Life Comes in Waves: Everyday Magic, Day 1017

Yesterday, we rushed down the driveway to pick up my car from one repair shop to take it to another. But Moxie-dog chased us down the drive, Ken got repeated phone calls interrupting us making plans, and he ended up driving to the wrong place later to get me. Waiting on the sidewalk for him to drive back to the right place, I called my daughter, only to have extraterrestrial screeches disrupt us. By the time we got home an hour later, there were more mishaps involving mistaking a tanning salon for haircut place where Ken needed to drop something off and a lost wrench.

But that’s how life is, isn’t it? It’s usually not one small mishap but a series that snags us. Because this is far from my first pile-of-mishaps rodeo, I told myself it was just one of those elongated stretches of slapstick time when either you yell or laugh. I chose laughter, but I was still pissed off.

What I’ve learned, and I’m sure you have too, is that all of this can and does change on a dime. Take Sunday night, for instance, when I was crazy-angry and exhausted thanks to a jumbo-plate serving of stress noodles with a side of a migraine salad. But a short time later, when I went downstairs to apologize to my son for losing it, everything turned to sweetness and light. Within an hour, we were all watching the great documentary, John Lewis: Good Trouble, which put everything into much vaster perspective.

For years now, I’ve been trying to remember when good things or bad things pile up that this is what they do. An unexpected check comes in the mail, a long-lost friend sends a love letter, a cat purrs on my chest, and a lovely breeze sweeps through with the scent of summer’s last roses. An hour later, it’s be the opposite. When things are just as I like them, I try to remind myself that this too shall pass as well just as it does when everything’s got to shit.

Some of us are better, and all of us are better at one stretch than another, at riding the waves with a big-picture perspective that everything is in motion, is changing, is getting what we might call worse or better. Then again, life is so much a maybe reality:

There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy for what they called his “misfortune.” “Maybe,” answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” replied the old man.

Which goes to show that we rarely know what these waves mean or even what we truly want (barring our common desire for sane and compassionate leadership, action to slow down climate change, world peace, and an end to hunger, racism, and other forces that harm us). So what does this mean for an afternoon of crossed wires and frizzled frustrations? Just that life doing its thing, pummeling our idea of how things should be before rolling out to sea to carry us on glimmering waters before the next wave and next dazzlement.

A Bug In My Ear, or Why Is This Night Different From Other Nights?: Everyday Magic, Day 987

In the middle of the night, Ken and I learned a whole new wrinkle of what “in sickness and in health” means as well as a new use for leftover Manischewitz Passover wine. As with most things, it began with something very small: a bug, but not just any bug. This one was tiny enough to fit with room for rustling its wings at high speed somewhere in the nether regions of my right ear.

I woke up, then woke Ken up. At first, we thought it was just a tiny moth, but eventually, we concluded it was either a blind moth or some other variety of creepy-crawler because it didn’t try to make its way toward the divine  mothership of the flashlight we kept shining in my ear.

Unfortunately, we were experienced at luring moths from ears.  A few months ago, we had implemented Operation: Moth-Ear Rescue when a minuscule moth lost its way in the same ear. Ken and Natalie, with a flashlight and tweezers, were able to lure the little moth back to the light of existence and even out the door after several minutes of moth-wing-rattle in my brain that I hoped never to experience again.

This time, we tried all the old tricks but the critter just burrowed in deeper, making me feel like I was losing my mind as rapidly as its fanned its wings. I freaked out. I had myself a little pity part. I got pissed off and cried. Then I took some of the anti-anxiety meds my oncologist had loaded me up with months ago for my eye adventure while Ken and I puzzled over what to do. We tried all manner of ear shaking at many angles of repose as well as squirting in water to see if the bug would swim to his safety and my sanity.

Just as we were about to go to the emergency room, me with one leg in my sweat pants and Ken already in a pair of khakis, he got the idea that we should call the E.R. to see if they had any tips to try at home. Our local hospital referred us to a medical center hotline in the Kansas City area, and within minutes, Ken was asking the woman on the other end of the phone questions like, “Is Kosher wine okay?”

It turns out that an effective trick involves wine or beer. Lucky for us, we always have many years’ supply of that sticky, sweet Manischewitz Passover wine. By the time Ken was using a syringe to aim that wine into my ear, I was singing the Kiddish, the blessing for wine we sing with each of the four glasses during a Passover seder.  Yup, Passover is in the spring, and we’re now between the fall High Holidays, but no matter: for good measure, and because one dose of wine only made the bug drunk, we decided to go for four doses, just like during a seder. Sometimes a moment is so ludicrous all a gal can do is lie on her right side, belting out “Baruch Atah Adonai…” at full volume while her husband squirts freezing Kosher wine into her ear. Meanwhile, Ken was reciting, “Why is this night different than other nights?” and pointing out to me that I actually was reclining (what supposedly makes Passover different than ordinary nights).

Did you know you can get a little drunk by having wine squirted deep into your ear repeatedly? Eventually all the wine and singing made the bug give up the ghost. By the time I was in the shower for a long stretch, aiming hot water into my ear to flush it out, I was singing new versions of old Passover songs. “Let My People Go” became “Let My Insect Go.”

By 5 a.m., I was able to put my head back on my pillow, vividly relieved that there was no fluttering in my ear. All day, I’ve been pondering what it means that God or the randomness of the universe put a bug in my ear.

Please support my writing and new work, plus get cool perks, writing guide, and weekly inspirations, on Patreon.

Rituals of Pause as the Big Rocks in the Jar: Everyday Magic, Day 950

“Your big rocks are the rituals of pause,” Dr. Neela Sandal told me a few weeks ago. I’ve been working with Neela for a few years to tunnel out (successfully too!) of some chronic health issues, and I had mentioned that I needed more rituals of pause through my day to check in with myself instead of checking off the next item on my endless list. I had also told him about the analogy of how you can only gets rocks, pebbles, sand, and water into a jar if you put in the big stuff first, then the smaller stuff to fill in the gaps. If you put the water in first, then the sand and pebbles, you’ll never get the rocks in.

What Neela, a marvelous integrative physician and founder of Atma Clinic, said rocked my world. Wait, what about all the things I need to do for my health — take supplements, swim and lift weights, rest, eat healthy food, get my ass to yoga class? “Those are the pebbles, Caryn,” he told me. As a person catapulted through my days by an overwrought sense of urgency  with the theme from the cartoon dog hero “Underdog” playing in the background (“Underdog will save the day!”), the idea of the big rocks being, well, just being blows me away.

Some of you may be raising your eyebrows and saying, “Just catching onto this now?” because you’re far more advanced as human beings than the ones of us too enmeshed as human doings, but hey, I’m starting to catch onto what I innately knew all my life. I was a genius at hitting the pause button and being with whatever the window had to show me about trees, clouds, and flitting robins in elementary school although it too often resulted in report card complaints about too much daydreaming.

Now I’m earnestly trying to be less earnest about the here and now.  I remember how, during the Right Livelihood Professional Training opening weekend, I shared with participants what I used to tell students in my English 101 composition classes when I started teaching at K.U. in 1986: “Pay attention. Expect nothing. Keep going.” I thought this just applied to  writing essays, but it obviously speaks to each moment as it comes. Not that I’m evolved enough to live there, but I’m making more space for the spaciousness of stepping outside of my mind’s eye of the world and into the world. Writing, good for so many things, is also good for returning to being: using our words to arrive where we already are.

Like right now when, on a high branch of a locust tree, 20 feet or so above my napping Honda CRV, and in time with Ulali singing “Mahk Jchi,” one of my favorite songs, a bird with a yellow breast calls, “chah chah chah.” A bee floats in  half circle below the hummingbird, dipping beak to feeder. A small leaf, saturated with sunlight, dips off the Osage orange tree. I pick up my mason jar of iced coffee, the big rocks of ice melted minutes ago, take a sip, and bow at the altar of this world.