50 for 50 day 39 & 40: Gratitude for my body

This is post 39 and 40 of 50 celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here. And yes, I know this is merging two posts into one for the sake of numerical accuracy. I gave myself permission to do this occasionally before I started this quest.

I don't know anyone who has a clear and uncluttered relationship with their body. We are bombarded by messages telling us we aren't good enough, no matter how healthy, fit and able we are. I have friends who are consumed by their relationships with their bodies; from time to time I have been, too.

Today, on the edge of 50, I am so grateful for my body. I haven't always taken very good care of it, and yet it keeps going. Right now I am in the midst of a significant back spasm (I mentioned this several posts ago, it continues. Yes, I am seeing a chiro, doc, PT and am doing all the things I should. The traveling life does not lend itself to quick healing.) and still my body is doing the best it can. I am experiencing this because I didn't care for myself the way I should have, so my body is letting me know in the only it way it can. It took a very loud and persistent injury for me to notice. This very injury and the persistent pain are helping me be more grateful for it and care for it better, even as it hurts.

This body can be strong and agile. It can experience great pleasure along with great pain. It is the conduit for my stories. It is my vessel in this world and I am grateful.

Our bodies are nothing short of miraculous. That they work as well as they do when they are subjected to hours of sitting and inactivity, poor food choices, sleep deprivation, dehydration, unnatural light, and more, attests to how well they work. Imagine the miracles we could experience if we loved our bodies and cared for them as we care for our pets!

This is what 50 looks like. Living in the body I am in, learning to love what I have, and continuing to learn to take care of myself.
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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50, day 24: Grey hairs, wrinkles, and the effects of gravity

This is the 24th of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

On the morning of my 40th birthday I sat up in bed, looked down at my own body and announced, "Well, I can't tie my breasts into a knot so I assume 40 will be okay." It was a joke. Mostly. I hope and expect I will be able to wake up on my 50th birthday and make the same pronouncement, but boy has my body changed.

I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with greying hair, with lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age.

I noticed my first grey hair when I was in my early 20s. At that time I thought it was kind of cool, that it gave me some sort of élan. I didn't think much more about it until my early 30s. It wasn't that my hair was going grey, it was that it was going. I'd been through a pretty stressful breakup and was losing hair by the handful. I was terrified, wondering if I was going to have to shave my head or go wig shopping. I went to a dermatologist who (honestly but without much comfort) told me that I had thinning hair and there wasn't much I could do about it. He added that about 30% of women will experience hair loss in their lifetimes. I was a little on the young side for it, but it was just something I'd have to learn to live with.

The sharp terror was now eclipsed by a deep sense of distress and shame. Eventually those feelings faded some and I decided I would have to learn to live with it. I have spent many hours and many dollars looking for solutions. I'm fortunate, some of my hair came back, but it will never again be as thick as it was when I was young.

I still feel shame and embarrassment about it sometimes. Hair has such meaning in our culture (though that is another conversation) I feel a tremendous amount of discomfort writing this blog post and talking about it at all, but I am reminding myself that, if 30% of women are effected by this, some of you reading might be slightly relieved to know you aren't alone. You're not. I'm not. The only thing I ask is that next time we see each other, you try not to stare at my scalp.

I'm also not alone in my rapidly greying hair. About five years ago (when Kevin and I decided to move to Kansas City) my hair began to change at an accelerated rate. Now it's close to 50-50 grey and brown. I kind of like it. Alright, I definitely like it and have no interest in dying it. I have earned each and every of those grey hairs. Truthfully, I like most things about my hair (the color, the texture and curliness) though I wish there were more of it. When I was younger I always yearned for something other than what I had. Now I am generally content with what it is.

I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with wild, expressive greying hair, with lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age.

When I smile I have lots of smile lines. I don't regret a single one though I sometimes poke at my less supple skin and am surprised by it. My wrinkles tell me that I haven't lived in a bell jar, that I have been willing to express my feelings, that I haven't hidden from myself or the world. I don't mind the wrinkles at all. The age spots on  my arms startle me, but I remind myself of my mother's arms and how I alway loved her skin. It helps me love my own more. I can and do take care of my skin, but I cannot pretend it is not the skin of a woman closing in on 50. I'm okay with that.

I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with wild, expressive greying hair, with laugh lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age.

Sure, my body has changed. I've never been a slender person, but my body is one that has loved and been loved, and worked, and supported the world on its shoulders. It's not perfect but it's mine. Yes, things sag more. I certainly hurt more than I used to. I have hairs growing in odd places (admit it, you do too). But it is a healthy body that loves and is loved. It gives and receives pleasure and comfort, expresses who I am without words, and takes up just enough space in the world. Sure, I would like it if I were shaped differently, if I were stronger, fitter, hell I'd like to be taller. But I am who I am. I can certainly control some of this (I exercise more now than I used to) but I do not feel a strong need to try to look like a young woman again. I am not young. Why not be who I am? Gravity will do its work and I will do mine.

I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with wild, expressive greying hair, with laugh lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age and is still here. My body and appearance reflect what I have learned, how I have lived, and are an honest document of time, love, and loss. Even with age related changed, even with aches and pains, even with the knowledge that I will never look the way I wish I did, I am constantly reminded that I am still here. So many are not. And for that I am grateful and cherish my marks of age.

So it is. This is what 50 looks like. Wearing her age like a charm.
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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50 day six: oh, my aching back

Oh, the arrogance of youth! I remember when I was younger not really getting what it was like for people with aches and pains. Sure, my knees hurt sometimes and I got migraines, but nothing like what grown ups had to contend with. I tried to be sympathetic, but I didn't really get it.

Now I do.

My back hurts today (I'm writing this at an improvised standing desk). I still get migraines though not as often. I have arthritis in my feet, occasional stomach issues and did I mention the asthma? I'm sure there are more complaints I could mention, but really, who wants to read a shopping list of aches and pains? I'm annoyed and bored writing this, it must be worse for you.

All of this leads me to two thoughts that I hope are more interesting and certainly more useful than my whining.

1. Your pain is real and so is mine. What is painful to one person may not be painful to another, so I can't tell you that your aching back doesn't really hurt, just as you can't tell me that my back isn't as bad as yours. My younger self would sometimes question the validity of another's experience. I'm sure I still do this. I wish I didn't. All I can do is try to remember that yes, my back does hurt even if I look fine. Yours might, too. This can, of course, be extended to other experiences. Subjective experience is valid.
2. I am grateful for the body I have. There are a lot of things I can (and maybe will) say about my body and my relationship with it as I blog to 50, but for the purposes of this post what I want to remember is that my body is doing the best it can. It will respond appropriately to how I treat it. If I do things to encourage healing, it will try to heal. If I ignore it by (for example) forgetting to stretch when undertaking a three-day drive across country, it will let me know that it needs attention. 

As I age, as most of us age, we will encounter more aches and pains. We won't heal as readily and will eventually have to contend with the breakdowns that accompany a longer a life. That's perhaps what I'm really grateful for. I have lived long enough now that I need to care for my body differently. I am old enough that I can no longer take good health for granted. This realization is a huge gift as I walk towards 50. Achey and with care, but still walking. Being here that long is a gift.

This is what 50 looks like. A bit sore but still upright. And 50 smells like Icy Hot patches apparently.

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Five things I think about through the long night

I’ve had an insidious cold for the last week, full of the usual sneezing and sniffling, but with an additional determined cough. I’ve been coughing enough that my ribs and abdominal muscles are sore. Yuck. What’s more, the cough gets worse at night, therefore falling asleep is a careful dance between becoming comfortable and remaining still, so I don’t trigger another coughing fit. You know all about this kind of thing, having suffered colds yourself.

What’s been interesting in this sleeplessness is that I’m not experiencing my usual frustration with insomnia; reading about second sleep has helped tremendously. I know I’ll fall asleep soon enough. Instead I’m taking this as an opportunity to let my mind wander and it’s going to some interesting places. Here are some of the things I’ve been considering in the middle of the might while I wait for sleep to conquer the cough.

5. The next thing I will write in NaNoWriMo. In the past I’ve had insomnia worrying about this month long writing event, but lately I’ve just been imagining my characters in new ways. I never knew fire sprites looked so fetching in Hawaiian shirts.  

4. What animal does my beloved sound like tonight? You might say he snores. I’d say he does a stunning sleep rendition of a purring tiger. Or a content capybara. Or maybe a distant revving motorcycle, preparing to propel its rider over the Grand Canyon or a Martian canal. 

3. Imagining places I’d like to go but am unlikely to get to. I shift through time and space, exploring the library of Alexandria. I dance in a ball at Pemberly. I walk through the bazaars on the Silk Road. 

2. I listen to my heartbeat and imagine music surrounding it. 

1. Lastly, and mot importantly, zombie fortification. How could I make my home safe from a zombie attack? I considered this quite seriously for a long time last night. My conclusion was that I was probably doomed.

And then I finally fell asleep, dreaming of the undead fiddling with lock picks and dropping their fingers. Ah, insomnia, bringer of strange dreams and stranger reveries. 

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

How to take a deep breath

I don't know about you, but I find February to be hard. Even during mild winters, like the one we're having in New England, February is that pause between the long haul of short days/long nights and the first real brushes of spring on your cheek. For all that it's a short month, it's a long one.

By right around now I'm giving myself pep talks to get through the rest of the month, even though we're most of the way to spring. The finish line is in sight and that's when I am most likely to stumble.

To get through these last dim days of winter, I remind myself to breath. Of course, I remind myself to breath throughout the year, throughout my life whenever I'm faced with any kind of adversity. In the midst of a difficult conversation or a challenging performance? Take a breath. Stuck in traffic? Take a breath. Migraine? Breath. You get it. A deep breath floods our cells with oxygen which reminds our most ancient selves that there is nothing to panic about, we can breath, we aren't drowning or dying, we are only afraid.

There are many ways to take that deep breath, many things we can do to remind ourselves that now, right now, is an excellent time to pause for a moment and breath.

Try it right now. Read this through then:

• Close your eyes
• Take a long slow breath in through your nose
• Feel your lungs expand
• Be grateful for them
• Exhale slowly and steadily through your mouth
• Pause
• Repeat.

I hope you feel a little more relaxed.

Here are a few of my favorite breathing tips; some may sound silly but they really can help. I'd love to know how you remind yourself to breath.

1. Set a timer. No, really. If you know you're going to be chained to one spot by your computer or some other responsibility, set a timer so every 30 minutes you stop, look away and take a deep breath. Close your eyes. relax your hands from the typing claw. Breath.
2. Stretch. In my storytelling classes I remind my students that stories live in our bodies. Our bodies contain knowledge about what we're feeling, what we're hiding from our conscious minds. Does your stomach alway hurt after you talk to your grandmother on the phone? Hmm. If we're working on something challenging or even if we're just thinking hard, we tend to ignore our bodies even though they are rife with information. So stop for a moment. Stretch out those cramped muscles. Pay attention to what hurts, is cramped or tired. What might that mean? Breath.
3. Build a deep-breathing routine. Do you know you're going to have a long commute home? Tell yourself to take a deep breath whenever you pass a certain exit on the highway. Do you know you get tense when you talk to certain people? Teach yourself to close your eyes and take a deep breath every time you hang up the phone.
4. Inhale joy, exhale gratitude. Look at the world around you, even when difficult and bleak, caught between winter and spring. Find something that brings you joy (family, friends, a spring of green) and imagine it as you inhale. As you exhale feel gratitude for its presence in your life. I do this for the swelling buds this time of year.
5. Remember that with each breath, you are alive. Whether the slow rhythm of sleep or the urgent breath of exercise, with every breath you are here. You are living. You are a gift to the world. 

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Packing perfect beauty

God, I wish I could wear stuff like this - my mother says it was as uncomfortable as hell, but oh, everyone had a figure then. 

Just look at it! This is a marvel of engineering. The snaps and hooks and elastic are something else. So much force is required to mold me, or you, or almost anyone into that perfect shape. Suspension bridges have nothing on breasts and bellies; engineering schools should have courses on women’s undergarments. Maybe they do and I just took all the wrong classes.

I never liked the word. Girdle. I understand you can gird your loins before battle, but really, what do you do when you gird? It’s one of those nouns turned into a verb made more feminine by the -le on the end. Now when we gird our bellies and breasts, it’s with body shapers, certainly a better name and less painful to wear,  but those slick shadows don’t have the same allure as elastic and snaps, metal and straps.

Oh, those straps, like an octopus reaching down to grab soft silk stockings, shaped like legs themselves with a seam to draw the eye up and down. The delicate stitching along the sides, a zig-zag cartography molding hills into plains and flaring out over hips like a sudden curve in a road. Cups like reassuring hands, lifting what is or what isn’t there into high fairy tale pillows that no woman has ever really had but we all pretend we did, pillows that have no relation to their real purpose or shape.

Of course, if a woman is to be this beautiful, she can’t breath or bend. To touch her is to touch a hard surface, not warm skin and soft fat over muscle and bone, nor the hints of strength and possibility in her own body, but a construction designed for looking, not touching. And god forbid one piece of rubber or metal goes awry; you could lose a limb as it goes tearing out of your clothing. 

But, oh, to be a goddess from afar for a few hours, untouchable and unattainable. Gasping. Fainting. Perfect.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer
Please do not republish without prior approval.

On persistence - Diana Nyad

I've written from time to time about various heroes. Pete Seeger. Mr. Rogers. John Lennon. Dr. King. I have another one.

Diana Nyad is a lot of things. She is a journalist and writer. She is a long distance swimmer who recently, at 61, attempted to swim from Cuba to Florida. She is a lesbian. She is a woman who has overcome any of a number of obstacles to attempt and often achieve her goals.

Why is she one of my heroes? Because of her determination, her outstanding goals and willingness to not achieve them in the effort to be more than she was the day before; attempting the goal, giving it everything, is worth it. Because she is undaunted by age and by the culturally imposed limitations of gender. Because she speaks out.

Diana Nyad undertook her most recent swim from Cuba to Florida for both personal reasons (the public personal reasons have to do with feeling better at 61 than she did at 29, when she last tried this swim) and public reasons (to remind those of us who feel too old to try things that age need not be a limitation). She chose to end her swim when she was just under half-way along, the currents and various physical challenges proved to be too much. Even this is monumental - she swam over 50 miles in 29 hours and made the decision to not permanently injure herself but to end when she could make a the decision to do so. This is the choice of a wise, mature woman.

While Diana didn't complete the swim, she inspired me to strive for bigger goals, to not be afraid of failure, to be strong. She has achieved her goal of inspiring me, and thousands others, to live big, regardless of age. Thank you.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

I have a code in by dose

I've had a cold for the last week. It's not pretty. I'm coughing enough that I keep thinking I'll crack a rib, my nose is sore and chafed from blowing and the amount of mucus emerging from various orifices makes me feel like a biohazard site. I'm so congested I can no longer speak clearly. All I really want to do is doze and drink tea.


I get one or two bad colds each winter and every time I try consider them gifts from the universe. No matter what I may want to do, I need to stop doing it. I need to stop running around, stop trying to do 17 things at once, stop putting my own need for rest and recuperation behind the business of life. I just have be sick and get better. Because I'm in generally good health I know it won't be fatal, it's just uncomfortable. It's the universe telling me that if I rested more, took the time to look after myself with a little more diligence, I might not have gotten this cold in the first place. And each time I swear I'll remember to take better care when I recuperate.


I manage to do so for a little while. For a week or two I sleep more, take my vitamins and take long, soothing baths. Then something happens and I start rushing again. I forget. Until the next cold.


David Wilcox has a great song about this called COLD, where he says

You ever wonder why you get a cold
Look at the word - spell it - C-old.
C-OLD 
You're pulled over by the reaper for a warning

He says,"I clocked you thinking 80"

You know you're not that old

You've been worried about the darkness in the morning


Colds are reminds to stop rushing through life and simply live it. Don't worry your life away. Drink some tea. Eat some soup. And when you feel better, be grateful for your own self in the midst of busy-ness and the fine world around you. You know, the one you can smell again.


I hope I can remember this time. Now, where did I put those tissues?


(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

On migraines, medication and the upside of dark

I get migraines. Those of you who get them can skip this paragraph, the rest of you can read on for just a few more sentences. Migraines are a specific kind of headache that can be pretty debilitating. This isn't to say a tension headache isn't painful, but migraines can come with other sensory disturbances (this image reminds me of how the world looks during a bad headache), nausea, vomiting, etc. It can be pretty bad. There are certainly worse things, but on the whole, migraines suck. You can read what the Mayo Clinic has to say about them here.


I used to go through phases where I would get several migraines a week of varying intensity. I was generally able to work, but when I was in the midst of a bad headache I would be pretty much incapacitated - all I could do was lie in a dark room with a cold cloth on my face. If it happened when I was away from home I was pretty much screwed; I couldn't drive, I could sometimes barely walk. I was eventually referred to a neurologist who specialized in headaches and he changed my life. He put me on a medication called Topamax that decreased the frequency and intensity of my headaches; he also gave me an effective anti-migraine drug, Zomig, for use when I had a headache. I began to feel human again.


So why am I writing this, if I've been a migraineur for years and they are now largely under control? I've been thinking about the balancing act between medication and side-effects. It's tricky.


Let's start with Topamax. Before I started taking it I had multiple migraines of varying intensity every week. I could manage most with Excedrin, sunglasses and a baseball cap, but I looked like an idiot at work and warn't functioning well. Topamax meant that I stopped having so many headaches and most were minimal. But (there's always a but) Topamax has several potential side effects, one of which hit me hard. It can cause word loss. You know how every once in awhile you'll stumble while speaking and not come up with the right word? That happened to me all the time. And think about it. I'm a storyteller. Language is one of the loves of my life. This was a problem. Was it worth the trade off?


For awhile it was, the word gaps weren't so bad. Eventually though, I found I wasn't as sharp as I used to be, not as quick. So I began weaning myself down to a lower dose under guidelines from my neurologist. I'm now down to a low enough dose that I feel like myself again - I can make puns, I have a fuller vocabulary - but I'm getting more headaches. Is it worth it?


The easy answer is yes, all I have to do is a take a dose of Zomig. But it's not so easy. Zomig, if taken early enough, will stop the headache. But it often leaves me feeling cloudy for hours afterwards. Kind of like being hung-over but without the sticky mouth and headache. Is that worth it for no-headache?


I love being present in the world, aware of the colors, smells, sounds around me. But living with migraines and medication means I need to live in shadow sometimes. Bright lights, noises, fatigue, stuffiness, all of these can give me headaches. So a tendency towards migraines combined with a dislike of the medication side-effects has forced me to slow down, consider the shadows, look for beauty in the dim and, when I do take the meds and feel cloudy, accept that sometimes I need to move through the world as a different person. I'm trying to think of it as the judicious alternative to feeling slow and other-than-myself all the time. Another one of those unexpected gifts of the universe.


It's better than a kick in the head, anyway.


(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

List: Large shoes

I've lately been dealing with plantar fasciitis. For those who may not know (lucky you!) this is a strain of the plantar fascia that run along the soles of your feet. It typically manifests as heel pain, I have pain along the entire sole of my left foot. I probably strained it exercising. Yay! Aging is fun! Actually, it is fun, far better than the alternative. And this will heal given time, care and shoes with adequate support (so much for strappy sandals) though it's uncomfortable and makes me cranky.

I decided to distract myself by opening up Curious Lists: A Creative Journal for List-Lovers so I could amuse myself and maybe someone else. The universe snickered. This is what I opened to.

Professions that require large shoes

Clown shoe model
Bug squisher
Grape squisher in streamlined factory setting (bigger shoes, more grapes squished)
Nursery rhyme architect, working with old women
Sadistic dance partner
Giant imitator
Large shoe manufacturer industrial spy
Michael Jordan impersonator
Professional butt kicker
Mermaid wanna-be
Misguided boat manufacturer

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Not dead or dying

Thank you for your patience while I got back in the writing saddle (I know, that's a terrible metaphor). It's been a pretty wild ride recently (note I'm dogged with metaphor once I get started) and I've been given the gift of story fodder aplenty.

Let's start with Thanksgiving week and why I really should be writing a screenplay. For the record, if any of you steal these ideas I will set Cerebus on your butt. Really.

You've seen at least one of those films, you know the ones I'm talking about. The kind of family tragi-comedies where everyone gathers together for some holiday or another and every single family member has their own agenda but there is a loving resolution in spite of bittersweet feelings. That was my Thanksgiving this year. Now, I know many of the people who attended my Thanksgiving read this blog (hi Mom and Dad!) so I won't go into detail to protect everyone's feelings, but suffice it to say that the dinner itself, while wonderful and loving, should have been filmed. It was a cast of characters.

I was certainly one of those characters. For the sake of argument, let's make me the main character, since this is my theoretical movie. The anxious host and daughter, preparing her first Thanksgiving feast for her parents, finding herself in a new role, trying to carry the family tradition and start new ones, while the love of her life and principal support is on the other side of the country finding himself in a new role too. These two are trying to support each other through entirely inadequate phone calls. As if this wasn't stressful enough the main character is struggling with a couple of additional pressures. Coming issues at work that she can't talk about. A sick friend. And she just got the word that she might have a painful, debilitating and quite likely fatal disease. See? It's a screenplay!

I can just see the pitch session. Studio execs in casual clothing that costs more than I make in a month. Me, trying to look cool. Failing.

Okay, here it is. Get this. There's this woman, she's hosting Thanksgiving for the first time, which is nerve-wracking enough, but at the same time her doctor has told her she might have a fatal disease. Oh, and let me tell you aout the dinner guests...

Never mind, no one would believe it once I got rolling.

As mentioned in the title to this blog post, I'm not dying. I'm fine. There was only a slim chance I was, but you know how it is, it's hard not to focus on the scariest outcome. Which leads me to the real point of this post.

The week between my annual physical, when my doctor mentioned the very slim chance that I had a rare disease, and the visit with the specialist who confirmed that I did not have the disease but instead had a less rare utterly harmless and likely to go away disorder, was hard. Really hard and made all the harder by the colliding facts of my partner's distance and Thanksgiving.

In retrospect, now that it's done and I know I'm okay (okay with blotches on my feet) I can now see it as a gift.

I reached out to friends and family I might not have otherwise contacted. I was reminded that I am not alone and am, in fact, surrounded by people who care for me. And in turn by people I care for.

I am reminded quite forcefully that this life is a gift, that this is a one-way journey and it behooves me to make the most of it while I can. I write about this often, if you read this blog with any regularity you know that, but the past week was a punch to the gut reminding me that I could, in fact, die tomorrow. If not from some disease then from an accident or anything else. So I may as well live while I can, dying in the moment or not.

I am reminded of my own strength. While I had some pretty tough moments in there, I kept going. I didn't curl up. I was able to keep moving, believing as I always have that you do the best you can in any given moment.

And I was reminded that this world is so big, so vast, I was reminded to be grateful for my brief existence.

It was truly a week of Thanksgiving. For those I love, who love me; for the support in my life; for the plenty I am fortunate enough to know and share; for the sound of the geese in the night and the strength of trees. I am alive. And so are you. Thanks.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

The Pan Mass Challenge, part 2

Whew! I'm done. And it was, as always, quite a ride.

I didn't sleep at all well the night before; this is unusual for me, usually before the PMC I'm happy and excited and can rest. But Friday night was dreadful, I tossed and turned for all hours. When I finally fell asleep I had two dreams. In them both it was after the ride and I was incredibly happy. When I woke up to the blaring alarm I decided to take this as a good omen.

I rode for a lot of people this year, six of whom are in the midst of their battle with cancer. We wrote their names on my legs, as you can

see here. Two of them are people I rode for last year. I write their names on my legs so they can peddle with me. By the time I finished the ride they had all worked so hard they were mostly sweated off. (Yes, the tattoo is real. And the weird little spots are supposed to help with pain. I'm not sure if they did or not.)

We drove through heavy fog to the starting site in Wellesley, milled around, chatted, and then at 7:00 am the ride started.

You don't need a blow-by-blow. I don't need to write one. If you're interested in some details you can find them on my twitter feed. Go to twitter and search for storylaura.

But it was:

- inspiring. So many people coming together to form a community to do one, important thing. I feel so proud to be part of this.

- hard. I was in more pain this year than previously; I didn't train as well as I would have liked due to knee and back issues and I paid for it. At each rest stop I would think, That's it, I'm going to stop now. And each time I would decide to wait a little longer, rest a bit, then see how I felt. I kept going. I finished, I am so glad I did.

- heartbreaking, as always. Seeing all of the names and faces that people carry. Hearing all of the stories. Everyone cries on this ride.

- exhilarating. I rode really well. Sure, I dragged on the hills, but for the rest of it I was (by my standards) no slouch. Considering how hampered I was in training, I'm pleased.

- empowering. I am alive. I can make a difference in the world. This event reminds me of that in no uncertain terms. On the bus ride back I was talking with Ben, who just completed his first PMC. He talked about how yes, he gives money to other causes, but with this he knows he has done something that makes an immediate, real difference. It's that kind of thing. I know too.

(And you can still make a real difference too - donations are accepted until October 1, I'm still well below my required donation level.)

So that's the nickel summary. I am here. I am alive. I have the honor of having ridden yet again in the Pan Mass Challenge, of pedaling my feet off to save the world a little bit. And today I get to venture out and save the world in some other way. I'll see you on the road.

(c)2008 Laura S. Packer

Physical frailty

It could be worse. But jeez does it sound dumb.

To avoid straining my knee more (which ached some after yesterday's ride) I decided I'd instead go swimming and lifting today. Before we went to the gym Kevin and I decided to enjoy this lovely day and fly a kite. 

I'm new to kite flying, so I'm still learning all the ins and outs. One of the things I'm still learning is to how to keep the string from burning my fingers when the wind grabs the kite. It's a windy day.

The kite was really going and my finger got caught, singed. I let go of the strings and started chasing the kite so it wouldn't fly away. After maybe five steps something happened inside my right knee and I fell down, in a fair bit of pain. Ouch.

I can just see the medical report. "Patient injured knee kite flying." I feel like a dope. With a limp.

If it still hurts this much tomorrow I'm going to the doctor. For now it's rest, ice, compression and elevation.

But boy, before that happened the kite and I were soaring.

(c) 2008 Laura S Packer

The naked truth

We went camping this past weekend. This is nothing unusual, lots and lots of people pack their cars and drive off to someplace in the woods where they can gaze into a fire and slap at mosquitos. What differentiates the camping I did this weekend was that I went to a nudist camp.

There are a lot of things I could tell you about this place. It is a lovely, quiet setting. It's not prurient, no orgies or wild sexual escapades. If anything it's like spending time with a bunch of kids who can drive. And happen to be naked. And the bodies? Just like yours. The average age is probably close to 60. It's a bunch of really nice, ordinary people, who happen to like not wearing clothing.

There are some rules, spoken and unspoken.
- You get more direct eye contact at a nudist camp than you will anywhere else in your life - you're not supposed to look, even though I suspect most people peek. You don't catch anyone peeking, instead everyone looks right at your face whenever you talk with them.  
- There is some smugness about being at a nudist camp. If you somehow manage to forget that everyone there is naked, sooner or later, someone will remind you that in some way we are a little bit better because we camp naked. I don't really agree with this, but it is in the air.
- There are some real rules about keeping everything pretty much asexual (no significant touching (there are kids around), no visible body jewelry below the waist, etc etc.).
- Conversation is light, no politics or other heavy stuff. I suspect this is because we're already so exposed no one wants to be more so.

- If you're playful, you're better off. It's a really silly bunch, with silly senses of humor.
And so on. It's all friendly, polite and very sociable. This is not the kind of camping you do if you want quiet communion with nature.

I don't really care much one way or the other about being naked, though there is something nice about the nude sunbathing and hot tubbing whenever I want, not to mention not having to worry about clothing getting wet in the inevitable rain. What I find really interesting about this place is the community. I don't know if it's because everyone is naked, so there isn't really much left to hide, or because it's a bunch of people drawn together by one common, relatively unusual interest but this group of people seems to be strikingly honest and open with each other.

If someone has a problem, everyone knows about it. Yes, this could just be common gossip, but it seems deeper that that. People want to help. They want to talk and be listened to. The underlying assumption is that if you are there, you are part of a community that will help each other.

I show up with my tent and gear, people stop to assist me, even though they all have their trailers and permanent sites and barely know my name. I don't ask, they just do it. There are potluck dinners where we are fed even if we have nothing to share and the response is just delight that we came. A few years ago I mentioned the PMC to one person; within 15 minutes an announcement was made over the PA systems and people can running, literally, to give me money for the ride. People I didn't know, people I knew didn't have much money, people who were doing it because they cared. When I've asked in other communities, with people who know me better and have more money, I don't get anything like that kind of response. It is truly remarkable.

I don't know if it's because everyone there has the great equalizer of being naked, being revealed for all to see. I don't know if it's because it's simply a kind of community I hadn't had the good luck to encounter before and it exists elsewhere, with clothing on. I do know I am grateful for it and if I have to drop trou be part of it, then I will.

Oh, and that recurring nightmare about performing naked? Not such a big deal, stories are stories no matter where you tell them.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

Breath as vital distraction

I know there are people out there who like pain. I'm not one of them. I'm not talking about a nibble here or a pinch there in the name of good fun, but the kind of pain that makes me whimper. Migraines. Menstrual cramps. Stubbed toes (I bet you winced). Damaged knees. Kidney stones. And my new discovery, scratched corneas. Yuck.

But there is something about that lingering, persistent presence that forces a discipline I don't otherwise often rise to. I hurt. Pills don't help, sleep won't come and I'm having trouble distracting myself. I can't escape it. Crying doesn't work nor does talking about it. So what can I do?

I breath. Slow deep breaths, in and out. I concentrate on what doesn't hurt. I focus on the fine details of cloth against my skin, air rushing through my lungs, the temperature of the room. Anything in this moment except that which is the focal point of my existence. If I do a good enough job of breathing there is a chance I will survive through this moment, through this pain.

I wish I could remember to breath through pain more often, not just in those awful moments of physical distress. I sometimes remember to take deep breaths when I'm upset, when I need to keep my mouth shut. I fill myself with cool air so I don't explode with all the heat inside and the words best left unsaid come out in a searing wash. I sometimes remember to breathe when I'm sad or lonely, but not often enough.

I know taking deep breaths isn't the cure for every kind of pain, but it might help if I did it more often. It might help me survive the remaining year and a half of the current administration. It might help me remember to be kind as a first reaction, not after a pause. It might help me just feel better and avoid future pain.

(c) 2007 Laura Packer