Meditation? You Mean Sitting There Like a Pretzel, Not Thinking About My To-Do List?

 

 

Meditation. It’s all the rage these days, like kale chips and adult coloring books. Everyone’s hopping on the bandwagon, chanting “om” and levitating off the floor… or at least that’s what the Instagram influencers want you to believe. But for the rest of us, busy bees drowning in a never-ending to-do list, meditation sounds about as appealing as voluntarily getting stuck in rush hour traffic.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for inner peace and achieving or listening to Nirvana… as long as Nirvana involves a comfortable couch, a giant vat of cheesy dip, and the latest remake of Shogun. Because let’s be honest, our minds are like overstuffed gym lockers. There’s that work email you forgot to send bouncing around next to the grocery list you haven’t made, all tangled up with yesterday’s argument about how or even whether to fold the fitted sheet (fight me on this one).

Meditation is supposed to help you clear all that junk out, but let’s be real. The second you close your eyes and try to think of nothing, your brain throws a mental rave. Suddenly, you remember that embarrassing thing you did in high school, that time you accidentally called your boss “mom,” and the personal dread that you’ll never fold a fitted sheet correctly creeps in. It’s like your brain is a mischievous toddler, gleefully making sure you achieve absolutely no zen whatsoever.

Plus, sitting perfectly still for extended periods? Forget about it. My body contorts into more awkward positions than a yogurt pretzel dipped in rigor mortis. My leg falls asleep, my back aches, and all I can think about is how much I need a massage (and maybe a nap… in a vat of onion dip).

Now, some folks swear by meditation. They say it reduces stress, improves focus, and unlocks the secrets of the universe. Maybe. But for the rest of us, there are other ways to achieve a semblance of inner calm. Here are some alternatives, Kevin style:

Retail Therapy: Nothing clears the mind like a good shopping spree. Retail therapy isn’t just about buying things you don’t need (although, that pretty scarf does look divine), it’s about the act of browsing and the endorphin rush of a potential purchase. Just pace yourself and avoid the clearance rack; that’s a whole other level of stress.

 

Rage Cleaning: Sometimes, the most mindful activity is a good, old-fashioned cleaning rampage. Blast some angry rock n’ roll music, grab some disinfectant wipes, and channel your inner warrior on that dust bunny infestation. You’ll be amazed at how much better you feel after scrubbing the negativity away (and maybe finding some lost socks in the process).

 

Carb Loading: Let’s face it, happiness is often a giant plate of pasta. Indulging in your favorite comfort food can be a form of meditation, a celebration of the simple pleasures in life. Just remember, portion control is still a thing (or at least tell yourself that after the third helping).

Look, meditation might be the key to enlightenment for some for sure but for the rest of us, there are other perfectly valid paths to inner peace. So, ditch the uncomfortable silence and embrace your own brand of zen. After all, a little retail therapy and a giant plate of pasta never hurt anyone (except maybe your credit card balance).

–30–

 

 

Breathe

It was easy to lose focus and dither the time away, getting lost in e-mail or reports, working through the day without a break. I decided to prioritize finding time to physically leave the office at least once a day.
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Sciatica

Sciatica

Altho I’ve borne a child I can’t say I’ve experienced the pain of childbirth.   Early in my labor the doctor discovered the baby was in breech position and I’d need  a Cesarean,  and so I was put out and felt no pain.  (See My Brown-Eyed Girl)

And once I had a really bad compound ankle fracture from a fall.  I lay on the ground obviously in shock,   and then in the ambulance I was hooked up to a morphine drip,  and so I felt no pain.  (See Broken Ankle)

But let me tell you about my bout with sciatica,  and my Me Too moment with the creepy doctor who treated me.

If you’ve suffered with sciatica yourself you can feel my pain,  at times I felt something was inside my left leg gnawing at my bones,  especially at night when I was lying in bed.  I went from orthopedist to pain doctor to acupuncturist,  to no avail.   I even tried a supposed cure for sciatica I found on the internet altho there was no medical science to support it,  and my husband rolled his eyes when I told him that putting a bar of soap between the sheets would help.   It didn’t.

And so my suffering continued,  especially at night when my moaning and groaning kept us both awake.

Then a friend recommended I see his chiropractor, who he said worked wonders.  Altho I’d always been a little wary of chiropractors,  I was desperate and made an appointment with Dr B.

Dr B was a handsome man,  seemingly quite  charming,  and had a very impressive,  well-appointed office.   He came out to the waiting room to greet me and ushered me into a darkened exam room,  gave me a hospital gown,  and told me to undress completely.    I thought that was strange as the pain was only in my left leg,  but he was the doctor and I just the suffering patient,  and so I undressed and lay down on the table.   He told me to relax and began turning and manipulating my leg,  then after awhile his hands began moving up my legs,  startling and then alarming me.  I froze but am ashamed to say I was too confused and embarrassed to question him or call him out – after all he was the doctor.

Minutes later he said the exam was over,  I should make a follow-up appointment,  and he left the room.   Shaken,  I dressed and hurried out, and then I started second-guessing myself,   wondering if everything he did was a necessary part of the treatment and I had over-reacted.  But when I got to the outer office Dr B was waiting for me,  asked if my leg felt better,  and then invited me to meet him later for a drink.

Needless to say I didn’t make that follow-up appointment,  nor did I meet him for that drink.   Rather I left his office as fast as I could.

But altho I’d never say the affront and the indignity were worth it,  I must admit Dr B did cure my sciatica!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Migraine

Migraine

I must have been 11 or 12 the first time it hit me. I was sitting in the back seat with my friend Paula as her father drove us to a friend’s birthday party when I suddenly had a horrible nauseous headache.  I don’t remember exactly what happened after that but I assume Paula’s dad took me home.

That was my first migraine attack which I later learned is often tied to hormonal changes.  Thus mine began with puberty,  and periodically for decades I suffered those debilitating nauseous headaches when it felt a tight rubber band was pressing on my temples.  And altho I don’t remember broadcasting my ills,  among  friends it seems my headaches were legendary.  (See Carving Mr Pumpkin)

Today there are many migraine medicines on the market,   but back then there was no sure fire treatment,  so I’d lie in a darkened bedroom,  a cold compress on my forehead,  and wait to throw up – the one thing that eventually brought relief.

Once I was so sick at work my husband had to come and get me,  and once I was so distraught he brought me to a hospital emergency room.

I did consult a neurologist who questioned how often I suffered,  and for how long.  When I told her it happened 3 or 4 times a year with the attacks lasting an hour or so until I felt sick enough to throw up,  she said I should thank my lucky stars I wasn’t suffering monthly as some women do.   And she advised I try Ipecac,  an over-the-counter syrup that hastens antiperistalsis – in other words makes you throw up.   And so I always kept a bottle on hand –  until people with eating disorders began to abuse it to empty their stomachs,  and then Ipecac became a prescription med.

One day at work the subject of migraine came up over lunch.  My colleague Alex said his wife Beth was one who suffered monthly,  and often so badly he’d have to take her to the emergency room for relief.   Once,  he told us,  as Beth lay moaning on a hospital gurney,  a doctor told him that migraine  headaches can be alleviated by sexual intercourse.

Alex leaned over the gurney.  “Did you hear that?”  he asked his wife.  “Do you wanna try?”

Beth looked up at her husband.  “Fuhgeddaboudit.”   she said thru clenched teeth.

Postscript

The neurologist had advised me that dark chocolate and red wine can be migraine triggers,  and so for years I abstained from both.   But thankfully since the hormonal changes that came with menopause my migraines have ceased.

And so now I can eat the chocolate,  and drink the wine,  but first I raise my glass to everyone’s good health!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

A Man and His Water: A Chlorine-Tinged Odyssey

 

Swimming

Ah, swimming. That timeless activity – unless, of course, you consider the few unfortunate souls who haven’t yet grasped its aquatic glory. Evidence suggests most humans have been splashing around since the Stone Age, which, let’s be honest, is basically yesterday compared to the grand scheme of things. Here’s the kicker: even those toga-clad fellows in ancient Greece and Rome considered swimming a martial art. Can you imagine the intimidation factor? “Prepare to meet your doom, barbarian horde! I, Leonidas, shall vanquish you with a devastating… freestyle!”

Me? Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly born with flippers for feet. Unlike Michael Phelps, I didn’t emerge from the womb with a built-in breaststroke. My childhood consisted more of building elaborate sandcastle empires than conquering the high seas (or, more accurately, the kiddie pool). It wasn’t until junior high school, fueled by a potent combination of youthful bravado and the desperate need to escape a particularly soul-crushing philosophy lecture, that I decided to tackle this aquatic Everest.

The local indoor pool, bless its chlorinated heart, became my training ground. Picture this: an almost grown-up, flailing about like a particularly ungraceful sea lion, desperately trying to master the backstroke. It wasn’t pretty. But hey, perseverance is a virtue, right? Eventually, I graduated from the shallow end to venturing into the “deep end,” which, let’s be honest, was still only about chest-high. But progress is progress, folks!

Now, the question remains: where’s the best place to flaunt my (somewhat questionable) swimming prowess? The ocean? Absolutely breathtaking, but let’s be real, the constant threat of rogue waves and jellyfish stings isn’t exactly conducive to a relaxing dip. Lakes? Sure, if you enjoy the thrill of potentially encountering nature’s mystery meat – a submerged log, a discarded tire, and remember that fish piss in ponds and lakes (and the ocean.) For me, the good ol’ fashioned indoor swimming pool reigns supreme. Predictable (in the best way possible), clean (most of the time), and with a steady supply of chlorine-scented towels – what more could a swimmer ask for?

Of course, I wouldn’t be living the full human experience without acknowledging the many water-averse peoples. Look, I get it. The vast unknown can be intimidating. But let me tell you, friends, overcoming that fear is an achievement of epic proportions. Plus, think of the bragging rights! “Yeah, I used to be terrified of a little H2O, but now I can conquer swimming with the best of them.” See? Instant legend status.

So, the next time you find yourself poolside or shore-side, don’t be afraid to take the plunge. You might just discover a hidden aquatic talent, or at least manage a halfway decent doggy paddle. And who knows, maybe you’ll even inspire some poor younger souls to conquer their fear of swimming. Just remember, when it comes to swimming, the only true failure is remaining on dry land. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with the freestyle lane or a questionable outdoor tan line.

–30–

 

My 74th Birthday

Yep I finally reached the 74 water mark. Looking Young for my age, I m in relatively Good Heath. Now suffering from Diabetes with painful feet. It’s always something.

The world is in commotion. The Lord and my Loved ones are supporting me. I Just reached 500 subscribers after 5 months as a dj on my own You Tube Studio Channel.   My beloved friends, Robert and Brittany Turley Took me out to a very nice Chinese Restaurant to celebrate   my reaching 74. The restaurant was kiddy corner from The huge bank Of America Building which someday will be looked apon like the Parthinone in Greece. Robert has his office there. Beautiful Day. Great To be alive. Brittany picked me up in her electronic Chariot and off we went to pick up Bob on California street aand then walk over to some yummy food. I am suprised we didn’t lick our plates, the food was so good. Gave them a jar of real Honey.  picture below

Lifelong swimmer – good and bad

I learned to swim in Long Island Sound by New London, CT, probably when I was four or so. I like swimming in pools and the ocean. Don’t especially like lakes and their usually slimy bottoms. Concrete and sand are OK on the feet, for some reason.

I started snorkeling as an adult and love it. Most memorable snorkeling trips were in Tahiti and Fiji, where we saw three HUGE giant clams on one small reef, all with different colored lips waving in the current.

Very bad experience while on a sailing charter to the British Virgin Islands, where my wife’s best friend since their teens drowned while snorkeling on Anegada. It was a primitive beach, so my wife performed CPR for over 45 minutes until an NP arrived and pronounced our friend dead. Extremely traumatic event, as you may imagine. One thing that came from that was we always snorkel with inflatable snorkel vests now, which would have saved our friend.

To keep up with my wife, I got certified in scuba diving about 15 years ago, and have had some nice experiences. Most interesting was coming upon eight big lemon sharks at Bora Bora.

With climate change and no snow in Mn., this may be my last drive in white

The silent sentry deceptively contrasts against the cold winter sky.

A Minnesota winter is both a threat and a reward. 

“The beast is loose and kills tonight…”

Two popular songs portray winter with contrary emotions. The Russian band, Krokus, leads into terror: Russian winter, broken hearts/Cold winds in the dark/The beast is loose and kills tonight/Full moon burning bright. Run for your life/Run for your life/Run for your life/Run for your life. The much-overused “Jingle Bells” invites a joyful sleigh ride to a family dinner. I have combined touches of both themes in describing my 200 mile car ride home in the depths of a Minnesota winter.

December 2007: one of the worst Minnesota winter storms with gales and snowfalls of more than 20 inches. As my daughter, Ariel, and I drove in our Subaru to our northern Minnesota home 200 miles to the north, we faced weather warnings that should have convinced us to cancel the trip. The drive was scripted out of a Hogwarts initiation rite of passage for the apprentice wizards. We were leaving St. Paul headed toward a foreign, challenging world.

That day there were nearly a thousand reported accidents and a dozen plus deaths statewide. We saw cars stranded, crashed, rolled over with tires trying to find traction in the air above. Ambulances roamed around us with sirens moaning like cows lost in the snowbanks. The winter’s peculiar optics engaged us with snow tornados, sending their white forms without shadows at our windshield. Driving into the night, the winds exceeded 50 miles per hour which propelled our car into a vicious world of mysterious energy.

Large bulwarks of snow appeared on the road like icy crocodiles whose noses pushed out from the edges of the fields. We had to swerve to miss the sepulcher bodies or we would have flipped into the ditch. These snow amphibians blew across the road with a fantastical sense of power and threat.

Our vision stretched outward to fields covered with ribbons of fog and clumps of blowing snow.

Agitated  trees stood like camouflaged soldiers in a white swamp. The trunks were invisible; just the swaying tops of the trees were visible. It looked like lower limbs and tops of trees were moving toward us in the pockets of the storm. I felt as if I was in Elsinore at the overture of a tragedy. Would we get out of here alive?

The skidding traffic magnified the threats to our lives.

Vehicles would come up quickly behind us with their blinding lights, then hit the brakes, and suddenly dovetail across the road to pass. In the most frightening case, a snowmobile headed directly toward us with a shaking light that obscured my vision. Because of the snow flurries, I could only make out a bright object that frightened me with its apocalyptic threatening eye heading toward our car. The light suddenly swerved into the far lane. Startled, I braked and he stopped his threatening snow machine. He paused to stare at me. Then we passed by each other in the night.

My daughter and I arrived safely, though exhausted, at our home. It is just three hours away from the Cities at regular speeds. It took over six hours to reach our destination. Anna, wife and mother, was predictably relieved to see us appear out of the dark.

The next day was the total Minnesota weather denial that there had been any storm the night before. The sun rose in a clear sky and snow covered the ground like a well-made bed. Lack of any wind gave us the opportunity to fly in a Cessna Cherokee 4-seater over a fairytale landscape. Now we know what it means to enter rapture after the storm!

My daughter and I modified the popular song by Joni Mitchell to end our journey:

“We’ve looked at snow from both sides now, From up and down and still somehow
It’s snow’s illusions, we recall. We really don’t know snow at all.”

“Oh, what fun it is to ride….”

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Richard C. Kagan