Category: perspective

The arts are not trivial — why mythopoiesis matters

Isy / / mythology, nature, perspective, philosophy, poetry, tasty words
Almost 7 years ago, I was walking with a fellow writer, sharing our souls as good friends do. I was recently disabled with CRPS and, needing activity as I do, I was trying to think what to do with my life beyond struggling to stay alive and in manageable pain.  I complained about my internal blocks to any sort of publicity for my work.  (I had no blogs.  Nobody outside the Java software industry had ever heard of me.  Nearly all my output had been printed anonymously by the company I worked for.)  
She asked what I thought that was about.  I said I had been brought up with the very clear message that arts are fine for a hobby, but that making a living as a writer or actor was absolutely unthinkable.  It was irrational to take the arts seriously.
Her soft voice changed to ringing iron in the shape of a bell: “The arts are not trivial.”  
I stopped, right there on the sidewalk, shocked out of my self-pity. She turned and egged me on; we continued walking.  “What did you do after surgery?” she asked.
I mumbled, “Watched movies.”
“You watched movies. When you were a little better but couldn’t go back to work yet, what else did you do?”
“Read.”
“You read.  Writers and actors and producers and other artists got you through that time.  They got you through the last year, with the awful work and the layoff.  Survival is not trivial.  It’s significant.  The arts matter.”
Hard to argue with that.  I’d be dead, miserably dead, without the work of visionaries — especially the really  funny ones.
This came up again in the context of my own more recent absorption in the value of mythology as a ticket to survival in the face of horrible odds — a pressingly modern issue in these impossible times.  Then today, I learned that it was Professor Tolkien who created the word “Mythopoeia” — wrote a poem on it, in fact, to his increasingly rigid friend Reverend Lewis. 
While both men were theists, C. S. Lewis was much more interested in the structure and received wisdom of religion; J. R. R. Tolkien was a spiritual seeker more in the experiential, visionary, nature-loving, nearly shamanic mode of poets like Coleridge and Keats.  
 Here it is, with my annotations [in square brackets and italicized.]  Take your time and enjoy:

To one who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though ‘breathed through silver’.

Philomythus to Misomythus

[“Loves Myths” to “Opposes Myths”]

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are ‘trees’, and growing is ‘to grow’);

[I love this comment on the dry limits of literalism!]

you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star’s a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;

[he’s making the point that there’s more to all this than we can comprehend in our poorly-constructed, limited and ignorant theories of time, space, matter, and life.
He goes on to describe fiction, which at least doesn’t pretend to hold all facts:]

and as on page o’er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,

[he used “queer” in the sense of “odd”, but as far as I’m concerned it’s all good]

each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.

[by pairing these luscious words with the plain ones, he just destroyed the dry concept that “trees are ‘trees’, and growing is ‘to grow'” — making the point that there’s more to language and life than the rules we know.]

The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain’s contortions with a separate dint.

[he’s pointing out (with beautiful imagery) that our brains are so rich and complex, and that life and experience are so rich and complex, that each rich experience makes unique patterns in a complex brain…]

Yet trees are not ‘trees’, until so named and seen
and never were so named, till those had been
who speech’s involuted breath unfurled,

[…and that even to come up with dry little words to describe them, is a feat of imagination in the first place]

faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.

[remove the line-breaks and read that again: “but neither record nor a photograph, being divination, judgement, and a laugh response of those that felt astir within by deep monition movements that were kin to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars: free captives undermining shadowy bars, digging the foreknown from experience and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.” 
In short, taking pictures and otherwise recording things is often a nervous tick, used by those who aren’t enough in touch with their feelings and experiences to find some richer way to convey them meaningfully — but convey them we do, however we can, in an effort to rescue our deeper selves…]

Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.

[…and from that effort we grow, and brilliant works come in time.]

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers beneath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother’s womb whence all have birth.

[in short, to see something, we must first be able to imagine it.  This idea of his has since been borne out by modern science: http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/07/080703145849.htm]

The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him.

[Tolkien’s religious background was Roman Catholic, which believes in God as the ultimate source of wisdom …]

               Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.

[…and teaches the story of the Garden of Eden as the fall of man and expulsion from paradise.]

Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.

[Our minds may be separated from God’s (his belief, not mine) but they are still derived from it, and all our rich variety of unique perceptions create endless possibilities.]

Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, ’twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we’re made.

[A triumphant assertion of the right to exercise creative will.  Go Tolkien!]

Yes! ‘wish-fulfilment dreams’ we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?

[yeah, so we make stuff up — and it makes us stronger. It’s holy.]

All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise — for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

[now that’s pretty clear!]

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow’s sway.

[you don’t have to be a soldier to strive against evil. To make stories, or art of any kind, as a refuge and defense against evil, is to make room for a better future…]

Blessed are the men of Noah’s race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

[… and the future itself starts out as something imaginary, a “rumor.. guessed by faith.”]

Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).

[it’s been said that this sounds a bit like our own times]

Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.

[artists and writers and musicians keep us going, reminding us of brighter times and a future worth having, even in the face of defeat]

I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.

[“I would” means “I wish” — it’s an older form, so an antiquarian like the Prof can use it with a straight face]

I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.

[he doesn’t care how silly or crazy or poor he seems, he will keep his courage and share his vision whatever anyone says.  Man after my own heart]

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient.

[in his day, “progressive” meant “making more machines, funding more science without conscience,” “making bad things happen faster”; what was called “progress” in his day, we would call “unsustainable development,” “pollution,” “health crises,” “rising poverty,” “environmental destruction,” and all those associated events. This word’s meaning has swivelled about 180 degrees]

                Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God’s mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not tread your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker’s art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

[another line that makes me rise and wave my fist in triumph. He will keep his little sovereignty over his own poor life and trivial work, rather than give himself up to the unfeeling machine of so-called “success” that’s based on anaesthetic values like logic without art, money without value, creation without creativity.]

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land ’twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.

[when we are true to our best selves, we are heavenly and whole.  Simple as that]

Evil it will not see, for evil lies not in God’s picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.

[evil is due to distorted perspective, vile actions and unfeeling motives — it’s not available to those who are sincere]

In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.

[creativity is not a lie]

Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

[when we’re dead, those of us with the nerve and integrity to create will be valued, have endless possibilities to choose from — and work directly with God!]

Sources:

It occurs to me I should check the copyright status of this poem. Obviously, I think of Professor Tolkien’s work as being for all people and for all time, but his executors’ views may differ from my implementation.  

Warrior, eh? (End-of-Year Retrospective)

Isy / / perspective, spirituality, tasty words, what works

Interesting term, “warrior“. It came up on one of my CRPS sites today, applied by an ally to those of us with the disease.

I was such a righteous fighter all my life, and now the message I keep getting from within is to “lay down my arms” — a metaphor so painfully apt it beggars language (after all, my CRPS started in my arms.)

The more peaceful I am, the more progress I make — or at least, the more I hold my ground. But it’s very much a matter of never giving up, never laying down, never yielding one thing to this disease that it doesn’t have to win from me.

I don’t fight, I figure it out; problems are meant to be solved, and this is an evolving set of pressingly interesting problems.

I don’t think in warrior/fighter terms any more, but I believe those who work with me use them. While sheer determination has stood me in very good stead, I don’t think of my present approach in terms of battle. The ground has shifted too much — so much so that, as an amateur historian and traveler familiar with the terrain of many battles, I can’t think of there being anything left to win. The ground has been swept clean.

Yet I intend not to be destroyed by this disease. I intend to come out of it alive, and die by some more exciting means instead.

When you’re skirting paradox, you’re close to the naked truth.

I guess I’ll keep learning to “lay down my arms” and persist as peacefully and intelligently as possible, and let others call me a fighter if that’s how they think of it.

Me, I opt for peaceful intelligence instead.

Links (in order mentioned):

Refocus on what works: In memoriam

Isy / / critical thinking, legislation, loved ones, meds/drugs, perspective, politics, science, what works

Debbie died yesterday. She was a never-failing source of encouragement and intelligent support on one of my key online CRPS support groups.

She died on the table, while undergoing a medical procedure. I don’t know exactly what it was, and given my respect for patient confidentiality, it’s none of my business.

She’s the first person to die of my disease, to whom I felt personally attached. Needless to say, it’s sobering as hell.

I’ve written about the need to attribute deaths from this disease correctly. I’m preparing my own final papers. These thoughts are nothing new.

But today, they are biting deep.

I’ve recently become highly politicized over rights abuses and intolerable corporate stature in my country. I have privately — and quietly — become convinced that the US healthcare system is so completely predatory, so opposed to its own mandate, that it will never offer healing for anyone in my position.

Debbie’s death has broken through my professional anxiety about appearing detached and scientifically sound. I have, at long last, become politicized about the most important subject in my life, after 25 years of personal and professional involvement up to my back teeth.

I have minimized my discussion here of what actually works. That dishonest omission has done us all a great disservice. I’m going to discuss what works, whether or not it’s FDA approved, pharmaceutically profitable, or adequately studied.

Medical studies are a shining example of the fact that we inspect what we expect, not necessarily what we need. The fact that studies have not been done on most modalities, or not rigorously done in double-blind experiments, doesn’t mean the modalities don’t work.

It means the studies need to be done. Period.

Where I understand the mechanisms of action, I will explain them. Where studies don’t exist, I’ll detail what should probably be explored.

But I have had enough of silence. I will not die as Debbie did. I will not die on the table. I certainly will not die saturated with soul-destroying pharmaceutical-grade poisons, as so many of us do.

I will find a better way. I will find a way that works. I’ll do my best to persuade others to study the modalities involved, and to fund the studies. My legislators will learn to recognize my name on sight, because their slavish debt to the pharmaceutical industry is absolutely intolerable and it’s up to me, and others like me, to convince them of that.

I wish Debbie a painless and peaceful rest. I hope her extraordinary husband finds enough strength and comfort to manage life without her.

For myself, I want the intelligence, resources and strength to find a solid cure, make it happen, and spread the word.

No more silence. It’s too much like consent or, worse, collusion.

I do not consent to the deaths of my friends.

With my eyes now open, I’ll no longer collude.

Let’s find a real way out.

How we REALLY were made! :)

Isy / / humor, mythology, perspective
Saturn, my favorite mythological curmudgeon, lost his throne and gave way to as nasty a pack of rapists, pederasts, thugs and thieves as Capt. Jack Sparrow could find in a century of shore leaves. Their litany of crimes is tedious, at best, but I’m aware of the limits of history; what gets preserved is often chosen by the loudest predators. 

There’s an old Greek story about the creation of humankind which sidesteps most of that. It goes something like this. 

*********
Young Kore (Persephone’s childhood name) was wandering by a river one day. As she forded her way across it, she was pleased by the clayey texture between her toes. She stopped on the opposite bank and scooped up some of that lovely mud.

She modeled it into a familiar bifurcated form, but it wouldn’t keep its shape. She worked some humus into the clay, to give it more body, and that helped. Bits of humus showed here and there, and the slightly fluffy look of it inspired her to give the dolly a nice topping of shreddy mould for hair.

Her father strolled up and asked what she was up to. She showed him her handiwork, as charmingly pleased with herself as only a kid can be.

Zeus admired it and said it was very nice, and what was she going to do with it?

She said she wasn’t sure. “But would you make it come alive, Papa? Please-please-pleeeeease?”

Zeus looked down at her wide, bright eyes and rosy cheeks, her face alight, and fidgeting in a pleased sort of way. Only one thing to do. 

He turned on his endless vision and looked up to see who was near the Olympian Fire. One of his nephews was standing there, staring at it. Zeus turned on his bullhorn voice and bellowed up to Olympos, “Hey, Prometheus! Oy, Prometheus, I need you!”

Prometheus looked away from the Fire and said, “What’s up, Big Guy?”

Zeus hated it when people called him Big Guy (it lacked class), but he swallowed his irritation. “Toss me down some of that Fire, smartass, okay?”

Prometheus grinned good-naturedly, scooped up a handful of the divine flame, and lobbed it in an underhand toss.

Zeus caught it in midair, massaged it into shape, then carefully pressed it against the clay creature in his daughter’s hands. It baked the clay and filled it with life.

The little clay dolly twitched, gasped, and sat up. It rubbed its face and opened new eyes. It rubbed its head, now sporting a fluffy head of soft hair. It spoke: “Holy crap.” Pause. “Well, that was weird.”

Kore bounced up and down, causing the creature to splay its legs and hang on for dear life.

“I want lots of them! And I want to call them Kores, like me! Look how cute they are,” she declared ungrammatically, staring at the singular creature.

“They should be called Zeus-lets, kiddo. You’re hardly old enough to be naming dollies, let alone species! I gave it life and I’m the grownup. I’ll decide what happens to it. Understand?”

Gaia, who had had quite enough of her rotten grandson lately, made her presence known with a rumble. “Do you ever tire of being the biggest brat in the room, Zeus? I gave my flesh for the creature, so it should be named after me! Lots of little Gaia-citas running around. Should brighten things up considerably around here.”

Zeus found himself in a serious disagreement, where he had expected a minor battle of wills with a child.

It didn’t help that Prometheus and the rest of the Olympians had turned to watch, and were encouraging all sides indiscriminately: “Go, you kid!” “Give it to the Big Guy!” “Hey, Grandma rocks, she should have it!” Zeus personally saw Apollo, alone, change his vote three times. And he wasn’t the most changeable, either. 

It was a floor show.

He caught Gaia’s eye. “Arbitrate?”

She lifted her chin. “If you can find an impartial arbiter.”

Zeus looked around and saw nearly every face animated with opinions. Even Hades had something to say. Naturally, he was rooting for the kid, just to spite Zeus.

Nearly every face. One face alone was still, and it was still behind bars. Zeus’s father, and former opponent, was just quietly watching.

He turned to Gaia. “How about Kronus?” (That’s the original name of Saturn, to you Latinites.)

Gaia was surprised. Also mighty pleased — she considered all her sons mentally weak, but Kronus was the best of the bunch and had taken her side when no one else would. If he was acceptable to his arch-enemy Zeus, he was certainly acceptable to her. “Kronus it is,” she said, and everyone turned with her to look at him.

Kronus’s eyes lifted. The ages of imprisonment had left his eyes deep and dark with shadows. It took some time for him to bring himself fully into the light again. His brother Iapetus gave him a surreptitious hand.

As he stepped into the center of the watching gods and took up the mantle of judgement, bright white light filled the space they were in. It chased away every shadow, prying into every nook. Nothing remained hidden. 

He cleared his throat softly. “I can’t pretend I didn’t see and hear every bit of that. I’m a little surprised you asked me, so before I go further, I need one word from each if you.”

He paused and made sure he had their attention. Even the restless child was riveted by the lines and hollows on his great face, the aeons of thought marking his brow. “Swear before all Olympos that you’ll be bound by my decision. All of you. Because greater good or greater ill may come of this than any of you can now see.”

Surprised, but trusting him, Gaia nodded. “Of course.”

Enthralled, Kore whispered, “Yes.”

Boxed in and suddenly wishing he’d named anyone else, even Hades, Zeus grumbled, “Oh, Hell.” Beat. “All right.”

Kronus nodded, and shifted position. “Then this is how I rule.

“Zeus, you did a thorough job of giving this creature life, and therefore gave it a future and everything that goes with it: thoughts, wishes, actions, an ability to affect the world. That is a heavy burden to lay on something that didn’t ask for it. It will need a strong ally, a knowing guide, a wise governor. You will be all that and more, because, having given this thing life, you should help to make that life worth having.”

Zeus blinked and stepped back, as if punched in the gut. Not what he’d been thinking at all. 

Kronus turned to Kore, who blanched and tried to shrink. He smiled at her as gently as he was able. “Kore, you made something beautiful, and it was intelligently and cleverly made. Well done.”

She tried to smile. She was certainly proud at his praise, but overwhelmed. Never had she been in the center of so much light; it hurt and frightened her, but she didn’t want to show it.

Kronus went on, “You asked that there be lots of them, and so there shall be. You will get your wish.”

Kore nodded with a big, shy motion of her head.

Kronus added, “You made it out of clay and in your hands it was lifeless. Do you remember?”

Kore nodded again.

Kronus said, “Then, in the fulness of time, you will be responsible for them in that state again. When they live out their spans and return to being lifeless, they will return to your hands.”

Kore’s eyes widened. So did Hades’, because a new shadow — distinctly like the shades of his realm — descended on Kore’s form and began to soften the light that nearly blinded her. Her mother Demeter, riveted by the shadow, was so tense you could string her in a bow, but there was nothing she could do. 

Kore breathed her relief at being shielded from the painful glare. 

Kronus turned last to Gaia. “You gave your flesh to make this flesh, so its flesh is your responsibility. Provide this species with food aplenty, and ensure its fertility so that it will perpetuate itself time out of mind.”

Gaia, hiding her relief, nodded. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but hadn’t expected to get off so lightly for stooping to Zeus’s level in the first place.

Then Kronus stopped briefly and gave her a Look, and she felt she had just been privately chewed out for that very thing. She dropped her gaze and gave a little nod, accepting the silent rebuke.

Kronus looked upwards and scratched his chin. It made a scrunchy sound, since he hadn’t shaved. “As for what to call it,” he mused aloud, “I see no point in choosing one of your names over the others. It’s now a shared task and no one of you should have more credit — or more responsibility — than you already do.”

He looked at the little thing, sitting peacefully cross-legged and wondering what all the fuss was about.

Its mud was now good flesh, and the crisp, short fibers of humus peeking through were transformed into crisp, short hair. It saw Kronus peering at it, with his huge wise face alight with interest. It smiled brightly up at him and gave a big enthusiastic wave with both arms, exposing more crisp patches underneath.  

Kronus smiled as inspiration dawned. He remarked, “It does look like it was made with humus. We’ll call it homo.”

And so it was.
*********
The much shorter translation from Pseudo-Hyginus’s “220 Fables” is here:

http://www.theoi.com/Khthonios/Persephone.html

My prior work on the Saturn mythology is posted as a guest-blog series at Oxford Astrologer. …Why under astrology? 
Because, since the death of Joseph Campbell, modern astrology is the best repository of psychologically-oriented myth. Ignore what doesn’t work for you — but enjoy and mull over the stories, because they’re utterly human:
– Saturn’s tricky childhood: 

http://oxford-astrologer.blogspot.com/2011/08/how-i-made-friends-with-saturn.html?m=0


– The (kind of creepy, but fascinating) birth of Venus: 

http://oxford-astrologer.blogspot.com/2011/08/kind-of-creepy-birth-of-venus.html?m=0


– When Saturn goes off the rails: 

Playing with fire

Isy / / perspective, poetry, tasty words

No idea what prompted this poem, but it might have been an iPhone app that makes your phone look and act like a Zippo. Enjoy… and feel free to speculate about what was in my other hand.
…

up side
down
looks fine
from here

It’s all a
matter of
perspective.
Isy says so.

it all looks odd
up side down

spine free
limbs agleam

it all looks good
up side down

Isy? Isn’ty?
no matter

Flip Me

Isabel plays
coolly with fire

up side down

is a different
point of view

Releasing the gods within

Isy / / mythology, perspective, philosophy, spirituality, tasty words

Modern mythology (á la comic-book heroes & Harry Potter) make extraordinary powers something odd, often imposed on those who never asked for it or are forced into concealing it in order to survive.

I don’t have a lot of time for the victim mentality, however charmingly restated. (I love Harry Potter and X-Men but still take them in small doses.) And the idea that it’s abnormal to be super-anything is not congruent with my experience. I don’t know anyone who isn’t super-something.

Embracing the deep weirdness of reality and going from there seems much more effective — and realistic. Notions of normalcy are hopelessly entwined in history and place, sealed with the invisible glue of social fear.

In other words, normalcy is unstable and profoundly irrational, even as we’re desperate to hang onto and justify it.

Not very helpful for dealing with bodily meltdown, lasting pain, deep disruptions and the massive issues of powerlessness, poverty and loss that are shaking so many. It’s too easy to feel like a victim and a freak.

I’ve been delving into the mythology of the Titans, creator gods (like Gaia, Rhea, Ouranos, Kronus) who gave rise to the later — and nastier — Olympians (like Jupiter, Mars, Hera, and all that crowd.) They deal with devastating changes, massive loss, pain, betrayal, mutilation, everything we face — but not for one minute do they imagine that they are ordinary, held to small standards, ineffective or meaningless.

They move and think and act and feel as if it mattered, because it does; they are born to their extraordinariness and they own it, warts and all.

I want to reframe the stories we tell ourselves so that we start out being extraordinary — not by accident or as oddities, but by right. Then the overwhelming tasks we face become merely heinously difficult, not completely beyond us.

We need not waste energy trying to conceal how much we can really bring to bear. We have better things to do.

Define stability

Isy / / moving/traveling, nature, perspective

I live on a boat. Not a houseboat, a sailboat. It’s 29 feet long, 9’4″ at the widest point (outside measurement), and has overhead clearance of just barely 6′ in the main cabin.

Since I’m less than 9′ wide and 6′ tall, this works for me.

A small boat is an unstable surface, shifting with every step and wiggle. You keep your balance by toning your abdominal muscles – as soon as you tighten your midsection, the wobbly feeling disappears, and even if the boat’s surface is 30 degrees from horizontal, you can still keep your feet under you.

I have the strongest core of anyone I know who doesn’t either live on a small boat or teach Iyengar yoga, because that’s just how it works.

A friend of mine moved away and couldn’t get rid of his even smaller boat (25′ with rather less overhead clearance), so he sold it to me cheap. The main difference between his and mine is that the smaller boat has a larger engine and a thicker hull. It was designed to sail across the Pacific.

Now I have two boats. (That’s COMMODORE Idiot, thank you very much.)

For various reasons, it’s time to leave the Bay Area. I’ll be returning part-time to rural Massachusetts, but I can’t hack the cold season. It would be far cheaper and less painful to gnaw bits off me with a blunt and rusty saw. So I have to come up with some way to live and somewhere to be during the off-season.

Did I mention that I have a boat? … In fact, two?

I’m discussing a boat-partnership with a friend of mine who is capable of the work, but hasn’t found out if he really likes it yet. We’re going to work on the boats this winter, getting them ready to sell; in the fullness of time, we’ll know if we’re cashing them in for an upgrade to sail towards the Equator in, or flogging them and splitting the money then going our separate ways.

The second option is easy, sensible, and well within my expectations and experience of life. Our friendship could easily continue intact.

The first is not necessarily any of those things. But the long-term benefit of it is that it would probably give me a second home to go to, somewhere warmer, with the comfort of a friendly face to greet me.

Some think that coming away with a sack of cash is more like stability. Having money reassures me in a way known only to those who’ve done without. It feels solid.

But what’s the value of solidity? I’m used to ground that moves under my feet. Snug up your core, and it’s easy to handle. And there’s nothing like casting off and taking off, nothing over you but open sky, and your own home flying through the water with such poise that it makes even the cormorants faint with envy.

[IMG cormorant superflock on my birthday sail]

Stability might mean solidity. Or it could mean being able to balance different forces well. Which of these sounds more interesting? Even – or perhaps especially – when you aim to make each day as sparkly and intriguing as a handful of jewels?

[Just wait till I get the pictures up :)]

Pain Manifesto

Isy / / critical thinking, CRPS knock-on effects, loved ones, opinion, perspective, philosophy, poetry, tasty words

This came out of cold chronic CRPS type 1, a debilitating condition of intractable chronic pain, nervous system disruption, and multi-system dysregulation — destroying the body’s ability to manage heat/cold, blood sugar, immune defense, circulation, sensation, bone density, movement, vision, digestion, heart function, and ultimately survival.

“Standard” treatments don’t work well for me; moreover, they involve invasive procedures too brutal to tolerate and medications I’m either outright allergic to, or that impair me so profoundly I can no longer function. At all.

So I took myself off my meds, thought things over, and came to the following conclusions.

MY CHRONIC PAIN MANIFESTO

Yes, it hurts.
It’s going to anyway.

So should I hoard my days
And fast from life?
Comfort myself with poisons,
Blister-packed and FDA approved?

Some think it would be best all ’round.
I’d cure them if I could (heh!)
But I’m too tired for
Yet another pointless struggle.

The sunlight pours through trees like prosecco
And reminds me what it means to live:

Voices warm with love, the
Mouth-smack of good food,
The hug of hills and the
Rough snuggles of the sea.

Hoard my days? I’ll spend each one
Like it’s stuffed with jewels
Pouring through my hands like a miser’s dream.

Feast on this:
The cost of life is much the same.
The difference lies in how you spend it.

Considering the end: a new beginning

Isy / / CRPS knock-on effects, nature, perspective

Mortality is tricky. We’re all going to go sometime, but we are hardwired to avoid the very thought of death. And so we should be.

However, when my loved ones die, my life (so far) continues – though significantly changed. Death has ripple effects on the living. This is why we have wills, wakes, and difficult conversations with the elderly and infirm.

My dad was a financial planner when he died. Here I am, 45, with a horrible condition and a little bit of property… As a financial planner’s daughter, I know perfectly well that the responsible thing to do is sit down and make a will, living will, and any other terminal documents I need. So I’ve started that process.

The old man would be proud!

Naturally, the first thing people ask is, in sweetly worried tones, “Are you okay?”

Having begun this process, I’m much better. It reassures me to know that certain important things will be said, certain horrible things will be avoided, and — though there’s no getting around the fact that bereavement sucks — there will be more love and comfort in those ripples than there would be otherwise.

It also makes me think in terms beyond myself. Legislation around CRPS is almost nonexistent, because people don’t think of it as terminal. However, as I remarked in my bio-blog, the diseases it causes most certainly are.

Sound familiar? Anyone here remember the health care terminology changes in the ’90s? (Read the bio-blog for more hints.)

I can do something very important with my death (hopefully many years off) -– I can make sure it’s properly attributed. No disease without a body count is ever taken seriously, and it’s time to start counting bodies with this horrible disease.

Personally, I have been struggling with a panicky fear of mortality because of this disease: each time I have a flareup, my body is never quite the same again; each time I have a lasting attack of the stupids, I have no idea if I will get my brain back; my heart is becoming more irregular. Barring a miracle or an accident, I’m facing a rotten time. With this disease, I look at the end, and all I can do is scream. I hope I have hidden it well!

However, the thought of this final gift — proper attribution, a ripple of awareness, the hope of better care for my compatriots — this tiny thing, this little spark, has had a tremendous effect: I feel the force of my life again.

It’s true: when you’re skirting paradox, you’re close to the naked truth.

Contemplating the end with wide-open eyes, returns my thoughts to getting more juice out of life. There’s a lot of it left, all things considered. My end will not be in vain, and with that in mind, the time until then seems much more promising.

Links:
Bioblog about myelin & attribution
“Nothing you do is in vain”

A gift to share

Isy / / Dept. of Blith. Obv., perspective, realpolitik, sheeple, useful links

I had the pleasure and privilege of speaking with Dr. Adams, who (among other things) teaches clinical at UCSF Medical School. He provided me with a brilliant overview of the recent history of public health.

“Remember [the federally mandated public health targets called] Healthy People 2000 and Healthy People 2010? We missed those goals by miles. We don’t even _have_ a target program now. The next one could just be: Breathe. And I’m not too sure we could even hit that!”

He kept me spellbound for half an hour. I don’t think I got a word in edgeways, but he must have liked the quality of my listening, because he gave me this book off his shelf as a gift:

He said, “Be calm when you read it. Sit down, breathe, and take it easy.” Caveat emptor.

This doctor uses the (numerous!) expensive letters after his name for something besides paying the mortgage … He and his posse sent a copy of this book to President Obama, with a cover letter explaining the devastating consequences of a profit-driven health care system. 

They heard back from a medical advisor: the President put the book in his Presidential Library, but the advisor had to state that the for-profit industries had their influence so well laid in that, if the President breathed a word about single-payor care, it had been made clear to the White House that he would be abandoned by both sides of the aisle.

Abandoned. Completely. For standing up for the American people. The same American people who let those pikers into Capitol Hill in the first place.

You’ve been bought & sold. We all have.  Weren’t you looking? I’m not sure I was. 

The industries speak for us because we haven’t spoken up enough for ourselves. Politicians are nervous, ego-driven creatures desperate for a good image, and we’ve let the moonshiners polish their images — and their apples — while we bitch about the rent. 

The rent matters. Lots. Sadly, signing Internet petitions does not. 

Is it too late?

Well, you’re still breathing, aren’t you? So am I. Emigrated yet? Me neither. Guess it’s not too late, then. 

Be heard, unfiltered. Call. Fax. Write. Put a stamp on it. Letters matter. Phone calls matter. These represent a big hurdle in people’s minds, and politicians know it. They weight them accordingly. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

Paper, three sentences, stamp and envelope are not really that hard to do … just slightly strange to think about. Try it & you’ll see what I mean. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

If you have expensive letters after your name, this is an excellent way to get more mileage out of them. Your words are weighted more heavily still. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

Let your politicians feel insecure about their policies, where they don’t serve you or those you care about. Let them feel watched.  Let them get nervous and worry about their hair; it means they’re procrastinating about changing their minds, even as their minds are changing. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

Call. Write. Use stamps. Fax. Be seen. Be heard. Vote. And monitor voting. 

It’s surprisingly little trouble after all. 
… http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected

To find your reps and congress-critters, choose the category and plug in your zip code here: 
http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected