Remembering Pain

I've been thinking a lot about pain recently, physical, psychological and even what I would call spiritual pain. I've experienced all these in measure. In the late 1990's I had a procedure to correct a congenital defect in my chest wall (basically my sternum was crushing my heart and lungs together, which is not really a good thing). It's called Pectus Excavatum and used to be corrected by opening up the entire chest cavity, removing a portion of the ribcage altogether, reshaping this and then putting it all back together again (the Ravitch Procedure). This is, of course, a very invasive operation. However, were I to do this all again, it's what I would opt for. Instead, I had a newer, minimally invasive procedure (the Nuss Procedure). The Nuss Procedure has the benefit of only two small incisions on either side of the chest; much less surgery time, blood loss and all the related risks. The surgeon places a curved steel bar under the sternum and inverts it which pops everything into the correct place (sorry, 'pops' isn't the best word to use there; there are not a lot of good colloquial words to use when describing orthopedic surgery that don't involve some cringing). The bar then stays in place for a year and a half to two years whilst the bones learn their new shape. 

This all sounded well and good; but I was among the oldest patients to receive this relatively new procedure at the time (optimal age is in the early teens). In my 20's, the bones and connective bits had already hardened to their adult form. Unfortunately, this meant the procedure itself and the recovery following were painful...extraordinarily painful. 

I'm going to post below an extract from a letter I wrote to friends a couple weeks after the surgery then follow up with some other thoughts on the nature of pain and recovery. I'm thinking about this for some other reasons now that aren't related but there are a lot of things that I haven't shared about this particular procedure that might be useful for people in the same situation I was in.

I'm beginning to taper off on the meds now and can actually sit down and concentrate for more than a few moments. After eating only narcotics for a week and coming home to the same, one's mental state is altered slightly left of normal. I had planned a reading list for the hospital stay but found I was unable to concentrate at all on words (actually, in the hospital, the words would not stay still for me to read them.) If some of this letter makes no sense, I place full blame on modern medicine.

It is 9:36 a.m. right now; two weeks ago today I was in the O.R. having a fourteen inch steel bar run across the width of my chest under the sternum. Within the hour I will wake up in the recovery room in an extraordinary amount of pain. Fortunately, I remember nothing from the recovery room. Apparently I woke up and began violent convulsions; they gave me pain medication called Demerol (Pethidine) which I reacted to and went into respiratory depression (my breathing slowed way down). A couple hours later I remember waking up in my room with the doctor standing over me saying that the surgery was successful and he was pleased with the results...and, yikes, I was still in a lot of pain!

I had an epidural tap to reduce the bulk of the pain. An epidural is similar to an IV but it is inserted in a space along the spine. It has to be placed very precisely. When I woke up, instead of my chest being numb, my arms were asleep. Somehow the end of the tap had been misplaced after the surgery (perhaps when I was trying to launch myself out of the recovery room) and the drugs weren't reaching the right set of nerves. So the pain team (led by Dr. Napoleon Burt--if you need pain management, he is the man) set me up in bed (aaaaarraraaag!) and repositioned the tap. They were pumping a morphine derivative called Dilaudid (Hydromorphone) in the epidural. I was a little concerned about having narcotics pumped into my system but am exceeding glad of them. I had 10cc/hr. through the epidural and whatever else I needed for "crisis pain" injected through my IV of some other form of morphine. Even after that I was really in agony sometimes. The first few days had some gruesomely painful episodes. On the first day Dr. Burt told me that I had chosen one of the top three most painful surgical procedures to undergo (somehow nobody mentioned that bit-o-trivia beforehand.) It was not the movie kind of pain where a hapless character has his legs bitten off by a creature from the 8th dimension and screams out the big cinema cry of pain. It's this pain where you can't cry or scream or move to release any of the psychological pain that the mind is going through as well. I found names for the different kinds and levels of pain. There was the always the sore tightness across my chest (almost as if someone had gone in with a metal bar and stretched out all the muscles and bones). The most frightening time was the ten minute window I had before the onset of crisis pain. There was a certain pain that would begin and build into the feeling of someone carving off my chest with an old electric turkey knife. Once that pain began, there was no going back to the base level without a lot of drugs. I'd call for the nurse immediately and she would shoot a dose of morphine into my IV. Oftentimes that was not enough though and I'd just be there in bed writhing. The next step was a heavy dose of Dilaudid; as this is a really powerful opioid, it would knock out feelings of anything for an hour or so. The problem with that drug was, once it was administered, my breathing rate would slow down to 10...7...4...3...LOUD ALARM...breaths per minute. It begins to shut down the involuntary reflex centers of the brain. So my pain was gone but I would have to think "breathe, breathe, breathe." If I dozed off the LOUD ALARM would sound because I was forgetting to breathe.

After a few days the pain team was able to generally regulate my discomfort and it came time to remove the epidural tap...perhaps we should have left it a bit longer. By the way, it was a little celebration every time I had another tube taken out. I had the regular IV, the epidural, a catheter for (well, you know), a tube in my chest to drain out extraneous fluids and air, and various sensors attached for monitoring cardiac and respiratory function. Once I could get up, it took several minutes to disconnect me from everything and go to portable mode. Even then I was trolling around with the IV stand in one hand (the IV and epidural pumps were these hi-tec computerized deals) and this clear bag-o-pee in the other while all these wires from the sensors trailing behind.

This is the bar that was in my chest; there was a smaller stabilising bar running vertically as well  .

Then the epidural was removed (Saturday). The idea is to put the patient on the medication he is to go home with and see how he does. I didn't do well. The first line up of medications made me really nauseous (I say really nauseous because they we giving me an oral anti-nausea medication along with one in my IV and a patch behind my ear--I was still vomiting up the works.) Also note that I hadn't really eaten till then either; I was puking Canada Dry ginger ale and Jell-O. I didn't realize that one can actually projectile vomit (launch vomit with ballistic force across the room). I soaked down Dad and a couple nurses more than once. Of course, it was exceptionally painful to vomit; it felt like somebody punching my right in the sternum. So we got on this cycle of medication, nausea, vomit, pain, medication...at some point someone inadvertently ordered another dose of Demerol, the painkiller that I reacted to in recovery. My skin turned red up the vein that my IV was in and I began breaking out in these fiery blotches all over. We couldn't figure out exactly which of the meds was causing my nausea; we kinda found out when I took a 400% dose of one and had an upchuck frenzy. So we switched around several of them and tried this anti-nausea medication used for cancer patents taking chemo (Zofran, take one pill every 4-6 hours as needed...5 pills, $148!).

I didn't leave the hospital till one week after the surgery. Even then I was still sick (I don't remember the ride home) and uncomfortable all over (my bowels went to sleep--ever go a week without, eh...). I don't remember a lot of what happened during the stay; I was heavily medicated most of the time. For several days afterward, I could taste medication and was still hallucinating (whoa, had some wild times with that too). Fortunately, I'm tapered way down now on the medication and have a voracious appetite. I'm back home in WV at my parents for now. I'm still generally sore and can't lie down flat but every day marks an improvement. I have breathing exercises and am gradually going up to my expected capacity (I'm at about 1/4 right now). The lungs have to be trained to use the extra space now provided. The bar seems to have stayed in place; except I can occasionally hear a click-click where the metal and ribs are still making arrangements for living together. And, of course, I no longer have this big dent in my chest. I'm still rather slim but much more aerodynamic now.

There is more to relate about coming to terms with the everyday pain I experienced over the next year and a half with the bar in as well as what medications can do and how that can effect one's perception of pain and recovery. I'll write more about that in the coming weeks. 

TAFE Announces Major Rebranding

I drafted this several weeks ago to release on April First; however, for some reason, nobody was very keen on posting it as an official press release at work. But here it is as an exclusive on edgeofsomewhere:

Today TAFE NSW announces a major rebranding and refocus of its educational mandate. TAFE NSW Director of External Communications, Angelo Moriondo, says that TAFE acknowledges the changing landscape of education in the 21st Century. "We've examined growth industries across the state and country as a whole. We're looking at the places where almost everyone in Australia interacts and the businesses they encounter everyday." With that in mind, TAFE NSW will expand its reach with a new concept in education, TAFé. Moriondo continues, "We aren't dropping any of our current courses, instead, we are revitilising several of them with a coffee themed curriculum that, we hope, will draw in a new generation of students. In fact, we plan to reach out into demographics we don't traditionally cater to with new satellite campuses in several urban neighbourhoods."

The first new campus will open September 2013 on Crown Street in Surry Hills; it's an experimental concept campus housed entirely in a swish café (or TAFé, to use the new terminology). "The current trends in technology encourage distance learning and online collaboration; our field research noted scores of people wandering around Surry Hills with powerful laptop computers and seemingly little use for them other than checking Facebook and fashion weblogs. They aimlessly roam from café to café drinking coffee all day. That's a potential student population who we can help educate and give some purpose in their lives; they can use that time in a TAFé to build skills and develop into productive members of society." TAFé 'campuses' will be wholly staffed by specially trained students and teachers equipped to speak fluent Hipster and function in that environment. "It's already acknowledged that TAFE educates tens of thousands of Australians at a high level every year; however, we are leaving out a whole segment of society that need practical skills beyond the ability to find someplace with Wi-Fi."

The TAFé concept was developed in conjunction with Brothers, Sons and Oswald, the American firm behind last year's highly successful Megamucil brand launch. Pierre Laxitif, branding manager for Brothers, Sons and Oswald explains, "When Metamucil realised their product image was limited in scope, we considered that their traditional demographic was much less sedentary than thirty years ago. At the same time, brands like Mother and Red Bull were mostly marketed towards youth. So we developed Megamucil, a highly caffeinated, high fiber drink targeted to the Boomer generation. So far, 'Megamucil, You'd Better Run' has been our most successful campaign. Likewise, TAFE has traditionally missed out on the I'm wearing a trendy t-shirt with tiny coffee in hand market and we think the TAFé concept will help draw them in." TAFé will offer themed beverages that pay homage to past great shifts in education such as the Frothed Whitlam in honour of the former Prime Minister's efforts to make higher education accessable to all Australians. "We'll offer a free round of Whitlam's every day for whomever is in the room at the moment, but they'll gradually increase in price after that. We've got the very strong long black Midnight Oil as well and, of course, the Piccoli."

Normally a major rebranding comes at significant cost, however TAFE NSW was able to strike a deal with a Czech company also in the midst of rebadging. Angelo Moriondo explains, "They are dropping a couple letters out of their name and, because of this, will have a significant amount of surplus accent marks. It's really beneficial for us as, with the current round of budget cuts, we can barely afford to hire permanent staff, let alone purchase a bunch of apostrophe things. All we'll need to do is go out and affix these to our current signage and we'll just have everyone use a pen on their business cards and stationery. They also had a bunch of háčeks which we could have used as well but we figured that nobody would be able to pronounce TAFě."

Theresa Rasputin, spokesperson for the Government Office of Rebranding and Door Signage voiced support for the change, "We are eager to see TAFé innovating with the changing face of education. We are especially keen to see students gaining the skills needed to work in café environments as we feel that will probably be a necessary step for many of them as we restructure funding for higher education."

Surry Hills Hipster, Johann Strauss-Strauss seemed eager to give TAFé a try, "I did a double major in Art and English Lit. in uni then went on to do postgraduate work in Anthroposophy. If I could learn something useful at TAFé, I'd be willing to give it a go." Strauss-Strauss went on to enquire whether TAFé would do it's own roasting and whether the beans would be organic.

Also, TAFé will simultaneously release an Android and iOS app as well as a special Gestetner machine for every TAFé campus. This will allow teachers (or Baristeachers as they will be known) to distribute assignments in the most advanced--or excessivly retro way possible. Students (or 'denizens') will, in turn, submit work via a wiki or typed out on manual typewriter.

Latching on and liars

I have an ability to define my own space in the city; I can stand in a crowd of thousands and still maintain my own boundaries. However there is a particular form of boundary interruption that tests my limits; I’m not sure what they are actually called, but it’s the people on the street who are attempting to get you to join…something. Unfortunately, I seem especially unable to avoid encounters with them. I’m not sure if it’s that I look approachable (or perhaps gullible). But these people latch on to me and won’t take no for an answer no matter how much I protest I’m not interested in even talking to them. Unfortunately, my work is right next to Central Station in Sydney and there are usually a phalanx of them standing at the entrances waiting for passerby possibilities.

I am just not good at turning people away in these situations because they are often smiling and pleasant and I don’t want to seem rude (I am seriously trying not to obtain the permanent ‘do not interact with me in any way’ city scowl face). However, today, I was approached by a fresh young faced representative of [well known Australian not-for-profit which I shall not name]. I made clear to him that I didn’t want to stop and speak and kept on walking. He walked with me. I said I really didn’t want to speak. He persisted; ‘Haven’t you heard of XXX?’ ‘Yes’ I said, ‘I am a member’ (which, in fact, I am) and I walked on. As I walked away, he said, ‘Well I know that’s a lie.’

I stopped. For a moment, I’m sure there was some deep desire to unleash righteousness upon him, but I just quietly said, ‘no, really; I’m a member already.’ Then I walked away; I walked away truly hurt. I wasn’t so much hurt for myself, though I had just been called a liar by a complete stranger on the street. I was hurt at just another evidence of the ‘civility drain’ that seems so evident all around. Smokers blow smoke into the crowd at crosswalks. The loud music listers on the train. The people who do…all the other things…on the train. Why did that at all seem like an appropriate comment for him to make? Why, in the first instance, was it not my right to say that I did not want to stop and talk? Who is he to define what boundary choices I make?

As I came home, I reflected on what effect this same scenario might have on others. Were I a violent person; I might have reacted aggressively if challenged. I might have attacked this fellow for calling me a liar. What if I rarely went out and had issues with being in public to begin with; I might have completely withdrawn for weeks from an incident like this. I did come home, call the organisation he was representing and cancelled my membership. I realise that it’s a large organisation and that one voice on the street does not represent the whole. But I explained to the membership rep on the phone what had happened and why I was withdrawing my support.

Organisations cannot harass people into support; I do wonder how many people on the street just delight in the approach of someone attempting to garner their dollars as they go to the train at the end of a busy work day. I am sure that insulting the potential (or current) member is not a good strategy at all.

In the midst

I am still here, somewhere. No, wait, that’s a really sad way to start a weblog entry.
I made time some weeks ago to have a two day retreat at a monastery to get some clear head space. There was some of that and some serious consideration of a couple things that are really alive in my spirit at the moment (in both positive and negative ways). What I haven’t had is the space to really resolve or process these things in a satisfactory way. I am determined though to get into a routine of physical and mental practice. I’m going three days a week to yoga and beginning to meditate regularly.

Meanwhile, we’ve started a new campaign at the Teachers Federation and I’m the defacto social media manager. We filmed these ads a couple months ago; they are running right now on Australian television and cinemas. I’m managing the twitter feed @TFtmd

Misinformation

My web host is changing hands and, for whatever reason, I’ve not been able to access the back-end of my weblog for weeks now. However, it seems to be back and I’ve got some things to write about in the next few weeks. Meanwhile, here is a bit of political satire I wrote and filmed last month at work.

Some Are Evergreen

I’m still sorting through a lot of old files and letters; I wrote this from New York in 1999.
It is Sunday morning, the last day of October. Somewhere in the city beyond (and beyond the city) one Person is awake and thinking; he wants to build a shelf for the closet—his Wife has too many hats. One Woman has forgotten where she put her slippers; her dog remembers, though he tears one slightly at a seam. One Man is lifting up a potted plant for the Lady across the counter; His Father was a florist in Brussels. One Minister is Praying over his sermon; some of the youth will not appreciate it, some of the deacons disapprove, some of the elders speak thoughtlessly over coffee—one Woman and two Men will change the direction of their lives. One Boy is waiting in the hamper to frighten his Sister when she walks into the room; their Parents work late and sleep still. One Father Kisses his Wife and Daughter good morning; he has to work today at his newsstand. One Man is cold on the sidewalk with a group of Friends, their breath steams with the life of speaking. Outside their windows this river flowing by becomes quickly an ocean—carrying leaves from the front of my window. All my faceless leaves and these People who are formless from this room, yet speak and pray or remain silent—these fragments form a whole of unknown parts. Someone rings a bell in the distance. All those people are happening at this one moment; their actions and decisions behind those actions move them along to the next moment…the next, the next, yet they are all here in this one space of time. My fingers tap out words for them and the next moment comes.

Beyond the window, the trees, the river, and every city are People I know and hold dear. They are waking, have made a breakfast, are praying, speaking, shaving, reading, loving, watching the leaves. All this activity—all the activity behind windows in all the cities, yet we are connected like the leaves on a tree. We remain and grow and color; no matter the distance between branches we feed from the same stem. We are alive and have grown together from green buds. Though every leaf is still separate. Among this short list of kindred people—every one a distinct voice, face, prayer, love, yet still all connected to the branches—still breathing and drawing life from a single source.

It is Sunday morning, the last day of October. Outside my widow the calendar of nature is turning to Fall. I am inside with a voice. My voice is not loud, perhaps it should speak with more force. I am inside with a prayer. My prayer is not always spoken well, perhaps it should pray with more faith. I am inside with a love. My love is not loud; my love is not enough prayed for. There is a calendar in the leaves and we are all connected to the Branch. I cannot sit here inside the windows and call for Spring. There is a turning season; I do not know what each season brings. We are connected to the Branch and the tree is living. The sun breaks through and shines on my table. Leaves fall; some are evergreen.

Short Story Misadventures

I was musing recently about the difficulties I had in my university Short Story course…perhaps more than difficulties…actually, nearly complete wash-out. I’ve just, coincidentaly unearthed a handful of floppy discs from the era containing evidence of this. Here is a draft of ‘Inside and Out’, an assignment for the class; my special favorites are the typo ‘grandmother’s doom’ and ‘(insert epiphany)’. I’m not sure if that was later added.
Eric felt sick, the odor was a cross between ammonia and the locker room at school. It was rather hot as well, but all the residents were bundled up in a patchwork array of sweaters and blankets as if the windows were open. He walked up to the nurse’s station. On a chair unworthy of her size sat a hefty nurse reading a cheap paperback. She didn’t seem to notice him standing there. He cleared his throat but the sound was muffled by one of the residents calling out for coffee. There was no bell so he tapped his class ring on the counter a few times. The nurse stuck a brochure about Tahiti in her book and glanced up with a pre-packaged smile. “I’m here to see Mrs. Mazza.” Eric said. “Oh hello honey,” she said, “you’re Nina’s grandson aren’t you?” Eric nodded. “I knew it,” she said. “I could tell by your facial features, your nose and eyes and things.” Eric wondered if she thought he didn’t know about facial features. “You just let me run in and get your grandmother situated for visitors and I’ll be back in a jiffy” She stood and shuffled down the hall. Relieved to be rid of its burden, the vinyl chair re-inflated its foam stuffing. Eric sat down on a couch by the window and looked around the room. Several people were reading battered magazines that were current several months ago; others just sat staring at the snow outside. Eric looked through the window. It’s so cool and fresh outside he thought. He glanced down at the layer of dust on the sill and picked up an old copy of Better Homes and Gardens. In the middle of an article on composting, a husky old man with one leg ran his wheelchair into Eric’s knees. “Ho! sorry son, my piloting skills are a bit rusty.” the man said. Eric began to speak, but the man took off down the hall almost pummeling into a frail lady with a walker. The nurse returned, had she purchased that uniform before her present size? “Grandma’s all ready to see you.” she said. “She’s had her nap but remember the medication she’s on makes her a little nappy all the time.” “That’s O.K.,” Eric said, “I won’t be staying long.” She took Eric by the arm and pointed down the hallway. “Right down there in 117, her roommate Elma’s asleep but she’s almost deaf so don’t worry about noise.” Eric walked down the hallway; the nurse’s chair voiced a complaint about being sat upon and a piercing voice again called for coffee. He dodged the passing of the wheelchair warrior returning up the corridor by ducking into a sterile smelling broom closet. Several residents sat in the hall gazing at the floor or mumbling to themselves as if the floor was going to leave them or the wall could converse. “Do you have Marcy?” one woman asked imploringly. Eric stopped and looked at her, a wild tuft of her dry hair swirled round in the currents of the heating vent. She seemed surprised that he stopped; her bony hand shot up and grasped Eric’s arm. He wondered where she picked up such a firm grip. “Marcy,” she said, “What have you done with her Roger?” Eric loosed himself and walked down the hall as the woman continued to speak to him. “You’ll be sorry about this later Roger.” said the woman, “Time will catch up with you and you’ll have to let Marcy go” Eric didn’t hear any more, he turned and entered his grandmother’s doom. The blinds were half drawn casting a diffuse pale light. Eric crossed to the far bed where his grandmother lay. She was again napping, her kindly face resting on a pillowcase she had made herself. Quietly, a little cu-cu clock on the wall ticked to itself. Elma seemed to be soundly asleep in the other bed, a mild snore escaped every few breaths. Eric sat down on a stool beside his grandmother, it gave a sharp creak announcing his arrival. She stirred and looked up at Eric. For a moment her eyes focused on him but then, as if he had vanished, she looked past him through the window. “Conrad,” she said, “thought you’d come out to see mama?” “No Mama,” said Eric, “It’s me Eric, your grandson.” “Oh it’s so good to see you again, your father and I thought you’d never be coming back from that old army.” Eric didn’t know much about senility but he supposed he should humor her or else she might become upset. “Oh, uh, Mama, it’s hard to get away from base but you know I want to come and see you more often.” He shifted uncomfortably on the stool, as if he’d just lied to a close friend. “I know,” she said, “You’ve got a lot of responsibility on your hands. I understand you can’t come running back home every weekend.” He wondered how far she’d fall back into this. She sat up in the bed and picked up a shawl she was working on knitting. Her fingers flew into action, agilely forming each knit with the precision of an expert weaver. “I wish your father would let me get back outside.” she said, “But he says, ‘Nina you’re just too sick and need to stay in bed.’ I’d argue, but I suppose he’d just worry if I was out working.” She put down her knitting and looked outside with a slight sigh. “Look out there, I could at least help plant in the garden.” Eric glanced at the snow covered ground. A group of well insulated children were making a snowman across the street. “Where’s my teefh?” Elma shouted. She bolted out of her bed and began to search around the room. “I wish they’d take that crazy woman away.” Nina said “I don’t know why were putting her up. You think she’d be in a hospital.” Elma stooped over to search in a cabinet, tossing various memorabilia into a pile on the floor. “Your teeth are in that little jar by the picture frame dear.” Nina said. She pointed with her needle to a jar containing a set of teeth in a blue-green liquid. “Though I don’t know what you want them for now, it’s hours till dinner.” After swishing them around in the jar a few times, Elma fished out her teeth placing them in her mouth with a squelched sucking sound. She then wrapped herself up in loose blankets and lay back down in bed. “Anyway,” Nina said, “As I was saying parson, the more you preach on sin the less people are going to want to hear you.” Eric looked down at his faded jeans and climbing boots, wondering what kind of preacher would make calls dressed like this. “I’ll tell you one thing.” Nina lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned toward Eric, he hunched over in the stool closer to her. Her grey eyes looked into his with the strictest of confidences. “Some of the people in church,” she glanced around furtively to make sure nobody was listening, “some of the people really need to hear about sin. I know about some of the things people have done. If their deeds could just be brought out in the open maybe they’d repent. I could tell you some things…” She trailed off as a nurse entered the room and walked to Elma’s bed. She was carrying a rubber basket in from which she picked out an handful of pill bottles, emptying out their contents onto a little plastic tray. “Time for your medicine Elma.” shouted the nurse. Elma pitched over and cast a wary glance at the cheerful nurse. “Take em’ yourself skinny!” said Elma. With this she rolled up armadillo-like, protected by the shell of her blankets. The smiling nurse murmured something under her breath and walked out of the room. “You see,” said Nina, “if you’d just spend more time on your vocabulary you’d have less trouble with the reading assignments.” She pulled out a Reader’s Digest and proceeded to quiz Eric on a word list. After about ten minutes she seemed satisfied of his capability and put the magazine away. “Marcy!” The old woman wheeled her chair down the other side of the hall. “I’ve got the cards if I can just find you.” She passed by the door, pausing long enough to say hello to Edna. “Hello Edna,” she said, “How’s Howard?” Edna popped her head out from under the covers, “Take em’ yourself skinny!” she shouted as she withdrew back into her den. Eric decided he’d better venture some reasonable conversation since that’s what his mother had sent him for. “Mama,” Eric said, “Do they treat you well here?” Nina picked up her knitting once again and thought for a moment. “Don’t ever grow old son.” she said “Everybody you know just dies, your body doesn’t work right anymore, and you get scared to walk around outside. Sometimes I get lonely here, but it’s not like I’m alone. You see one of a person’s best friends is memory. When I start feeling heart-sick I just think back to the past and I’m not here in this little room. I can be anywhere.” Eric stared at his lap for a moment then looked up at his grandmother. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I don’t stop by more often.” “I understand.” she said, “If I were young it would be hard to visit a place like this, it would seem so old and stale, But don’t think of the place, think of the people. A person adds up to a collection of his experience and that’s what you’re visiting. Not this old body but what’s inside.”

(Insert Epiphany)

The clock on the wall struck three, thrusting a colorful little bird out of its maple case at each gong. Eric and his grandmother sat and watched the children play with the nearly completed snowman. One child was putting the finishing touches on the face while another was placing a black cowboy hat on its icy head. A woman with a camera emerged from the house to record the moment. As she snapped away the children danced around their newly created playmate, the falling snow provided a pointillistic picturesque quality to their glee. Nina yawned audibly and lay her head back onto the pillow. “Think it’s time for another nap.” she said. Eric rose from the stool and stood over the bed “I let you sleep then.” Eric said. He rested his hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. “It’s been good to see you” He said. “How about a visit next week?” Nina was already fast asleep, a smile came up on her face and planted itself there. Eric reached down and pulled the covers up over her. He walked back down the hall past the nurses station. “How’s your grandmother doing?” the oversize nurse asked, her chubby arms spread out over the cluttered countertop. “Better than I expected.” Eric said. He passed through the door to the crisp snow outside.

Teachers Federation Year in Review

Going to try to get back into blogging here soon.
Every year for the Teachers Fed annual conference, we present a ‘Year in Review’ video. I’ll post up this as it shows a lot of what I’ve been doing over the past year. I didn’t edit this one, credit goes to my colleague, Matt Joyce. (There is a lot of obligatory ‘show a little of everything’ in here so it might not be of interest to anyone outside the Federation.)

Speaking from the silence

I attended Quaker meeting this morning; somewhere down the street a group of high spirited people had either a very late night party from Saturday or an early start to this evening. As we Quakers attempted to sit in silence, our neighbors worshiped to techno and modern ballads (there was a story about questing for ‘booty’...perhaps something involving pirates).

This was…distracting. I am focused on this shared spiritual experience with my fellow Friends; open to the Light that resides in…Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick. Remember when there were we were the way toooooo remember whennnnn!

So I began to consider distraction itself and what it means to avoid it, confront it, and carry a quiet space within. In my work at the Teachers Federation, I have a recording studio. In it is a large steel box with a padded room inside; when the door is closed, it’s completely silent and one is isolated from all noise and distraction (the box is literally separated from the building itself, it ‘floats’ on rubber pads). I’ve jokingly noted to my collegues that, should they feel the need, they are welcome to close themselves inside for a while and carry some quiet space away when they leave. This is, in effect, what Quakers attempt to do collectively in Meeting. We come together for an hour of quiet to share of it in itself and then carry that away.

Yet, we’ve the tendency to covet the quiet space itself and forget the world outside. I know this morning, I became irritated at the outside sounds that were intruding on our silent considerations. Don’t you people know we are doing the important work here? We are…Zweeeeeeeeeeeeooooo! I am on the star! I am on the star! I am higher than the star! I am slightly left of the star and somewhere out in space! In Space!

I then considered what a recording studio (and the Meeting) is truly for. It’s not about the quiet space; the space is built so that something important can be clearly heard there. When there is something important to be said at Teachers Fed, someone with the voice steps into the silence and speaks. It’s about having a space for clarity so that others can hear without distraction; it’s not about the speaker himself or herself. It’s not really even about the experience that he or she has in that space. We go into the silence to speak what is necessary; there is the need for preparation, for pacing and quiet contemplation. But, in the end, all the work of building a place of silence is moot if nothing is spoken within is then spoken without. We have to bring the quiet voice out of the silence and into the world.

This is something I struggle with personally; I’m drawn to the quiet spaces and tend to avoid the messy cacophony of life. Part of this is my nature (insert long conversation about introversion and extroversion, hard-wiring of the brain, studies with chimpansees, etc.). But there is always choice involved as well. I then end, this morning at least, I chose to embrace the distraction, stand, and speak to the Meeting what I related above. The distraction became the Light speaking and, though the silence was broken, the voice heard in the end was that of a shared experience we carried away together.