The Truest Thing I Know

I know lots of important things, like Do the most important thing first  and There's always time for what's really important.  But the most important thing I've learned this last decade or so can be phrased in a piece of common folk wisdom:

It's always something.

Therefore, I make a point of enjoying the gaps between those somethings.

Buddhists may be noting already that this is a rephrase of what is called The First Noble Truth that Shakyamuni Buddha realized as he sat under the evening star:  Life is hard.  The word is dukkha, and I've most often seen it translated as suffering, anxiety, stress.  There are good reasons human life is hard.  All good things pass.  We pass, and we know we will.  We lose loved ones, friends, beloved pets, our health and vitality, our able-bodiedness, even our ability to think and recognize our world - and we know we might.  I know I probably haven't touched on the problems you and I have seen in our lives, and that you may be experiencing right now.

When I'm in a balanced mood I accept all that with the sort of equanimity with which we grandmothers sometimes say,  It's always something. (sigh)  If you can't accept this fact of life's difficulty emotionally, you can work on understanding that it is true.  Whether you like it or not.  And yet, this moment is safe.

Here I'd like to mention that these thoughts are growing out of me having a very good day.  A nice, quiet day following a lot of work yesterday, and some real visible progress on the major clean-this-house project, working right along with Tom, no conflicts.  I have seen enough suffering in life to realize the abiding pleasure of an agreeable relationship.  Today it is hot outside and the air quality bad, but we have electricity back, and our air-conditioner and Hepa filter are doing a good job in here.  My back doesn't hurt too much, and in a minute I'm going to prop up on a heating pad that works wonders for me.

I do live in an emotional hurricane zone, as Readers know.  I have a bipolar-ordered mind.  Right now I am neither depressed nor anxious-angry-manic, just right in that lovely middle.  Creative but not driven.  Not sick; maybe I've found the key steps to avoiding UTIs, maybe I can keep avoiding them. My history tells me those unlovely mood states will return and everything turn sludgy and gray, though I don't want to believe it.  I know it is my nature to get sick this way, that way; illness cannot be avoided (I know The Five Remembrances. which are at the bottom of this blog, by heart).

But today I can look around and run the mental gratitude journal.  And am not even arguing with the koan I have found most difficult of all:  Every day's a good day.  There it is, on the right, in calligraphy.  I am working on accepting that, preparing to see the shades of gray on those not-so-easy days.

You saying this is a good day?

Irrelevant image - Tashi vanquishes the Mu (that black shape upper left)

Grandma's health update.  The shingles rash is now mostly healed, and what they call post-herpetic pain has set in.  It is more than twice as bad.  At the beginning, 5 mg of Oxycodone was enough, maybe 3xday.  Now it's 20 mg every 4 hours, if I can wait that long, and that doesn't do it.  The only worse pain I've had was labor and the sharp pain of a bone in my foot breaking.  The pain wakes me up at night and I have to take a dose.

How long?  Nobody knows.  I did get my wits together today and had an acupuncture treatment.  They are best with pain.  He actually put needles at spots in the rash, and I gasped.  And a low, easy electric feed through them.  It was okay.  

Got a mailing from Lew Richmond, a Zen teacher I like who had a horrific health event he wrote about in Healing Lazarus.  He had this to say about the koan that troubles me most -

Each of us is Phil the groundhog . . . each of us is a monk in Ummon's assembly, facing the mystery of our human life as it unfolds day by day. "Every day is a good day" means every day is incomparable, every day stands on its own. It's our responsibility to make of each day the best we can, knowing this.

Sometimes it's oh, getting my warm bathrobe washed.  Doing a big grocery shopping, being patient with the carry-out guy.  Being patient with the pharmacy not having enough oxycodone and seeming dumb as an ox about what we could do about it.  Being patient with the multiple phone calls from my doctor's office about lidocaine patches, and how I had to keep telling different people why I. Don't. Want. To. Use. Them.  (And why would anyone think you could stand to peel adhesive off this tender skin that feels like a third-degree burn.  Or first-degree.  Whichever is worse.)

And as for making the best of the day, rather ardently focusing on gratitude for such things as a pain manual from a friend - and beating Tom at Words with Friends by one point.

So, daily life, that's what I do.

Accepting the reality, or Another good reason to sit Zen

I say "sit Zen" rather than meditate, because of the current vogue for meditation as a sort of spa treatment. In Buddhist practice we sit in order to know the nature of our own mind - that's one way to put it.  You sit quite still, alert and relaxed, and watch the thoughts that you get involved in, the impulses and cravings, the emotions - the world of your mind.  This is mindfulness.  When you realize you have strayed into one of your fictions, you return to concentrating on your breath.  And this combines with the wisdom of Buddhism to wear down your stories, or illusions, and bring you in touch with reality. 

I am making 13 years of practice with two teachers and many books and tapes sound simple, and boy, it isn't.

What inspires me to write today is a long talk I had with Karen, my nurse coordinator, yesterday.  To give you an idea of how complex recovery from a transplant is, I have to record my weight every morning first thing and my vitals (blood pressure and temp) four times a day.  If any of this goes haywire, it could indicate that rejection is beginning.  I get labs twice a week.  My creatinine is stable around 1, which is perfect, and means that however dragged out I feel, the kidney is working well to keep my blood clean. 

It's good to remind myself of that, because I am realizing that this will be slower than I think. I questioned Karen about the abdominal pain, and she says it will be about three months until it is gone.  Surprise. As for activity, yesterday I slowly walked about two city blocks, using my walker so I could sit down if I needed to, took a few pictures, and was exhausted the rest of the day.  I don't get to have a real sharp mind with that exhausted body - my brain seems to be another organ that is affected by all this.  Not "seems to be" - is.

I had read the story of a transplant patient who woke up delighted with how great she felt.  Wisdom says I am healthier than before, every organ in my body benefiting from that clean blood.  Now and then in all this I do have a certain clarity of mind that I just love, but overall it's been, let's see, huge side effects from the initial huge doses of steroids, then from the other immunosuppressants, then pain rising once the steroids wore off, then confusion and low moods and insomnia.  Okay.

Okay.  I carry the Zen koan "Every day is a good day."  I keep revising it mentally.  I think of my hospital roommate who lay flat for two months with a colostomy and feeding tube in her, and said to herself, "I'm still alive."  How can you call that a good day?  As I said, I carry that, and have written about it before.  Today I see from my north-facing window shades of yellow, gold, brown against a blue sky - another day of sun, and long shadows on the neighbor's house - I love the long shadows this time of year, both morning and late afternoon, when they are very distinct.  Maybe the question is, What can I do to make today a good day?
[image:  a neighbor's asters, taken yesterday]