Posted by Heidi Fischbach | June 16, 2010

Somebody made that bell for me. (And, keeping you abreast).

Today I want to write about sound. About how a sound can sneak up on you and kiss you when you need it. About how it can keep you company when you’re alone. About how it can surprise you with things you’d never thought of.

On a lonely day last year, probably winter, I was believing the thought “I am alone in all the world.” And then, into the dark and cold of that moment—(is it just me or does lonely always feel cold?)—came the sound of bells and an accompanying cascade of fresh thoughts: SomeBody. Made. That. Bell. Wow… I loved whoever it was. I felt a bit more connected, even if just to that person. I thought about how once upon a time there weren’t bells… I mused about the first bell ever and about the thoughts, needs and desires that lead to its creation… surely matters of resonance, connection and community had played a part in the bell coming to be… And in some way it was as if that bell had been made for me.

My loneliness did not magically go away that day, but in the newly-appreciated company of the bells from St. Johns church on Massachusetts Avenue in North Cambridge, I was able to take Lonely by the hand—which, by the by, it totally appreciated—and go about my business. And as the day went on, at every quarter hour, whether I noticed or not, the bells were there along with everything their sound conjured up: connection to myself and parts of myself I had neglected or forgotten, connection to others far and near, connection to animals and plants, connection to Morning Glories, appreciation for powers and things beyond my understanding, connection to kindness and humor, connection to our dear world and universe… By the end of the day Lonely had changed its clothes to something more fitting and comfy—an outfit that probably included a turquoise silken scarf and a big cozy sweater—and, if I recall, by late afternoon Lonely did not even answer when called.

I notice that I am more likely to appreciate sounds when I feel receptive. I also notice that feeling open is not required. Good thing! Sound is kind like that: it does not withhold itself when I am distracted and closed down. It still does its thing, asking nothing back from me, not even a thank you. Although I like to think it loves to be noticed because the moment I turn its way, it invariably says something along the lines of: “Oh hi! I’m so glad you came by. I have so much for you, so very much!”

The other day I started a list of sounds I love. Why stop with bells. There’s the plaintive call of mourning doves. And children singing. And Bach’s violin concerto 1 in A minor 3rd movement. And my guy whistling. And basketballs in city parks on summer nights. And unabashed laughter. And waves lapping. And babies babbling. And my clients taking their first big breath or sigh (= mind chatter slowing down)… so many sounds to love.

What else? What sounds make you feel loved?

—————–

On another note, some of you’ve been asking for an update on my last post, so…

After my breast got called “pretty” and all that I was to have a biopsy… you know, where they go in and probe what’s there, get a bit of it out, and then get up in its face to have a good look-see and figure out what the heck it is.

After a long moment of feeling pass-out-y about it, I talked to my people and was able to wrap my head around the thought of having a needle poked into my breast.

Except that I came to find out during pre-biopsy consult that they didn’t intend to just poke a needle in after all. What they had in mind was to do “surgery to remove breast tissue where the cyst(s) are and around.”

“How much tissue are we talking?” I asked the doctor.

“Probably 2 grapes-worth.”

In addition to the fact that I haven’t been able to look at plump and juice grapes without feeling a wee bit queasy since, that was the part where I yelled out “no”. Exactly just like that, “NO!”, with no thought of being polite.

It didn’t help that the doctor telling me, who I quickly figured out was the surgeon intending to take grapes out, had the warmth of a fish, and that if and when her mouth did the movement that in most people would be considered a smile, her eyes did not participate. Like at all.

I asked for details and listened as best I could given the rushing in my head. And then, summoning up my calm I said: I need to talk to my people. And then I walked into the hallway, sat down on account of feeling pass-out-y again, and called German Dude I’d reassured didn’t need to come with me.

After talking to my people I decided to have a second consult, hopefully with a doctor whose eyes and mouth were in sync. Let’s call him Dr. Sweetheart because that’s what he turned out to totally be: his eyes were warm and he drew pictures for me on the examining table paper, and he took his time talking me through my options. Dr. Sweetheart explained that the medical profession, and most especially surgeons such as he and Dr. ColdFish–whom he didn’t call that–see things as very black and white: if there is a problem, something out of the ordinary, even if the mysterious something’s harm is questionable, they tend as a profession to err on side of caution and excision.

But he also said–and this was so helpful–that if his wife were in my situation and decided, like I was leaning toward, waiting to follow up in 3 months with another round of pictures and ultrasound, he’d feel good about her decision.

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m waiting. And I’m talking nice to my pretty breast. And I’m listening to it and the bells and the sounds around me. And wearing a turquoise silken scarf and potioning up with Night Queen.

Thanks to all who’ve been asking ;)

Categories: Listening, Moods 'n' emotions | Tagged , , |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | May 20, 2010

Was that my breast you just called ‘pretty’?

I wasn’t really too worried except for maybe a bit…

Last week I had a routine ____ (I have no intention of gracing my screen with that word… it simply does not do justice to the beauty that are breasts). Anyway, the chick doing the ____ had no bedside breast manner whatsoever and it hurt like crazy. Enough said. Goes to show what a good mood I was in, I pretty much let it go right away. Until she kept me waiting for what surely was going on a half hour in a cold room in a wimpy hospital gown, only to come back and tell me I needed to keep waiting in said gown in the waiting room, because the doctor reading films still had to review mine and there were 3 people, more specifically women, more specifically sets of breasts, ahead of me.

So I, thinking all would surely be good, asked if I could leave… they could just call me if they needed to take more films. Right? Surely they wouldn’t need to.

But they did.

My doctor called and the word “shadow” came up in the same sentence as “your right breast.”

I still wasn’t too worried, and my doctor thought it could very likely have to do with the bumpy lumpy matter of having been premenstrual, but still, I needed to come back for more ___, plus an ultrasound.

Yesterday was the day. I asked my good people to put me in their pockets. Or in special little nesty bags they’ve knitted. Or in their caps. Really, anywhere warm and cozy and soft, while I went for a follow up round with the cold machine. And then I went off with potions in my bag: the sweet and comforting Chocolita and the warming and grounding Losing It, oh and what the hell, Night Queen too, because my breasts weren’t planning on quitting on me any time soon and Night Queen has plans for me, baby! All that, plus my friend Deborah Weber’s Comfort Spray in my pocket! Not bad at all: me tucked away in my favorite people’s pockets and all my favorite things stuffed in my own pockets.

I can’t say I was happy when the very same hardly-a-day-older-than-19 ____ technician called my name in the waiting room. But while she still had no breast-side manner to speak of, she did make a remark about the gloomy weather, and yes, it was a crumb but I appreciated her effort to connect. Then she had me wait in case they needed more.

Which they did.

In all this, German dude I’m dating–ahem!– texts me that he’s right there with me. He knew I was having a follow up to last week’s routine thing, which we’d talked of in code, but never outright on account of my aversion to the ___ word for one, and for two, call me crazy but, whoever would want to talk of her breasts in these terms to a guy who’s barely even just seen them? Yeah. Thought so. But he’s the smart. And he had picked up on my code language without a single lesson.

I texted him back: “you are so not in here with me!” (“Here” being the unsexiest place ever. And yes, in all this I notice I still have brain room to think of sex. And death, more on that later. But yes, sex.) “But, I appreciate the thought.”

Then 19-year-old comes back to take two more pictures before having me get dressed for ultrasound. She tells me she’ll come find me in a moment to give me the films to take along.

But she didn’t come back. Another ___ technician came out to tell me they need more.

“More!?!” I didn’t say.

“Did they change their mind?” I did say, wanting to make sure she had the right breasts, and wasn’t confusing me for someone else.

“Um, no, the doctor just needs more films, more angles, so they can point the ultrasound tech to the exact place.”

In my estimation they had, by now, taken 8 X-rays of said breast. What I didn’t say was: “Um, hello! I think your 19-year-old ____ bitchy technician sucks.”

Thankfully, this new ____ technician was a woman who’d had breasts of her own for more than 5 years. And had probably gone through a few ups and downs of her own. She was an immediate improvement: from her touch, to how she talked, to how warm her hands were… No, it didn’t take much, but I warmed right up in spite of the machine and contortions, and I told her she had a lovely boobside manner and she laughed and said they call her the boobs and tubes lady… and we both laughed and it was human and I was grateful.

Then I waited for Mr. Head of Radiology whose actual name was Dr. Homer as in Simpson to walk me through the maze of buildings to ultrasound, on the way explaining that what it looked like was cyst or dense tissue, but they couldn’t tell for sure so they needed another way to see in. Hence the ultrasound.

Thankfully, this part doesn’t hurt at all. But the screen was not facing me so all I could see was ultrasound tech’s face–poker poker poker puzzled poker poker puzzled–as she kept on and on with looking for and at whatever it was that had me there.

Finally she says she needs to bring in the doctor. And, this being Boston, Mass, teaching hospital capital of the world, in comes the tech plus a doctor plus a doc in training.

While alone, I got a bit scared, truth be told. I got out my friend Debra’s comfort spray, which I’d already been misting on myself every time I had to change. And I thought of all the warm pockets I was in. That helped.

And then I entertained thoughts about what I reeeeeally would do if I only had a certain amount of time left. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be thinking this, but I was, and I know better than to try to push thoughts into closets when they come to me for noticing.

And I remembered Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “The Art of Disappearing,” which I’d just included in a poetry bouquet I’d sent a friend across the world that very morning. Especially I thought of the last lines: “Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second, then decide what to do with your time.”

It actually felt rather comforting to be realistic about possibilities, because we all know that things do happen to young and vivacious and amazing people just getting to what they really want from life like you and me, right? Plus, I was milking the chance to zoom in on Heidi’s heart priorities.

And you know what the heart priority was? It was writing. If I only had, say, 6 months, or even 3, I’d write my ass off. And I’d gather all my favorite pieces that I keep saying I don’t know how to get published and I’d send them off already to anyone and everyone I know and don’t know. Because I have things to say. Things so important to me, things that only I can say because nobody else is me although they are human things, and maybe someone would be helped by these things someday somewhere. Whatever it is would be something about meeting anything and everything about me, about us, about this being human, the good the bad the ugly the scary the hilarious, with curiosity and kindness and a wide open heart, even if the wide open heart was towards the part of us whose heart is shriveled up and scared, or the parts of us we are still at war with.

I’m not saying I want this to be my time, oh no, but no one ever said I wasn’t dramatic, so this was just me working with my worst case scenario, meeting my mind kindly.

Then I held my breast, talking sweetly and confidently to it, apologizing for the cold pressy machine that was surely invented by a man who’d never ever in a million flippin’ years consider putting his dick in such a thing… the cold hands… the 19 year old… I let my right breast know that I’d be OK no matter what. I didn’t want her to worry. We’d be OK. And my left breast too, so she’d not feel left out. I started crying just a bit, but Night Queen was right there and she’s the strong and the tears would wait til we were in a cozier place.

Then poker face tech plus 2 doctors came back in, and Night Queen-potioned up, totally in her sovereignty-Heidi says, “could I please see the screen while you do this?”

The doctor looked at me, considered, and gave the only answer she could have given a queen. Yes.

Things got more interesting as I saw the parts they were puzzled about, which seem to be cysts. They were trying to determine if the cysts are clean or not… clean being good and not clean being not necessarily bad, but not as good, and possibly bad. That’s my plain English take on the matter.

So there they were, moving the gooped up wand over my breast, when the doctor says, “oh, that’s lovely. Oh… ”

And I’m all, “Excuse me?!” But I kept that in my head.

Then she points at this one part of the screen, obviously talking to not-me and says, “How pretty.”

Sassypants Heidi was totally not going to let that slip by unnoticed: “Why thank you. Was that my breast you just called ‘pretty’?”

They laughed and remembered I was there, and then the good doc said, “how many days can you say someone says that about your breast!” I think my eyebrow may have raised a bit, though playfully, and she instantly blushed and tried a quick but too-late recovery, “I mean, I don’t know, maybe they do…” But we were all laughing now. And she’d just become not the doc but another human being with breasts. And I hoped one day soon someone will talk of her breasts in the most endearing of terms.

But the three of them together still couldn’t determine where to go with the matter of those dark mysterious ovally things we were seeing, so they called up the best doctor in the department who came in and called me “Honey” and she was Indian and I liked her instantly.

The 4 of them had a look and determined I need to have an MRI… If the cysts were someplace else they’d just keep an eye on them over time, but they are in an unusual place for breast tissue.

So that, my friends, is what I was up to yesterday afternoon. Last night I saw a client, and again I felt so grateful that I am at a point in my life that I get to do things I love. And afterward I made myself some popcorn which I popped in a combination of coconut and black truffle-infused oil fitting for a queen. Yum. YUM! And today, I’m writing this post, because that’s what I do, write. Even, and especially, about the hard stuff. To make sense of things and practice at this thing we call life. And later on I’ll work in my new massage therapy office, which I still *squeeee* about whenever I think on it. And maybe you’ll come see me there.

P.S. Doc just called. They want to do a biopsy. Oh boo. I have no stomach for needles. Oh boo.

***

About comments… You know I love them! But please, do not even think about spelling out the ____ word or mentioning the C word. Because I will delete your ass off my blog in a heartbeat if I see those words. Even if you are my favorite person in the whole wide world! Consider yourself warn-ed.

Categories: Eavesdropping on my mind, Potions, Self-care, Talking to parts | Tagged , , , |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | May 5, 2010

Did you hear? I haz a new massage therapy office!

Heidi’s massage practice is now in Harvard Square, Cambridge, Mass. That’s right, people, Harvard flippin’ Square!

The time has come for me to put on my big-girl boots and fly! (And apparently, mix some metaphors).

So please, bring your fairy godmother blessings, blow bubbles, throw confetti, set off the sparklers and celebrate with me. As of this Thursday, May 6, you’ll find my massage table and me at:

22 Hilliard Street, Suite 105, Cambridge, MA 02138
(corner of Mt. Auburn Street) — see map

Hours:
Thursday, 9 a.m. – 8 p.m.
Friday, 9 a.m. – 8 p.m.
Saturday, 9 a.m. – 6 p.m.

The location couldn’t be better! A quick walk from the T, with on-street, metered, 2-hour parking or University Place Garage for those who like to drive, and–get this!–L.A. Burdick Cafe pretty much around the corner. That’s right! After your massage you could, very easily, take a few steps to Burdicks and get yourself a hot chocolate so creamy that the spoon practically stands up on its own in the cup. Oh my.

I have space for a few more clients in my practice. It is my hope that having a more publicly accessible office with a waiting room and a fancypants name plate on the door (not that you care!), will allow me to grow Heidi’s Table to just the right size… A size that will allow me to continue growing my super fun potion-creating business on other days. And also writing.

What’s that? You’d like to help me?

Awesome! Please consider:

Forwarding or tweeting up this post. Or posting a link on your facebook wall.

Are you on a community list-serve? Those things are an amazing way to get out the word. You could post a link to http://heidistable.com/massage

Are you looking to give (or get!) the perfect Mother’s Day gift? I haz gift certificates!

And let’s never forget you! I have a few openings as early as this week. Tell you what: anyone booking for this week in reply to this post gets an added 15 minutes on their session, on me. You can email or call 617.297.2266. Operators are standing by ;)

Hope to see you soon!

Heidi

Categories: Massage Therapy |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | April 27, 2010

Going back for me-then

You know how people might say something for some kind of forever and you just don’t hear it?

Maybe at some point you begin suspecting just how much you aren’t hearing. You get curious, and with that comes the teensiest opening to the possibility that there is a vast world of things you’ve closed yourself off to.

And then seemingly suddenly you find yourself able to hear some of the subtler pitches, you can see a bit wider, and then maybe your friend or teacher or lover, or maybe your mother, the president or Leonard Cohen (sorry, he just snuck in there!) says the same thing he or she has always said but today it gets past the wall of made-up mind: you know, past all the calcified assumptions and hardened beliefs.

Maybe life has changed you–what with its losses and joys, its earthquakes and hurricanes, the comings and goings of people and things, your loves and hopes and dreams–softening you up a bit here, toughening you up over there… And suddenly that thing that you could not ever hear before has a place to land. Or an itty bitty piece of it manages to fly through the crack in the window of you and now it’s in, Baby, IN!

When I first heard Byron Katie say, Everyone always does the best they can, I thought, yeah, right! It sounded nice and all, but what about in such and such? Surely you don’t mean that person over there… And what about that night when I was 26? Surely I could have done better. By “could have” I really meant “should have.” And with this string of surely’s came endless waves of shame. I was filled with argument.

But where there is argument there is doubt. And doubt can be a window. And windows can open.

So I asked: is it true I could I have done better when I was 26?

When all argument, excuse and defensiveness is seen through, I find that I can only answer no. Misguided though it was, it was me doing the best I could. Swallowing those pills was the best conclusion I could have come to in the equation of me on that night.

I needed help. I needed to wake up. I needed to not keep seeing the world and myself as I had been. After all, it wasn’t working, and I’d tried all I knew to try. I needed to give up. What I’d done so far, what and whom I’d turned to, hadn’t helped. Ultimately I’d have to meet myself, to look myself square in the eyes, in a way I had no idea how to do then.

Recognizing this now is sweet relief. It is me being a Morning Glory to myself. It’s me going back into the burning building of my life then, and pulling me out: “C’mon Sweetheart, this is no place for you to stay. There are aardvarks in your future! And kisses. And joy. You have no idea!”

Noticing the reality of the situation–that I did what I did and that I was doing the best I could–feels a whole lot like kindness. Like warm oil in the most loving of hands, rubbing old places of injury. And certainly me at 26 could use warm hands and oil and rubbing. Who couldn’t!

Something happens when I meet my hardest places with the kindness of understanding: I begin meeting fewer and fewer people I can’t understand. And when I do find some thing or person that leaves me shaking my head self-righteously muttering “they should know better!,” I can only ever look back inside myself at what I haven’t yet understood, at what might still be hanging from the hook of shame.

This being human is amazing, isn’t it? The hard, the wonderful, the baffling, the mysterious, the all of it…

Rilke comes to mind:

Quiet Friend

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be the bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself into wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water speak: I am.
——————
Rainer Maria Rilke
Sonnets to Orpheus, Part 2, XXIX

Categories: Poetry, Re-imagining, Self-care | Tagged , , |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | April 26, 2010

Do I believe in God?

Once upon a time I tried to die. But it wasn’t my time. Too much was unlived, untapped, unknown. So much not yet done, if it had even begun, so busy had I been stuffing and numbing and hiding to not feel the ever present sense of far away from love, from home, from myself and from all that mattered… frantically trying to fit into the box I thought I was supposed to, not for not having tried and cried and argued and prayed and lied, and finally, despairing of ever mending the deep wide gash that I felt had been rent in the fabric of me, I gave up.

It ain’t pretty to try and not succeed. You wake up not to oblivion but to shit, which I wish I only meant metaphorically. But no. We’re talking violent shit: your body screaming NO from every orifice and pore, every which way across the one-room studio where one lives, with no consideration of letting you make it–in your dizzy semi-consciousness–to basin or bowl in one’s one-room studio apartment.

One. So young. So 26. So sad. So homesick and greedy, above all, for connection. For a lap. For cool hands on a forehead. For arms around. For laughter. A familiar smell. A kiss. One.

It ain’t graceful, either, how you grope on hands and knees, the world swirling about madly, and manage not to fall to your death–suddenly now, for some unfathomable reason, you care about not dying–managing somehow to make it down the ladder from your sleeping loft where you’d closed your lids the night before but not until after swallowing the pills and falling asleep oh-so-un-Snow White-ly.

—-

If you were to ask me if I believe in God I would now be honest like I wasn’t then, and tell you that no, not as such. Certainly not in a man with a beard in a heaven, ordaining for things to be such and such, calling this bad and that good, this one right and that one wrong. And not a God narrow and circumscribed enough for us to have any kind of grasp of. And certainly not a God who’d send people who don’t dig him to his arch nemesis’ hell of fire.

“But I do believe in Morning Glories,” I might add. “Does that count?”

—-

When the Morning Glories learned that one of them had tried and failed, they came to visit the state-run facility where she was. And they sat with her. Quiet. Then crying. Then laughing. Then holding hands in a circle saying the Serenity Prayer. But all the while there, with her, keeping company. And when they learned that she was to return home alone in a few days to the one-room shit hole she’d been carried out of in the wake of 44 pills that had not wanted to stay down, they asked her for her keys. And then they went to clean.

I lost touch with the Morning Glories over the years. They were an Alcoholics Anonymous women’s group I attended in Harvard Square 16 years ago, and, as much as I could relate to what it was that made them or anyone pick up a drink or a drug or a whatever, my whatever had never been Jack Daniels. My pints had not been beer but sweet fill-me-ups like ice cream, nice cream, smooth cream, comfort cream, love cream. And people. But not alcohol.

Truth be told, I also felt shame. Even after they cleaned, upon my return, the smell of the wreckage of my past, lingered. The thought of them there cleaning what I had left, was more than I could bear.

Today, the thought of Morning Glories invariably makes me cry. Words barely touch what is there. This here is a try: it’s something like gratitude. And humility. And love, oh my, love. They were kind enough to clean my shit so I could have a fresh start. They knew, I am certain of it, that it’d take everything I had to pull forward, and that I’d have to do it–the real middle of the night and ’round the clock work of it–on my own. Not without help, but yes, on my own.

So do I believe in God? I suppose I do. Her name is Morning Glories.


[I love comments! Love notes? Your own stories? What this makes you think of? Bring it on. But I kindly ask that you refrain from advice or preaching or Jesus-saves kind of talk.

Oh and too? Just so no one worries, what I write of happened 16 years ago. Much has changed since. Life can still feel ay-ya-yai!-hard sometimes, but I love it far too much to abandon it before my time.]

Categories: Food, Once upon... | Tagged , |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | April 6, 2010

Wanted: Sweet Relief

April is National Poetry Month. This one’s been brewing for months. It’s getting there.

What Wants Saying

Merchants of luxury trade in securities
back and forth and up and down the walled
streets of restless minds, selling lies
of commission, omission, and so-called re-
mission to save us from what
we never asked for saving from,
never listening for what
really wants saying, lost
as it is in the nah-nah-nah-noise,
static electricity, lint of too much spin
cycle, re-leftovered ten too many
times ticker taping two-bit drones
along the barbwire guarded margins
of our strip malled minds.

Are you exhausted yet?

Spare a change for the homeless,
that’s your mother on the street.

Spare a moment for the homesick,
put some ground beneath their feet.

Spare a nickel for your freedom,
bareback horses on the beach.

Spare a lifetime for some sadness,
welcome motion, sweet relief.

(c) Heidi Fischbach 2010

Categories: Poetry |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | April 1, 2010

Couples counseling: Me and Time.

Time and I, we go way back. But things have gotten hard… Oof! So I called Curiosity and booked us a session.

Curiosity is a frighteningly insightful dude. Most of the time he doesn’t even have to say anything at all, although he does have this one eyebrow that ventures up ever so slightly when he doesn’t quite buy something. But his eyes are always kind and oftentimes they twinkle. And, as you probably know, he’s my favorite superhero for the hard stuff.

Our session started off kind of rock and roll. I am the more verbal one and since I’d taken the initiative and made the appointment thank you very much, I just went right into it. Why beat around the bush! Time was right there, of course, sitting at the other end of the couch.

I said to Curiosity that I often feel at Time’s mercy, like he’s some ruthless taskmaster whom I will never quite please, who then “has the freaking nerve,” I said, wagging my head side to side, “to take away my goddam evenings and weekends working. You know: work-working, think-working, worry-working, not-working… He just won’t let up.”

Curiosity nodded slightly and turned toward Time. But excuse me very much, I wasn’t done.

“And what is it with just slipping away so fast? What! End of month already? And the years! Forget about it. Half the time I don’t even know what year we are.” Hrmph! And here I turned to yell at time (and no, I’m not proud of it): “You move so fucking fast I cannot even think. I’m exhausted!”

And then I burst into tears. Curiosity nodded and with soft eyes pointed over to the pile of silk handkerchiefs he keeps with him at all times. But do you know who beat me to them to hand me one? Yes. It was Time. Which made me cry even harder.

I didn’t notice right away but Time had taken the handkerchief as an opportunity to sidle up toward me. He didn’t say a word but his hand from the short arm took my hand that was closest to him, and his hand from the long arm started smoothing the hair from my face. Which yeah, made me cry more. Because, oh my. It had been awhile since we’d had any affection, he and I.

“Please, can’t I just turn you back and time travel and take back things that I said, things that I did because I’m so sorry about those things, especially that one, but you have passed and and and snot snot snot I can’t get you back– and now I’m forty freaking two and I don’t know what to do–”

By now I had my head buried in Time’s chest and he didn’t even seem to mind at all about the snot. I whimpered like a 3-year-old and couldn’t speak for a good long while because the pressure in my chest and throat were so tight and had been building for some kind of forever and I swear I thought my heart would explode.

Thoughts, they kept flitting across my mind. Like about how every so often I wake up at dark:thirty in the morning with surges of some kind of restless impatience coursing down my legs. I’m not sure what exactly that is, truth be told, and it used to freak me out. I’ve noticed it’s related to wanting to get to the important stuff before it’s too late… before time runs out… And oftentimes it’s when I’m putting things off, both the niggly things and the big things…

Time kept holding my hand and I remembered how much I’d once loved those very kind hands. (Because, my man Time he’s not some cheap-ass digital infrared, oh no. We are talking steady and strong old-school hands here. And, if you must, I’ve always had a thing for hands. Shhhh…)

At some point I turned to face my man Time and through snot and tears I said, “Please don’t go! Please don’t leave me. I know things haven’t been good between us. And often I come to bed and just fall asleep exhausted without even so much as a kiss, but I’m not ready for us to be over. Yet. Please–”

And he kissed me, right there, not to shut me up or anything but because he must know that kisses hands-down beat words sometimes, no? And then, forgoing the handkerchiefs, he caught my wayward tears with more kisses and those steady, kind hands. Until the tears ran out.

And then, in the first and only words my man Time had uttered in our whole session with Curiosity, he said: “I’m right here, Sweetheart.”

Although it was time to go, that’s the part where Curiosity didn’t say anything like “That’s our time for today.” Because Curiosity? He’s the supersmart.

*******

On the practical side, which is always where change can really take root, I was very excited a few weeks ago when my friend and itty biz colleague Eileen Corrigan Valazza released “The Sailboat Kit.” The timing couldn’t have been more synchronistic, given my relationship work with Time.

OK, you should know that pretty much anything Eileen does I love. But I was very excited because The Sailboat Kit is a time help-y thing “for people who hate structure (but love metaphors).” *Jumping up and down* Metaphors!!! “Me me, sign me up!”

A sailboat is Eileen’s metaphor for the kind of vessel she wants to navigate through her week in, but she invites us to pick whatever metaphor works best for us. I fell so in love with Eileen’s sailboat, that I kept her metaphor.

Eileen’s kit has helped me see things differently and make several shifts in how I relate to time:

In the last 3 weeks, since boarding my sailboat, I’ve re-discovered this thing called “an evening.” You know, evening, as in a time after which work stops. Wow.

I’ve also gotten way curious about this thing called “rest.” And about making time for it so that it is more likely to happen.

I also get to have a day that is called “a weekend.” (As a massage therapist, much of my hands-on work is on Saturdays and Sundays). OK, so right now my weekend is only one day: Friday, which I renamed Freeday. But, one day? Wow. Compared to No-day, that’s grand.

Envisioning my week and putting it down on paper in the fun way Eileen has me do has also helped me consciously set aside a little time for the niggly things that end up cluttering my brain waves when I put them off for important things.

Oh and too? I’ve made explicit space for self-care and movement and joy.

To sum it up, Eileen’s Sailboat Kit is the awesome. I love it. You can read about it over here and get yourself one if you want.

Categories: Getting curious, Re-imagining, Self-care |
Comments (5)

Posted by Heidi Fischbach | March 6, 2010

Introducing my favorite superhero for oof-stories.

Come on over to Leah Piken Kolidas’ “Creative Every Day” blog, where I wrote a guest post about my favorite superhero for hard life-stories.

Categories: Getting curious, Noticing |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | March 3, 2010

Minding my biz: Potions. In a mailbox. Freezing their butts off. Help!

5:32 PM yesterday found me at the Davis Square, Somerville, U.S. Post Office with boxes of filled orders ready to mail. But doggone, the P.O.’s just gone and closed.

Oh wait! There’s a mailbox. And so, without a second thought, I put my boxes in the box.

Except for, oh wait!

The freak out–

So yeah, right after doing my little double check that they’ve all gone in, I’m all: Pumpkin! Shitsky! Waaah! What have I done!

Then I go all Elaine-from-Seinfeld spazy on the inside, trying all the while to stay the heck calm on the outside, when my eyes land on the big-ass United States of America Postal Service truck parked on the side of the post office. And 2 guys.

Guys, as in, human Menschens!

So I sheepishly ask if please they might unlock the mailbox for me because my boxes of handmade cremes that I’ve just mistakenly dropped in there could freeze overnight and I’d like to take them back if at all possible puh-leeze–

“Sorry, lady. We don’t have the key.”

My skin-deep calm evaporates and my inner panic escalates, while I try to hold onto some shred of dignity.

One of them is rolling his eyes all Seinfeld-soup Nazi, thinking, I’m sure, that I am a freaking nutcase. Which for sure in that moment I am.

But the other one, God love him, waves me over when soup Nazi has gone back inside, and mumbles to me all inner-city-street-corner-transaction-voice (which I only know from movies, mind you): “If anyone asks, I’m so NOT giving you this number right now, OK?

And I’m all nodding like crazy, then shaking my head, oh no of course not–

“Call Yule at Union Square–”

Right there is where I blow my smidge of street cred, but knowing I can’t come right out and ask for the spelling, but really not having gotten the name, I’m all: “Yule–?”

“Yes Yule, the nice Asian mail carrier supervisor at the Union Square office. He’ll know if there are carriers still in the area… maybe they’ll come back for you–”

So I’m all thank you thank you and then shifting my weight from one leg to the other right there next to the mailbox, I call Yule, while Soup Nazi walks by and, totally onto me, gives me the evil eye and the subtle-except-to-me upper lip snarl.

Yule is indeed the loveliest of mail people. But don’t get your hopes up, my friend, because in that very moment his last carrier is walking through the door, and will, very shortly, be heading home for the night. But being a kind man who was raised, I’m sure, in the land of Buddhas rather than soup-Nazis, Yule suggests I call back in the morning at which time I might be able intercept the postal carrier at said mailbox to take said boxes back. Not for sure, of course, but maybe–

Resigned, I head home.

The scramble–

Oh the mind. It is only a matter of moments before it goes all Google mental search on me, showing me all possible panic-induced solutions, other than, of course, the idea of stopping: Stopping to breathe. Stopping to laugh. Stopping to ask the obvious question of whether my matter was even dilemma-worthy.

Here are some of the thought-presents my cat-mind brought and left at my feet:

Option 1. You could rig up a space heater under the blue mail box. (Issue: a block and a half of extension cords from my apartment to it.)

Option 2. You could wrap the box up in blankets. (Um…)

Option 3. You could call Yule back and resort to briberies. Blackmails. Also, mind you, only learned in movies.

Option 4. You could make replacement orders tonight and put those in the mail right alongside the other boxes first thing in the morning and then email or call your customers. (Issue: lots of time… complication… confusion… but an idea I did not discard)

Thank the mailbox gods the idea of putting a hot water bottle in there was not introduced to me by my friend until after we were out of the potion woods. Because yeah, totally doable.

[Walking, walking]: Hmmm… I have no idea how the cremes will actually even fare outside in a mailbox, overnight. For all I know, they often sit in cold places on their way to and fro, in cold trucks and airplane cargoes, to get where they need to go. Hmmmm….

Ding ding ding:

Option 5. Replicate mailbox conditions!

When I get home I go all quality assurance detective, making a test box of potions, which was, until this very morning, hanging out of my second story apartment bedroom window, rigged up securely with packing tape, to replicate the very Boston elements that my carefully-packed aardvark potions in the P.O. mailbox were living through all night. In the morning we would see.

The noticing–

With enough years under the belt in the company and observation of one’s own mind, at some point, hopefully sooner rather than later, one becomes tuned into the fact that anxious thoughts are not the best decision makers… and that, my friends, is a little switch, simple yet powerful in potential to turn a bad, if hilarious in retrospect, situation around.

Having noticed the switch, I flip it. Then something in me taps my shoulder and, channeling Cesar Millan (my personal coach who doesn’t know he’s my coach, and no, I don’t have a dog either, if you must know), suggests I get my ass to the gym to climb a stair mill machine…

The sweating…

Let me just say that this was not the wimpy stair master of old, OK? This so was not a mechanical contraption where one can heave oneself up and rely on arm strength and fake it on the leg part, whiling the time away flipping pages in a magazine. Oh no. This here was a mini freaking escalator the likes of which would have you flat on your face at the mere thought of faking it. So yeah, I was working it baby and sweating my worry-hamsters out of their cave.

Incidentally? Cesar is right. Intentional movement is the best thing ever for dogs. And worries. You just can’t keep the frenzy up in the mind when the body is dripping the sweats and horse-powering the heart. Just sayin’. I’ve learned that little something over the years and I’m happy to share it with you. You’re welcome.

… and not going it alone–

Barbara Sher, creative genius and teacher, says: “Isolation is the dream killer.” She’s right.

So yeah, thankfully, I have people. An online community of lovely peeps, all of us doing our darndest to live mindful, creative lives and support each other in the process. I checked in with them and they were right there with the hugs and humor and help,  jump-starting my think-it-through smarts:

No, Boston is not very cold right now. Indeed our usual winter-climate seems to have moved down to our nation’s capital and thereabouts for the winter. And last night, we here in Boston were having us a rather balmy time, with temps hovering right around freezing.

Also, they pointed out, what with all the envelopes and boxes in the mailbox along with mine, the temperature might be even warmer than the fridge where, I remembered, I even keep some potion supplies all the time.

And also, another friend reminded me that my potions have not only flown around the country but have crossed the oceans and gone North and South of the Equator.

Whew! And a learny bit–

So yes, my mind? on worry? Pro’bly it could win prizes. It might even be able to go head to head with my dear Grandma, whom the wee hours of the morning would often find “taking things to the Lord in prayer…” And yeah, I suspect that was a good bit about not being able to sleep.

I’m happy to say that the lotions and potions fared beautifully in last night’s Boston elements. Which should not surprise me since my business buddy is one hearty fella. This morning I’m scratching my head about why the heck I didn’t have a chat with *him* about this yesterday, because surely he’d have straightened me out out licketty split and told me all about his travels to deliver potions to our people–I picture him all Snoopy in flying goggles and little WWII plane–around the world. He’s magical that way, my aardvark…

I hope I’ve strengthened the neural pathways to my light switch. Here’s hoping next time we’ll get to the laughing part sooner.

Tomorrow or the day after, 4 of my lovely customers will receive potions infused with extra-magical learnings gleaned from freak-out and hilarity, and they’ll be none wiser for it. Unless, of course, they’re reading this. In which case, um, hi! *blush*

Categories: Aardvark Essentials, Me 'n' the aardvark, Minding my biz, Potions | Tagged , |
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Posted by Heidi Fischbach | February 25, 2010

Essence of You-ness

I got myself an itty bitty mortar ‘n’ pestle,
a present for the hard stuff
to get to the sweet stuff inside
things like a vanilla bean
and a cardamom pod
and a restless, tired mind,
which I crushed and added to a sexy Bosc pear
sauteing it all on low flame
with a splash of barrel-aged balsamic
to tease the sweetness out.

Won’t you join me please? You:
who just called yourself a name. And you:
who bit your tongue not to. And you:
who had a drink too many. And you:
who had a drink too few. And you:
dreaming at your desk job. And you:
making a go of it alone. And you:
paired with the love of your life. And you:
out there on your own. And you:
who just flipped your monster the finger,
then hugged him to make up. And you:
who got out of bed anyway. And you:
who couldn’t. And you:
with all the hats. And you:
who can’t find yours. And you:
with the mammogram to get to. And you:
who haven’t had one yet. And you:
cowering in the closet. And you:
cleaning yours out. And you:

that’s right, you:

Won’t you come dip your finger
into this essence of goodness that is you?

Categories: Moods 'n' emotions, Poetry, recipe ideas | Tagged , |
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