A Writer Writes

The title of today's blog is taken from a line in the movie, Throw Mama from the Train, and like Billy Crystal's character, I've been stuck on "The night was humid" for weeks now. More truthfully, a lifetime.

What I mean by this is that it has been my habit to work an idea to perfection in my head before I commit it to paper or action, and by extention, I have been guilty of doing the same thing in many areas of my life. If I cannot see the end result or the path to it, I have not been very likely to begin the journey at all. Likewise, if the journey appeared to be one for which I didn't have all the energy right now, I generally turned down another road. 

I recently attended a life-changing women's retreat through my church, Unity Church of Prescott. The theme and title of the weekend was Unwrapping the Gifts of the Universe. Approximately 25 women put their defenses (and eye make up) aside to introspectively search for the gifts they were created with. On the first evening of the retreat, we all chose a small, handmade box from a large basket. Each box contained a gift, a word that revealed a quality or talent that we, perhaps unknowingly, possess. My box contained the word Communication. This was not a shock to me, i.e. help me, I'm talking, and I can't shut up.

Over the weekend, however, I learned some things about communication. While I am quite at home in front of a classroom or an audience, communicating ad nauseum, my internal communication system is perpetually closed for maintenance.  I discovered that I am often sitting on the side of the road or at a crossoroads paralyzed by the ramifications of all possible outcomes. I am a great believer in quantum physics, and terror of infinite outcomes is the ultimate excuse for doing absolutely nothing. 

All the while, I have a gentle but persistant voice inside me that says to just begin. Just start. One foot in front of the other. One word and then the next. Just put one note on the paper, and the next note will follow. I have avoided this still, small voice for a long time. The need to be perfect, to know all possible outcomes, and to agree to all possible outcomes produced enough energy to resist this voice. But a lot has changed over the past few years, and especially the last few months. 

In the last few years, I have changed my perspective on who and what I am. I am not here to do - I am here to be. I have long run out of energy to execute plans for doing. But I am still here, and when I focus on being, I find that I uncover my source of joy. Joy leads to expression because it cannot do otherwise - it creates its own energy and thereby creates, effortlessly.

Joy and forgiveness, I have discovered, are the cures for spiritual paralysis. They are not new thoughts, but I am beginnging to understand them. And it is becoming effortless.

Hit and Run

This illness is so strange. I think I'd had about 3 good weeks - not ALL the energy I would like, but enough to start thinking that this stage of the illness was over, and that life would be predictable again. Sunday, I had attended two services at church (Jim was running the sound booth), made an apple crisp, and enjoyed a Superbowl party with friends. I was certainly tired and in a little pain, but that much I expected from all the day's activities. I went to bed with my to-do list for Monday on my mind.

Jim came into the bedroom at 1pm Monday afternoon to check on me - I had been in bed for 14 hours. Thinking that getting up and moving around might help, I forced myself from bed. All the old symptoms were back: the slowed gross motor function, numb face, interrupted speech, headache, ice-pick in the ear, shortness of breath. 

On my way to my chair, I noticed the flier for the Drug Bus. A friend sent me an announcement about a mobile service that assists people who cannot afford their prescriptions. It stopped in our town on Monday afternoon, and it was on my calendar to be there. One look at the flier and the tears began to fall. They were tears of frustration, pain, and fear that my life would never be predictable again. The rug had been pulled out from under me, and the realization that I was flat on my back looking at the ceiling AGAIN overwhelmed me.

I spent the rest of the day quietly managing symptoms. By evening, all but the head pain had gone and I felt more like my new, old self, the one that is used to not having much energy. And last night, I went to sleep wondering what this morning would bring.

This morning, I'm wondering what the hell happened. I am tired due to having four hours of sleep, but my brain is clear, I can walk and speak normally, and I even played with the dogs after Jim left for work. I don't know what yesterday was about, but I liken it to a hit and run accident. There is no one to point a finger at and say, "See what you've done??"

This illness has been cowardly, operating in the shadows, sniping at my life from behind an unknown diagnosis. But as I continue to face the Light, as I learn to become Light, shadows will vanish, and there will be no room to hide. It's a matter of time before I have my life back again.

Helen Keller - - Keep your face to the sun and you will never see the shadows. ...