It’s been five weeks of brain drain: memory lapses, unproductive fretting, poor sleep and worst of all: poor flow of post ideas. Enough already. 

Denial (No problem, it’ll go away by itself…) is no longer tenable. Time to do something. But… what? 

Without knowing the cause of the problem, intervention is futile. So first: think. (Can we not, and say we did?) 

What’s the differential diagnosis? Three possibles raise their hands.

1. dementia
2. depression
3. exhaustion

The first is unthinkable. So forget that. Ha. (Sorry.) 

What about depression? (What about it?) I’ve had these symptoms for more than two weeks, which meets criteria for the diagnosis. Which justifies a trial of antidepressant. But that’s jumping ahead. (Damn skippy.)  

Why? Because psychiatric diagnoses are diagnoses of exclusion. Meaning, all other medical causes for symptoms must first be ruled out and/or addressed. And that would be option number three: exhaustion. 

Exhaustion and sleep deprivation are well known to derail cognition and snuff creativity. Have I made a serious effort to rest? Not really. It’s been business as usual: too much going on, not enough sleep, not enough down time. 

To test the hypothesis that exhaustion is the cause of my symptoms and rest the cure, what I have to do is… rest.  How? 

I feel tired just thinking about the pace of my life. Doctor, heal thyself.  So. What  specifically am I over-doing?

• Care-taking others: patients and family. 
• Administering: home and office. 

It’s too much. Too many details. Too many decisions. Too many people pulling on me. From morning to night. Day after day. Etc. 

Like Greta Garbo, I want to be alone. 

The solution is obvious: I’ll play hooky! I’ll go to Omega for a weekend of R & R (Rest & Rejuvenation)! he he he

Two days later, I drive south to Rhinebeck. The first couple hours on the Northway cut through the ancient evergreen beauty of the Adirondack Park, a six million acre natural preserve. For a timeless hour, I enjoy. 

Then orange traffic cones appear, and signs indicating a construction merge. I absent-mindedly barrel along and about a mile later, the left lane narrows into the right. I tap tap tap the brake in a controlled deceleration. A state trooper pulls out of a tangle of construction equipment, flashing his headlights at me.

I know immediately: the ticket won’t sting, it’ll gore. 

For David and Lorraine 

Here’s the thing about posting once a week: first you have to write something. No write, no post. Usually ideas ricochet around my head. Me! Me! Use Me! Not this week. Maybe they’re on vacation. Or sleeping in. Or on strike. 

OK. Let’s see. Hmmmm. Surely there’s more to milk from our trip to the UK. For instance. People there are so well spoken, so droll, so understated. The national ethos is reflected in business names and public notices. “Keep Edinburgh clean. Bin your trash!”

“I’m from the States. I’ve never seen “bin” used as a verb before!” I exclaim to the rain-coated older lady standing under the bus shelter with this exhortation running along the roof rim. She looks at me politely. Too politely. I smile broadly and tip my chin up at the writing above her head, then step back to point and shoot. 

She looks up. “Ah!” 

“Mind you,” she lilts in a beautiful Scots accent, with a twinkle in her eye. “There’s not a bin to be found anywhere up or down this street!” 

OK, good start. Now what?  

Nothing.  I want to grab my brain and shake it: Wake up! Ordinarily, the first idea ignites a second, which sparks a third, and so on, the writing rushing forward like a brush fire. I resist feeling discouraged. I must be patient. Receptive. Something will come.

Captain’s log, Starday Sunday afternoon…

I come to from a three-day migraine, convinced Son’s graduation barbeque and pool party is two weeks away.

“No, D, it’s next Sunday.”

The Twilight Zone theme floats around my head. Full work-week ahead. In-laws arriving Wednesday. Pool not opened. Fifty people coming. Nothing started. I want to EEEEEEKKKK! but can’t: too drained from the migraine.      

More proof that Murphy’s Law rules.  Whine? Roll with it? Whine.

Hubby and Son open the pool. Yuk. Disgusting. I sigh. I go on-line and order a huge fort float. Hoping for the best? No. Locking myself in to getting that water sparkling clean.

I ponder the menu and dash off the first of many to-do lists. I’m exhausted.

Hubby and Son promise they will do whatever I ask, without attitude. Really?

“Your command is like an order!” quips Hubby.

OK then. Forward march. 

THREE PART SECRET JUST REVEALED!!!

Got by you? Here it is, stripped down:

•  Keep a sense of humor.
•  Accept help.
•  Soldier on.

Simple in theory. But tough in the implementation. In other words, it's a spiritual practice. Sigh.

You can stop reading now if you want. That’s the gist.  If you're a glutton for detail, read on.

“You’re so busy! How do you do it?” I’m asked, not infrequently, about my writing process.

“With difficulty,” I usually quip. But, it got me thinking. How do I do it?  

It’s simple really, but not obvious.

It’s all about identifying your Modus Operandi (M.O.), your fundamental operating assumption(s).

By definition, we don’t question assumptions. Until…. 

One day, I noticed— very important, the act of noticing— that when I’m writing regularly, I am happy.

Yet— I also noticed— that I wrote only after taking the garbage out, at the end of the day when I was tired, or on edge that Son would interrupt my train of thought to ask for a ride. What’s up with that? I asked my self.

A-ha!  I wrote last, and then only with the dregs of the day’s energy. No energy left, no writing.  Sound familiar?

There it was, my self-defeating M.O., naked in the light of awareness. In a flash, I got it, and— Ciao baby!— committed to the new M.O.: 

The three of us lined up, stage right. Our music started. I counted the intro phrase then danced on stage, right left right pause, smiling at Hubby and friends somewhere out there in the black across the lights.

One two three pause— Right left right pause— Toward stage left I tripped lightly, the two other dancers behind me. And missed a beat— Damn! 

If I’ve learned anything in five years of performing in student recitals, it is this: obsessing about one mistake draws a second, and a third, and so on. Like blood attracts sharks. Still, the craving to berate myself was strong. A siren song. 

Living With The Budget, Part I

Living With The Budget, Part II

Living With The Budget, Part III

Phase IV: Mastery

Finally, after days trekking through bad terrain in bad weather, the Devoted Followers hiked the last mountain. At the summit, they fell panting to their knees at the mouth of the Great Teacher’s cave. The Learned Loner stuck his head out to see what was making that sick rattling noise.

The Followers cried out in gladness. “Master! We have traveled far to ask you our question!”

...Previously

The heavy bar suddenly pulled me out into space—OHMYGOD!

“Stand up! Stand up tall! You’re a princess!” Trembling fiercely,

Photos by Kathleen Porter

Pulling on the mandatory leggings, I moaned, Why? Why had I registered for this two-hour trapeze workshop?

Sweating, I ambled across the huge meadow fronting the thirty-foot high trapeze scaffolding. “Uncle Tony” strolled up to the check-in table. “You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he said. He didn’t bwa-ha-ha, but did he need to?

“Instant addiction, right?” I quipped back. The man’s eyes lit up. Oh God.