Silent meditation — distant thunder echoes in my empty stomach
I have a knot of anxiety in my gut. And while many sources of distress can yield a similar result, this is an old favorite: RSI. Thirteen years ago the phenomena was new and shocking to me. How could my hands betray me? Could I finish my Computer Science degree? What would I do for a living?
So, I changed my career away from programming and towards policy; I learned to take breaks (drinking lots of water so as to make frequent bathroom trips) and keep my hands warm (washing and massaging them under the hot tap.)
Again, pain, and a new keyboard and I thought -- hoped -- that would be that. And it was for a few years until I needed a program to recommend when I should quit for the day. Then, when to take micro-pauses, then hourly breaks. Sometimes the settings became mandatory, occasionally I could permit myself more time and flexibility, but the trend was depressingly -- when I thought about it -- downward.
Then, two years ago, arriving at NYU to a deluge of work and with a burst of enthusiasm I spent way too much time sitting before the computer and suffered for it. A big set-back and now back and shoulder pain. A series of new chairs and yoga stretches seemed to help. During the second semester, I started to use speech-recognition to enter my notes, but still compose my writing on the computer. Pain. So I started the surprisingly difficult task of relearning how to order my thoughts with pen and paper. (Now most all of my writing, here or elsewhere, is hand written then dictated to the computer. Now, I actually prefer this method for writing, though my voice can easily go hoarse after only 10 minutes.)
And, I tell myself, that the symptoms are greatly exacerbated by anxiety. In fact, there's a strong connection between certain types of chronic pain and depression. A theory is that some injury to the body causes pain and perhaps (temporary) disability. Not surprisingly, this can cause depression and anxiety, which somehow holds onto the pain. As my own personal experiment, I saw a psychiatrist and tried a drug that has shown some efficacy. I think it helped lessen the fear and anxiety around the symptoms -- which is a good thing. But, it's hard to say, because the symptoms also wax and wane on their own accord as does one's mood. And in any case, the symptoms did not disappear.
I've given up on ever been "healed." I'm never going to sit in front of a normal keyboard for more than a half an hour again. And that's okay, my goal is management: to do what I need to do with a minimum of pain and not hurt myself further. And herein is the source of my new anxiety. Upon the increase of computer usage from my minimal summertime exertions, I was still feeling pretty good. But, in the past few weeks I notice my hands were trembling at times. I noticed this when I would idly prepare to turn the page I was currently reading. I couldn't finish the last paragraph because the darned page was shaking so much as I held it in my hand before turning it over.
Surprisingly, I had the fortitude of mind to not think much of it. "Weird," I thought. Perhaps it was a passing blip. But then I noticed I had a difficult time even grabbing the next page, and not its neighbors. My handwriting was getting sloppy. Could this be an RSI symptom? I consult a web page: it could. A kick to the gut. I notice I'm a little more clumsy, my hands feel weaker. On the computer I have difficulty selecting the right text or clicking the icon -- accidentally double clicking more often than not.
But is all of this a drastic change, or am I just freaking out? Maybe I'm just being paranoid, too aware of normal daily fumbles. Or, maybe I've hurt myself further and should do something about it. But doctors? That can be so frustrating. Or, maybe I should stop doing something. Stop using computers all-together, stop writing? But when its association with RSI isn't causing me to despair, I enjoy my work. And what to do? What to do!?! This is now a world of repetitive tasks and pushing buttons. And, otherwise, I lose my voice so easily.
The first stanza of the Serenity Prayer reads:
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
I don't believe in an intervening anthropomorphic deity awaiting me in an afterlife, but whomever and however: yes, please!
courage to change the things I can;
Yes. Career changes, doctors, therapy, assistive technology, and stretches.
and wisdom to know the difference.
Here I flounder. This is my trap, how to know the difference? I've managed to do what I need to do for the past thirteen years, though in a constricting spiral of disability. Or is that just how it feels? Can I belay my anxiety and somehow prudently continue my career? Or, do I jump ship -- to where -- before it gets worse?
And while this is a legitimate issue, a genuine decision that I suppose I make every day by not making it, it is also the cyclone within which my thoughts tumble and suffering arises. I often wonder if there is some Master of Serenity's Guide to Decision Making out there. I suppose not... and I have to make do with the second stanza:
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
This is true; this is good; this helps. But it's still painful and frightening.
While rewatching Six Degrees of Separation and thinking about a couple of kindly replies sent to me in response to yesterday's posting, I took note of this line about a revolt from witty dinner conversation:
Ouisa: And we turn him into an anecdote, with no teeth, and a punchline you'll tell for years to come: "Oh, that reminds me of the time the impostor came into our house." "Oh! Tell the one about that boy." And we become these human jukeboxes spitting out these anecdotes to dine out on like we're doing right now. Well I will not turn him into an anecdote, it was an experience. How do we hold onto the experience?
This blog is not what it once was. A long-standing aspiration has been to use this medium as a way of sharing without indulging vanity and narcissism, without becoming preoccupied with how I might be perceived, without preaching to the choir, or fixating various stories about myself and the world in word.
Of course, this has not been my only aspiration, nor have I understood it completely — and still don't. Most importantly, I don't think I've ever articulated it well. I might caution against ego, or recommend that one should write as if there wasn't an audience because — like all of my°maxims — I have seen myself do the opposite and did not like how it felt. But this sentiment sounds moralistic and contrary to the spirit of what a blog is: a public diary in which one develops a community of commentators.
But, presently, the sorry state of this blog has also liberated it. I no longer feel a compulsion to update the content or design; I don't check the logs. No one would come here for°technical commentary, righteous political rants, or for the happenings of daily life. (All of which have been themes in the past.) These are not my passions now. And the technology of RSS has further lessened my concern with updating. I don't have to worry about frustrated visitors hammering on the door of a silent house; when there's something new, people will be informed.
I can conceive of only two types of audience now: a handful of friends and family who check the site every few months, and those arriving by search engine. For the first group, I imagined their visits are becoming less frequent as are my postings. Additionally, I expect my entries are puzzling: the odd poem and spiritual reflection. For the second group, these are the people to whom I now write: people with a specific concern, finding something useful, and moving on.
Why have I not, then, simply keep this as a private journal? First, trivially, I could not search it with Google. Second, even though I don't want to become preoccupied with self presentation, it would feel selfish and wasteful: some of the things I write are occasionally of interest to others. Lastly, while I try to avoid the "I/you" tear of egoistic writing, I also seek to be understood and understand others.
Why not make it anonymous? I tried that and it didn't work. I can not remain anonymous if I want to remain connected, nor does this mitigate my concern with the coercive influence of self presentation. The pseudonym, or nom de plume, simply becomes a new identity with which to wrestle. Thomas Merton encountered this dilemma after the success of his book Seven Story Mountain. His journal became a duty "under obedience" of the Abbott and he found that "the theology of contemplation does not mix well with fan mail" (Elie 2003:185).
I fear, despite all of these words, I have not made myself any clearer. So I offer an anecdote. Last month, at retreat, I set about recording the events and thoughts of the day. After two days this effort felt strained and contrary to the spirit of the practice. No sooner had I enjoyed a moment of peace, an insight, or a connection to another, than my mind leapt into action crafting a story I might tell. The journal, as well as the question of "how's it going?" became a contemplative trap. Subsequently, I used my journal only as a collection of questions, insights, and haikus. Aside from two poems, none of that material has appeared here. I'm not ashamed of it; the questions and my attempts at answers might even be appear here one day. Is it that life is larger than words? Some gifted writers convince me this isn't so. It's not that life is too large, but that words aren't always necessary to appreciate it.
Making peace with the inevitable, renders the present eternal.
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