"like a fragile lover"

Yesterday, I heard an interview on NPR with Dan Gottlieb, a psychologist/author who also happens to be a quadriplegic. His health is failing him, and he clearly believes that the end is imminent. Regarding his body, he said:

"I treat my body like a fragile lover that I adore."

This wise man, though he has every reason to rage at his body, treats his body with compassion, as a "fragile lover."



I have a body that works, though it is not everything I wish it could be. I have none of his difficulty, and none of his wisdom. I cannot think what it would mean to be kind to my body in this way...

I would certainly not put it down for its stubby toenails or hundreds of moles.
I would kiss each imperfection gently, silently thanking God for each uniqueness.

I would not force it to eat too much chocolate or drink too much wine to quiet the tumult in my mind.
I would hug it fiercely around the ribs, being present with the fear or pain until it subsided.

I would not demand that it sit quietly in the room while I serve my job well into the evening.
I would listen to its shyly expressed wish for movement, and I would speak courage when it quailed at its lack of skill.



What patterns would you have to change if you were to treat your body as a "fragile lover"?

Re: new cities

All in due time, guys. I'll reveal all. For now, because there's always the outside chance someone from school could read this, I'll keep everything under wraps.

with fashion as with breakfast cereal

I finally did laundry, three weeks after moving in with my brother and sister-in-law. I finally had choices for my school wardrobe. And what, pray tell, did I choose? Baby blue pants, a carnation pink tank top, and a puce sweater on top. Puce. I thought it looked fine in the half-dark before I got in my car that morning, but after I'd taught all my classes, I finally got a chance to use the restroom, and I caught a glimpse of the whole outfit. In roughly five seconds, I had a headache. Pink and puce -- don't let the alliteration fool you. Terrible, terrible idea. Kids were staring at me oddly all day. And here I thought perhaps it was my boobs. Not so much. 

My brother, after a well-warranted chuckle, explained to me the following principle of fashion. Though it may come from an unlikely source, I think I shall take his wisdom to heart.

• With Lucky Charms, it takes some amount of concentration to eat all the gross oatmealy pieces first, leaving all the delectable marshmallows to cling to the spoon at the end. Good idea.
• With clothing, this does not work. Do not throw all the oatmealy pieces in one outfit.
  

my parents on the beach at sunrise, April 2008

Why so many forms? Why not just that one hydrogen atom? The creator goes off on one wild, specific tangent after another, or millions simultaneously, with an exuberance that would seem unwarranted, and with an abandoned energy sprung from an unfathomable font. What is going on here? ... freedom is the world's water and weather, the world's nourishment freely given; its soil and sap: and the creator loves pizzazz.

- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

walking

I've tried to take a walk (or super-short jog which probably looks to the naked eye like an awkward walk anyway) about everyday since the weather has warmed, and the daily progression of blossoms has not escaped my notice.

On a street perpendicular to mine, I've trained my eye on a few trees that sport small blood-red buds. I'm so curious what and when they'll pop forth. I mean, there's a relatively narrow range of possibilities, I suppose -- small white flowers, small pink flowers, etc. Still, it's a mystery, and I like surprises.

My favorite trees at the moment are, I think, tulip trees. There are four or five on the walk I took the other night, and as I walked beneath their pink and white elegance, long petals dropped around my feet. I picked up three perfect petals to make up for the dozens I crushed underfoot, and held them up to my face.

They felt less like rose petals and more like taut, springy plastic.

I smelled them. They smelt of hot dogs, with the faintest hint of old lady perfume.

And here you have the tension in which I live: the poetry v. the curiously prosaic reality

breathless enthusiasm on the same old seasonal drivel

Spring makes me so frantically happy! I find lots of excuses to walk places, like to church this morning, and to the coffee shop this afternoon, and I bounce all the way, smiling madly. I find a singularly lovely tree and I stop beneath it, neck craned, swirling myself around to get at all the angles, to get inside the shy new green.

I saw a cardinal today, for a flash of a second, and then he vanished. 

I told my sister-in-law last night, as we walked home from the video store, that I think spring is like an annual low-grade dose of falling in love. 

There's probably nothing new to say on either subject in any language, but I'll take this hackneyed breathless foolishness any day.

analogies

Some time ago, a student gave me a list of the most beautiful metaphors and analogies, supposedly printed from an article by Norm Rozinsk's of Northbay Biz Magazine. I can track down neither Mr. Rozinski's credentials nor the original article, so this may, in fact, be purely manufactured. That said, genuine or otherwise, these analogies, allegedly drawn by high school students in their essays, brought tears of mirth to my eyes. Here are some of my favorites:

1. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

2. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

3. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

4. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

5. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

6. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

7. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.


And my all-time favorite:
8. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds that had also never met.