“Sentinels”

They are on perennial duty, twin tabbies posted at the foot of the ancient tower. One sits in place at the first step, the other takes a loftier position a few steps higher. Everyone in town knows them. An elderly woman who looks as if she might remember when the tower was new—if she remembers much at all—feeds them daily on bits of fish and dishes of cream. No one else bothers, but the cats look well fed and the alleys around the tower are magically free of vermin.

When afternoon sun splashes gold on the stone, one curls up in the spotlight while the other maintains the watch. If you approach the stairs, one of the pair will come forward to investigate and his partner will block the way. Pet them if you wish, as they are amenable. Afterward, one might permit you to pass, but the other seldom will. He will circle your feet and push against your legs, using his weight to nudge you back a pace. Prove reluctant to retreat and his fellow will aid the effort, meowing insistently as you are gently steered back to the street.

On occasion, both will allow a visitor to ascend the stairs. On such occasions, neither cat will stir from his post or be wooed into petting, no matter how ardently the stranger tries to coax. Dual yellow stares in implacable feline faces eventually triumph and the shunned individual is free to enter the tower unmolested.

No one who goes in has ever come out.

Behaving Badly

I’m breaking in a new boss. Six weeks in, she’s awesome and she thinks I’m awesome, but the honeymoon hit a bump this week when she called to chide me for failing to review the standards of employee conduct (I didn’t make the deadline and the system ratted me out to her). “So,” she says, “what’s that all about?”

Tongue stuck firmly in cheek, I replied, “I don’t believe in standards of conduct. People should be free to behave like screaming orange toddlers.”

Of course I was kidding. She got the joke, we had a laugh, I clicked “OK” on the standards webpage, and that was that.

Only it wasn’t. Not really. What happened to “If you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all”? That’s what I was taught, and though I have occasionally strayed from the principle, for the most part, I try to practice kindness, tolerance, and socially acceptable behaviour. This last quality seems to have dropped significantly in standard, but I insist on maintaining the level of manners my parents still expect of me. I also happen to know a good many kind, generous, cooperative, polite and responsible people. The world is full of like folks, in every culture, religion, and race.

I wish they got the same level of attention afforded the ranters and ravers. I support freedom of speech and the right of people to have their own opinions, but we have become so ill as a society that the sickest of us are now media heroes and world leaders. We’re a step away from televising public executions, yet we are conversely outraged at the merest whiff of a perceived insult to a stranger. I’ll leave the examining of that contradiction to Bill Maher, who is better equipped to articulate my dismay ... but I have noticed this:

Paying attention to unacceptable behaviour only encourages it. Ego loves a reaction, so aim a camera or facilitate a panel discussion on its antics, and it will ramp up the output. When I hear my voice getting louder, it’s accompanied by the anxiety of my point being negated. If that happens, egad, I might have to accept another’s view and maybe change my mind. My comfortable reality may be proven false! Worse, my value as an intelligent being may be compromised, so even if I’m wrong (especially if I’m wrong), I’d better outshout my opposition. Volume equals conviction, right? And conviction means I’m right, right?

Riiiiiight.

Let’s make good behaviour fashionable again. Do something kind for someone today. Say something nice, or say nothing at all. Take the sting out of ego’s plot to ruin the world—or at least your little corner of it.

With love,

On Da Mend

I’ve been wondering why my arthritis chose this winter to reignite. I may not understand completely why it’s back until it’s gone again (one always hopes, right?), but I have some ideas. This life is about learning, and as far as my bones go, I think I failed grade three the first time.

The first time around, I declared war. I fought to be as normal as everyone else in my world. I didn’t always make it, of course. I had a ton of sick days during those years. I was deeply, truly angry when it beat me, and I used that fury to redouble my efforts, sometimes successfully and sometimes not so much. There were no trippy hippy platitudes for teenaged Ru, that’s for sure. I was locked in mortal combat with a monster and one of us was gonna die.

When it finally burned out, my relief was overwhelming. I had won. I was alive and my nemesis wasn’t.

I was also wrong. Oh, I was most certainly alive, but the bones—and my terror of their return—have haunted me to this day. The trouble with your worst fear is that it can manifest in ideal conditions. I have no idea what those conditions are, but something went haywire last fall.

Welcome back to grade three, Ru.

I’m a quicker study these days, though. This relapse happened for a reason. I hope it’s a short term stint, but this time I’m doing my homework between meltdowns. (I still have them, those opaque moments when the fear of indefinite hurting immobilizes me.) Anyway, here’s what I’ve learned so far:

Living with chronic pain is not a competition. It’s a process. If I didn’t know it before—which I apparently didn’t—I know it now. Rather than a battle for supremacy between me and my compostable container, it’s a cooperative effort based on mutual respect. I give it what it needs to feel better, be it ice, rest, or the occasional Aleve, and it stops hurting so much. Who knew?

Some days are easier than others. As my Scottish mum would say, you’ll be “up one day and doon the next.” Accept this and move on. Down days are frustrating, and sometimes you’ll weep anguished tears. That’s okay. Tears are not a sign of weakness. Tomorrow will be different. Sure, it might be worse ... but it might also be better.

Stay in the moment. Some of them (many of them) will hurt like the dickens, but not every one of them. Occasions do occur when the pain is overshadowed. Laughing with a friend. A hot cup of tea. Cuddling a teddy bear. Sun breaking through cloud. Watching a favourite movie. Even wrangling with a math problem can provide a welcome distraction. Cherish those moments by embracing, welcoming, savouring and otherwise being grateful for them. (There is always space for gratitude.)

Do not look too far ahead. Contemplating a future of non-stop coping will make you want to cut your throat. This saps strength better applied either to the present moment, if necessary, or spared for a moment when you really need it.

Rest and rejuvenate. Fighting pain while operating in day to day life takes more energy for you than it does for your healthy friend/neighbour/co-worker. I resisted this notion in my teens, when all I wanted was to be as normal as my buddies, but as a middle-aged adult, if I have to, I nap on a weekend afternoon. Sometimes I can’t keep my eyes open; at other times, I doze while listening to my silly jazz station. It’s nice for most of us to lie still once in a while. For you, it’s imperative!

Admit when you’re not up to par. It takes courage to say you’re unwell. I wish it didn’t. As with tears, pain is not a sign of weakness. It’s frigging pain. When you’re in it, it’s okay to say so (just try to maintain your dignity while doing it). At my worst last November, I discovered how much my co-workers care for me when they rallied to make my life easier during a particularly trying phase at the office. My honesty gave them a chance to be as kind and generous with me as they claim I am with them. Win-win!

Wash dishes by hand, in purely hot water (no cold), and wearing rubber gloves. Aching finger joints love the heat and the gloves ensure you don’t strain them further by gripping too hard on wet stoneware.

Remind yourself that, though pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. You may not have a choice about when it hurts, but you can certainly decide how to handle it when it does.

Finally, you may be alone with the pain, but you are not truly alone. Each of us is loved somewhere, by someone. You are no exception. It may be hard to remember this when you’re living your day one breath at a time. That doesn’t make it a lie. Reach out. Someone will answer.

With love,

Vampire Rain

The rain/snow/sleet/hail pings on the window pane behind me. The morning dawned grey and cold in the raw, rainforest winter way that makes your finger bones ache within minutes of stepping outside. It’s my day off, so no worry of having to venture into the unfriendly weather, but my plan to work with Caius and Aurelia is hijacked by my desire to write a vampire story.

I tend to write vampires in winter. Not so much in summer. No idea why.

*wink*

Anyway, last year, I began a vampire story that remains unfinished. It might get done this year. This winter, in fact, if I can keep my mojo going; it took a while, but I have reacquainted myself with the story so far and gained a little traction in getting it where it has to go.

I already know the ending. It’s the centrepiece in a trio of tales, the first of which, titled “Reunion”, was written in 2013. I’ve been sitting on the first line of the third part since then, with a relatively clear idea of how the trilogy will end—only in 2013 I had no idea that it was a trilogy. All I knew—all I still know—is that I am in no hurry to write what is now the third story.

Simply put, someone is going to die.

In avoiding what I thought was the sequel to “Reunion”, it came to me that a significant part of the greater story was missing, so a duo became a trio. I started writing the bridge last summer. It’s unusual for me to start a vampire story in August, but since this one takes place in Morocco, it was helpful to be sweltering while writing about the heat. Revisiting it now is part of my non-NY resolution to finish something in 2017, especially if it was started in a previous year.

Am I having fun with it? Actually, I am. I’m familiar with the characters and understand their MOs, and one of them wants the story finished almost as much as I do. He’s hardly impatient, but I sense that he’s getting tired. I also sense that my reluctance to complete the trilogy doesn’t make a darned bit of difference to him—and suddenly, I let go on a strangely comforting revelation.

He will tell me when it’s time to write that third story.