MY SPACE

Many friends put pictures of meaningful events in their lives on their walls . Others have every horizontal and vertical surface covered with framed images of their loved ones at all ages and rites. People decorate their spaces or hold onto the memories that make up their lives in their own personal ways. However, there are friends' homes that make me feel 'at home' and there are those that clearly say 'you can't get comfortable here.'

Just as I used to be able to figure out the clientèle in a bar by looking at the bottles the bartender had behind him, I now like to play games about the kind of people who live in any particular space. My space is filled and I have conceded that it always will be. A barren house is like a barren mind to me. I love the stimulation of things to be read all around me. Most of the pictures on the wall are original art, a couple are prints or photographs but not of relatives (with two exceptions, my parents' wedding picture in 1910, and a pastel portrait done of my now deceased husband, when he was 4 years old). The piano always invites me to sit down and play a bit as I pass it.

I have a shadow box with tiny shelves holding souvenirs from some of my trips and gifts from others, like the little glassed-in princess my son brought back from the United Nations school trip when he was nine, or the lovely sounding 3" tall brass bell, on a handle, a friend brought me from Venice 55 years ago. When I sit in my patient-office chair, I can glance at that shelf of miniatures and feel years of my happy life pouring comforting feelings back into me. My eye wanders to a Near Eastern coffee pot from a dear friend; a barometer in a box built by one of my sons; a clock that chimes, built by my husband in the cherry wood he loved so much; an antique Chelsea clock that rings nautical bells, given to me by my father-in-law in appreciation for my having given him a 'talking' clock when he was legally blind over 23 years ago; and so many reminders of the beauty and creativity in this world. There are painted tiles from Greece; copper Gods from Japan (brought back in 1949 by my sister); dragons from India, given by my grandson on his trip last year, and so many other 'things' that represent people and their caring to and for me. With all this surrounding me, I do not feel lonely.

Have you ever looked around your own space with the thought of what it says to you? Have you considered what you want it to say? Are you comfortable in your space, mentally and physically? Are you welcoming people into it or are people uninvited until it is clean or picked up? If I waited for that no would ever step over my threshold! My space is clean but rarely 'picked up' because there is no place to put all the stuff that is there. Thus, people are welcomed to accept me as I am. My guests are welcome to make themselves at home here. I'm never sure that is easy for people who are used to order in their lives. I know how difficult it is for me to feel at home in someone else's space. Nevertheless, as long as people don't destroy things or hide them, it is fine with me.

My space, in fact, is my life. I have no desire to leave it other than necessity. Everything I want in life is here...my toys, my memorabilia, my hobbies, my entertainment, my bed, my toothbrush, and all other comforts. Do you to feel the same about your space?

NEW LANGUAGES

We have all heard that identical twins have sometimes made up a language of their own which totally separates them as a unit distinct from all others. Apparently there are lots of made-up
languages. I always knew that I was raised bi-lingually but learned only a few years ago that I was 'tri-lingual'. Apparently when my parents and all their parents and peers came to the USA at the turn of the century a hundred or more years ago, there was no communication with their motherland. Media was not instantly international, radio was not common, TV not yet invented, and the Internet not even a vague hope. One might wonder what happens to a group of people for whom there is no word for things like car (which became 'caro' with a rolled r), airport which became 'aeroporo'. In fact, the word for car is autokinito..pronounced afftokeeneeto (literally meaning 'goes by itself') and airport, actually aerodromio, pronounced ah-erro-thromeeo (meaning air road).

Greeks who went to visit Greece in post WWII found that they were difficult to understand in what they thought was a native tongue. My brother, cousin and I had fun compiling a Fractured Greek dictionary, grown to several pages long over the years. There are almost enough words to make an entire new language. That language will die a natural death with the current survivors of that immigrant group.

Another facet to languages is that words can not be easily translated. For example, when I tried to tell a cousin in Athens that I was only window shopping, she looked at me with a very strange glance. I later learned I had told her I only buy window glass. The concept of window shopping is entirely different. When shops have windows, they pay more rent. There is a term for it...shopping 'vitrina'. That means you look at the store that has a window display, check the price and go to a store without a window and but it there at a lesser price.

Words and languages are wonderful. There are so many concepts that can't be translated from one language to another. Yiddish Chutzpah is one of my favorites. It is subtly different than any of the English words that people try to use for it, like nerve, gall, etc. I guess it takes a bit of Chutzpah to write a blog and think that anyone out there really cares to read it.

DENIAL

I've never mastered the fine art of denial in the face of reality. I think that gene is missing from my genome. I know that I will not look any better if I never look in a mirror again nor will I ever see a 21 year old look back at me if I do. I learned that buying a smaller size of clothing will not make me lose weight. Nor will I lose weight by paying for a gym which I seldom frequent. Not putting away my summer clothes will not prolong the season, and not bringing out the winter clothes will never hold the cold at bay. Weight will not slide off of me as long as I say, "I'll just eat this goodie just this once" (only it is a new goodie every day). I know if I go through life telling everyone what I think they want to hear...they will just grow to mistrust me, not like me more.

Denial is a defense mechanism in which a person is faced with a fact that is too painful to accept and rejects it instead, insisting that it is not true despite any overwhelming evidence to the contrary. It can work to 'save' people from unbearable painful facts, or it can cause great harm by lulling people when they should be taking action.

Lacking the denial gene was worse when I used to be compelled to tell people what I saw as the truth. Truth, I now know, is in the eyes of the believer. Telling people that which they are denying goes nowhere, but has frustrated me greatly in the past. When I learned to live in my own skin it became easier to ignore denial in other people. I learned to trust myself and my own judgment and leave others to their reality or denial, whichever worked for them.

Many of us may know someone who continues to deny that a loved one is dying. 'Miracles happen, you know" is a frequent part of that. Undiagnosed symptoms send me right to the doctor. Denial of an illness can rob someone of the opportunity for cure. Whoever wrote: "Denial is not a river in Egypt" had the right take on it. Denial is real and harmful to the deniers and all those around them.

IN THE INTEREST OF RESEARCH

Today I sold two hours of the remainder of my life for the grand sum of ten American dollars. We, the participants, were all visually and behaviorally seniors. The student who planned to write a thesis on the ultimate results of this study is probably paying for college by writing technical manuals, his unclear instructions fit the profile. We were shown video pictures, from 1 to 7 seconds, of a woman smiling (sometimes grimacing) and asked to rate whether the smile was spontaneous of posed. Since the same face might have been shown in succession, most of us (at some time) lost our place and asked that the researcher occasionally call out the line we were on. He did that...in 75 or more pictures he called out once, and then only when asked, proving that he listened to instructions as accurately as he gave them.

He seemed not to have grasped the requests from the first half and repeated in the same way. This time I realized I had lost my place when I was distracted by something, saw the same face and expression, thinking I had already seen it, and went off by one in successive answers until I asked what number we were on. The second portion was to rate the intensity of the smiles. It became clear that people were losing their place frequently. I can't imagine that any of us under those circumstances were even worth the $10.

Trying to figure out in a second whether a smile was spontaneous or posed is quite a challenge. It made me wonder what cues I use to decide. Length of time spent changing from smile to straight was one, eyes matching the smile or not was another. When someone's shoulders moved in laughter, I assumed that also was not posed. Glancing around me I instantly knew why it is so easy to misinterpret facial expressions. I suppose that makes life much harder for the hearing challenged. Online, not seeing the facial expression loads the opposite handicap. Thus emoticons were invented, though some people refuse to use them and then get angry when people don't realize they are joking.

Emotionless expressions on comedians make the absurd more intense. Clinically depressed people show little facial expression and often tell me they can't feel emotion. Context is missing in those pictures shown. I somehow doubt this student will end up with a Nobel prize and can only wish a passing grade for him. However, I asked for a copy of the results because I can't believe that what I saw and heard will end up with believable conclusions.

The Beyond Bezel Workshop

Writing a blog gets to be part of a daily routine...for me, anyway. The past three days have been totally fun with no time to even think about a subject for blog eyes only. I've been at a workshop to understand something I have been doing incorrectly for years...no wonder I was frustrated every time I worked at making bezels in jewelry ( as in setting stones). For two days, John Cogswell, the person teaching the course shared knowledge it took him 40 years to develop and he gave much of a tiny area of it to 12 of us in a couple of days. Iyt looked easy when he demonstrated until I tried to do it. Instantly my other nine fingers turn into thumbs. Nevertheless, I have hope that practice will one day allow me to say, "I made that.", with pride instead of having to mumble that I'm just learning. One day someone will catch on that I am still 'practicing' the pay job I've had my whole life and 'just learning' the hobby I've had for 10 years.

Some people never share what they have learned. They give a recipe with a critical ingredient left out so that yours will never taste the same or as good. One maker of jewelry refuses to teach because then she would not be in total command of a technique she will probably die of old age before a pupil could master her technique as she has. My mother used to try to teach me to cook with 'knead the dough until it feels right' but the elusive 'right' was never explained. It took hours to get to the criteria she used to use to know it was right, it seemed so natural to her. I've often wondered whether that will ever happen for me, convinced that it won't.

Always fearful that I will forget something, I take copious notes. The writing of them, and consequent reading as I write, puts the information into my brain in deeper storage than just hearing it or watching processes does. The good part is that I can re-read my notes to prepare for the 'someday when I get time to do this again' mantra that echoes in my head.

Peanuts

Peanut Butter has been a staple in the lives of most kids (except those with nut allergies, whom it kills) and remains so for many adults. In the days of lunch boxes without ice packs (like my grade school days), peanut butter was a sandwich spread that never had time to get rancid or sour by the time you got to eat it. That your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth was just one of those things. My mother used every combination: peanut butter alone, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff... nauseatingly sticky and sweet...not a meal but a dessert, peanut butter and jelly...same complaint, peanut butter and bacon... a rare treat and an edible sandwich for me, and, almost tolerable...peanut butter and sliced bananas. A thermos of milk with a cork that always smelled sour, and an apple or pear (in season) made up lunch in a metal box with a picture on it that was one of the few choices you got to make at the beginning of the school year. None of the memories I have of those lunches is particularly fond.

Later in life I learned to make and appreciate Asian peanut sauce which is lovely, especially when on the 'hot and spicy' side. A far cry from the peanut butter days of my grade school showing progress along with so many other achievements like laser surgery, space stations, cancer cures, and Sesame Street that teaches our children most of what they learn in life. It also functioned as a great tool for defending yourself and hurt your hand like heck when it collided with bullies.

Now dietitians have made an exception to the no fats or sweets rule to dieting and some are pushing this diet. Peanuts act as an anti-oxidant among many other wonderful properties. There are many recipes Internet, even those with peanuts. The Peanut Institute publishes this one for healthy peanut snacks.

Peanuts can, in fact, be added to any trail mix. For those with access to Costco, try the one that mixes peanuts with rice snacks. Doesn't all this make you feel kindly to those nice farmers who grow them? Well, some people have a bit of a problem with peanut farm subsidies. You can read what some crabby tax payers think about spending their hard earned money on keeping them rich. Spoil sports!

But all that glitters is not gold and neither are peanuts. That is why the Airlines have taken away our little package of peanuts (though my hunch is the attendants rebelled at having to serve so many people water rather than expensive alcoholic drinks.)

WHY AREN'T WE TOLD WHY?

A headline in the BBC today says Obesity fuels cancer in many women. As in many of the 'studies', there is no indication of the physiology or number of physical variables involved other than obesity. Did they just take a database and look at it for cancer, age and weight? Did they check for drinking, smoking, immune deficiencies, family history of cancer? Why am I always left feeling that articles like this are a waste of my time?

While I consider myself 'pleasing plump', not grossly obese, in medical lingo I AM obese. Responding to my imminent doom, I immediately signed up for some tips on losing weight by email. (Note: sending emails does not cause weight loss, I tried that. Using tips gained on the Internet might.) I read a profound expression with anticipation: Not surprisingly, the steps to prevent weight gain are the same as the steps to lose weight: Daily exercise, a healthy menu, a long-term commitment and constant vigilance. What a surprise! Now that sounds like a fun lifestyle, doesn't it?

At some point in life one has to make the serious choice: Is living really worth it? After all, the longer you live the more aches and pains you develop, and the more part replacements are required. If you say something reasonably funny or clever, you are looked at like some sort of senior prodigy. (Did you hear what she said and she is such an old lady!!? Isn't she cute?)

A dilemma with weight loss is the apron of hanging flesh that appears. Another is a tendency to avoid of the mirror. This can lead to embarrassing moments with unwanted things hanging off my face or person, unmatched apparel and other social unmentionables. The hanging flesh from the shoulder to the elbow looked good as Dolman sleeve on a sweater sleeve but doesn't quite make it for style on my body.

I recently read an article asking if my body was trying to tell me something. Half the time it is speaking in forked tongue or some other foreign language. Not even my doctor can translate it. I was given an anti-histamine for vertigo which made me almost comatose and unable to function. I later read on the Internet that one of the pills I was taking (perhaps because I had lost weight and needed less of it) was the culprit. I cut it in half, told my doctor who then looked it up on the Internet and said, "I never knew that side effect!"

I guess I'm stuck with that bit: Daily exercise, a healthy menu, a long-term commitment and constant vigilance. There seems no alternative other than 'out of body' experience.