Mid-Wived into the Adventure

I am sitting on a bed in my friends' home in Mazatlán, Mexico, using a borrowed computer to write this entry. The gated window is open for a breeze, and the sounds of neighborhood partying mix with the periodic barking of a neighbor's dog. My friends' twins, not quite one month old, have stopped crying. 

At the corner of the bed sits one friend's 15-year-old son, who is playing the "Sleeping Dogs" video game he loves, about under-cover police sleuthing. This really lovely young man has eagerly invited me to try this video game and "Minecraft" as well, both of which I have indeed tried to his great delight. Of the two, I found the former, though violent, more interesting to play. Hmmm.

My almost complete lack of coordination with the controls was quite funny for both of us. My figures moved about as if drunk: they walked into walls, wandered in circles, bumped into vegetable stands, and generally jerked about. On one occasion, without intending to do so, I made a figure slam someone else's head against a wall, leaving a blood spatter. I was horrified. Such is life in the early days of my adventure.

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The final days before my departure were a wild ride. The company managing my apartment got a new property manager shortly before I left. She reversed the prior manager's decision that I would not have to clean my carpet because it was due for replacement, and I got this word the Friday before my Monday walk-through. Ten minutes before closing time that same day, I also got a list of cleaning requirements that I was seeing for the first time, and that appeared to demand a level of cleaning fully inconsistent with the condition of the apartment when I had first taken it. I have to admit, to my own disappointment, that this whole experience was the breaking point for my prior calm and positivity; I was not pleasant with or grateful to the new manager, who received a full dose of my frustration and intensity. The experience was a great lesson in the importance of approaching the rental scene with camera in hand and detailed written record co-signed by both parties.

In the final week prior to leaving, I probably got about 20 hours of sleep total as I alternated between cleaning and packing, with some travel organizing thrown in for good measure. There were a couple of nights that I didn't sleep at all. I was perversely fascinated by the gradual deterioration of my own cognitive capacity: slowed thinking, inability to sustain attention -- even for the completion of a single sentence, let alone a single thought -- and word-finding problems (beyond my norm, I must add with a -- what's that word? -- wry, yes, a wry smile). Fortunately, I did not slide into psychosis, but I thought a lot about the sleep deprivation approach that is sometimes used in interrogations and/or torture.

I also thought a lot about the use of stress positions in interrogation, a practice that has been questioned as regards whether it "really" is torture. My knees ached from constant kneeling on the floor and/or sitting on the single low stool that I had kept for working on papers and packing. I can tell you from my years as an artist's model that it hurts to return to any single position repeatedly, even with breaks. The body knows quite exactly, "I was here," when it hurts. I cannot imagine what it is to maintain any body position for hours on end without a break, though I am certain that it is torture.  

The cleaning and packing did get finished, thanks again to the extremely generous help of many others, and of one friend in particular. I simply would not have been able to complete this process alone and I believe this is true of anything significant in our lives: development after development, we are mid-wived by others into what matters. 

Meanwhile, as the cleaning and packing proceeded, I was trying to work out the acquisition of a four-month "travel supply" of my daily medication. Whereas I'd previously gotten this medication through a mail-order pharmacy, with a minimal co-pay, this was now impossible because my COBRA had not yet been finalized. I checked with a local pharmacy and discovered that I could get the extremely expensive medication fairly cheaply by joining their pharmacy program, and the pharmacist said she would order the medication I needed because it was not common enough for them to have it on hand. I was good to go with my Plan B -- or so I thought. 

To make a long story short, I did not prioritize picking up the medication because I saw it as a sure thing. However, when I went to the pharmacy the day before leaving in order to pick up the prescription, I was told that it had been sent back because I hadn't come to get it earlier. When the clerk investigated further, she discovered this was not the case at all. It turned out that the pharmacist had somehow forgotten to place the order in the first place. Interestingly for me, I was not angry about this; it was an unfortunate error, but an error nonetheless. The pharmacy called around, and I was told that the store in Sunnyvale was the only one with the necessary quantity in stock. That night, my friend drove me to Sunnyvale -- 50 minutes away -- to get the medication. For me, it was a much appreciated opportunity to visit with him the night before leaving the US.

One important detail that did get addressed before I left the US was the discussion of my Advanced Medical Directives with the friend who is first in line to oversee their implementation if that becomes necessary. Ever since the Terri Schiavo case, I've worn a "Do Not Resuscitate" bracelet. The guiding principles for my end-of-life wishes turned out to be: (1) though there is a great deal I would like to experience, work on, learn, etc., I've lived a good enough life already; and (2) I wouldn't want to burden or obligate others with my long-term care if I were significantly brain-damaged. It was personally valuable to have this discussion because it required a level of clarity I might not otherwise have achieved in my thinking about the matter of my eventual death. I recommend the process!

There were many more final details to which I had to attend that night, and others to which I did not get. It made me think of the Buddhist retreats about which I've read, where, when the bell rings (say, for lunch), one simply stops what one is doing. The broom, for example, is laid down mid-sweep -- and so it is with life. I worked through the final night to complete as much as possible, and was so very glad that my friend had insisted I get some sleep the prior night! At 3:20 AM on the morning of March 27th, my friend was driving me to the San Jose Airport while teaching me how to use the iPod Touch he had lent me for my trip.  

All this story and so little about the travel itself. My next entry will be about the beginning of my actual out-of-country travel, I promise.  

meg  3-30-2013 

Swaying Trees & Finding Lift

On my way back home from a trip to the storage space (with a dear friend), I sat in a very slow-moving line of cars on the off-ramp. Happily, this afforded me an uninterrupted view of a cluster of tall, slender eucalyptus trees that were swaying in the wind that kicked up this evening. They did not all sway in the same direction, but rather in a graceful harmony with the wind that I would not otherwise "see." This sight of swaying trees relaxed me deeply, as it always does. I have a very strong memory of being calmed while watching an entire grove of swaying treetops from the solarium window of a hospital where my mom was having brain surgery. There is a palpable yielding and dancing, even in a more violent wind than today's.

At the same time, I watched a handful of crows that seemed to be flying against the wind. Although their work looked hard, with lots of flapping just to stay in place, it seemed that their intent was to find lift and to then turn sharply and be blown across the sky. It looked like a game. The crows made me think of kites, which have to be pulled against the wind in order to rise. There are so many ways to travel.

I wonder sometimes about the ways in which the invisible is made visible: the curlicues of air currents that are seen through the movement of smoke rising from an extinguished candle flame, the water currents as seen through the movement of seaweed. At a church in San Francisco a while back, I watched as delicate rods of glass hanging from the ceiling suddenly popped into view as they were hit by light, in this case something invisible acting upon the presumably -- but not previously -- visible. How is love like this? Do we pull each other into relief through our love? How is it that the energy between people is so discernible? Is it rendered visible by all of the micro- and macro- observable changes, or do we feel it directly somehow? Two quotes:

"Service is love made visible." - Stephen Colbert

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (in "The Little Prince")

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On an unrelated theme (is there such a thing?), it occurred to me that people might wonder how much stuff I actually have, and why it's taking me so long to pack it. I do have a lot of stuff, having been amply endowed with pack-ratism by both sides of my family. I am also, I suppose, a sentimental person. Much of my stuff are things that others might part with in a heartbeat: art and craft supplies, sketchpads full of drawings, nature treasures (branches, rocks, seed pods, small dessicated animals and road-killed skimmer reptiles, interesting cans and buttons, evocative pieces of rusted metal, old letters and journals. (Yikes! I just had the same experience I'd had years ago when I told my family history to a psychiatrist and suddenly saw myself through that person's professional eyes. I am now seeing myself through the imagined eyes of my readers. Scary.) Some of my stuff is what people more typically keep: art, books, CDs, useful and/or special clothing. Some of the stuff was from friends and family members, and some of it was directly acquired or made by me. Are you getting a visual here?

The collection itself, however, does not explain the time it is taking me to pack it. What is taking time are three challenges of my own creation. These are the sorting through in order to toss or donate, the experiencing/appreciating of items as I go through them, and the identifying of recipients in the event that I don't return to the US. The first is often easy but time consuming. The second and third typically invite a whole host of emotions, memories and associations. The third also has the central goal of making things easier for the person or people who will have to deal with my belongings if I don't return, so I take it seriously. Elements two and three are where it gets really rich. Who would like this? Would anyone else ever want a dessicated little mouse and a rattler's tail in a Mexican reliquary box? What group could use these supplies? Oh, another item from my cats -- and there's a whisker! Damn, the parallels between their old-age healthcare needs and those of my mom are so striking. I miss them all. Oh gosh, the family items -- no one wanted these other than me, but people wanted them to stay in the family. At what point does one -- do I -- simply let go? Simply? For me, unfortunately not -- yet. But I do continue to push against this resistance, and perhaps I'll find some lift.

I Can Do This

I'm sitting at my desk in my mostly emptied bedroom in my mostly emptied apartment. It's almost 4 AM on Tuesday, and I've been going since 8 AM yesterday. This is the time of night when I wonder if I should simply keep going, or if there really might be a good reason to get some sleep.

I've been putting in 16 to 18 hours a day most days for the past few weeks, and I've had a recurring thought about that: much of the world probably does this as a matter of course, and puts in these long hours in order to survive. How could I complain that it's taking me too much time to sort and pack my stuff, too much time to organize my legal, medical and financial affairs, too much time to prepare for my adventure?

I continue to wrestle with my stuff on all levels. At a wonderful improvisation workshop this weekend, our teacher spoke of an improvisation friend who'd said something along the lines of, "When I let go of my stuff, it has claw marks all over it." This was a reference to the emotional and other stuff the friend held onto while improvising, but it's all metaphor anyway. Among the things I've read while sorting through old journals and scraps of paper was a statement about liking the moving process, ~ "because I get to enjoy the things I have, I get to let go of the things I have, and I get to move into at least relatively unfamiliar territory." In that particular entry, written some time after my parents' deaths, I likened the experience of grieving to that of moving.

Improvisation, in addition to being just plain fun (even when it's also fantastically challenging), seems to me the best possible preparation for my journey -- perhaps for any journey, including life. I timed my departure, in part, so I could take this weekend workshop. David's focus on attuned honesty with self and others, full attention, and staying with what is, is exactly what I need. That he approaches the learning with experiences -- rich, emotional, relational, physical, elemental, spatial and, dare I say, spiritual experiences -- rather than exercises is a marvelous bonus.

My preparations have led me into deep territory, e.g., Advanced Care Directives, Durable Power of Attorney (yep: all the information), registering with the Stanford Willed Body Program. identifying recipients for my things -- and, most deep of deep, asking people to take these significant roles in my life. My friends and family have stepped up with immense generosity, and they offer themselves to me so fully that it quite takes my breath away. The help (the love!!!) comes in all forms, big and bigger, ranging from the concrete-physical to the spiritual-emotional. Perhaps those are the same thing. My gratitude is equaled only by astonishment at my good fortune to have these people in my life. Thank you.

Which leads me to think of something I'd heard once, about a situation in which someone stands on a crowded corner and yells out, "Guilty!" -- to which everyone within earshot responds by cringing, assuming they have been found out. Wouldn't it be great if one could stand on that street corner and yell out, "Thank you!," and know that everyone within earshot would feel recognized and smile? Again: thank you.

I've been given many nourishing images and words (as well as yoga positions and the reminder to drink water) to guide and sustain me. I've been practicing one such gift: "This. Here. Now." Me being who I am, I wonder what the "this" and "here" are in all their -- for me typical -- complexity. What is this particular "this," and where exactly is this "here"? The "now" is completely refreshing, handily simplifying and grounding "this" and "here" in the moment. "The moment" qualifies for me as "relatively unfamiliar territory." (big grin here)

In spite of my exhaustion, in spite of my ongoing questioning of my capacity to keep going, in spite of my terror that I won't get enough done before leaving (so very existential), in spite of my sadness to be saying good-bye to people I love, in spite of my turmoil and existential ponderings -- I feel a pervasive lightness and joy. I'm excited and I smile a lot. I don't get frustrated when things are not going well. One can only hope that my posts will be more palpably joyous once I actually leave the country, as well as have some images people might want to see.

Speaking of which: one friend, knowing that I felt overwhelmed on a particular day, put together the encouraging image that accompanies this post. Oh, the lightness and joy! The liberation of submersion. The buoyancy of jumping into the deep end.

Okay, I can hear the garbage trucks outside, so it's time to catch some Zs before turning back to the stuff. 

meg  3-19-2013