I’ve been caught up—or catching up—with work lately, and today was no exception.

So by the time I got to my Country House, the Youngster had already been here for awhile. He and The BF’s kidniks had been hanging out, playing frisbee down at the park, lolling around and such. They do a lot of that—hanging out—but all the same, they have a way of commanding your attention. Such is the result of being constantly present. It’s exhausting for us who are more used to being partly present, albeit for longer stretches.

The kidniks were off somewhere in the other room, amusing themselves for a moment or two, and The Youngster turned to me and remarked how it had done him a world of good to spend some time with them. Because you realize that none of It matters. All that crap. As the Youngster said, “I realized, hey, I could just go to Italy.”

Because none of It matters. Not really. All that stuff we get so caught up in. That deadline. Those meetings. This blog.

Don’t worry—I’m not going to stop blogging. But I’m going to start bringing more attention to it when I do.

Lesson #22? Be here now. Wherever “here” is.

Go forth, fellow buddhas, and be…

xxx
c

Image by kiny via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

For years, the only things I took orally—and let me pause here ever-so briefly, that some of you may retrieve your mind from that trench below the curbing—were food and drink.

I was young! Healthy! Carefree! I thought the corrals of pill bottles blooming on my elders’ nightstands were needless, if one lived life well and thoughtfully.

46 years later, the joke is on me. On top of the Crohn’s medication, I take a multivitamin, a calcium-plus-magnesium supplement, an acidopholus capsule and an omega-3 supplement. And that’s when I’m doing well, like now.

Most of these pills are no big deal once they’re in my gullet. (Other than the omega-3, which makes my burps taste like three-day-old fish for the next five hours.)

Getting them down is another thing, entirely. And I’ve gotten worse, not better, with practice. The longer I take them, the more episodes of choking and sputtering and heinous powdery throat afterburn I get. And so I come to dread taking them, which, given my tendency to bow to the Woo, makes me feel like they’re enemy agents, not helpful troops.

Today, I ran out of the calcium supplement. (I figure I’ll live until I can get around to re-ordering—I eat enough yogurt to sustain the bone health of the entire population of Sun City.) With the usual dread, I filled my mouth with water, mentally prepping myself for the daily chokefest, and…nothing. Nothing! Went down like a couple of old skool Sudafed.

Apparently, the calcium tabs—specifically, the large and chalky nature of them—were what put me over the top. So it would appear that all I need do when they’re back in rotation is… take them separately!!!

Lesson #21: Bigger problems are swallowed in smaller doses.

No kidding…

xxx
c

Image by Wahish via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

For years, I lived my life like the plate spinners.

You know—those guys you’d see from time to time on Bozo’s Circus who, for their grand finale, kept what seemed like dozens of plates spinning atop dozens of poles via timely reapplication of force (and the apparently gyroscopic effect of the sabre dance).

It was funny to me, until it wasn’t. After all, no matter how skillful you become, it still requires a great deal of energy and focus to keep those plates intact and in motion, which exacts a toll. And for what, ultimately? To prove you are a skillful chicken running around with your head cut off?

As I was getting my breakfast ready this morning, I realized that my life has become less about plate spinning and more about banana rotation. See, I’m not allowed to eat regular bananas on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, so for the past five years, I’ve gotten in the habit of staggering my banana purchases so that I always have a few just coming into that overripe stage that puts them in the SCD safe zone.

Only sometimes, I screw up. I get busy (spinning plates, probably) and don’t get to the store and all of a sudden there are no bananas, or only unripe (or perfect) bananas, which is the same as having no bananas on the SCD.

Here’s the thing: when you fail to keep your plates spinning, you have loud noises and broken crockery; when you fail to rotate your bananas, you have…apples. Or yogurt. Or any one of a number of other foods to fall back on. Quiet, non-stressful foods that, while they may not be loaded with potassium, certainly can get the job done in a pinch.

Lesson #20: Yes! we have no bananas

Talk about your zen koans…

xxx
c

Image by greenhem via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

You just don’t know.

That lady who cut you off this morning? Maybe she was just delivered the straw that broke the camel’s back before leaving the house that morning.

The guy who jumped the concessions line at the movie theater? Maybe his mind was just somewhere else. Or hell, maybe his vision isn’t so hot. (Well, did you see where he picked his seat for the show?)

When you sign up for my newsletter (and I hope you will) the only information I ask for is your email address, which I think is fair since I need it to send you your newsletter. I also ask for some other stuff, but it’s not mandatory. Your name, for example, and where you found me.

And cheese.

I ask you if you like cheese. Or don’t like cheese. Or whether you think the whole question is stupid. Because…

Well, I didn’t know why when I set it up. Maybe I thought it would be cute, and kind of ease the awkwardness of blatant information harvesting. But once I set it up, I became fascinated by the answers, particularly those who would JUDGE ME by indicating that yes, indeedy, they thought that question was S-T-U-P-I-D—too stupid, in fact, to answer. Only, you know—they were answering it.

Which started to rile me, then worry me. Were there people signing up for my newsletter who hated me? Who were just doing it so they could judge me? Would they eagerly await each month’s new release, sharing it with their friends as they all laughed and laughed at how S-T-U-P-I-D it was?

Then today, annmarie commented on one of my posts. And in the comment, after leaving some very sweet and encouraging words about the blog, she confessed that she had checked the “I hate cheese” box accidentally…and it had been bothering her ever since.

So thank you, annmarie. Not just for the kind words, but for Lesson #19: You don’t know what you don’t know.

xxx
c

Image by meg rorison via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

I live in a neighborhood set smack dab between the rich and the not-so-rich, my building equidistant from their respective grocery stores.

Both stores are clean, new and well-stocked. There’s only one real difference: the prices are better at the poor grocery store…and everything else is better at the rich grocery store. Basically, you pay a premium for things to be a little prettier and—yes—for people to be a little friendlier.

Don’t get me wrong: there are friendly people at the poor grocery store—there just aren’t as many. Maybe they hire happier people at the rich grocery store. Or maybe they pay them more, so they’re happier. Or maybe it’s just part of the job description.

That’s not the point of today’s lesson. Because unless they’re poking them with sticks at the rich grocery store, or doing something equally despicable to make them smile, all I know is all things being equal, and especially when they’re not so equal—when I’m feeling a little ill or low or pressed for time—I’d rather go to the rich grocery store. Partly because they’re nice to me, but also because being around them makes it easier for me to be nice.

Which got me to thinking: instead of it being selfish of me to say “no” or set terms that work for me or charge enough to keep myself from worry, could it be that I’m just enabling myself to be a better conveyor of happiness?

Lesson #18: Do what you can to keep yourself a strong link in the chain.

xxx
c

Image by Terry Bain, author of You Are a Dog, &c., via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.