red

It seems we have a natural proclivity toward making comparisons with one another. Why we think we can measure what someone else has gone through with the same standards we use for ourselves is a mystery. Each one of us is different.

This concept has become abundantly clear during my recent unpleasantness with the dreaded root canal. It does not take me long to realize that in a conversation involving dental procedures, there are many interpretations for what-is-not-a-big-deal all the way to what-is-the-worst-pain-ever. And I tend to find my tales of woe heading for the worst pain ever category far more than others.

So I did some research and found out that there is scientific proof for my sensitivity to dental pain! It is because the mutation that provided me with red hair is the gift that keeps on giving and with it comes a different way of caring for my teeth.

Knowing what I know now about how a redhead requires more pain killers to mute the obvious pain of dental work explains a lot about how terrible my experiences at the dentist were when I was a child. I remember being given more than one shot to numb the pain which seemed to annoy the dentist who was already impatient that I was most likely crying. Not that emotional little redheaded girl with all of the cavities again, he may have thought. But yes, there I was, scared to death, knowing I had eaten too much candy and awaiting the pain that came along with it.

As my gums started to recede, exposing nerves that could not be touched with sharp, pokey sticks used by dentists, nitrous oxide became the answer to my problems. It allowed my chalk-like teeth to be filled and filled, and I would be warned again that coffee would stain them and I would smile and nod knowing good and well that I would never be giving it up. I had been warned as a teenager that because of my open bite, braces were recommended (I only have two teeth that actually come together for chewing) or else by the time I was 40 I would be eating my dinner through a straw. This of course never happened.

The day came when nitrous was not enough. It was as though I had become immune to its effects and it was too dangerous to give me more. So I was sent to a dentist who used pill sedation as his method of pain relief for those of us who needed it. This worked quite well at first. I would take one pill at home and the second one at the dentist office about an hour later. I would go into some kind of "twilight" zone and reemerge with cleaned, fixed teeth. After doing this about twice, I woke up in the middle of the procedure while the dentist desperately tried to administer more pain medication. Alas, I had become immune to it as well.

All that remained was IV sedation which consists of being strapped into a chair that becomes more of a bed with all of the seriousness of surgery. This dentist assured me that as long as I did not start shooting up street drugs like heroin, I would not develop an immunity. So far he has been correct.

Developing an infection in my crowned tooth as one root lay dying (incidentally, one of the teeth that I use for chewing) became an emergency situation as it needed immediate attention to relieve what I believe to be perhaps the worst pain I have ever been in, or at least second, after a breast infection that . . . I will spare the details. I knew that I would be able to endure as whatever it is in the IV started flowing through my bloodstream giving me a warm feeling that increased until the room began to spin and I would take another journey to a place where there is no tooth pain. I would then be escorted from the dentist's chair, helped into a vehicle and awaken in my bed hours later having no idea how I ever got there. I then would get into these conversations with people who do not require more than a simple shot for their dental needs and wonder if they think I am being overly needy, too dramatic, or something other than normal when I admit that my procedure is far more involved and way more costly.

But what can I do about it? I have red hair.

driving alone

I received a text from my oldest son about a week ago reminding me to pick him up from college to come home for fall break. Though I do not enjoy driving, I do look forward to bringing him home.

There are three basic ways to get to his university: the major highway route which is definitely not fun and does not get one there any faster though the vehicle is driven at a higher rate of speed; the combined major highway/minor highway route that is stressful until the exit onto the smaller highway; and the backcountry road way that, much to my delight, is the shortest, most direct route and even with a certain amount of meandering, not only gets one there faster, but the beauty of the countryside soothes my mind and allows me to think.

I am grateful that my college-bound son is only an hour away from home. Just far enough for him to have his independence and not so far that he has to worry about how to get home for breaks. I am reminded of how I, as an undergraduate student, would trudge down to the bus stop with my backpack and overnight bag, and get on a bus heading north--a trip that would take close to three hours. Never wanting to completely fall asleep on a bus for fear that I would miss my stop or perhaps awaken suddenly to a new less-welcomed seat mate, I would try to entertain my mind by reliving events so I would not fall asleep. Sometimes I do that when I drive. I often sing. I also like to practice what I would say if someone asked me a particular question. To remain alert I have to remind myself of my journey at regular intervals so as not to get lost in my day dreaming and drive into a ditch.

Once we load up the minivan with the laundry bag, computer, backpack filled with books and a duffle bag containing clothes, I then have a traveling companion who fills me in on what his life is like. We can discuss roommate issues, how difficult his classes are and what he is planning to do this summer. We can update each other on different family scenarios that have been communicated through email and texts. I can ask about Facebook posts, especially ones in which there are girls involved. We drive together through the countryside until we get home.

Several days later we put those items back into the minivan and take the drive back to college. We finish our stories and try to think of anything we have forgotten to tell one another. Thanksgiving is not that far away and given the amount of work we each have in front of us, we won't have time to even count the days. I help carry the items back into the dorm room, a place where I am not responsible for making sure the bed is made or the clothes are picked up off the floor. It is not where I live; it is my son's home--for now.

Soon I am in the minivan heading back to our house. I love the way the sun is setting and how beautiful the leaves are as they are turning colors. I see cars heading toward where my son is living and wonder if these are parents taking the same trip with their college-aged sons and daughters. I see people in cars in front of me and wonder if they already said good-bye and are hoping to get to their homes before dark.

Not sure why but I always listen to the same Harry Connick, Jr. cd on my road trip and it is just the right length to get me to the dorm or back home. It is a cue that I am going to see my son, or that I am on my way home to see the rest of my family. Either way, it keeps me from driving alone.

pen pals

I remember standing in a field, writing a note, putting it into a balloon and sending it up into the air to be found by someone who would then write a letter to me. As wonderful as this sounded at the time, the practical side of me would often wonder at what point the balloon would pop. Could it make it through a rainstorm? Would it land in a lake and never be found? How many miles could it travel before being discovered by someone who would follow the instructions and be curious enough to follow through? I do not remember any of these questions ever being answered.

As a child growing up six miles from a town of about 2,000, I had dreams of going to faraway places to see what life was like for those living elsewhere. Always looking for ways to make connections with people from other places, I would give my address to new friends I would make, especially when we were on vacation, in the hope of receiving letters. When one of my first best friends from school moved to a town about 40 miles away, we sent letters back and forth for awhile. In the days before our current technology, news traveled slowly. Very slowly for a little girl with big dreams.

The other day I discovered that on my business page, dream with m.e., one of my "likes" is from someone in India. Even given today's technology, I am amazed by this. I am equally impressed that people from the United Kingdom and Russia are possibly reading this post right now, according to the statistics on my blog. It is like my own little balloon of information has been found. My words are traveling to places I have only dreamed of going and though I most likely will never meet the people who have decided to make a connection with me even by clicking a key on a computer, I get excited that my childhood dream of making contact with someone in a different place has been realized at last.

tinkerbell

Today I had a conversation with a 5-year-old. Or more accurately, she decided to have a conversation with me. After I amazed her with my ability to guess that she was in kindergarten when she told me her age, we started to get to know one another. She demonstrated her ability to spell her name and thought it would be fun if we clapped out the syllables together. She was right.

Then she told me in wide-eyed amazement the story of how three wolves at a wildlife refuge came right up to the fence where she stood, her all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-my-two-front-teeth smile transforming momentarily into a look of intensity. I told her she was brave and she agreed. I asked her about going to the zoo to see chimpanzees and was going to tell her that one time one of them came right up to the glass where I stood and kissed it, but she was already telling me about how great her leopard-print tights were and showed me a small figurine of a leopard to prove to me she knows what a real one looks like. She went on to say that her birthday is after Christmas, a day or a month, she was not sure. All she knows is that she wants a cake with elephants on it.

We moved on from there to other important matters such as the fact that she was ditching the Cinderella costume she wore last Halloween in favor of becoming Tinkerbell this year. This story is her favorite anyway, she pointed out, and besides, there will be wings! She can then take on this new persona, having a certain amount of dramatic flair already as evidenced by her sparkly sequined hat and Hello Kitty shirt, while she goes out for a night on the town collecting treats.

I met a 5-year-old boy about a month ago who confided that though he looked and acted like a regular boy, he was actually a garden fairy, who came alive when pixie dust had been sprinkled in the general vicinity of where he had emerged. I guess he figured since we were going to be friends, it was appropriate to let me in on his true identity. This fascination with an alter ego of an other-worldly being intrigues me.

I wonder if there is inherent in each one of us a desire to not only be connected with the supernatural but to actually BE supernatural. That if we clap our hands and believe in something greater than ourselves, wonderful things WILL happen. I'm fairly certain that if I were to consult my 5-year-old friends on this issue they would skip happily away, with a look of joy on their sweet faces that would in essence say, "What are you waiting for?"

lost in translation

Talking is not the same as writing. But since more people talk than write, those of us who write have to adapt. So we try. When others take it upon themselves to try to communicate for us to someone just out of our reach at that time, everything we know--the already identified strength we possess to express ourselves well--is called into question. And suddenly it seems like the entire fabric of the universe has become unglued. Maybe it is just OUR fabric that becomes unglued, or more correctly--unraveled.

First, I have no idea what tone of voice or facial expressions are employed by the one doing the communicating on my behalf. Would the combination of these factors accurately represent me? The choice of words--a writer's pride and glory--seem to be casually tossed about and not obsessed over like a writer would do, leaving me to wonder EXACTLY which words were spoken. Are they the ones I would have chosen? Not bloody likely. But they are, nevertheless, an attempt to communicate and as a writer I know that to be a good thing. We writers try to hold onto the hope that maybe this is the time for a meeting of the minds, an enlightenment, a eureka moment. We somehow think this impossibility is likely, even though we are well aware that under the very best circumstances, it is not. We deceive ourselves again and again. But we are writers and we can't help it.

A debriefing between the writer who longed for a conversation and the person who actually got to experience a conversation, then becomes necessary. One needs to piece together moment by moment of the conversation one didn't get to have--an exchange of thoughts and ideas meant to resemble your own, though in the back of your mind you know it must have fallen short. The question you don't want to ask ultimately arises: was my message received or lost in the process? A positive best guess is, sure, yes, you were understood completely. You know that cannot possibly be true because even in the best of conditions that never happens. Ok, once in awhile, but very rarely. So the second best guess is, I don't know. And that is where the truth can be found or not found--in the great unknown universe of inferred meanings, looks that express more than a word ever could, and the ultimate resignation that it is as good as it is ever going to get so you may as well drop it.

Sometimes after a series of misunderstandings occur and I spend my time and energy thinking of how things may have happened differently, better, and that one chance for communicating something has passed and probably failed, I wonder if it would have been better to have remained silent.

communion

A friend offered me a portion of the large, flat sesame cookie he had just purchased from a Muslim family who makes them to sell at the market, and I wondered if this could be considered communion.

Growing up Catholic gave me the sense that communion could only exist in a narrowly defined reality. The small, white, circular "host" that tasted like paper somehow dissolving on my tongue was supposed to become the body of Jesus, according to the transubstantiation doctrine. Never wanting to over-think this, for obvious reasons, I never really gave it much thought. As the old, trusted organ music was replaced by folk singers playing guitars and bongo drums, the Spirit breezed through the church changing the way things had been done for a long time and ushering in new ideas. Pretty soon people were breaking off matzos, talking about how they were striped and pierced--like the body they represented--and later even started using bread that contained that little bit of leaven that leavened the whole loaf.

As wonderful as it seemed that we were all invited to share in this beautiful moment, there was always the reminder that only those who belonged to that particular faith were truly allowed to partake. All others were welcome to partake . . . elsewhere. So as I contemplate world communion Sunday, I wonder what it is supposed to look like for all of us to break bread together.

It seems like each culture has its own kind of bread--everything from tortillas to bagels, challah to pita. Bread made with yeast and without. Quick sweet breads, and breads that need time to rise. Crispy, fluffy, chewy and filling. Some crusty breads go really well with soup. Others work well for toasting. Few experiences are as satisfying as eating a slice of freshly baked bread, warm from the oven, with butter.

With all of these different people and these different types of bread, I wonder how it would look if we each just offered a piece to the next person we met, breaking it between us so that we could each share in the fellowship it represented. Though our belief systems differ and we may follow different traditions and doctrines, could we not extend human kindness, loving one another as God loves us all? Even if we couldn't speak each other's language, wouldn't reaching toward another with a piece of some sort of bread communicate the goodwill intended? What if we could experience a world-wide communion? What then?

old enough to know better

With age comes wisdom . . . in theory. In reality, I often just find myself repeating the same situation, always hoping for a different outcome--a definition of insanity. Where I continue to fall short is in holding onto this hope, that comes from some unknown place since I am definitely NOT an optimist, and continues to get me to believe that something good will happen. Let go of the outcome, I've been told, and do not have expectations about anything. How does one live without ANY expectations?

Do we not all expect to make it through the day? Do we not expect that our spouse and children will come back home at the end of the day and we can regroup and start over tomorrow? Do we not expect that our jobs will be there when we walk through the door? Do we not ALL have some basic expectations in this life? To say we are not to expect anything sounds very Zen, but the idea that I'm going to be able to pull this off in the midst of an emotional crisis is expecting too much.

Emotions surface when special events are made known. This is when I go into my default mode resembling an adolescent girl and I wonder who wants to be my friend and invite me to the party. I would like to think I'm not alone in this thought process but do not find many willing to admit their fears of being left out. No one wants to think he or she will be left off the list. Maybe to say it out loud will somehow jinx it. No one wants to be on the outside looking in, overhearing others talking about how much fun the party will be or how awesome it was.

And yet, after all of these years of living, I find myself retracing my steps and taking that very familiar path. I am somehow shocked that it is again happening to me. You would think I would learn, but I don't. Sometimes I wonder just how many times I can recover from a broken heart.

"Friend" is one of the most difficult words for me to define. "A person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection . . ." is the way one definition begins. It is the "mutual" part that trips me up. How does one know whether or not the other person feels the same way? Isn't that demonstrated by actually sending the invitation with the expectation the recipient will accept it?

Too many memories of these failed attempts at "mutual affection" clutter my thoughts. I think of being asked to come to a party--in order to be a servant, not a guest. I remember coming to offer a tribute to the guest of honor and being told that tributes were offered earlier at another party--the one I was not invited to. And then there is the, "See you at the party" comment followed by me swallowing hard and trying not to let the tears spill out of my eyes as I am confronted with the fact that I will not be seeing that person at the party because I am not even supposed to know there is a party. I am, in fact, supposed to pretend there is no party so that the next time I see the host of the party, I will bear that person no ill will, especially if that person is my "friend." It becomes my burden to deceive the person into thinking all is well when it is not, at least for me.

So what are my choices? If invited, I can go and enjoy the mutual affection of those I consider friends, and laugh, celebrate, dance and savor the moments of shared joy. If not invited, I can once again try to gather together all of the pieces of my heart and begin another long recovery especially reserved for those of us who are sensitive enough to truly love and to risk doing so in the midst of almost certain failure. What can anyone say to alleviate the pain? It is what it is. And it hurts like hell.