Hunting and gathering in the heat of the day

This morning I had a choice: take a bus to buy groceries at Gateway, or walk a mile to the big store on Glisan. Choices, choices. Waiting for a bus would be boring, especially in the blazing hot mid-day sun. The bus would be air-conditioned, though. Tempting. Plus, I like the store at Gateway. I've shopped there for years; I know where everything is, which is reassuring. Waiting for a bus to take me home, somewhat boring. But at least I wouldn't have to lug groceries home on foot.

Seems like a no-brainer, right? Well, besides saving the $2.50 bus fare, the main factor that swayed me toward walking was the depressing spread of my ass. I need exercise. The only way I would be inclined to get moving is if I had a purpose: the hunting and gathering of food, or what passes for that activity in the modern age of Western civilization in East Portland. Plus, oddly enough, the vertigo seems to be better when I'm walking. So, at a little after high noon, I embarked upon the approximately one-mile journey to the store on Glisan Street.

Are you wondering if I was pushing my shiny new red shopping cart? Thanks for remembering. No, I did not, and I'll tell you why: The thing is huge. And heavy. I might as well steal a shopping cart from the store. It's quite a device, though, I must say. It folds up flat for storage (although the only place left to store things in the Love Shack is on the walls). It's quite sturdy. It's impressively shiny and red. Did I mention it is huge?

Unless I can figure out how to put a motor and a steering mechanism on the thing, I can't see myself wheeling the red shopping cart up hill and down dale to the store. I parked the red cart next to the other rarely used appliance in my bedroom, the vacuum cleaner. I've ordered a folding handtruck from Sears (I know, I'm insane). Until the new device arrives, I'm relying on my new backpack and two cloth grocery bags. I don't know how Bravadita does it: Despite being a pedestrian (by choice), she always seems so stylish, carrying the most lovely, functional bags while hiking the city in designer shoes. Sigh.

After making sure I had a bottle of water and my straw hat, I set out into brilliant 80° sunshine. Most of the trek to the store is downhill. It's not bad, walking downhill. Moving at the speed of walking, you can see things. I noticed used cars parked along the curb (none for sale). Now I know what a Pontiac Vibe looks like: just like a Toyota Matrix. Huh. I noticed lots of people grow vegetables in their front yards. The gardens are glorious, a direct contrast to the lawns, which are already crumbly gold fields of straw, even though it's barely summer. A long hedge of honeysuckle filled the air with a sweet delicate scent, blending interestingly with someone's crappy perfume and the smell of a decaying squirrel carcass.

I paced along, measuring my progress from shade patch to shade patch, winding through the hilly neighborhood down to Stark, then quick like a bug across Stark, then over to Burnside, and finally a few more long blocks to Glisan (our blocks are rectangular here on the Eastside). A few short blocks up the hill is the big store, on the other side of the street. A fancy pedestrian crossing, complete with flashing lights, gives the pedestrian the illusion that she is safe if she steps out into the street. There is no stoplight. I gave a special WTF, jackass! wave to the driver of an SUV, who waved back as she barreled through the crosswalk mere feet from my toes. I can see how pedestrians, especially those older than about 30, get killed while crossing wide boulevards: Once you step off the curb, you've got nowhere to go if someone doesn't stop. One little hitch in your gitalong and bam! you are flying into the gutter, a broken mess.

Luckily, that did not happen to me. I made it across the wide boulevard with no mishaps and entered the store from the parking lot, looking like all the other shoppers who came in cars to shop for groceries. I sank into air conditioned comfort. I don't know where things are in this store, so it seems bigger than it really is. Wandering the aisles, I saw lots of things I thought I needed and wanted. I limited myself, however, to what would fit in a tote basket, knowing I would have to carry it all back home.

Shopping as a pedestrian is different now. I'm making new choices. I have a list. I can't afford to forget anything; it's not like I can just hop in the car and zip back to the store if I forget eggs. Today I bought smaller versions of things, and fewer of them. Where I used to buy three cans of organic garbanzo beans, now just one. Instead of the large size olive oil, the half size. The smallest cabbage. Two onions instead of four. One dozen eggs, instead of two (I eat a lot of eggs).

I always go through self-checkout so I can avoid interacting with others. I also like to pack my own bags. As a pedestrian, I need to devise a new packing system. I put some heavy stuff into the backpack and distributed the produce between the two cloth bags, one for each shoulder. Apples, onions, broccoli, zucchini, carrots. Heavy but evenly balanced. I took a long swig of water, put on my sunglasses, and headed for the door.

The heat of the day hit me like a fist in the face. For a long moment, as I crossed the shimmering parking lot, the thought occurred to me that I may have taken on more than I could handle. I trudged slowly back up the hill, well aware that my next conscious thought might be from a hospital bed. But the heat was just tolerable. The space between pools of shade was just doable. The weight of the two bags was just about balanced. The sweat rolling down my back was soaked up by the backpack. My feet were hot, but the soles weren't melting, quite. I stopped once to drain my water bottle and let the sweat roll down my butt crack. Then I hoisted the load and plodded the last three blocks to the Love Shack. I guess I'll have to do it all again in about four days, or when the zucchini runs out. Bright side: I can always take the bus.

At last, a reason to take a moratorium on service

My brain is full of talk talk talk, but little action seems to be forthcoming. While I wait for feedback on the second draft of my dissertation, I am once again in limbo, fretting over my future and avoiding my present. Last Tuesday I visited my naturopath, Dr. Tony, for my quarterly tune-up. I never know ahead of time what diabolical new technique he will want to try out on me, but I never say no. The man saved my life, after all. Four years ago, I was slowly dying of self-imposed malnutrition. He diagnosed me, prescribed clean food and lots of water, and cheerfully signed me up for the maintenance plan. I see him every few months, and he finds in me a willing victim for his latest wacky techniques.

Maybe there should be an annual limit to how much self-improvement doctors can attempt. Every time Dr. Tony attends a class or seminar, he seems overly eager to practice his new knowledge. I presume he is practicing on everyone else, too, not just me. That would be too weird if he said, Oh boy, I can't wait until Carol comes in again, so I can try out my new vertebrae-adjusting gun on her!

Today Dr. Tony looked natty in his white jacket. As soon as the examining room door was closed, he said, “I just took a class on Total Body Modification!” rubbing his hands together with obvious glee.

I grimaced at him. I wasn't feeling particularly perky that morning, what with the low clouds and rain, the piles of mushy wet leaves, and the prospect of spending money I could not afford to spend. He looked so happy. I lay on my back on his table, peering up at his grinning face, and resigned myself to my fate. Another payment on your student loan, dude. He laid a flimsy notebook on my stomach. Then he reached for my arm. I raised it automatically—by now I am a well-trained patient—so he could muscle-test me. He eagerly flipped through the pages of the notebook while pushing on my upraised arm.

“Oh, wow,” he said with excitement. He paused. “Wait, I have to look this up.” He grabbed a heavy book off the little table under the window and paged through it. Then he bent down and grabbed something small from a bag on the floor. He held up what looked like a dinky white test tube. I couldn't see what was in it, if anything, nor what was written on the label. “This little tube contains magnetically charged bla bla that will resonate with your bla bla bla, so we can clear away the bla bla bla. Bladdity bla bla. Hold this right here.”

He handed me the tiny white vial and told me to press it to my chest. I did. He tapped my leg above the knee and I obediently raised it. “Push back.” I pushed against his hand, and my leg weakened and fell to the table. He grinned like a maniac. “See, that blows out. Okay, now sit up. I'm going to adjust the bla bla on your back. Now let me see which ones...” He turned to the book again, musing out loud. “Four, eight, and... ten.” Then he took his little silver gun and pressed the trigger against certain bones in my spine, telling me to breathe in and out.

When I laid back down on the table, still holding the vial against my chest, he tested my leg again. This time I could hold it against the pressure of his hand. Muscle-testing is weird.

“So, what that was, that was the Zeta Virus,” he informed me. “This is to clear you of suicidal ideation.”

I must have looked skeptical. “This is for people who aren't necessarily planning on committing suicide,” he reassured me. “But sometimes they find themselves driving along a road, crossing a bridge, and they wonder what it would be like, what would happen, if they suddenly were to turn the wheel...you know?”

He didn't come right out and ask me if I had entertained such morbid fantasies, but I got his drift. Well, who hasn't, that's what I want to know. I mean, don't we all, aren't we all sometimes drawn to imagine our deaths? It doesn't mean we necessarily want to die, but don't you wonder? No? Well, maybe it's not everyone. Anyway, I've been cleared of the Zeta virus now, so I don't have to obsess for a while about driving my car off a bridge. I wonder how long this cure will last? I forgot to ask.

Oddly enough, as I lay back down on the table, I felt a warm tingly feeling in my torso.

“Your eyes are brighter already,” he said rather smugly. I felt like smiling, suddenly, so I did.

“The other thing that came up for you is bla bla bla,” Dr. Tony said. He looked sidelong at me. “This is for people who do too much service, people who 'take one for the team,' you know what I mean?”

I could only stare at him in surprise. Service? Taking one for the team? Holy words, sacred words, bite your tongue, young man! I wouldn't be where I am today without intentionally cultivating an attitude of service. (That's a loaded statement, isn't it? Where do I think I am, exactly?) Of course, I didn't say anything out loud. He must have seen something in my face. “This is the self-sabotaging side of service,” he said. “Where you put everyone else's needs before your own. Like not putting on your own oxygen mask before you help your child with theirs.”

Another tiny vial, this time held on my rib cage, another muscle test, and another round of spinal shots from his silver gun, and I was pronounced cured of the affliction of excessive service. Wow. Who knew! My 12 Step compadres might be interested in this little trick.

Thus, in a matter of minutes I was cleared of suicidal tendencies and a penchant for self-sabotaging altruism. My lucky day. And it all happened in the space of 30 minutes. All in all, I received a relatively inexpensive cure for a dreary day's doldrums, plus lots of fodder for thought about the nature of self-destruction and self-sabotage through service. Oh, that wacky Dr. Tony. He's done it again.

Happy people don't make gratitude lists

During the late 1990s and early 2000s I was enamored with self-help books targeted at creative people who were having trouble expressing their creativity. You've probably heard of The Artists Way by Julia Cameron, the classic tome for wannabe visual artists and writers. Another good one is Finding Your North Star by Martha Beck. And don't forget the self-help veteran Barbara Sher, author of Wishcraft, I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was, and many other books.

I was a big fan, I admit. I even did some of the writing assignments. (I hear it works better if you actually do the work.) One of the assignments I recall was to write a list of all the things I was grateful for. Back in 2001, I scratched out a list of "blessings": grateful for my cat, for my car, for my teeth, for the fact that only 1,000 feet above the clouds overhead is clear blue sky. I dredged deep. Well, I tried. The ostensible purpose of a gratitude list is to thwart the self-centered ego by focusing on the positives rather than the negatives. My self-centered ego at that time was big as all outdoors, and I was fully invested in the negative.

I guess I still am. I've done a few gratitude lists in my time. It never worked for me, but I didn't know why until I read one sentence by Barbara Sher in her I Can Do Anything book: "Happy people don't need to make lists." Hmmmm. That claim has interesting implications. First, I'm obviously not happy. Duh. Second, making a gratitude list does not necessarily lead to happiness. Third, happy people are too busy living life to make gratitude lists. Four, only cranky, malcontented people believe making a list will lead to happiness. And finally, happiness precedes gratitude. Acting as if I'm grateful is sort of like holding a pencil between my teeth to make it seem like I am smiling. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. If I really wanted to be happy I would try it. Nuff said.

Apparently there is actually a science of gratitude. Who knew. In perusing the Web, I came across a suggestion left by a commenter named Alice:  "Pray without seizing." I think she meant "ceasing." It made me laugh, though. For just a moment, half a second, wow—I felt grateful. For what I am not sure. But it felt good.