Park Walk in the Clouds

A tree branch snaps somewhere off to the right, and I register its descent, counting the seconds, anticipating the thud as it hits the ground. The sound barely echoes in this evening stillness, yielding quickly to the silence like a child told to hush. A single stone is disturbed and is sent tumbling, a few inches at most, yet I am certain about what happened as if I were watching its short-lived journey with my own eyes. It so happens that I am not watching it, because my eyes are closed, and have been for some distance now.

As we walk, I become more and more aware of the world around me, the world I would ordinarily only perceive by pattern recognition - tree, rock, yellow tractor. Deprived of my most overused sense, I am forced into the present moment by a combination of fear and curiosity. What if I walk into a tree? What if I step into bear droppings? What if I look somewhat different from the way normal people are supposed to look, different from all those people who don't walk through the park at sunset with their eyes closed… Gradually, curiosity takes over - Let me listen to the birds and … wait… what happened to the birds? The tranquility of this evening moment is disturbed only by a handful of distant bugs, making our footsteps and our thoughts the loudest events in the park.

It may seem that we are also subject to the decree of silence seemingly accepted by all living things here, but this is not the case. Our silence is premeditated, or perhaps - currently meditated. We are here to listen to the energy of the park, and to practice guided walking. Intellectually I know that I am not in any danger, for my hand is held firmly by my lovely companion who is not only excellent at avoiding bear droppings, but is managing to create an energetic space of acceptance and ease as we walk. I move inwards, and try an ancient Tibetan practice of cloud walking. I picture myself walking confidently right up to a cliff and then stepping off, onto the blue infinity, continuing to walk on that which is nothing. Although my goal is to feel weightless, all I manage to achieve today is a certain degree of lightness and ease. This is fine as well, there is no rush, and there are no deadlines.

A feeling of gratitude arises spontaneously in my heart, and we switch roles. No matter how many times I've experienced it, I've found being trusted to feel unusual. I am now balancing a feeling of responsibility with a sense of joy. I'm responsible for her safety, true, but I'd also like to return the favor, to provide her the best experience possible. I know intellectually that this is not in my control, so I try to drop responsibility in favor of pure love. It mostly works.

The road comes to an end, and so does this practice. A pair of green eyes offers me unquestionable love and understanding and a pair of my own reflections. There are two, on two levels at once - the images I see is just the surface. I realize now that she is not thinking, and that's the very state I'm after. In her perfect stillness she is reflecting my nature as a perfect mirror, and my own stream of thoughts begins to finally put on the brakes. This is like having real-time biofeedback that actually works. I understand now the poetic desire to jump into the pools of your lover's eyes, and I do this with my consciousness, joining with her and feeling a oneness that requires no words. I know that both of us are entirely content, and there is nowhere else to go. Not this moment.

Thinking Black

Even from here I can sense the subtle and quick pulsation in the neck, partially obscured by fur, though not well enough to hide it from me. To be quite honest, I don't know what sense I'm using to detect the creature's pulse. Sometimes I think I'm hearing the friction of the blood against the arterial walls, sometimes I feel as though I might be smelling fear. Pheromones and other fancy things, most probably. I know of such things, I've heard the voices talk about them before, from the warm silver box She stares at in the mornings. I don't always pay attention, of course - on most mornings the box talks about complete nonsense, and frankly I don't really understand why She would prefer the box to me in the first place. I may not talk about Remote Viewing or Astral Projection, but that doesn't mean I can't teach her how to do it. Like this morning, when I was exploring ancient Egypt… now there's a place where you get treated right.

Besides, She often needs help, She may not know it, but I do. If only She would calm down a little and stop baby talking to me as if I were a first-rate moron, I could really help her focus and even pull some of that darkness out, the thoughts she brings home sometimes. For now, I'll just have to keep doing it at night. She thinks that I crawl into bed because I like to be warm, and that's fine with me. An agenda of stealth, that's my game.

But now is not the best time to get sidetracked by all this pensiveness.

The pace at the jugular quickens slightly, the ears perk up - he heard something, though certainly not me. I am completely still, even my tail has ceased its unending oscillation. What is the deal with this tail business, anyway? I seriously think that sometimes it has a mind of its own. Sometimes it gets so excited that I can barely hold it still to … wait, hang on, he's on the move. A few hops at a time, taking his time to look around, cautious, and rightly so. All the caution in the world won't help you, little friend. Some of us are prey, that's simply how it is. It's not that I'm so unabashedly self-assured… although I am, in this case… no, sometimes certainty is just so clear and tangible that there is no doubt. Somehow I just know what is about to happen, it seems to come from somewhere both within me and beyond me. What was that phrase this morning? "Zen duality?".... call it whatever you like, as long as it helps me bring this rabbit home. Bonus points for helping me avoid the noisy rolling beasts, blind as they may seem, there have been more of them lately. I must think about this a bit more later… I'm not sure I like the way things have been changing around here.

Hold my thoughts… he stops, inches from my face. No, my furry prize, you cannot smell me, I'm downwind from you, and I smell you just fine. These are the nights when I'm truly grateful for being born black. He's staring right at me, sensing something, yet there is nothing to focus on, nothing to pick out in the blackness of the shadow. I am part of the shadow now… and boy could I work that topic for a while, but I won't, not right now, my thoughts must yield to the instincts that drive me to play this ancient game. Why do I even have thoughts, in the first place? Am I the only feline in the world that asks questions? I've tried it, tried talking to the neighbors, and would you believe it - nothing! Not a single ounce of interest in anything but stuffing themselves silly and commiserating on their dissatisfaction with the weather, all expressed in the same one-word neanderthal language they've used for millennia. Yes of course I know what they mean, but seriously, it's the same weather as last year. And the year before. Mrrl...Year? Yes, year, you mindless furballs, they repeat you know. And maybe it isn't so bad to be constantly surprised by what happens next, keeps life interesting I suppose… but taking it to such heights of ignorance! Makes me wonder sometimes if we as a race even deserve to catch our prey, after all, what makes us better? Are we really any different than those long eared, grass munching poop factories?

Maybe it's better not to go down this path, I don't want it to turn out like last winter, depression isn't that much fun, as it turns out. She pretty much had to resurrect me with her infectious liveliness - without her I'd probably just sulk into the blackness…. but hey, at least I'd blend in, right, right, eh? See, I'm not depressed now, that's right, not a bit. And now it's time to crunch on some collarbones, that's always exciting. And there he is, right on schedule, walking right into my mouth, I won't even have to run. Not that I mind running, mind you, I'm in really good shape, 8 pounds of shiny fur and shapely muscles, and I do say so myself.

Well, that's that then, and now I have my teeth in his stinky scruff, dragging him across the road. Why can't you furballs come a little closer to the house and save the Ghost some work? Maybe when She sees you on the steps, the gift of gratitude that I owe her, maybe she'll start calling me by my real name. Not that other name, I won't even mention it, it makes my tail hairs stick up every time I hear it… why do they always do that, these humans, why do they make up names for us and just assume that we're cool with it, that they are the foremost authority? Did you ever think to ask us? To give her credit though, She sometimes just calls me "Cat". Even that's better than … no, I won't fall for that trick, you won't make me say it. That name always brings up an image of a country bumpkin out to chop firewood. Not that I have an issue with alternative fuels, but seriously, it just doesn't feel cool. And have you seen me? I'm pretty damn cool. Now up the steps, furry token of gratitude, She'll be up soon.

Who has time?

I don't have time. Not today. I don't have time to write a blog post. I don't have time for the hour long lunch I just took. I don't have time to look through the puzzle books I looked through this morning. I don't have time to just sit here and think about how spacious my office is, or how delicious my milk tea is, or how nice the weather is.

I have to apply for jobs. I have to meet with a student. I have to meet with another student. I have to write tomorrow's exam. I have to make the weekly homework. I have to submit a paper. I have to meet with another student. I have to make a lesson plan.

I have to be a better researcher. I have to be a better teacher. I have to be a better planner. I have to be a better organizer. I have to be more motivated. I have to go to the gym. I have to go for a run. I have to eat less candy.

I don't have time to kiss my fiance when he meets me halfway on my walk home. I don't have time to give the dogs hugs in the street and scratch behind their ears. I don't have time to make these sentences so long. I don't have time for a delicious dinner. I don't have time to cuddle while watching TV. I don't have time to go to bed early.

I don't have time for anything.

So I may as well do what I want.

Method Man

My feet contact the ground in a steady rhythm, loosely protected by a pair of unfastened sandals. I am running across a dark Rite-Aid parking lot towards the welcoming entrance doors, left wide open on this beautiful October night, an indication that even the mosquitoes know that this warm weather is only temporary, and that they no longer have dominion over human outdoor experiences.

I typically do things for a reason, and this time I have two brilliant justifications for my apparent pedestrian impatience. On one hand, I am keeping one very lovely human waiting for a pack of Zyrtec (because just because you are comfortable enough to cry in front of each other does not mean that you should be crying continuously), and, on the other hand, I do like to run.

I scan the shelves carefully in an attempt to fulfill my quest without significant delay - but to my dismay, Zyrtec is the only item I am not finding. Still hoping for quick service, I approach the pharmacy counter and discover my coveted prize stacked neatly behind the two highly trained and professionally attired attendants, currently engaged with the two people ahead of me in the queue. A stern warning sign reminds me to respect their privacy and wait my turn, and that is what I do.

After a while, one of the employees decides to improve throughput through the use of pipelining, and asks me a question via human long distance communication technology (aka yelling): "What is your last name?" Having watched the process for some time, I immediately infer that she is expecting that I am here for a pre-existing prescription, and thus I preempt the useless search she is about to embark on with a direct answer: "I am just here for the Zyrtec". She gives me a knowing nod and proceeds to look around her in a somewhat absent minded manner dominated by focused disinterest.

It is quite clear that her surroundings are failing to entertain her for very long, as only ten seconds later she looks up at me and repeats the question, an inquiry which, unsurprisingly, yields the same answer.   I believe that this time I see a spark of cognition in her eyes, and indeed her second survey of the land is not limited to the ceiling, but appears to be focused on the general area of my interest.   As I finally approach the counter, I find myself looking at a pack of Zyrtec that is so close that I could (and do) touch it, and yet it is so far…

In truth, I knew this going in - a few cursory Google searches revealed that Zyrtec is a highly controlled product because it can be used to make meth. Thus I am not surprised when the two indifferently nice ladies request my drivers license. I am surprised, however, when they request that I swipe my license through the credit card reader. Figuring that they must know something I don't, I obediently run my non-magnetic piece of plastic through the magnetic reader slot. The ladies clearly believe that in addition to presenting a malfunctioning license I lack fine motor skills to properly operate complex technology, and proceed to swipe my license for me repeatedly for some time without success, producing only a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

Eventually, they switch tactics and attempt to have my license communicate with the RFID reader in the same device. We are clearly living in the dark ages in New Jersey, because my very pretty holographic identification card does not appear to be all that open to either form of communication, and is thus probably vastly inferior to its Pennsylvanian counterparts. Some five minutes later, the puzzled and frustrated employees finally admit defeat and concede to proceeding manually. This process involves typing the entire 15 digit license number into the point-of-sale unit using only their fingernails.

Some 20 minutes later, I leave the store with a pack of Zyrtec and newfound interest in watching Breaking Bad.

Home

Today.
I'm sitting in the Westport cabin next to a roaring fire while a light summer storm blows on the river outside the windows. We'll be moving on to our next adventure next week, and I'm thinking about the summer we've spent here.

Day 1.
We arrive on a rainy evening to a house on a beautiful river that has no electricity or running water. No, that's not quite true. When we turn on the pump, water gushes out from a severed pipe under the kitchen floor. Which we know because the floorboards aren't attached so we can easily lift one up to reveal the half-drowned crypt beneath -- a graveyard for plastic milk bottles, for reasons I will not spend time attempting to fathom. Oh well. At least we remain hydrated from above as well as below. There's plenty of water coming from the ceiling, fresh from the clouds, with only a tinge of roofing tar.

We look at each other for a while, each reading the other's face for whether we are going to abandon the whole idea of living here and just find a motel that'll take us and the dogs for the next two and a half months. But finally, with a nod, we acknowledge that we won't turn back now. We take stock of the task ahead.

The main room is full of furniture in various states of decomposition, most of which seems to have come with the house when it was purchased decades ago from an even then long-defunct boys' camp. The floor -- which itself is comprised of boards of wood that seem to be in a state of disagreement amongst themselves about which way is horizontal -- is covered in threadbare rugs with a zeal for one-way transmogrification (into dust). And on top of all of this is a pile consisting of the summary of five years of modern living, most of which seems completely pointless now that we've clearly returned to basics.

As Asa goes out onto the porch -- most of the slate tiles of which have been torn out and removed, leaving bumps like concrete roots in the resulting stone jungle -- and takes a maul to the most accessible and least moldy furniture, I start and tend to a fire in the huge stone fireplace that acts as the centerpiece of the room. (In the dark, I can only see the outline of its majestic form. It won't be until later that I notice the yellow expanding insulation that Asa and his brother used to seal up the cracks in the stone twenty years ago.) As I feed pages of a mold-eaten zoological volume from 1880 into the flames, I can't help thinking of two young fugitives in a fairy tale who've stumbled upon what is obviously a witch's house in the woods. Slowly but surely, we begin to revel in the adventure.

Today.
There's a comfortable familiarity now to the sound of raindrops falling into pots in the kitchen and the faint smell of gas that leaks out whenever the hot water is on for too long. A floorboard is leaning up against a wall -- surprisingly, it was the only one that gave up under our weight  in all this time and broke to reveal a four-foot drop to the ground below. There's a collection of shells on the porch that we've gathered on our daily walks on the beach. The dogs are sitting by the river and wistfully watching the droplets hit the water. I think they, too, know somehow that our time here is almost up. Maybe they know that if we come back next summer, this house and its decades of do-it-yourself fixer-upper history will probably be gone.

Something about our time here turned this abandoned witch's hut into a home, and we'll be sad to see it go. But it's given me faith that anything can be an adventure worth having, and that's not a bad thing by which to be remembered.

But for now, please excuse me. Our rain pots are overflowing.

Braking Bad

I am keenly self-aware as I set the emergency brake and finally kill the engine.  The ringing silence leaves me with a sense of accomplishment diluted by a tinge of accumulated stress.  I slam the rusted door of my truck without looking and step over a bubbling stream of iridescent brake fluid running out from under the vehicle.  Brakes are entirely optional.  Thirty minutes of towing, three dozen stop signs, red lights, and crazy jersey drivers - and I never touched the brake pedal.  Wouldn't have accomplished much, anyhow, except making me feel better, maybe.

Some hours ago, back in the age when I was still convinced that I would be driving this truck well into the 22nd century, I arrived at the municipal boat launch and encountered my first challenge of the day.  Imagine typical city gridlock during rush hour, and now imagine the same experience without traffic lights or any semblance of rules.  Now, add boat trailers and randomly subtract driving skills.  Leave excessive common courtesy, at least for the most part, and you have your standard boat deployment wait time.

As it turned out, gridlock extended all the way into the Raritan Bay, and that proved to be the second challenge.  As a solo sailboat operator I am faced with a self-imposed dilemma: I need to get the boat off the trailer, park it safely, and then return to move the truck into the parking lot.  This procedure might seem simple, but it involves considerable variability for two highly related reasons:  this is a racing catamaran with no motor, and the wind is not entirely in my control, regardless of what delusions of grandeur I might entertain.  In actuality, launching often involves the following entertaining moments:  slamming into other boats, slamming into a pier, getting your lines tangled on the trailer as well as the general inability to dock.  The latter is an extreme and rare event during the launching comedy hour, but today was a day of rare opportunity, and I was able to accomplish nearly everything on the list, but not before I kept the boat ramp tied up for a good 20 minutes while waiting for a docking spot to free up.  In an attempt to confuse the already puzzled spectators even further, I waited for the docking spot to free up and then chose not to use it - I just went for the beach.

Barely an hour later I was coming back to repeat all of the above in reverse order.  The wind was stronger than I expected and the experience is simply not that enjoyable when you realize that you need to gain about 100 pounds in order to be able to properly manage the craft by yourself.  Since I am both unwilling and most likely incapable of turning myself into a walking ballast, I decided to surrender at this point and return to base.  This time around, I gave up on the idea of proper docking and beached the craft again, leaving it in the care of the wind as it gently but insistently pushed the boat onto the sand.

Usually, when people describe experiencing "that sinking feeling", they are referring to intuition.   What I experienced should not be confused with listening to your inner guidance, as it was an entirely physical sensation of my right foot encountering no resistance from the brake pedal.  Now, my truck has its share of brake system variability, and I was almost willing to chuck it up to a bit of air in the lines or a defective caliper (again!), when I experienced what I would in fact describe as listening to inner guidance, and so I got out and checked the fluid level.   I stared in disbelief at the empty reservoir for at least 10 seconds, which is a long time to spend on gauging fluid level.  This is a moment when your mind searches wildly for a straw of sanity to grab onto, for a way to explain the perceived reality away, for a way to deny it and to continue on with life the way you wanted to barely a moment ago.

I looked under the truck and was quickly denied the last grabbable straw - brake fluid was running down both rear wheels, a feat seldom accomplished through even the most severe brake system malfunction.  Everything was so thoroughly coated and dripping that I quickly gave up trying to narrow down the location of the rupture.  What I was as yet unwilling to give up was the possibility of a makeshift workaround.  Did you know that dollar stores sell brake fluid?  Three jugs of brake fluid later (and one rather confused cashier, for I was still wearing the hat and sailing gloves) I determined that the brake system is, shall we say, mostly off-line.

One hour later I was off the phone with Good Sam Roadside assistance, now heartily assured that there is no way, under any circumstances, for any amount of money, that they would tow my boat trailer, much less extract the boat from the water.  And that's after the "we'll tow whatever you're driving, no matter what" sales pitch.  Well, at least I tried.  And suddenly I saw it - I saw my future, I saw myself still sitting in the Keyport Municipal Boat Launch parking lot, grey and old and mostly toothless, still waiting to pay an exorbitant fee to multiple tow companies just to get my two vehicles home.  And behind it, glimmering with radiance, I saw a different future, a future in which I was home, having raw greenola and a relaxed conversation.  And I made a difficult (not!) choice.  

This was what I have been training for my entire life.  All the perfectionist power shifts, all the coasting, religious downshifting, timing traffic lights and braking distance and the general disdain for the brake pedal - there was a purpose behind it all, a method to my madness.  That's what I tell myself, anyway.   So I took a deep breath and re-calibrated my brain, my instincts and my reflexes.  And then I drove my truck and trailer onto a ramp leading straight into the ocean, having no hydraulic help in keeping my already rusty vehicle from getting a saltwater bath.  And I survived.  And then I drove it home.   And everyone else survived.

There should be a conclusion of some sort in this paragraph, since this is the end.  But since "And this is why I drive stick" sounded too evangelistic and "I'm so awesome" was already adequately expressed, I'll have to forego all that in favor of an expression of infinite gratitude for this and all experiences.  Thank you, universe, for letting me get away with all sorts of stuff.

Saying Yes to Allergies

The Yes Man

Sometime in the late 20th century, a western man visited the deteriorating Soviet Union to speak at a conference on efficient communication and conflict resolution. At the time, foreigners were quite rare within the communist state and were thus automatically afforded a status of authority, causing people of all walks of life to cover great distances to see this man speak. The speaker got on stage and began:

"So this method I'd like to tell you about, is called the 'Yes approach'."

The audience grew quiet and attentive, people readied their notepads to make sure that they capture all of the complexity of the westerner's method. He continued:

"In essence, it boils down to saying 'Yes'." He paused, mindfully surveying his audience. "And that, I'd have to say, is all there is to it. Thank you everyone for coming!", he added.

Initially there was silence, gradually displaced by an air of confusion, then by some unspoken anger. The speaker smiled and said nothing. Members of the audience largely contained their emotions, until one of the less "proper and reserved" guests got up and addressed the speaker: "Yes? That's all?"

"Yes" - replied the speaker and nodded reassuringly.
"You mean to tell me that I traveled 8 hours to hear some idiot tell me to say 'Yes'????"
"Yes" - replied the speaker with no change in his demeanor.
"Why you little ..." - (the Russian language sports an incomparable array of graphic expletives that artfully combine absurdity with an absolutely clear message).
" ... and you're gonna stand up there and give me nothing but your stupid 'Yes'???" - his face was turning red with anger.
"Yes" was the reply, again with no change in demeanor.
"Well!... well..." - the man stumbled. He was clearly not used to being at a loss for words.

The speaker understood the method. His very being was entirely free of confrontation, of rejection, of 'No'. With the help of this display, the audience understood as well. The man had nothing to base an argument on, nothing to grab onto, nothing to push - there was no resistance. The audience suddenly broke into an applause, and even the now red-faced man had no choice but to laugh at himself - the method was proven in the field.

The Usual Reaction

It is probably reasonable to ask what this story has to do with allergies, and as you can imagine, I plan to explain. To help make the connection a little more solid I offer another narrative, this one should be a lot more familiar:

Winter is over, and spring is slowly starting to become more believable, most notably to the budding plants which are ... well you already know what they do in the spring. Early flowers appear everywhere, the air is dry and full of pollen and freshly mowed grass, and despite your belief that this year your allergies won't return and the season won't be so bad, you start feeling that familiar tingling in the nose, then ears, then eyes, throat, and so on. Seasonal allergies don't seem to care whether you planned to be immune to them this year, and especially whether you planned some yard work or nature trips. Sure, initially you attempt to convince yourself that it isn't that, that it's just some dust you got in your lungs, or sand in your eyes, that it's just a passing thing. Note this feeling! - we'll come back to it later.

Then you are faced with the undeniable realization that it is happening, that these are indeed allergies, and there is no escape - but you really, really want to escape! You say to yourself (some people say this out loud or even to others) that you don't want to go through this yet again - it's only April (or even March???) and you'll need to limp through life until at least July (or all summer long???). You imagine yourself suffering through the months, finding relief only in the occasional pharmaceuticals (perhaps not occasional) or spending your days and nights in locked rooms next to the air purifier. Note this feeling also - note this desire to escape, to hide, to avoid.

Then there is the stream of descriptions of the pitying kind: "Why me?", "I'm suffering", "I'm dying", and so on. Your thoughts are filled with lists of things you do not want and situations you do not like.

More Personal

All these reactions are hardly surprising, and I'm intimately familiar with them myself. I've lived a rather healthy life (and still do) and have experienced nothing even remotely resembling allergies for the first 30 years, and thus the shock of it was, well, a shock. I was such a stranger to this condition that it took me about 3 weeks before I even realized (read: admitted) what it was, and my symptoms were hardly mild. I spent 2 months within running distance of a sink (I don't like tissues.. I just don't), more or less incapacitated relative to what I consider "being useful". I won't go into detail but it was not pleasant. Not being a big fan of conventional medicine or medications, I tried most every naturopathic and homeopathic remedy and pill I could find. I've eliminated things from my diet (and my diet was already fairly clean - I was nearly raw vegan at the time), including cheese, wheat, etc. I repeated detox (including the Master Cleanse). I felt improvement in many respects, but I found all these experiments to be ineffective for the allergies.

Like many people I hoped that this would be a one-time experience, but next season the symptoms were back, if not worse. I tried more combinations of remedies and diet changes, all to no avail. As the allergy season was winding down I discovered the Neti Pot and assumed that I'd finally found a solution. Next season proved me wrong (oh it does help, but it's not a long term solution for allergies in my experience)

Next season something happened. The allergies started again, despite my preemptive Neti Pot use, much the same as they had before, but something changed in me, something I didn't expect - it was a suggestion that came from within, it sounded absurd but I had nothing to lose. The suggestion was "bring it on".

A Different Approach

"Bring it on" is one way to express what I tried. "Meet it head on" is another. As you may have guessed by now, "Yes" is one more translation.

I decided not to hide. I went out and planted in the garden, I admired (and smelled) the flowers, used a leaf blower to clean out the garage (now that's dust!), I mowed the grass, in short - I did not alter my behavior at all to accommodate the allergies. If my body has a need to experience these symptoms, I'll help it. I'll joyfully let my nose run, my eyes itch, and so on. In fact, I encouraged it, not by intentional exposure to the elements but by a sort of "internal permission" - I am letting my body do what it needs to do, with no reservations. (Sort of the way a wise parent encourages a child to make their own mistakes, and yet I did not consider it a mistake at all).

Thus I stopped describing the symptoms as unpleasant, and I started to treat the areas of my body that experienced them with the kind of love and nurturing care that one might feel for one's beloved child. I'm not saying that I sat around caressing my nose and tucked it into bed at night - instead I'm referring to the feeling, the quality of the attention I directed towards it. I cannot understate the effect this step had - the symptoms became much more tolerable, yet this term is no longer valid, as I was no longer "tolerating" them - I was completely accepting them. I was not trying to make them stop by tricking anyone - I was really, really accepting them. If they got better, that was fine too.

I caught myself rejecting allergies in the strangest places, like when I'd get on the bus: "Oh but I don't want to be symptomatic next to all these people!". I discovered many interesting things about myself, and I made an effort to eliminate rejection.

My overall state of being changed in response to this as well - I felt better, and not just because of symptomatic relief - I felt happier, as if I'd finally started taking care of some part of me that was long overlooked, a part that always drew the short stick and which in turn never allowed me to really excel. In fact, that is exactly what happened. I wasn't thinking too hard about the why or how of this transformation at the time, but eventually I became curious, and then it started to come together.

The Mechanics of "No"

So remember the feelings and thoughts I called your attention to earlier on? The desire to hide, to convince yourself that it isn't happening, to blame, to complain, to avoid experience? You probably realize at this point that all of these reactions belong in the category of big, determined "No!". We are saying no to something that is already happening, and it makes about as much sense as saying "No" to sunrise or sunset. Like it or not - it's happening, and no matter how hard you try, you won't get away from it. Sounds obvious? You bet, and yet we reject "what is" again and again. So what happens when we reject something, when we say "No" to something that we don't have any control over? The answer is rather simple - it makes life unpleasant, and unnecessarily difficult - as we are swimming against the current. That is unless, of course, you are into that sort of thing.

As an illustration, imagine that you've lived in one neighborhood all your life, but as the years went by the demographic changed and suddenly you are a minority, perhaps you don't even speak the dominant language. The signs on all the stores have changed, your neighbours don't understand you (and you may not enjoy their culture), you feel like an alien on your own street. Rejection occurs as you insist that nothing changed, that people should understand you, that signs should be in your language, that life should be the way you remember it, and so on. And yet life is distinctly different from what you want it to be, and there is no happiness because of rejection of what is.

This rejection creates both a subconscious and a conscious program, and it does so through your very own description of things, the very description full of "should's" I just mentioned. In the case of allergies, the description may be "I don't want to experience this" (pure and simple), or "I hate spring/nature" (less direct but no less effective), or "Poor me" (this one comes with a plethora of implications), or many others. Whatever the description, the message is "No". You may be wondering why No is such a problem, as it seems like such a proper response to what you may not like. The issue with rejection is that is goes against the very Nature of Things. In nature, saying no to "what is" is simply not an option - just think of what happens to any obstacle in the path of water, anything unwilling to accept (or tolerate) a change in temperature, or even an animal species unwilling to adapt to a change in its environment - they bring about their own destruction, suffering all the way to the end. (Kicking and screaming, to quote "The Simpsons"). Adapt or die. As humans we may delude ourselves into thinking that we can transcend inevitability, but we are constantly reminded that our escapist strategies provide nothing more than a brief delay.

Even if you're not interested in taking cues from nature, saying No is a way to close doors in life - doors of opportunity, doors to happiness, doors to your own growth and evolution. Imagine saying "No!" to every employment opportunity, or to every friendship, to every conversation, and so on? Now imagine saying "No!" to a police officer - there is your recipe for suffering.


You may start to wonder at this point - "Is he suggesting that I say Yes to everything, regardless? How about immoral/illegal/outright dangerous situations? What about when my 10-year-old decides to try horrible thing of the day #43?" This is where the intellect prefers to turn everything into a philosophical debate, and that's not at all what we're after. Saying Yes is about being open to experience, about accepting that the situation exists, and that it is perfectly fine for it to exist, and that now you get to choose what to do with this situation, and that now you get to choose your own quality of life in this situation. After all, you can safely surround your 10-year-old with understanding and acceptance, and then chaperon them through the experience, enjoying a deepening of your relationship. Alternatively you can yell, forbid, and wind up with high blood pressure and a kid that won't open up to you again, but who is much more likely to do the things you reject most. These concepts are nothing new, and yet they are perfect illustrations.


Saying yes is not about blindly following everyone's suggestions. It's about eliminating the internal rejection, the automatic and unconscious "No" for the wrong reasons, for reasons that are way past their expiration dates and are due for re-evaluation.

The interesting thing is that very often we are saying "no" purely out of habit, or out of what society calls "common sense". Runny nose = bad. Allergies = bad. Anything that's not my normal state = bad. This is, in fact, where our concepts of "like" or "dislike" come from, and often we forget that these opinions exist to serve us and not the other way! They can be changed, and in many cases you're simply better off without them. Try life without your opinions for a change, and allergies is as good a starting subject as any.

The Method

I prefer to avoid lengthy explanations and get right to the point, but if you skipped directly to this section... well, you may find yourself in the same situation as the man in the audience in the story I mentioned in the very beginning. In other words - good luck figuring out what I'm about to say!

Either way, here's the method, again: Boldly go towards, and never away. That about sums it up!

OK, a little more detail

It is hardly reasonable to expect everyone to understand what you mean by a single sentence. For this reason, here is more detail.

You cannot say "Yes" partially. It is practically impossible, and theoretically useless. However, habit change is often gradual, so start noticing your reactions to symptoms. You may take your own reactions for granted to the extent that you may not even classify them as rejection, and yet they probably are. Welcome your body's sensations, its experiences. Encourage it by complete acceptance. Treat it like a child in your care (that is the case, after all, isn't it?)

Seek the sensation of relaxation, relief, ease in response to your changing attitude. Perhaps it's the sensation of warmth. If you find yourself classifying this as a "mind-over-body" practice and you have a problem with those, then just stick to a verbal "Yes". With practice you will learn to perceive a clear response to the right sensation.

Above all, do not ever allow yourself to think that you know how to do this, that you have learned it - that is the downfall of most techniques. You may find this to be an odd statement, and yet it is addressed at your intellect. The mind likes to say "I know how to do this", and thus replaces the feeling with a memory. You don't need a memory, you need direct experience, here and now, so recreate the sensation each time as if it were the first time.

And, of course, enjoy every second.

You may find that it is helpful to re-read this a few times, on different days. This is important not so much because this writing is a great artistic achievement to be enjoyed daily, but due to the nature of information and perception. Each day you are in a different state, of a different mind, and different information may "click" at most unexpected times. You may find that the last 6 times you've read it you didn't notice something, probably because you had no way to relate to it yet. As you experiment in your own life, that can and does change.

Broader Strokes

The approach described here is quite old (thousands and thousands of years old, in fact), and I do not claim that anything new has been invented or possibly even rephrased in novel ways. In fact, once one becomes used to applying acceptance, it is hard to imagine that it isn't common sense.


This text is written using allergies (specifically, seasonal allergies) as the focal point, as the subject of application. It should come as no surprise that the approach described here is applicable to more than just allergies. In fact, it applies beautifully to such little questions as "How to be well" and even "How to live a happy life", if used with genuine abandon. It is, however, inadvisable to expect anything, as we've seen with the "should's". Having expectations is already a failure to accept what is (But having plans and intentions - that's a different story). The safer approach is usually to take just one step at a time. If your main rejection happens to be allergies, just apply it to that, in depth, in detail, and thoroughly, with no expectation of results and no time limits. This is not an 8 day weight-loss program, it's a way of life. After you feel a change in your life, regroup and evaluate what happened, and if this "demo run" was a success, see what else in your life could use a little acceptance.


As a disclaimer, I should probably point out that there are some risks, for example when experimenting with life-threatening conditions. In the case of serious respiratory anaphylaxis response, such as some shellfish allergies, experimenting with exposure clearly has some noteworthy potential consequences. It is my feeling that the method will still work when applied correctly, but unsurprisingly the risks tend to thin out the ranks of volunteers. In other words, if you try it, it's your decision, and you'll have to live (or not) with it. On the other hand, being familiar with these techniques may make a difference in the case of accidental exposure.

PS: If this helps you, feel free to leave a comment describing your experiences

Don't stop for some stop-leak

Yesterday was a good day.  Justifications for this statement include perfect sailing weather and the complete absence of incidents that could be described as "making an ass of myself at the boat ramp".  Seeking nothing more from life, I drove home, unfazed by shore traffic and drivers' apparent inability to make it through a traffic light in an orderly manner.  To my great surprise, the abundance of life and its gifts of joy did not stop there.  I found myself nearly decapitating an innocent looking mailbox with my truck when I received a text message that would completely alter my plans for next week.  It appears that I prefer spending my days on the beach in spectacular company over braving rush hour traffic in the deceptive comfort of a bus full of irate commuters.  The story leading up to the message that placed postal equipment in jeopardy is long and rife with self-reflection, and to say that it was a pleasant surprise is an understatement - but it is not the subject of this tale.

Today was also a good day.  After spending some hours seeking comfort and self-approval through bulk task completion, I found myself left with a rapidly shrinking to-do list.  Shopping would be next, I decided, and promptly drove over to the stores on my list, blissfully unaware of the pending doom. I do rather enjoy the 90 degree weather, but what I enjoy even more is keeping it outside of my air conditioned vehicle.

Auto parts store came first, and I found myself pillaging the Freon section along with other rather sweaty looking men, who, unlike me, were probably buying it for their own cars.  June is national Freon hoarding month in New Jersey, and while I had the foresight to take care of my truck early, this time I was shopping for someone else.  The store's air conditioning itself appeared to be in need of a refill, and this situation did not contribute favorably to either staff morale or amicable customer demeanor, which, in turn, translates into a rather gradual checkout experience.

Next, I found myself at a sporting goods store, because when the woman that invites you on your first vacation together tells you that your running shorts make you look like a hobo (perhaps not in so many words), it's time for new shorts.  My old shorts were always a multipurpose article, combining the function of public decency compliance with the tough job of a cat scratching post.  They also survived some light summer tiling, several house painting jobs, and at least a few dozen hours of attic wiring.  Running short selection process is tough for any man, but this time it was a particular challenge.  What statement would I like to make to my new (though very tolerant) love?  Should I go conservative and stick to long and black?  A flashy colorful stripe might appear playful, and would be practical for running in the darkness of the early spring mornings, but would I remind her of traffic cones and caution tape?

Having made the impossible choice and exited the store I discovered that the parking lot underneath my truck has a hue eerily similar to the color of the shorts I ultimately picked.  Unlike shorts, however, parking lots generally don't go for flashy or colorful, thus this warranted an investigation.  To my great surprise and mild discomfort, my vehicle did indeed contribute to redecorating the pavement.  A steady stream of brick-red goo emerged from my radiator cap, oozing slowly and coating everything in its path in a suspended animation of mysterious shapes.  No liquid was observed in the cooling system, and all the hoses felt like they were firmly coated from within with a crusty and solid layer of the red matter.

"Karma", I said to myself.  Now, mind you, this is not my karma - the previous owner seems to have placed enough radiator stop-leak in the system to paint a house red.  I have since spent hours flushing and back-flushing, only to wind up with more of the blob rearing its red face some months later.  Of course I can't truly claim that this isn't my karma - I did buy the truck, and then repeatedly chose to keep it, as I will undoubtedly do again today.

Explanations and musings aside, this is a mildly disconcerting situation - I have no certainty that there is anything but goo in my cooling system, it is 90 degrees and sunny, and, incidentally, I drive an 8 liter V-10, a somewhat extreme example of the classic American problem-solving approach.  And so, back to the auto parts store, except this time I am watching the temperature gauge about as much as I'm watching the road.

The hour that passed since my last visit did not improve the employees' mood very much, but after some failed communication attempts I finally get the answers to all of my inquiries.  Unfortunately, they are all the same: "We don't have it in stock".  Well, at least they have antifreeze - and at 26.5 quarts, my truck doesn't skimp on that and neither should I.

I should mention at this point that patience isn't always one of my strongest personality traits, and so, after spending the entire drive home thinking through the diagnosis and repair procedures, it is no surprise that I began as soon as I turned the engine off.  I should also mention that this is not a great idea where cooling system repairs are concerned.  I should probably mention that to myself next time.

It was not until later that I discovered that the problem was not a cap failure or any sort of boil-over  but rather a stop-leak obstruction to the expansion tank, which has basically turned into a stop-leak repository.  Preventing hot liquid from expanding is a somewhat bad idea, as it turns out.  Not knowing the problem, I started draining the radiator immediately.  About a gallon later I decided to remove the radiator cap to see what's going on in there, figuring that a gallon of removed liquid would have taken care of all possible pressure.  I was mistaken.

Yes, I am apparently that guy - the guy that pulls the radiator cap off a hot car.  The cap, also thoroughly coated in stop-leak and thus glued down, produced no indication of the pressure it was containing until I loosened it completely and pulled.  The explosion was epic, and had I parked the truck backwards, the entire neighborhood would be able to appreciate a once in a lifetime performance, complete with the cap smashing into the raised hood, followed promptly by a continuous flow of hot water and steam.  Having a front row seat to this performance left me with a scalded hand and a face dotted with red splatter.  Only after this shock therapy did it occur to me that I am subjecting my engine block to rapid temperature swings, and the only solution that came to me in the heat (literally) of the moment was to run cold water from a garden hose into the gradually emptying radiator.  I don't know how the truck survived this cold treatment worthy of a Kundalini master, but a few seconds later the noises subsided and all was at peace.

Two hours later the water ran clear... the water from the engine block, that is - which suggests that my street is probably all red now.  But I have other concerns for the moment, as my hand is seriously overdue for some attention.  So the next time you feel like reaching for that stop-leak... stop.  Think of the children, and if you can't - at least think of my hand.

Kyle In Denial

"Gas!" was Kyle's first thought as he began his usual morning dialog with his well-intentioned yet uncompromisingly loud nemesis that was now emitting a steady stream of beeps somewhere dangerously close to the human pain threshold.  "Car's out of gas again...", and his hand finally fumbled its way towards the snooze button, pushing it with undue force and leaving him with a mixture of short-lived satisfaction and anticipation of the inevitable return of the call to rise.  Such a state never yields appreciable rest, he knew, but the desire to sink back into the pillow was simply too hard to resist.   It was a late night, quite late even by Kyle's standards, and now he was paying the price - a price he was in no shape to pay, not just yet.

Some time after his fourth encounter with the snooze button he fell into a deeper sleep and found himself dreaming that he was Fluffy, the neighborhood cat he was not on particularly good terms with ever since the garbage bag incident last year.  Fluffy was not an especially gentle tomcat who made his own rules and was used to being treated with fearful respect by humans and cats alike.  Fluffy was also not very fond of his name, and reserved sudden close quarters combat for humans who would dare to address him with such disdain.  In this particular moment, Fluffy-Kyle was ascending the steep, moss-covered roof of the Pilkinsons' house.  Jeremiah Pilkinson, Kyle's next door neighbor, was sitting at the dinner table with the Sunday edition of the Star-Ledger, now two days out of date, while sipping burned coffee out of a stained white mug and muttering something to himself, seeing neither the paper nor his coffee, as was evidenced by the presence of light brown stains on both himself and the pages before him.  Endowed with feline superpowers, Kyle focused his attention on the grumpy voice and found himself entirely unsurprised when he heard his name.  "That good for nothing... stays up all night... ", he heard Jeremiah complaining to an area somewhere between his ceiling and the window, "... and my lawnmower never ran right after he borrowed it".

Chuckling to himself (although it may have been a hairball), Kyle proceeded from roof to roof but was unexpectedly distracted by a squirrel hurriedly depositing the spoils of Fall's last raids in a nondescript shady spot behind someone's shed.  "Mine", Kyle noted soberly with the part of his consciousness that was still somewhat human, while launching into a hunter's sprint with the other, now dominant and much more focused aspect of his being.  While both of him were busy enjoying the exhilarating but futile chase, his battered but undefeated alarm clock suddenly faded out, promptly followed by his computer and all things that humans find entirely indispensable.

The oppressing silence that invariably follows a blackout never came, impossible with the continuous howling of wind, interrupted from time to time by the sound of a hundred droplets smashing into the window as a gust sent them hopelessly but dutifully into the glass.  Some hours passed and as the gusts got stronger the armies of water spheres now came with reinforcements in the form of twigs, sand, and the occasional branch, and with each assault the quartz armor of the room sounded less and less confident.

Startled out of his furry bliss by the arrival of yet another wooden emissary, Kyle tried to focus his blurry, swollen eyes in order to find the unnaturally segmented red digits that greeted him each morning, as if to taunt him: "Yes, it is only two hours since you went to sleep - and yes, it's time to get up".  Failing to find any indication of life in the strangely dark room he staggered to his feet and felt for the light switch, only to be greeted by an impotent click.  The sounds around him were alien and for a moment Kyle questioned whether he was home, whether he was awake - perhaps he even questioned his sanity.  With the results of this sanity check inconclusive, he pulled up the blinds and discovered a thorough absence of what someone might expect to see when they open the blinds - light.  With his eyes now coming into focus he could see movement in the dark landscape - sheets of water descending at varying angles, debris moving in the streets - and there was something else - yes, that is definitely a traffic light, swinging like an out of control child at a playground, threatening to complete the partial circle and loop all the way around.  Something about its motion was so mesmerizing and eerily wrong at the same time that Kyle snapped into a full waking state, as a chill shot through his body, bringing with it a wave of fear and a yearning for comforts of technology.  His senses kicked on all at once, and he finally noticed that the room was cold (or was that the fear?), and that the familiar, comforting hum of fans, hard drives and large motors was absent, replaced by the sounds of nature's fury just one layer of glass away.

----

Throughout his life, Kyle was not fond of the news any more than he was fond of keeping in touch with the world outside his house, or anything beyond his immediate surroundings.  When pressed for an explanation of his reclusive ways he would usually blame Sheriff Gunther, but that was only an excuse - a back-ported story.  Growing up in the fictional town of Seamorite, Kyle had a lot of experience in being left alone.   Seamorite was not actually fictional - a town of some 500 people, situated not far from the shore, complete with the requisite Main street, a movie theater and an ice cream shop is hard to write off as something imaginary - and yet due to the absence of a Post Office, state officials quite literally refused to put it on the map.  Sheriff Gunther spent the better part of a decade exchanging correspondence of varying anger levels with bureaucrats at all levels, only to wind up exactly where he started - the town did not exist, not on the map, not in any records, not in any budget.  Some Seamorites liked it that way. Kyle knew quite well that he always liked being forgotten and undisturbed, but he would often reverse causality and blame his childhood experiences in the land that government forgot.

It was therefore hardly surprising that Kyle did not spend all of last night doing what the rest of the state did - tracking the hurricane, waiting in lines for gas, buying gallons and gallons of water, or, for that matter - evacuating.  He spent it playing Assassin's Creed, yet again blissfully removed from the troubles of that irritating and persistent thing people call "everyday life".  And for the past few days, "everyday life" was anything but - his neighbors were packing, covering up their windows, stocking up on fuel and peanut butter, and exuding a steady fog of all-pervading fear - the very fog that turns ordinarily well-intentioned people into a mob of desperate pack-rats.  If he saw any signs of impending doom, he chose to ignore them.

"Kyle-In-Denial", his ex-wife used to call him on many occasions, the last being when he refused to acknowledge that there was a problem that it was too late to fix.  She did not come up with the moniker herself - Kyle's mother beat her to it many years before.  Mom would know - after yet another failed attempt to explain that going to bed at 2 in the morning is not conducive to waking up at 6, she had nothing left to do but make fun of the whole thing.  Kyle was not the least bit interested in either logic, facts, or causality - he was, however, interested in spending the quiet hours of the night alone with his comic books, imagining himself not as a caped hero but rather an artist, drawing panel after panel of a riveting and unreal adventure. However strong his drive to become the creator of rectangular worlds may have been, it was considerably out of alignment with his reality - and in his current reality, Kyle was no artist.  With diligent effort, he was told, he would be able to manage something beyond his stick-figure attempts at self-expression, but Kyle didn't want to listen.  In his mind he saw bright colors of explosions, faces full of emotion, impossible technological fantasies.  This was enough for Kyle - he knew what he saw, why should he toil with the beginners?  "When I get that job," he thought, "I'll have the tools and I'll draw just fine, I'll show them."

----

Whatever Kyle's future plans may have been, he was now decidedly in the present moment, and it was not at all to his liking.  Having spent the majority of his life avoiding the present, this was an especially traumatic experience, for he was now faced with something he might have worked into one of his plot lines, and this scene, he knew, he could draw just fine.  A square full of grey diagonal lines - that should do it, yet he knew that drawing it would not help restore the blissful normalcy of yesterday.  Feeling the need to bring some sense of certainty into this nightmare, Kyle stumbled rather awkwardly in the darkness, knocking down all manner of object from his nightstand, until he found his phone, that sleek and reassuring half-pound of self-reliance.  The half-pound proved to be of limited utility as anything besides a half-pound paperweight: "Dead?  You can't be dead!".  This utterance resonated in the room until it gave way to the primordial sounds of outdoor inevitability, and Kyle noted to himself, with an unexpected matter-of-factness, that this was the first thing he said today, at least out loud.  So he added: "... I don't even know what time it is", realizing at once that the exact time may not be the most critical piece of missing information at the present moment.

Kyle spent the next hour in a state of firm indecision, attempting to select the optimal course of action given what little he knew.  He had just about convinced himself that staying put would be the best (and safest) option when a large object sailed slowly down the dark street with a pronounced and disheartening screech of wood and metal on asphalt.   As it passed by the window, the object flipped rapidly and was gone as the wind sent it out of sight, but not before Kyle saw the shingles - a full roof section.  Kyle looked up at his own ceiling, wishing for x-ray vision that he might have assigned to one of his characters, or any means of evaluating his home's structural integrity.  Denial has served him well when it came to (not) cutting his hair, but when houses start getting haircuts, it gets hard to ignore, and he knew he had no choice.  Using all of his boy scout training (of which he had none at all), he grabbed the essentials: his windbreaker and a box of cheese puffs, and ran out into the angry world beyond the walls, out to the car.

Something startled Kyle as he pulled on the door handle - a dark, wet shadow, moving with unbelievable speed shot between his legs and onto the passenger seat of the comparatively safe and temporarily dry car.  The dome light shined dimly onto the clumped mess while he attempted to focus his eyes a midst the swaying of wet sheets that sometimes plastered his hood onto his face.  "Fluffy!" - a light of recognition finally came on, and, despite their prior differences, Kyle got into the car.  Fluffy looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and embarrassment, partly because under normal circumstances he would not place himself in a confined space with any human, but largely because he was wet and afraid, which was no less out of character.  Having determined that Kyle was no less afraid, Fluffy dropped the tough tomcat act and retracted his claws.  "Fine", thought Kyle, "a passenger.   But where to?" he asked of his unusually quiet companion.  "Mrwl", said the cat, with a certain confidence and only a hint of disdain that would normally stand for "Don't you know?", but here, in this situation it had more of a "Turn on the heat, idiot" flavor.  Kyle wasn't all that warm himself now that he was thoroughly soaked, so he started the car and at once remembered his first thought of the day.  His car has been running on empty for some time, but running on fumes was a far more familiar experience for Kyle than holding a wet box of cheese puffs and asking a cat for directions.

It seemed as if they've been driving for hours, but in fact they haven't even crossed Main street, so it can't be more than ... half a mile?  Kyle made another last minute maneuver to avoid a huge branch that seemed poised to ram his windshield.  The fuel indicator produced another courteous and gentle reminder of the inevitable, but in the tension of the situation the soft chime translated to sensory overload.  "I know!", Kyle's reply was shrill and unnecessarily angry, which made him somewhat self-conscious - after all, he was not alone.  Fluffy didn't have a high opinion of Kyle's masculinity to begin with, and this outburst didn't do much to change that.  "Another block and we should hit the gas station on Spring...", but as the car's headlights extracted outlines of pumps out of the blackness, he saw that they were covered by plywood, and, for that matter - so were most of the windows.  It was as if the entire world has been undergoing a pre-apocalyptic transformation while he spent weeks in a coma, but now was hardly the time to start thinking of zombies.  Something that arrived with the latest gust of wind left a crack in the corner of the windshield, a ringing in Kyle's ears and a sunken sensation in his heart.

Even before the tree came into view, Kyle knew something was wrong.  Fluffy detected this sooner, relocating swiftly yet cowardly into the foot well with an almost human like growl that managed to combine martial arts sound techniques with an expression of disapproval.  Kyle spun the wheel to avoid the falling giant, but his efforts were met with unexpected resistance, as the engine finally sputtered to a stop, leaving Kyle with no steering assist, a dashboard full of warning lights and a front row seat in an epic battle between  the descending tons and a thin shell of Japanese steel.

----

"This has to be a dream" - this was both a statement and a prayer, as Kyle wriggled against the wet dirt all around him, trying to climb up, to find air, freedom, perhaps some daylight.  A giant wooden hammer just inserted him a few hundred feet below ground with a single blow to the head.  Yet there was no head, at least not the kind he might have expected, and now that he looked he didn't see arms either... his body was smooth and metallic.  "I'm a nail...", observed Kyle.  "Was I always a nail?" he asked with a combination of genuine curiosity and increasing apathy, as his rational mind gradually gave way to dream perception.  "I must have been", he resigned, "... and nails go underground, of course they do".  The less Kyle struggled, the more he drifted into a deep, indifferent relaxation, sinking deeper and deeper, into the darkness of the wet earth.  His nail head was throbbing less now, the impact of the hammer now a distant memory.  Suddenly he was falling through empty air, through what appeared to be a hall, or perhaps a cave - Kyle couldn't be sure in the darkness.  The floor was hard, he discovered, as he bounced off with a ringing that turned his ferrous body into an unexpected tuning fork.  The vibrations died down, and his vision gradually adjusted well enough to make out shapes and then objects.

"I'm surrounded by garbage", he remarked rather matter-of-factly, his judgements and preconceptions strangely absent.  Surrounded he was - the cave was filled with stacks of things old and new, climbing up unsteadily to the distant ceiling like stalagmites desperately reaching for their nonexistent counterparts.  Kyle peered into the nearest pile and was able to make out a few shapes.  "Is that... my tricycle?"  This was not one of Kyle's fondest childhood memories as it combined falling, getting a face full of grass and being unable to extricate himself from the death grip of the strategically placed garden hose.

The memory hit him hard and all at once, enveloping him into the reality of a 4 year old joyfully careening down the faded concrete sidewalk, veering onto a lawn, and yet seeing none of it.  He was watching the child's face now, filled with concern and worry.  "You were not there", whispered a soft and strangely familiar voice.  Kyle was about to ask the voice for a name when he felt a response come up on its own: "Of course I was, I remember being there!" - the reply was instinctive as much as it was indignant.  "Check again", responded the voice.  The experience of this memory slowed down as if someone was messing with the frame rate, and Kyle watched the wheel of his tricycle approach the red brick edging with a combination of peaceful certainty and horror.  There, behind the neatly edged tree, was his nemesis - the tangled garden hose, poised to strike like a waiting cobra.  And then he felt it - it was as if there was a second track in the recording of this memory, the actual experience track.   He was 4 now, he was controlling the tricycle, and he indeed was not the least bit there, his entire being occupied with concerns over the future of a masked hero he read about earlier.  "What was his name?" - he struggled to recall, but all he felt was the desperate need for a resolution, for closure as the cliffhanger ending left him on edge.  "I really wasn't there", he confirmed, his words leaving him more shocked than the slow motion flight over the handlebars.   The memory switched off, and he was once again in the cave of junk.

As he looked around, his gaze picked out objects one after another, and although they all felt somewhat familiar, none seemed interesting enough to capture his attention.  He saw a glimmer in one of the stacks, and there, somewhere between a rusty bed frame and a mailbox, was a chipped green bowl.  Kyle felt the world shifting around him, the stacks gave way to the familiar kitchen of his old house.  His ex-wife was saying something to him, as he stared at the green bowl of cereal in front of him, spoon in hand and motionless.  "You were not there", said the voice, and this time Kyle suppressed his desire to argue, and watched attentively.  He knew why he was motionless - it was not at all because he was enthralled with his wife's monologue, in fact he only just became aware that she was part of this memory at all.  Kyle was busy analyzing his game play, trying to sort out what he kept doing wrong and what prevented his avatar from reaching that ledge.  This was the second track of this memory, although he experienced it first this time around.  He felt for the other, the outsider's recording, and found it without any trouble.  "I'm looking for some signs of recognition that I exist, that I'm not alone in this relationship" - he was now hearing his wife say, as she dried her eyes with a paper towel.  Her face, he noticed, had the same expression he's often seen in the face of his mother - the look of exasperation, of someone thoroughly ready to give up.  The similarities ended there - Mom giving up involved her throwing up her hands and letting him do what he wanted, but his wife... he knew how that story ended, and the ending began two weeks after the green bowl.  "Two weeks AB", he mused, on the After Bowl timeline.

It seemed as if he had been reviewing his memories for hours, as object after object called to his attention.  "I really wasn't there" - he was now talking to himself as much as to the anonymous voice, and for him it was no longer a question.  "So that means that ... I wasn't there to see my life happen?"  This time he was looking for a response of some kind, yet there was no reply, disembodied or otherwise.  "No, I suppose that's not quite right.... I wasn't there to live my life... that's closer".  Just as Kyle braced for the impact of this realization, another one preempted his pending self-deprecation.  "Wait... these are my memories, I'm not a nail after all".  Suddenly the cave ceiling dissolved, and he was ascending, faster and faster, heading for an ever-brightening glow ahead.

----

Something bright and impossibly happy was nagging at Kyle's peaceful slumber, and for a few minutes he was able to ignore it by sinking deeper and deeper in his seat, instinctively finding the exact position that would place his eyes in the shadow of the steering wheel.  "Yoooouuu!" - an invisible voice called, and Kyle grumbled without moving.  "Yooouuu!", it insisted.   The voice sounded unusual, and Kyle tried to match a face to the voice by drawing it in his mind.  He'd had enough disembodied voices for one night, and he really put some effort towards this endeavor.  To his considerable dissatisfaction, his mind presented him with a disapproving image of Mr. Pilkinson, actively staring him down from the side of a pink balloon in an apparent elliptical orbit around Kyle's head.  With each rotation the balloon leaked a bit of air from the loosely tied opening, emitting the now familiar sound.   Suddenly, the balloon went into an approach trajectory, and the last thing Kyle experienced before he opened his eyes was Mr. Pilkinson's inflated face giving his unshaven cheek a lick that felt surprisingly like damp sandpaper.

Even in the borderline dream this was too much, and Kyle awoke with a start, which, he soon discovered, was not the ideal way to do it.  Squinting to block out the morning sun that stared directly into his eyes, Kyle reached for the source of pain and discovered that the roof of his car was now acting like a blanket with a formidable indentation for his head.  "Yoouuu!", repeated Fluffy, as he licked Kyle's bristly face, as if to confirm the success of his mission.  "Fluffy...", mumbled Kyle and immediately realized what he just said, but it was too late.  Fluffy bared his fangs, emitted a low growl but left it at that, which, given Fluffy's position atop Kyle's chest, was probably for the best.

Splashes of red and purple glow were now fading, leaving behind the bright and commanding sun that shined directly into Kyle's eyes, and he found it difficult to determine the state of things outside of his battered safety cage.  His feet were wet, he realized, because there was standing water in the foot wells.  After carefully extracting his bruised but apparently unbroken head from the deformed roof he attempted to look around, but all he could see was a solid canopy of oak leaves clinging to the windows, still mostly green but already displaying a golden touch of fall.  The storm was over, that was clear, and it was time to look around.  After several failed attempts to open the driver side door, Kyle managed a rather ungraceful exit through the other side, spilling himself onto the street much to Fluffy's bemusement - the tomcat hopped out the moment the door opened.  The pavement felt softer than one had a right to expect, and upon closer inspection, which Kyle was now unwillingly performing, it turned out to be made of sand rather than asphalt.  Sand was everywhere, as far as Kyle could see - covering streets, sidewalks, window ledges and even the hood of his car, betraying buried objects with soft and flowing curves.  This remarkable and impossible world was so surreal that it took Kyle's attention off the enormous tree that obscured half of his car and crushed the trunk, and he didn't have time to realize just how close of a call it really was - another second and that ancient giant would have been in the driver's seat.

Instead, he stumbled down the street, realizing as he went that he had no idea where he was going or even why he was walking at all.  The sand was still damp, with small pools of water here and there, and walking was easy on this soft but sturdy yellow sea, which, he noted to himself with perverse irreverence, was an improvement over walking on the hard and unforgiving blacktop.  Walking was somehow calming him, and his thoughts were no longer frantic.  As he walked, his mind began to wander, and he found himself trying to remember where he left off in last night's game.  He had it nearly reconstructed when he tripped over a partially obscured root and went down into the soft sand.

As he was about to tell the root and the rest of his surroundings what he thought of them, he remembered, and a wave or realization went through him.  "I'm here this time" he said to no one in particular, and for the first time in a long time, a smile made a slow but sure entry onto his face.

How Tim and Matt saved my life

Let's be clear on this: I've never been in the military, and neither Tim nor Matt has ever had to drag me home from behind enemy lines, conscious or otherwise.  Now that we have that straight, let's examine the events that did occur.

The morning was cold, though it was certainly not going to set any records, even in our end of the world which is hardly famous for temperature extremes.  The weekend's snows were rapidly yielding to the onslaught of the suddenly unfiltered sun that has definitively claimed its place in the endless blue sky.

The world that lies beyond the boundaries of my house was gradually becoming more hospitable, and I found it more and more difficult to resist the urge to brave the elements and attend to the nagging problem with my vehicle which I can only describe as incontinence.  The fact that the truck leaks exhaust fumes rather than gasoline or some other essential liquid does not make the driver's experience any more bearable, since said fumes are deposited directly into the cabin.  In short, intervention was needed, and due to a combination of reasons, it was something I had to do myself.

I soon found myself underneath my beast of a vehicle, surveying the mass of rusted metal above me with a dull stare, and asking myself the dreaded question: "If I start this, can I finish?"  Reality, in the form of a compulsively buzzing phone soon forced me out of my stupor and I was past the point of no return in no time.  As it turned out, a quick poke with a screwdriver caused the remainder of my exhaust system hardware to disintegrate into a cloud of fine dust and small to medium size particles.  As I had known from the beginning, the only option was to fabricate a complete replacement, and I made sure that I was prepared to do this using the tried and true "I'm sure there is plenty of junk in the garage" approach.

Welding of the replacement part was nearly complete when I flipped up my helmet and was instantly reminded of why I had reservations about using acetone prior to welding:  my left glove was on fire.  It was a pleasantly warm sensation, and in the time it took me to process what I was seeing and perform the "Holy crap I'm on fire but I can't drop the electrode holder in my other hand" dance, the glove did not experience any visible damage.  I thanked the Harbor Freight gods for manufacturing something out of unexpectedly high quality waste products, and proceeded to fight honorably with the 8 foot long exhaust pipe that was not inclined to be manhandled.

It is relevant to mention that throughout my under-truck experience I was subjected to a constant sprinkle of oxidized steel, interspersed with flurries and periodic all-out showers.   These showers occasionally included small hail which bounced precariously off my cheeks and forehead, occasionally succeeding at outsmarting my "Seems Safe" brand of protective eye wear.  While I'm not a fan of having metal in my eyes, it is not something that concerned me terribly at the time since I would simply blink it out the one or two times I noticed.  It was not until some hours later that I noticed the persistent but mild discomfort which I attributed to irritation or abrasion.

The next day I found myself sharing my story with my non-combatant comrades who promptly insisted that I seek the opinion of a vision professional.  Their insistence was sufficient to sway me from my otherwise "Wait and see" course of action, which, in this case, may have been problematic on several levels.

I found myself in an office occupied by two men and one dog, all apparently belonging to one household.  The two men practiced dentistry and optometry, respectively, while the dog practiced cushion flattening, although it may certainly have other talents.  One of the men instructed me to look in various directions using a compassionate yet very steady voice showing no emotion, or at least no variation of emotional overtones.  He proceeded in that same invariant tone: "look to your left... right... up... you have a piece of metal in your cornea... I'm sorry about that... look to your right...".   As I did my best not to move while he extracted the extra part with a 27 gauge needle, I had no choice but to mentally say what he wasn't saying: "I'm glad I bought the iron-free multivitamins".

I returned to work feeling much less metallic, where my story was greeted by Tim and Matt's: "We totally saved his life!"

Sometimes the heroes among us have no weapons or tactical training, require no unusual bravery or even the ability to sell girl scout cookies - and yet they save a life.  And a piece of Dodge legacy thanks them.