once and a while, especially with pizza. Never trust a man who dislikes pizza.
*I catch myself making the same sort of mistake at the grocery store. Luckily, most shelves have the “price per oz” marked.
*There’s a link below for a website that has saved students and adults alike a million hours of math anxiety: Wolfram|Alpha.
*If you want to know how to type special characters on a windows keyboard, there’s another link below.
PS: For early morning, I ate a light greek yogurt, fiber, vitamins, two cups of coffee, and a protein drink. For lunch, I ate a baked buffalo chicken breast (I cooked 6 lbs, all different flavors), a cup of light cottage cheese, a V-8, and a chocolate pudding cup. I don’t count calories myself, but it’s about 500 and a LOT of food. More importantly, I consumed about 90 grams of protein. I’m not accustomed yet to thinking ‘protein.’ I FEEL like I ate a large pizza.
X
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https://www.alt-codes.net/ For special characters such as an upraised 2, the pi symbol, an ‘e’ with an accent, etc
Four weeks ago today I woke up briefly at 6 in the morning. I had an NG tube, a catheter, an IV, and a spider web of other connections to machines. I was alive and the horrible spasmic muscle pains in my abdomen were gone, replaced by a strange feeling of void in my body. It feels like it was both yesterday and a year ago. As I walk the neighborhoods this morning, I’m grateful that my feet are capable of walking all these miles only a month later. I’m greedy for many more. It’s very dark here in suburbia, as close as I am to College Avenue. I can barely see the asphalt in front of me. I trust my feet to find their way. I’ve surrendered to the idea that no matter what we do, life always gets the last word and laugh.Love, X
“I wrote a few children’s books. Not on purpose.”Steven Wright * “Writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in public.”
Paulo Coelho (one of my favorite quotes…)
*
There’s no question I’m a writer. I’m not a paid writer; at least not much, I should say. I don’t monetize my blog, despite sometimes getting a lot of traffic. People drive by train wrecks, so attention isn’t always to one’s benefit.
Whether I’m a good writer is in the eye of the beholder.
More specifically, even Stephen King or Pat Conroy have detractors. Some people like steak with ketchup, others prefer theirs rare and bleeding.
“The road to hell is paved with adverbs.” – Stephen King
Someone recently critiqued me, saying that I am the Thomas Kincade of writing. They didn’t mean it as a compliment. (Kinkade died from alcohol and valium when he was 54.)
I took it as a compliment in the sense that he found a way to live while doing what he loved. The rest of his life wasn’t so golden. For some, his work was seen as overly sentimental or garish.
After I wrote this, someone asked me to add, “You’re the Earnest Hemingway of bullsh*t.”
I love writing, even as I bedevil people with my imperfections and shotgun-style of sentimentality and offbeat humor.
I know it’s not for everyone. Nothing is.
If you hate the way I write, I rarely take it personally.
There is a magic, though, in knowing that anyone is hearing my words in their head as they read. For a moment, I’m connecting directly to another person.
This is one of the strongest powers of writing, the internet, and social media.
As technology advances and reading for pleasure declines, connections to other people always have value.
I hate that a lot of people are nervous about writing or worrying about their command of the impossible rules of English. Writing is communication, not perfection.
When I’m in the zone and writing, time and loneliness dissipate. * P.S. “If you can’t annoy somebody, there’s little point in writing.” ‒ Kingsley Amis
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 