Novel Ideas

I have awareness signs set up in many places around my house and they seem to be working. I am more focused (on signs!) and when I see them I remember that my goal is to pay attention. I didn't think it would work or maybe secretly hoped it wouldn't work (and then I could go on a frenzy) because as it was it took me a few days to actually post the signs. I use one particular sign though I think you could use a post-it note just as easily as a sign. Something that will remind you to remember.

I took some time off late yesterday to go "stock up" on supplies -- drinking water (I'm on a well but I don't drink that water) mostly but a few food items too because we are due for another hellacious storm today that weather folk warned was to start at midnight last night though it's 4:45 am and nothing has happened so far.

I arrived home early and was sort of wondering what to do with this extra time besides (eat) watch Kirstie Alley interviewed by Oprah about how she's really going to lose her extra weight this time (with a brand new product she's encouraging us all to buy). She's a gorgeous woman with a food addiction. I hope this new product she's supporting helps her this time because watching her gain and lose and gain and lose and knowing what that's doing to her spirit has been painful to witness. Watching her helps with awareness.

I worked outside in preparation for the storm (that has not arrived yet) and put the garbage cans on the road. I talked with the cat. I spoke with a friend. I pulled weeds. Finally I came into the house, and I sat in my chair and saw the sign across the room, and thought about what I could do then. I actually said this out loud,

"I could read a book."
Then then aloud (again), "What a novel idea!"
And that made me laugh.

Dr. J Tells Us the Way

Today we have a guest post from Dr. J who's on hiatus (high ate us!) from Calorielab. Dr. J said he wrote his post in story form because that's what I usually do, tell a story. Then we had a secret discussion about local  bakeries but I doubt he'll admit to it. 
Enjoy!


Student (Kyu) to Master (Dan)


“You are testing for your Black Belt today!” Few days are etched more in my memory than the day I heard those words spoken by my 6th degree Sensei as I walked into the karate class.

I knew I had been preparing for this day, but I hadn’t known that today would be the day! As he made the formal announcement to the entire class, lined up at the ready, what was a serious group became even more focused. Initially we all did our usual exercises and practices as a group, but then it was my turn to perform. After a series of simple sparing and self defense techniques, I was required to do several kata, or pre-arranged movements simulating fighting without an opponent, what I consider the physical history of the Art. Following that I engaged in free style sparing with several of the other students. This was the most serious part of the test, in my opinion, as it really demonstrated ones strengths and weaknesses to those who are judging you. After all, even with its mental and spiritual sides, karate is in the end, a martial art. At that point, I felt it was over. Not unlike when my flight instructor pulled the power off during my flying review, and asked, now what are you going to do, I was somewhat unprepared for what came next.

“Now, student J, I want you to go out of the studio, and prepare yourself, then come back inside and talk to the class about what karate means to you!”

Having just finished fighting, I was very focused. I ran to the doorway, accidentally knocking a hole in the wall as I used it to slow myself down. This was December 31st in Chicago. A cold, snow covered day. I ran down the sidewalks, barefoot, in full karate gi, never feeling the cold, mind racing. When I returned to the studio, I faced the class. I can’t remember much of what I said, but I remember the last words I spoke. “Karate is not what you can do to someone, it is what you can do for someone!”

I approached my teacher. He took off the black belt he was wearing, and with a smile, tied it around my waist.

I can’t remember what he said after that. He probably should have said, now go fix the wall. 

A Sisyphean Effort

I spent Saturday with Hannah. This was not my original plan (the original plan was to spend the day in a coma) though she always tells me how much she wants to come to my junkhouse.  I accommodated her (as usual).

Before our junkhouse visit, we met for coffee with my sister. Hannah calls this event "going to the coffee shop." And she's more than happy to rub your nose in the fact that she's going and you aren't by saying, "I'm going to the coffee shop with Jan and bam-ma (Grandma) and you don't get to go" to anyone  within range.

So adorable!? Makes you just want to reach out and hug her, huh?

We arrive at a coffee shop where Hannah doesn't want anything (except to be included so she can tell people that *they* aren't), my sister and I order coffee. Then after she used my camera to take dozens of photos of random cars and startled customers as they exit the store and parking lot, Hannah decides she would like a "graaah-zond." I have been trying to teach her how to say croissant with a French accent (brushing up for my gynecological oncologist visits), and "graaah-zond" is what Hannah says. I instructed her to say "kwa-sah." It took me awhile to figure out what she was saying.

After we left the coffee shop (neener neener), while driving, Hannah glanced over in a well-known direction for both of us adding, "My dada works over there." I informed her "That's where Chris lives too." She said, "You kicked Chris to the curb?" I said, "No, he kicked me to the curb." Then she asks, "Is that the curb?" pointing to some buildings. I said, "No, that's not the curb." She said "Does Chris sleep on the curb?" I said, "No, Chris doesn't sleep on the curb." Then she started crying about how much she missed Chris and how much she wanted to see him. "I miss Chris. Can we go see him?" She wailed. I reminded her that from the time she was a little baby, each time she saw Chris, she'd let out a blood curdling scream and continue to cry as if she'd seen the dreaded boogie-man, the creepy creature from under the bed, the indescribable horror of a young child's closet, much like your dog might growl and bristle at the only vicious dog-hater in an enormous crowd of people. She never warmed up to him the entire time we were together. Needless to say, Hannah and I didn't stop for a meet and greet.

We made our way over to visit Joanne where Hannah ate what she called "lavan" cake. Then we drove by the Blue Ball park and stopped to visit the balls. I waited twenty minutes at  the top of the steep slide until Hannah found enough courage to go down the slide. After an hour at the park, we drove back to my junkhouse where Hannah used her imagination (imagine that!) in playing a game called "I'm going to cook Jan something" on my front patio. This game is also part of the game called "Jan, Come here!" (shouted loudly every 10 seconds). It's a joy watching her  explore the fish(less)pond, using the slimy pond water for all the ingredients in her "recipes." She used an old fishnet for a utensil, and some other odds and ends - two large crocks, a license plate from 1956, several old antique bottles, a plastic dish. While used plant pots for cups were given to me with the instructions "Please be careful not to break them." because her "Grandmother had given them to [her] and they were made out of delicate china." Who's been talking to this kid?

It rained all day Sunday. I went to my morning WW meeting where we talked about making your kitchen safe (from food attacking nut-cases), then I drove back home and spent the day in a soggy stupor, reading and staring out the window, occasionally thinking about taking a nap. Midday I took a walk in the rain with my camera, drenching myself while taking over 100 photos. By evening I was so unconscious, mid-soup, I suddenly realized I was not sitting at my kitchen table (nearly spitting out a mouthful of soup back into the bowl) and carried the bowl into the dining room to finish my dinner. I tell ya, I am a hard nut to crack!

I'm going to post reminders as a clue to this effort to become more aware. I have formed  habits over decades -- it is going to take time (post-its, an assistant, wake-up calls, media alerts) to become more mindful. If I post a note on the face of the TV, one of them on the chair by my bedside, another on the chair in the living room, (and yet still another on the bathroom mirror, and one inside my car, and one inside the fridge...) those notes will remind me as long as I remember to look for reminders in those places, that I am making this effort. Had I been more conscious at the time, I would have insisted that I take my Hannah-prepared, slimy pond-water meal at the kitchen table too.

I have a small poster that reads "Mindfulness is a Source of Happiness." But I wonder if this can really true having spent much of my life doing everything possible to distract myself and yet, there were times I could swear I was happy.

Picture a Life

I decided to do something new-ish (which I am prone to doing about every other minute or so) though making this particular decision felt like a fight to the finish - as if I were having an argument with several people instead of moving through a thought process. This new idea came out of a class, one person's suggestion, though there's nothing original about the idea. In fact, it's something our parents used to make us to do every night as a family - eat at the table. During the class, when I first heard the idea, I felt an instant aversion. I struggled. I thought...Think of the weight you'll lose ...(so?) Secondly, What will I do while I'm eating?
Um...try eating.

My experiment is to take my meals (except water & coffee) to a table and actually eat the meal at the table instead of my usual trough chair, while reading, watching tele or navel-gazing - thus not deriving any awareness of having consumed, subsequently consuming far too much (of anything and everything) due to a zombie level of awareness.


I'm implementing this idea to move out of autopilot with habits developed over the years. In addition to putting a stop to some negative habits, this experiment will partner well with existing exercise program to bring about increased health. Often I'll exercise more after unconsciously consuming once I snap back into consciousness that I've consumed unconsciously and need the additional activity to metabolize all the crap I ate providing I'm aware.


While eating, the primary rule (if you could call it a rule) for food intake was always anything goes mostly because anything goes.  I became increasingly aware of an almost complete lack of awareness around consumption (due partially to creeping poundage), so about a month ago I made my kitchen cheat-proof removing any food that might be calling out my name. (Do you get the idea that I am both zookeeper and zoo'd while at home?) And my cheat-proof idea has worked well. So far the canned hominy hasn't muttered a word. The sliced onion wrapped in plastic doesn't know I exist. The mustard and assorted other condiments are clueless, moldy cheese, meh. Though some nights, my inner zombie takes over (when I am unconscious) and with arms outstretched I zone into the kitchen rooting for something that once thawed is not covered completely with some sort of unidentifiable crust or mold and can be eaten without registering more than 10 pounds in one night on the scale.


The cancer diagnosis helped me realize a richness in each moment but I have to be really awake to notice this richness. Being diagnosis refreshed my memory --  I won't live forever which I sort of knew already (and took for granted) but needed the reminder so I'd get the most of the each day.


Making this decision to take nourishment at a table is one way to gain more consciousness around food, my interaction with food, and to enjoy the act of simply eating. I love good food and I'm a great cook, so to take my meal with the reverence food deserves instead of shoving food in while watching the fitness channel makes sense. I don't want my days going by in a blur that I can't recall. I don't want to kick the bucket without living all the moments I can, not just the diagnoses, the breakups, deaths, births, marriages and drama but the every day stuff that I take for granted, time between peaks and valleys, the space between the stars. Before I go off to the "Big Sleep," I have a serious desire to awaken.


This past January, Sherry at Nite Swimming 
suggested I start a 365 photo-a-day blog. The simple act of posting a daily photo has revealed a layer of existence that I am now integrating into my world. Having taken the photos and sharing them each day has been akin to a cancer diagnosis sans chemotherapy, vomit and a bald head. I've been reminded once again to stay awake because if I am not awake, I could miss a great photo op.


I want to enjoy each moment with this awareness. Starting with something I take for granted, the act of eating. Finding joy in those 
moments when I am eating will help with clarity and consciousness similar to the enlightenment I'm gaining through the simple act of taking pictures.

Baby Face

I got myself a facial for V Day. The esthetician ground removed ten years off my face using microdermabrasion. I am not sh*tting you! I have not had a facial since before cancer. Back then I didn't think I'd be alive to have another one. The facial was great, the results remarkable and the relaxation was phenomenal. I'm going to do it again soon.

A friend and I went out for Cambodian food that afternoon. She was not having the greatest of days though she also had the foresight to think of me on that day, knowing there was a chance I'd be bummed as it was hallmarkzalesfloristspendmoneyanywaypossible Valentine's Day. I was coming off the high of my facial so I was feeling fine. My friend said my face was glowing though it was glowing from greasy facial stuff, not the facial itself, and I had planned ahead to treat myself. The dinner topped off my day, our conversation was interesting. On the way home, I stopped and saw Hannah, my fave valentine. She was excited and without being prompted told me, "Happy Valentine's!"

On the holiday of President's Day, I "worked" so I had time to download the remainder of the holiday music I'd purchased this past December on iTunes. I guess I was too busy in December to finish downloading the music. I was checking out my iTunes "library" and since I started using iTunes, at .99 cents per song times 595 songs currently in my library, I could buy myself at least one hours worth of live klezmer music or I could have 5 more facials. Five facials times 10 years off my skin per each facial would put me back to my birth year which would remove the threat of buying more music off of iTunes for quite a while.

Chain of Dreams

I had a dream about the "X" that seemed to last much of the night though from what I have read, dreams don't work that way. In the middle of the night, I woke up,  drank some water, realized I was in the middle of a dream, had a giggle about it and fell back asleep, continuing to dream more of the dream. I dunno -- maybe I dreamed that I woke up and drank water.

According to my dream, the X is getting married to an aging stripper named Heather. He proudly showed me a photo of his financier fiancé. Instead of any clothing, Heather's body was "dressed" in a fine, thin chain. One could not see Heather's face in the photo (hmm, very telling). Glancing at the photo, one could see Heather's right butt cheek, her lithesome, sexy leg, (the exact opposite of mine - with lymphedema), draped sensuously with the glittery chain. Flowing down Heather's right shoulder, was a mane of luxurious, long curls  (again, opposite of mine). A come -hither (Heather?) flower poised suggestively above her right ear - such graceful feminine attributes. What I could actually see of Heather was lovely. And I could tell he was so in love with her. In the dream I felt happy for him. I spoke to him in a kind, compassionate, caring way.


While we discussed the pending nuptials, he gushed, saying that he was "pretty sure that she was 'The One!" For a quick moment I felt compelled to warn him, "in time, you'll tire of Heather." Still in the dream, I kept my mouth shut (so out of character!) "Tis better to be silent and be thought a fool,..." (Though I'm unsure as to why I am concerned with being thought a fool in my dreams as opposed to real life.)

I felt warm inside listening to him discuss the future. While listening, he told me that he had ended his "relationship" with the woman with whom he had kicked me to the curb because although he enjoyed sex with her (and any willing participant), he mentioned that she was mean. Since this dream was coming out of my psyche, I was thinking this was really me telling me I was mean though I think it was really me telling me that *I thought* that *he thought* I was mean. (wow, confusing sh*t!) (and really, who cares?) Notice how *me* is part of the word mean? And the word mean also as an in it, and so does my name? Those two letters are right next to each other. It's a sign. (Yeah, a sign that says, "Enough already!") This is beginning to look like an episode of the Twilight Zone.

There are many theories about dreams and their interpretation. I pick and choose what to believe depending on the dream and the day (which is pretty much how I pick anything I'm thinking) though I find Jung's dream theory intriguing and sometimes I consider Freudian dream theory. It depends. 


I know that my dreams are all ideas and projections from within my own twiddle-twaddled brain. I like to analyze (when I am really bored) symbols that arise in my dreams. For instance, the chains on Heather, even these fine, delicate chains symbolize enslavement, limitation and confinement. And the style (if I can call it that) of this dream reminded me of a dream I'd had months after my father died. Our entire family was grief-filled for months (if not years) over my father's sudden death (at age 59) from pneumonia while vacationing in Arizona at Seizure Leisure World.


In this particular dream, my father and I were floating down a river in a canoe. My hand was on my father's back, sort of stroking his back (something I would not have done in real life). I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, the sun's bright rays casting diamonds off of the surface of the water, almost blinding. In the dream, while stroking my father's back with a light, gentle touch, I could feel the sharp bones of his skeleton beneath his shirt. I was touching his skeleton. After awakening from that dream, I realized I had moved to acceptance of my father's death. 


I believe that this dream about the X shows acceptance too. The last seven months, painfully unexpected, and difficult beyond what I thought I was capable, yet here I am. Imagine that? What a gift to give myself this year!


Even though the dream took place inside my head, the thoughts came from my psyche and my thoughts weren't mean. It was a good dream and my dreams aren't always good. In the dream our conversation was gracious. I saw myself  interested in his happiness (with faceless Heather but still --- which btw no face means she can't speak). Upon waking, I felt a sad sort of kindness toward him. My heart is healing slowly on the crest of the first Valentine's Day (a silly, media-inspired day) I'll spend alone in years. And I'm so grateful to know that it's Heather who's draped in chains.  She can have 'em!

Discovery

Every day while driving to and from work, I hear radio commercials about how the cell phone company I use (rhymes with whore-risen ) advertises the most coverage in the 3G network and "The Nation's Largest 3G network." I've been curious about this 3G stuff for awhile now considering I can't get a signal to save my life though I'm still charged the monthly fee for a complete lack of coverage. I thought (incorrectly) that with all those G's I'd be sh*tting in tall grass but no. All those G's stand for is Good Gawd Gertie!! (followed up with "I can't get a gahdamn signal!") The company's 3G map shows orange in my area. I mean they only have a couple of spots that aren't orange though I'm beginning to think that maybe the places that can get a signal are the places that are NOT colored orange on their map.

If someone were to phone my cell, my voicemail message informs the caller that I can't get a signal during the daytime, that my phone is turned off, and alternatively gives a work number, a land line, in case of emergency as long as I know you (and you are not a bill collector). It would be faster and more convenient  for the caller to drive to my actual work location, smack me upside the head, and deliver the message personally than to call my cell phone.

Having so many G's means you can do more things with your phone, mostly the same things I can do with my computer that I sit in front of all day long at work. If I could get a signal, all those extra G's mean I can download and use hundreds of cool apps - great - I'll do that when I can get a signal. I can browse the web faster - if I could get a signal. I could download large files, if I could get a signal. I could play music and watch streaming video - if my phone would work. Send emails with attachments, no problem. Will get on it as soon as I can get a signal. Play 3D games, video conference, rapid file sharing - easy, when and if my phone ever gets a signal.

3G will soon become 4G which will be when I switch to yelling until someone can hear me.

Crackpot for One

Why hasn't someone invented a crockpot for one? I don't want leftovers for a month. I might want leftovers for one night or maybe no leftovers at all after too large of a dosage (meal). Who wants to eat beans for a month? Or anything for a month? No one. Maybe someone would eat beans for a month but not me. My sister whom I work with already hates me enough as it is without eating more beans.

Also why do you suppose human bladders aren't made from sponge? A bladder made from sponge-like human tissue would be so much more convenient. I guess we wouldn't call it a bladder though if you think about what we call a bladder, our bladders were invented before the word bladder was invented -- sort of like the chicken and the egg thing. I wonder what we'd call a sponge human tissued bladder?

In Honor of World Cancer Day

I arrived at work this morning and discovered that it's World Cancer Day and I had nothing planned. Darn it! I truly think the advanced planning on this day was screwed up. Why didn't someone send me an email yesterday instead of this morning? Lance, I'm talking to you. I had to hear it through email and twitter.


Anyway, in honor of World Cancer Day, I wanted to discuss something that has nothing to do with cancer except that it is my discussion and I had a cancer diagnosis. (There, take THAT, cancer!)


I've been writing lyrics for a song for Hannah called The Junkhouse Blues,  ever since she referred to my house as a junkhouse. I decided rather than to resist the whole idea that I live in a junkhouse, and be all insulted, holding it against her for the rest of my life and hers, seething in silent resentment, being angry, petty, filled with venom, heated, mad, bitchy, wanting to smash something, moving out, poking out my eyes so I don't have to see the junkhouse, stewing about it, telling all and sundry about my ex-grand niece saying I live in a junkhouse, I'm honoring *my* junkhouse with a song. Yes! I actually sang a quick version (while I was driving in my junkmobile) on my (filthy) cellphone which I showed to Hannah, and in turn, you could just tell that she was filled with glee. She exclaimed in a very loud shrill voice, "Jan made me a song!" And she was tickled pink about the song I "made" for her, and do not argue with me about this!


My idea is to write out my lyrics that I have written to date and then have you guys fill in any verses please. Then I'm going to ask Megan to sing it on a video for Hannah because my cellphone version of me singing the song while I'm driving, and hearing my voice while only viewing my chins does not make for quality video.

The Junkhouse Blues

My name is Jan, I got the Junkhouse blues.

My niece is Hannah, and she thinks so too!

I need to clean my house all Saturdays

Just so I can go out to play.

Will you sit there like a little mouse

or come on home with me and clean my house?

Doncha ya know I got the junkhouse blues?

Come on home with me and pick up my shoes.

One day while sittin in the chair,

Hannah yelled at me, "It's like you don't care."

It's no wonder you got dis junkhouse bad.

This house is lookin mighty sad

I'm sitting here alone in your room.

Did you ever even hear 'bout a broom?

Whatcha doin when you're home all day?

Did the dust-rhinos get away?

I should have taken pictures of my junkhouse so you'd feel the same inspiration that I feel (and that dear, sweet Hannah feels) but I've been secretly cleaning my junkhouse while Hannah has been away.

Betty Davis Eyes

Over this past weekend I went downtown to hear my niece Megan at a gig (do *they* still call them gigs?). She is ultra-talented or mega(n)-talented. It was interesting to get out and do the town though I didn't really 'do' all that much. My doing consisted of walking to the venue from the car, and then walking back to the car from the venue and in between trips to the car, I watched Megan and her new singing partner, Jeff, perform. While at the venue, I drank a sparkling wine mixed with some new age-y heart (though they also offered bliss, mind and rectal, - I figured I had maxed-out on those other areas) elixir that caused both my head and chest to glow flame-red, reminding every human within a few feet that I am old and ripe with menopause sans uterus and ovaries. How handy!? Handy in so far as I no longer use my weight or my propensity to glare at strangers in order to keep people at a distance when I can simply glow them away.

I saw a few people I knew, and when back out on the street, post -"concert" not one of those people asked for my leftovers probably because the venue was vegan. (I did not eat anything, I only drank the elixir.) Even hungry street people have dietary limits.

Speaking of hungry, I have finally made my kitchen completely "weight-loss friendly" by eating every last tidbit of anything edible left over from the holidays. I ate all of the chocolate chips. I ate the last few almonds bought from the farmer's market. All my food that was stored away in the freezer before the last big storm, rotted and was thrown out. I committed to ceasing a weekly chocolate buy. I finally managed to get rid of or eat anything that could possibly seduce me. All that remain are raw eggs, steel cut oats and hominy. I suppose if I get desperate enough, I can make hominy oatcakes.

I was talking with my sister about this whole concept of setting the kitchen up so options for a successful weight loss are optimal (at least while at home). She told me that she has a similar issue (self-sabotage) while at home, though she added, for her, "there always seems to be a little something [she] can eat." A wayward cracker, popcorn, or a jar of baby food from when Hannah was much younger.

I want to be present around food. If I go unconscious and graze for grub, (with my kitchen in it's current snack-food-less state) it takes seconds of futile searching before I am brought once again to the present moment. Still I wonder who that zombie person is that insists she take over in less conscious moments? Why is she there? What does she really want? And why doesn't she just slug me in the face to bring me out of my coma instead of walking, zombie-arms outstretched into the kitchen in search of a form of solace that I won't find there?

I could apply similar questions to a lot of issues around consciousness. I could keep myself even more present (and awake!) by sleeping on a hard floor without blankets and removing all the toilet tissue in the house but I'll keep my practice for now limited to a food addiction.

On Sunday morning, I had put on some makeup on (to attempt to lessen the menopause glow) which I don't always wear because I am naturally lovely. Sunday afternoon, I drove over to grandma's house to visit with Hannah. She was all cuddly and warm, fresh from an afternoon nap. Hannah asked me if she could sit on my lap. She doesn't even have to ask. Of course! Then, looking at me, she exclaimed, "What's wrong with your eyes!?" She'd be the first to notice if there was a real problem.