Meditation on Massage

I have tried to meditate numerous times in my life.

There was the time when I got inspired by my voice and movement classes for theatre majors in college and started trying to re-create the guided meditations I loved so much during class. The problem was, once it was just my own inner voice guiding me, that inner voice liked to fall asleep instead of take me to my special cloud or whatever.

Then there was the time a few years later when I was going through what I like to refer to as my "Blue Period" after college. In a panic to find some happy place inside me while living in LA and working for a gutless celebrity gossip TV network, I thought meditation might get me through this rough patch. Maybe I would even find out what the next step should be on this bumpy little life path of mine. I would go to the closest beach and sit for hours, willing myself to be one with the earth and the sand crabs and the waves crashing in my ears. Picturing myself inside a tiny conch shell and breathing deep did nothing to send me to the deep recesses of myself.

Then I entered massage school, the epitomy of "New Age-y" and I was once again being guided through meditations almost weekly. And even though I seemed to still have a knack for passing out halfway through the Chakras, I came out of class feeling clear and relaxed and sure that meditation was the key to my personal well being. So I tried once again to bring myself there alone at home, picturing the red balloon attached to my coccyx at the root Chakra and hoping it expanded like my instructor had told me it would.

Nothing.

I tried a podcast of "meditation for beginners" made by some hot-sounding Australian man. His voice did little but turn me on and make me want to unleash my inner self in a different way. I do remember that one of the sessions from the Aussie had me staring at a candle flame and I did manage to feel affected and started tearing up. But that could have been because my eyes were burning from staring at a damn flame for so long. I think I saw the residual dot of light in my field of vision for the next 3 days.

I still have hopes that I will learn transcendental meditation David Lynch style, but I am not even close to ready for that at the rate I am going.

So imagine my surprise when it dawned on me recently that sometimes during massage sessions, I go somewhere far away in my brain and find a calm, peaceful inner space that allows me to quiet all the noise and just be. The repetition of the motions, the rocking of my body as I dance around a client and try to keep my hands attune to their body and what it tells me it needs...all this seems to encourage my mind to open up and expand and flow with ideas and feelings and higher realizations galore. It is magical, really. I wonder if perhaps I have found a small window to the world of meditation I have been trying to find for so long.

All I know is that I can go through a million thoughts and ideas during a massage and come out of it feeling a peace I rarely get a chance to experience after staring at a dumb candle flame.

Perhaps it has become my version of meditation. And maybe we can all find each of our own versions of meditation. You may like to rock in your bed and bang your head against the wall to come to a place of peace. He may find that listening to the hum of a washer/dryer soothes him enough to quiet the voice of the world around him. Maybe it is a particular piece of music. Or staring at the most beautiful piece of art you have ever laid eyes on. Or you could be lucky enough to be able to guide yourself through a meditation that brings you to that special cloud.

What is your thing? Do you even realize it brings you there? If you aren't sure, keep searching for it. Maybe it will fall into your lap unexpectedly like mine did.

It's another ridiculously cold night in Chicago and I have managed to do very little as a result. I made an attempt to organize my tax info (cue horror music) and poked around online until a few minutes turned into hours. Oh and I made pizza and ate about a trillion Girl Scout cookies. And now I am watching some women's skiing at the Olympics on TV. Well I guess when you actually put it on paper, I have done a lot! Pat on the back for me.

One thing in which I became quite engrossed was a blog I have been obsessed with for quite some time. I believe I stumbled upon it the first time back in 2006 when I began temping as a receptionist at a boring consulting firm in the Loop. In fact I think that is also when I began this blog. I am sure I must have been inspired by her. And I still am today. I wish I knew how to do those cool "links" when you make it so people click on the word and it takes them to a site or whatever but I am not that tech savy yet. So I will just tell you to google "city wendy" sometime and be prepared to enjoy reading about a complete stranger. It changed the way I think about writing.

Wendy writes a few times a week there and her thoughts are always fun to read and very easy to relate to. She is quirky and awkward and sassy and blunt. She admits her faults and examines herself and her choices in life. And I eat that shit up with a spoon.

I find myself intrigued and inspired to write my own perspectives. They do not always come out as interesting as I think they will (case in point), but I keep trying nonetheless. That is more than I used to do. For me, even these small blurbs are a means to get my voice out there creatively and challenge myself to do something scary that I happen to love. Thanks to Wendy, a stranger who I feel like I have known for years, I keep at it.

Blogging is strange and I struggle to decide what to write about or how to say everything. And once I get going, there is no guarentee that I will end up where I thought I would. I tend to meander though the concepts, my tangents becoming like snakes veering off into the bushes and disappearing. I embrace it all. I accept that is me and my brain and I take solace in the knowledge that eventually, if I keep at it, my writing will become more clear and my thoughts will take shape in a more cohesive and reader-friendly way.

I can't wait till that time comes.

Till then, we will have to make do with my ramblings.

Night fooding

I like the quiet of the grocery store at night. The soft hum of the florescent lights can be heard over the quiet muzak wafting over the isles. Also heard is the groan of the wheels on my rusty cart each time I start back up again after a brief stop to deliberate over which orange juice to go with.

People are scarce and it is peaceful. I move as if walking through marmalade--slow motion inching through each isle, careful not to miss any of the usuals. And sometimes, picking up a non-usual item just to spice up the week. Perhaps it is a new type of cracker or a pasta we have not tried before. Black olives or artichokes, even. It keeps it interesting. 

I try to always grab wine since it never stays long at my house. I like my chedder sharp. My lean cuisine choice would be the lazagna. Mostly because I would never have the patience to make lazagna myself and everyone needs a little taste of that every now and then. I will always manage to sneak in a piece of chocolate to get me through a particularly tough work week. This week, it was Cadbury Eggs. Dang you, Easter! (Fist shaking)

This late in the night the lines are short and easy. I cannot load the food onto the conveyor belt fast enough to keep up with the constant blip of the scanner. Someone packs my new belongings into my cart and I feel quite accomplished. 

I scoot the cart out into the night to find it snowing. The parking lot is so empty and silent that I can almost hear the tiny flakes hitting the ground with a microscopic thud. Snow collects on my bags and my eyelashes as I pack the card and climb in with my loot.

Late night grocery shopping is truly the only way to do it. I highly recommend it to you all.

A letter from my nostrils

Dear L,

WHY DO YOU HATE US??????

We are sore and crusty and ache like hell and it's all your fault.

You should have listened to all those Puffs commercials.

It DOES make a difference.

Yours forever,

Lefty and Righty

Sick of it

So right after I got through the bout with heartburn from hell, I managed to come down with a pretty severe cold, complete with sore throat that won't quit, the amazing combo of runny AND stuffy nose, and a mild fever. It's been rather unpleasant to say the least.

I took off work on Wednesday and I was awake for a total of 4 hours from Tuesday night to Thursday morning. While it was fantastic to sleep that long, doing so did not seem to really take care of this thing like I thought it would. Surprisingly, it is Friday afternoon and I am still a mess of snot and lozenges. And even though I managed to go to work Thursday and do a presentation, the rest of the last few days has seemed like a blur of surreality.

I wander my house like an old lady in my red robe and fuzzy slippers, caring my kleenex box around with me from room to room as I grumble about how bad I feel. I watch Court TV. I cover myself in blankets on the couch and zone out to whatever DVD I can get my hands on. It is a pretty useless existence for me. And I am starting to get antsy.

Today is the only other day besides Wednesday that I am able to take off of work. I must get the right amount of healing done by tonight or all is lost. The pressure of it all is starting to stress me out. Gotta get better. Gotta get better. I feel an inner battle going on between my stir crazy brain and my weakened body. I am not sure who the victor will be.

I had to cancel half my Valentine's plans with the man in my life. What is the use in splurging on a fancy dinner when I have not been able to taste anything since Tuesday? We decided to wait and spend the money when my taste buds will actually appreciate what is going on. We are still hitting the movie we planned on seeing (mostly because tickets are already bought and non-refundable. Damn.) so that is nice--at least we can get out of the infected air of our house and stare at a screen other than our own TV. But I have to admit, cancelling the dinner is a bummer.

It makes me feel more sick than missing work. Like I am that sick--that I have to cancel even the FUN stuff in my life. Ugh.

Well I guess I have shared enough about my ailments as of late. I swear, I turned 30 years old and suddenly this old body of mine is beginning to revolt. First I was told I needed a root canal. Then I had a terrible reaction to an antibiotic and my first war with heartburn. Now I am doing all the right things you are supposed to when you're sick and nothing is working to get me over this thing. I feel like people said things get tough after 30. I just did not realize they meant RIGHT after 30. Like 3 months after. Wacky.

A Cell Phone Call to Memory Lane

Did you know that you can take your old cell phones and donate them to people who could really use them, like soldiers in the military and poor people? Well you can and we are. Whoever is in charge of this process made it really easy for us to do--you just stick your old phones in this little plastic bag they provide and drop it in the mail, apparently. Pretty cool, huh?

The only thing that is a little trickier about it is that you should probably go into your cell phone and delete any incriminating or embarrassing messages, photos or video. So today I did just that.

It was truly a technologically advanced moment similar to the old fashioned "Go through my old momento box" experience of the olden days. I laughed, I cried, I reminisced. I came out on the other end feeling like I had just re-lived and said goodbye to an entire chapter of my life. It was not without its difficulties. Pressing "delete" to so many awesome photos was really tough. But I have no idea how to take these photos from the tiny cell phone to the computer without having phone service to that particular device. And I am not interested in researching how.

So instead of holding on, I decided to let go.

I let go of the only photos I have of my amazing family vacation in Maui, the last time my family vacationed together before my father passed away. Beautiful sunsets, me in a lei, whales surfacing and blowing water up in the air on our whale watching trip...so many images that were great to revisit and hard to let go of. There was a picture of my Dad and my nephew sleeping in one of the bedrooms of the condo we rented. That picture was particularly difficult to delete. My father looked so peaceful. I could almost hear the tropical birds outside the window that day. He liked to complain about their squawking but then he would go lay in that bedroom and listen to them all day. He was fascinated by them just as he was by all nature's oddities. The picture captured my father perfectly, and letting go of that image was a struggle. I found a way to press delete and move on.

I let go of all of the pictures from my very first road trip to New England for Thanksgiving with Adam, Jon and Dan--a tradition that was started so long ago and has been repeated almost every year since. None of the trips we have took since then have been as magical as that first one. I have pictures of myself looking out the windows eagerly, taking in all of the new scenery I had never seen before. Looking back, it was all pretty boring and covered in snow for the most part. But to me at that time, it was so unique and beautiful. I saw the Berkshires and the Mass turnpike that I had heard James Taylor sing about so many times. I saw new types of trees and the city of Boston. Even passing by Cleveland, Ohio on the way there seemed romantic and exciting. Ah, innocence!

I deleted the pictures of Adam and I at Plymouth Rock, the one of me riding a whale statue in a New Hampshire park, and even the one of Adam's sleeping face smashed into his pillow on the long car ride back to Chicago. That was the picture that came up when he called me for so many years. And now it is all erased.

I let go of all the pictures I have of my road trip to Detroit with Sara and Jen. The insane visit to the scariest Midwestern Christmas Store in the middle of the summer, taking the tiny metro train around Detroit's crumbling downtown, the random art festival we stumbled across complete with crazy costumed revelers parading around with giant heads. I will never see Detroit the same as the general populous does due to my experience visiting with an actual native. Sara showed me how awesome D-town could be. All those pictures were deleted ruefully.

I let go of lots of pictures from when Adam and I first started dating. Wide-eyed and drunk with new love, we documented St Patrick's parade revelry, many a New Year's eve celebration, and even some winter nights by the fire in his old apartment. These images were the seedlings that led us to where we are now--planning our future together. They were special times and I deleted them all after taking a moment to appreciate those times once again.

Deleting the text messages was almost as emotionally draining as deleting the pictures. I had a whole file of old texts that were exchanged when my fiance and I had a brief and devastating breakup that lasted maybe a week. It was about a year and a half into our relationship. During that week of misery, in an attempt not to speak to each other, we texted some of the most heartfelt things we have ever shared with each other. No wonder the old me decided to make a file and keep them all. There were words of love, remorse, and confusion. There was talk of shattered worlds, sleepless nights, and cloudy-headed days. We came out on the other side of that "blip" stronger and more in love than ever, but going through those texts brought back all the hurt and sadness we went through. Deleting those texts felt good. A purging of sorts. A release. Those old feelings are long gone and deleting the texts only reinforced that once again.

I was unable to delete the phone numbers off the phone due to it requiring a password that I never recall setting up. So I am hoping the military or whoever will figure out how to wipe the numbers themselves. Otherwise, I am apologizing now to all of you whose contact info may be in that old phone. If you get any prank calls from soldiers or homeless people, I am sorry. My bad.

I realize that I write about memories a lot. And this post is no exception. It is not that I wish I could go back. Or that I want to re-live my glory days or something. Honestly, I consider myself a story teller by nature. I love hearing elaborately told stories about interesting experiences and I enjoy sharing my own. It connects me to myself and others in an intimate way that I appreciate.

Also, I must admit that I am secretly terrified of forgetting it all. Alzheimers may take me over one day, and I would like to remember and enjoy the moments that make up my existence while I still can. May we all continue to do that well into the twilight of our lives.

Ok enough reminiscing. Time to go play Super Mario Brothers for Wii.

Just in time for Valentine's Day--HEART burn!

So I have been pretty much miserable since 1am Sunday night when I woke from my deep sleep with pain in my chest. I have never felt anything like this. It was sudden, harsh and terrifying. I honestly thought perhaps I was dying. The pain was solid, consistent and not going away. It felt vaguely like someone reaching into my rib cage and grabbing my heart and squeezing, meanwhile fist-pounding my sternum with his or her knuckles.

I was going to go to the emergency room after 8 hours of the pain, however I was conviced it must be heartburn. The symptoms seemed similar and I could  not believe I would have a heart attack at 30 years old. Also, in the morning after writhing in pain all night, I was offered Tums by my fiance and they seemed to settle me a bit. So I went with that diagnosis. 

However after 1.5 days, I am still experiencing excruciating pain the likes of which I have never encountered before. Every time I eat or drink (and I am talking water, chicken broth and crackers, folks) the substances, once they hit my sternum area, immediately send me into convulsions of pain. I tried pounding my chest with my fist like in the SNL "Da Bears" skit. But it is no use. Nothing curbs the pain. 

The only variable from the night this all began was an antibiotic I took just before bed that I have been on for over a week. I took it right before laying down for bed. Now, I went right to my pharmacy notes when the terrible pain came on. It only lists stomach problems as possible side effects. A friend recommended I go online and search around for this particular drug. And guess what Wikipedia told me?

If a person takes this drug and lays down less than 30 min afterward for an extended amount of time, they will experience SEVERE heartburn for 3 days. 

Seriously? Seriously. 

Yet the bottle says nothing about this. Nor does my info sheet from the pharmacy.  Brilliant.

So now I am halfway through what feels like punishment for all the sins of all the men in the universe. And all my attempts at remedies seem to calm it slightly, but then it comes back even worse than before.

I am reduced to eating like a bird and being hungry and irritable and in pain all day and night (Unless I am laying down with a heating pad on my chest and I am on my left side--then I am all right). I can't concentrate at work and I want to go home but there is too much to get done before tomorrow comes. 

Well, I guess it's time to stop whining. And hope that this passes sooner rather than later. 

I will never blow off someone else's heartburn complaints ever again. My empathy for someone who deals with this all the time will be deep and fierce. I promise!