Snoring and the Universe

by Nancy Grossman

I’ve been reading the biography Come Be My Light on the life and pain of Mother Theresa. It is disturbing to me how much she talks about wanting a life of suffering. Of course she believed in suffering with a joyous heart and smiling face, and she was doing it for Jesus. I do not at all understand what she means by suffering, maybe because I’m not Catholic, but I am Jewish, and we’re suffering pros. The only difference from what I can tell is that we don’t want to suffer; we don’t think it’s noble, just inevitable.

What makes me keep listening to this often disturbing book on tape is that I do understand her passion for connection to something greater – she called it Jesus, and I call it Source, or Spirit, and I’ve had some wonderful experiences that have shown me that that belief is not a pipe dream. I experience Spirit, Source, God, that energy, whatever you want to call it, all around me, and I know in my heart of hearts that It is possible to connect with and count on that non-physical, indescribable, unexplainable energy, and one of my primary life goals is finding ways of actually bringing that more fully into my life.

That being said, and I know this might sound like a non sequitur, but trust me, it isn’t, I snore. I’ve known this since 1999 when I was taking a class with my sister and we were sharing a hotel room with two other people. The first morning that we all woke up together there were uncomfortable silences that I did not really understand until my sister enlightened me. I promised to do my best not to snore. I even got some breathing strips. That night she woke me many times. A few of those times I knew I could not have been snoring because I hadn’t really fallen asleep yet, and I knew that I had been silent. “Not so,” said she.

I recently did another workshop in LA for a week and put on our class’ Facebook page that I wanted to share a room. I confessed that I snored. A wonderful young woman responded with the comment: “I want to share with you. I don’t listen very well during the night.” And she must not have listened very well, or maybe she was too polite to say anything, or maybe I stopped snoring, but there were no complaints, no problems. Then alas, a month later I was in another situation with a woman who woke me up so often during the night that I began to be afraid to go back to sleep. I even tried one night to sleep sitting up which worked for about 30 minutes. I tried breathing strips, a netty pot, and finally I got my own room.

She’d mentioned a concern that it seemed as if my breathing were stopping when I slept, so I called Kaiser and set up an appointment to be tested for sleep apnea. The earliest appointment was more than seven weeks away, a few weeks shy of a vacation I am taking with my daughter where we will be sharing a room. I wanted to handle this and I do NOT want a CPAP (an elephant like device that one wears when one sleeps – not this ONE – this one will NOT wear that horrid, noisy thing). I want a mouth guard that I learned about while regaling my volunteer-mates with the tribulations of being a snorer.

I called Kaiser every day from that point forward to see if there had been a cancellation and asked that someone call me back to make sure that I had other options besides the CPAP. Now this is where we go back to my original point.

There is a process I learned about from a spiritual channel called Abraham-Hicks. Using this process, the Placemat Process, one takes a placemat, or a legal sized piece of paper and draws a line down the center. On the left side of the paper one writes “Things I will Do Today,” on the other side one writes “Things I would like the Universe to Do.” On this particular day I put on the Universe’s side, “Get me an earlier sleep appointment.”

Later that day I answered the phone and it was Kaiser. I asked the man on the phone about getting the bite plate device and he said that they could prescribe them, but that they’d try to get me into a CPAP.

Kaiser Man said “Listen, I’m going to tell you how to work the system. Once you get a diagnosis, call your primary care provider and have her prescribe an appointment with a sleep doctor. They can prescribe them.”

I thanked him and said, “Oh, by the way, can you see if there have been any cancellations, my appointment isn’t until October 9^th.”

He said, “I can fix that. Hold on a minute.” After about a minute and some mumbling to himself he said “How’s September 4^th?”

“That’s awesome! Thank you so much!” I replied. “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Eden,” he said, “like in the Garden of.”

I laughed and knew this had been the Universe doing what I asked it to do. When I give out my e-mail address I always say “Nancy – N.A.N.C.Y., Eve, E.V.E, like in  Adam and…” So the Garden of Eden gave Eve as in ‘Adam and…’ a gift that day, and I thanked the universe for handling this item on its list in such an elegant and enjoyable way. I wonder what else it would be willing to do for me. Believe me, I’m packing the list!

copyright 2012 by Nancy Grossman-Samuel

Appointment In Fountain Valley

by Susan Cameron

“Hand me that file on Sweet Pea,” said Death.  “I want to read something to you that you wrote when you filled out her medical history forms at the animal dermatologist.”  He shuffled through the papers, found one and cleared his throat.  

"'Sweet Pea is a rescue dog who lived in a urine-soaked, maggot-infested truck camper.  Her diet was mostly white rice, bread, baked goods, a little meat and cheap dog food.  She was in misery with continuous scratching.  She had an ear infection, bacterial, fungal and yeast skin infections, inflamed paw pads, severe hair loss, skin thickening and oozing, and she smelled like death.'"  He stopped a moment, cocked an eyebrow and smiled.  “I find that offensive, but I’ll let it pass.  To continue: ‘After six months of veterinary care, good food and medicated shampoos, her symptoms have abated; but in less than a month off antibiotics, she starts itching and scratching again, and her belly skin starts feeling moist and it starts darkening again.  I took corn and wheat out of her diet, and she seems to tolerate sweet potatoes and potatoes, but rice might be a trigger too.  Sometimes she scratches after we go to the park -- grass allergy? (heavy sigh).’”

Death set the papers down and leaned back in the chair.  “Do you remember all that?  You need to understand that Sweet Pea was on our schedule in May 2011.  You swooped in, all love and concern and cubic dollars, and scooped her up.  That’s fine with us -- no problem there, the absolutely final day for a dog isn’t necessarily carved in stone -- but everybody eventually has to make that appointment in Samarra.  I mean everybody and everything that lives must die.  People.  Dogs.  Snails.  Corn and wheat and peas and presidents and cats.  Fish don’t get off the hook, if you’ll pardon the pun.”  He shrugged.  “It’s nothing personal.  Come on, you remember The Lion King, the circle of life and all that? You called Sweet Pea your baby and your little girl, but she was twelve and then some, which made her a rather elderly cattle dog.  Just think about what you did for her!  Instead of being put down at the shelter after the worst time of her life, she lived an extra fifteen months with you.  That’s like, what, eight or nine human years?  Medicine, food, water, treats, walks, nonstop petting -- doggie heaven on earth, right?”

I nodded, still too choked up to speak, the box of tissues close at hand.  I’d asked him here to get some answers, and I couldn’t even manage to ask the questions.

“People would stop you in the park and say, ‘What a beautiful dog!  What gorgeous fur!  How old is she, six, seven?  TWELVE?  You’re kidding!’  Did people not do this all the time?“

“Yes,” I whispered.

“And this isn’t the first time you’ve done this for an animal, you know.  Your Sheba -- come on, what dog her size lives thirteen years?  Remember what your friend Clara said when she came to visit, and Sheba walked over, turned around, sat on your feet and waited for her massage?  She said, ‘Haven’t you noticed when Sheba comes to you, she’s stiff and her arthritis hurts her, and when she walks away she’s walking normally?  Your hands glow when you pet her.  They shine.  The love just pours out of your hands and makes her feel better.’  You remember that?”

“I do,” I said.  “Clara sees auras.”

“Yes.  And what did you see when the vet showed you Sweet Pea’s x-rays and ultrasound?”

“Two massive tumors in her abdomen.  I just thought she was getting fat from all the treats and her metabolism slowing down.”  I got teary again.

“That’s right.  Cancer never crossed your mind.  Why?  Because she had no pain.  Because every morning she came to you, rolled over, and you rubbed her belly and sang, ‘Oh, you beautiful dog, you great big beautiful dog...'”

I laughed, embarassed.  “You know about that?”

“Please.  I get a kick out of you.  We all do.”  He looked thoughtful.  “That very morning, didn’t she do that thing where she practically stands on her head and looks at you upside down to get you to rub her butt above her tail?  Didn’t she bound into the kitchen and gobble her breakfast?   Sure, by the time you got home that afternoon she felt too crappy to move from the hallway, but come on!  Give yourself a break!  The dog didn’t even have twenty-four hours of pain.  How long did it take your next-door neighbor to die of brain cancer?”

“I get your point,” I said, “but it still stabbed me in the heart when she turned her face away from the Thai green bean Steve put in front of her.”

“Yeah, Sweet Pea and her Thai beans.”  He smiled and nodded.  “But you didn’t just let that pass.  You got her to the vet.  You got the exams.  You saw the tumors and the pool of blood inside the big one.  You said your goodbyes, and she was gone in, what, five seconds?  Even though I’m Death, I don’t get any pleasure from the suffering of any creature.  But everybody’s got to go eventually, and let’s be honest -- you’d pretty much run out the clock to the maximum on Sweet Pea.  Good call on the shot -- it was going to get really ugly, really quickly.”

“So, explain something to me.”  I leaned in, looking him in the eye.  “I know it was the right thing to do, a choice that almost made itself when I saw the exam results.  Why do I feel as if I let her down?”

He sighed.  “The simple answer is, you’re half-nuts.  Most people are, or they make themselves that way eventually.” He shook his head.  “Let me point out that interspecies relationships are a two-way street.  On the one hand, you were Sweet Pea’s mommy; on the other hand, you were the alpha leader of your little pack.  This is not news to you.”  He waited; I nodded.  “The alpha has to decide what’s good for the pack and make the hard choices.  You did your job.  So don’t do your usual human bullshit with the shoulda woulda coulda.  It’s a waste of time, and it's not a news flash that there’s more time behind you than in front.”

“Thanks for the reminder.  So, how much time do I have left?”

“That’s classified.  If I told you...” He smiled and waited for me to deliver the punchline.

“You’d have to kill me.”

“There it is."

****** Rest In Peace, Sweet Pea, 2000 -- 2012 ******

Why Bother?

by Liz Zuercher

It’s the year of the lookie-loos at the Festival of Arts.  People just aren’t getting out their wallets.  It’s not going to be a banner year for sales.

The artists say the best compliment you can pay them is to buy their work.  If that’s the case, the compliments are few and far between this year, and that makes an artist question his work.  Isn’t it any good?  Doesn’t it have any value?  Have I completely missed the mark?  What was the point of all that work? Why should I even bother?

Why even bother is a question my writer friends and I have been discussing lately.  Like the Festival artists we spend a lot of time honing our craft, struggling with the right way to express our creative vision.  We write and rewrite and rewrite some more.  Then we send the work out into the world and hope for someone to see its worth, to validate our efforts by actually paying us for it.  Usually we are sorely disappointed.  Not only do we not get paid, we get rejected – over and over.  You have to have a thick skin to be a writer, an artist.  You have to be willing to keep on going, to continue to expose your feelings and your point of view to criticism.

But what’s the payoff for a writer, we wonder.  Even if you sell a story, the check you get isn’t likely to cover your house payment or even buy a week’s groceries.  You might not get money at all, just the glory of being published plus five copies of the issue your story appears in – bragging rights.  If you hit the jackpot and get a book deal, maybe you can live off the proceeds for a year.  Or maybe not, especially after mounting and financing your own publicity campaign.  Why work so hard for so little?

Back at the art festival, a man stands for a long time looking at the photographic images of twisted rocks in rainbow colors you don’t usually see in the desert.  He turns to the artist and says he’s so moved by the images.  Another person, a woman this time, goes through the prints in the bin.  She pulls up one after another, studies them, then puts them back.  When she’s gone through both bins and turns around, she has tears streaming down her face.  She thanks the artist for such beautiful work.  She doesn’t buy anything, but the reward she and the man before her have given the artist is worth more to him than money.

Conventional wisdom aside, the very best compliment an artist can have comes when his work touches someone.  It’s the same for writers.  We love it when people find a little bit of themselves in our writing.  We hope our words make them cry or laugh or feel like they aren’t the only ones who ever had that experience.  We hope our readers feel an intimate connection with our characters, but at the same time feel like part of something bigger than themselves.  If art does that, whatever the medium, it’s worth the effort, even if the compensation is only a tear or a thank you.  The artist has communicated his point of view, and another person has seen it and embraced it.  An invaluable human connection has been made that enriches both artist and audience.

That’s why we should bother.  

Algebra

by Susan Cameron

(with my deepest apologies to Joyce Kilmer)


I think that I shall never be
A fan of x times y plus z.

Within parentheses they nest,
With pi and log and all the rest;

I sort the segment from the ray,
And disentangle i from j,

And graph parabolas with care;
I plot the points, come up for air,

And know the true source of my pain:
I'll never use this stuff again.

The textbook's size amazes me --
For this we sacrificed a tree!


Susan Cameron, copyright 2012