Creative Sanctuary

Inspiration

Purple COVID Thumb

By Allison

purple thumb

“The body is a document.  It keeps a memory of its own.  We are made of loops and loops of time.” –Ingrid Rojas Contreras

COVID hit me like a summer cold, but long COVID has been no walk in the park.  I was spared excessive fatigue and loss of taste, but the virus nonetheless did a number on my nervous system.  I’ve always been emotionally expressive, but in the weeks following COVID, I was exceptionally fragile.  Happily, my emotions are slowly stabilizing and the steady progress feels sustainable.

My purple thumb is a wild, disconcerting reminder that my body is still out of whack.  The bruises first appeared on day 6 of COVID.  They come and go.  My thumb feels tight and slightly constricted, and my arm aches when it flares up.  After a few days, it fades and then unexpectedly reappears.

My doctor suspects that my condition was brought on by the disturbance the coronavirus caused in my sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system.  He told me that this elegant, well-designed system regulates the autonomous processes of the body, including the fight or flight response during a threat or perceived danger.  If the body is under attack from a virus, physical trauma, or emotional upheaval, that regulatory part of the brain is affected.

My doctor is perplexed but not worried.  I have no definitive diagnosis, but we believe that the trauma of COVID likely sent my fight or flight response into overdrive.  Long COVID is uncharted territory, and symptoms vary from patient to patient.  A few weeks ago, I opted to receive a nerve block to pause my fight or flight response.  The simple procedure was soothing and settling.  I consider the injection a useful tool but not a cure.  My nervous system will come back into balance over time, and I must give myself the time and space needed to heal.

I feel validated by the medical community and remain open to more injections and/or talk therapy as I recover.  As always, my friends and family hold me up.  And I’ve chosen to treat the purple thumb adventure as an opportunity to deepen my knowledge of healing.  When my purple-hued thumb sends me looping through my mind and has me pacing my house, I am reminded that healing rarely proceeds in a straight line.  I try to pause and practice deep breathing as a way to soothe my nervous system.  More than ever, I pay attention to emotional triggers and my reactions to them.  How can I step back and recalibrate?  What helps me keep my emotions in check?  Moving forward, how will our society deal with long COVID?  Given that health is a personal, private subject, how can we facilitate healing for others?

I hemmed and hawed before writing about my COVID thumb because the condition frightened me.  I keep it bandaged so that I don’t catch glimpses of the bluish-purple splotch.  As much as possible, I set it aside and focus on the more pleasant aspects of my life.  So why did I choose to post this story?  Writing has the power to restore wholeness.  Sharing does too.

 

Safe in My Body

By Allison

When you have a silly putty spine, gentle movement is usually a safe bet.  For 20 years, yoga and walks were my go-to forms of exercise.  Inexpensive and accessible, both have helped tone my core and soothe my nerves.  Even in the midst of flare-ups, I could usually do a few sun salutations or take a stroll in the neighborhood.  Though I was active, my back and neck remained precarious.

A year ago, I unknowingly made a life-changing leap.  My back doctor and physical therapist felt I was ready to “graduate” from physical therapy and begin medically supervised exercise.  I had undergone about two dozen injections—prolotherapy and PRP (platelet-rich-plasma)—which had strengthened my ligaments.  My spine was no longer mushy, and my body no longer felt jangly.  I was ready to leverage the healing and build strength.

So, I joined James’ class for patients with a history of back injury.  Having already done physical therapy with him, I felt comfortable in the group setting.  I was the youngest in the class by a few decades, but I struggled to keep up with my classmates for the first few weeks.  I thought James was crazy to expect that I could do a deadlift with a 35-pound kettlebell.  When he placed a 45-pound dumbbell on my pelvis for a weighted bridge, I was sure it would shatter me.  He challenged me in ways I could never challenge myself, and he could always gauge my capabilities without crushing my spirit (or my pelvis!).  Each week, I left group exercise a shaky mess, but I was gaining strength and perfecting my form little by little.

I now work one-on-one with James.  I lift 50-pound kettlebells.  My weighted bridges sometimes accommodate 80 pounds.  James is prepping me to lift barbells.  I am stronger, leaner, and more steady in my movement.  I still leave every session a shaky mess—a sure sign that I’ve had a fabulous workout!

Along the way, James has been a mentor, a teacher, and a friend.  He is demanding yet compassionate, and he is unfailingly kind to me.  He has taught me that lifting heavy weights helps us to feel safe in our bodies.  It allows us to move through life with elegance and grace.  But it’s not easy because we must keep challenging ourselves!

I am gratified by James’ correlation between strength and safety.  When women say they want to be “strong,” it is often coded language for wanting to be thin.  This mindset troubles me because I sometimes find myself slipping into this unhealthy rhetoric.  My young nieces look up to me, and so do my students.  As they find their way, it is my responsibility to model confidence, self-assurance, and grace of movement.  I can do this by demonstrating that I am finally safe in my body.

Inspirations

Self-Soothing

The Nourishing Power of Gentleness

 

Fallow

By Allison

fallow fieldFallow times are productive times.  I’ve spent the last few months lazing around intellectually.  Given that I was coming down from a handful of writing deadlines and processing a few emotional hardships, it was appropriate to settle into a protective and hollow mental space.  I admit that I haven’t been reading a lot.  I haven’t even been thinking very much.  I’ve been curled up, so to speak, allowing my mind to rest so that my creative spirit will reset and regenerate.

Stepping away from an active mindset is easier said than done.  Even when I seek a change of pace, it takes me days to settle into a state in which my mind doesn’t churn.  Fallowness gives way to sensations of boredom, and boredom makes me feel guilty.  When I notice feelings of shame coming on, I swat them away.  I remind myself that boredom declutters my mind and makes space for intellectual freshness.  It creates an environment in which streams of thought might flow and original ideas might form.  Our bodies are similar to fields that benefit from periods of inactivity.  We emerge rejuvenated and bring our new energy to our work and our relationships.  Not only are we better thanks to fallow periods, but people around us also benefit from the inactive time we’ve given to ourselves.

After a few months that have felt empty and blank, I sense a shift in myself.  Ideas are percolating.  Each day I sit down to write, and energy rushes into my palms and then my fingers.  I am mostly writing fluff, but I’m writing.  Though my curiosity and focus are returning, I’m not charging forward just yet.  This selfish, fallow period has been restorative.  I’ve been kind to myself.  I’ve allowed my mind to wander.  The starkness has brought new perspectives and opened my heart. Surprising, unexpected creative paths have emerged, and I tentatively begin to pursue them.

 

Me When I Moved In

By Allison

Today’s guest contributor is my 7 year-old niece Sylvie Rose.  An aspiring writer, Sylvie likes soccer, Roblox, and fake nails.

sylvie deck

 

That day we had a party at my house. I was 1 and a half. My cousin Nora Jane and me Sylvie Rose were playing tag with my Uncle Jack! I was eating apple sauce at dinner! I was happy and I was wearing my favorite color!

Going to the Movie

By Allison

Today’s guest contributor is my 7 year-old niece Sylvie Rose.  An aspiring writer, Sylvie likes soccer, Roblox, and fake nails.  

car ride

One day I got to go to a cool movie with my parents. The movie was about a good tennis player named Serena. I like that she did really cool matches and won trophies. She made me think it was me!!!

Disenfranchised Grief: Ways to Deal and Heal

By Allison

Tuscan hills

Each of us has built a collection of seemingly small losses in the last few years—cancelled trips, lost time with family, missed events like graduations and weddings.  The accumulation of these disappointments weighs heavy and cultivates disenfranchised grief.  This type of grief is difficult to identify, and a lot of us feel guilty honoring it.  When others have suffered more, what right do we have to mourn our more minor losses?

I believe it is essential to acknowledge disenfranchised grief, to speak it to someone with whom we feel safe, and then to find alternative ways to enact small joys.  I’ve recently felt a diffused, latent grumpiness.  I didn’t understand why my temper was short, and I didn’t know why I was feeling emotional.  When I paused and went within, I realized that my quiet little griefs had brought on a palpable mood shift.  The second I acknowledged my disenfranchised grief, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease a bit.  It’s okay to feel sad for the lost moments with loved ones and the vacations that never happened.  As I let my grief evolve, I distract myself in lighthearted ways.  The feelings of disappointment will diminish, and in the meantime, I counterbalance my grief with happy activities.

Memory Travel

With travel severely restricted and very stressful, I’ve mostly traveled through my past.  The last two weeks, my 2015 trip to Italy’s Val d’Orcia has been on my mind.  I’m reliving the early mornings on the deck, when the sun came up over the valley, the wild boars squealed, and the birds chirped.  Day after day, I’ve been seeing the glorious Tuscan hills in my third eye and almost tasting the fruity olive oil we drizzled on our pasta.  Rather than leave me with a sense of loss, my Italian reveries are fulfilling and hopeful.

Awaken the Senses

Throughout the pandemic, the kitchen has been my happy place.  Meal preparation calls upon multiple senses.  I see the bright produce I pull from the grocery shelves, touch the ingredients as I chop, smell the herbs as I rub them between my fingers, hear the vegetables sizzle in the olive oil, and taste the dish resulting from my labor.  After tinkering with my winter minestrone soup, I am ready to share my recipe, found at the end of this post.  Please make it your own!  Dried beans are even more delicious than canned, and dried herbs can be used in a pinch. My winter minestrone will adjust to your whims, your pantry, and your senses.

Work It Out on the Mat

Sometimes the best way to deal with grief is through movement.  This week, my yoga mat has been a place of respite.  I admit I’m not pushing myself hard.  My exercise is slow and intentional.  In the weeks to come, I’ll be ready for more rigor.  But for now, I just need to process loss and disappointment.  I am learning that acknowledging my grief is uplifting.

 

Winter Minestrone

Created by on December 30, 2021

Hills of Tuscany

Ingredients

  • 1/4 c extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for serving
  • Parmesan cheese, grated
  • 1/4 c extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for serving
  • 1 medium-large onion
  • 2 ribs celery, diced
  • 2 carrots, diced
  • 3 cloves garlic, sliced or chopped
  • 1/2 tsp. chopped rosemary
  • 1 tsp. chopped sage
  • 1 bay leaf
  • 1 can diced tomatoes (14.5 oz)
  • 1 bunch kale, stemmed, washed, and chopped
  • 1/2 butternut squash, peeled and cut into ¼ inch cubes
  • 4 c water
  • 1 can cannellini or great northern beans, drained and rinsed
  • salt and pepper

Instructions

  1. Warm olive oil over medium heat and sauté onion until light gold, about 8 minutes. Add celery and carrots to pot with 2 tsp salt, and cook to a rich golden brown, about 8-10 minutes. Add kale, garlic, rosemary, bay leaf, and sage. Cook over med-low heat for about 5 minutes, taking care to keep the garlic and herbs from burning. Add water and tomatoes, turn up heat, and simmer for 15 minutes. Add squash and cook until tender, about 15 minutes. Then, add the beans and cook until heated through. Remove the bay leaf. If soup is too thick, thin with hot water. Serve in bowls, garnishing each with a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and one spoonful grated Parmesan cheese. Variation: For a thicker soup, use two cans of beans.
  2. Warm olive oil over medium heat and sauté onion until light gold, about 8 minutes. Add celery and carrots to pot with 2 tsp salt, and cook to a rich golden brown, about 8-10 minutes. Add kale, garlic, rosemary, bay leaf, and sage. Cook over med-low heat for about 5 minutes, taking care to keep the garlic and herbs from burning. Add water and tomatoes, turn up heat, and simmer for 15 minutes. Add squash and cook until tender, about 15 minutes. Then, add the beans and cook until heated through. Remove the bay leaf. If soup is too thick, thin with hot water. Serve in bowls, garnishing each with a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and one spoonful grated Parmesan cheese. Variation: For a thicker soup, use two cans of beans.

Inspirations

New York Times on disenfranchised grief

Slow Looking

Beauty in Grief 

The Nourishing Power of Gentleness

By Allison

blades of grass

©Danesh Mazloomdoost

“Once in a while we meet a gentle person.  Gentleness is a virtue hard to find in a society that admires toughness and roughness.  […] Gentle is the one who does ‘not break the crushed reed, or snuff the faltering wick.’  Gentle is the one who is attentive to the strengths and weaknesses of the other and enjoys being together more than accomplishing something.  A gentle person treads lightly, listens carefully, looks tenderly, and touches with reverence.  A gentle person knows that true growth requires nurture, not force.  Let’s dress ourselves with gentleness.”  –Henri Nouwen

 One evening several weeks back, I experienced a transformative moment that continues to stir in me.  It was a delicious fall evening.  The air was cooling, and the trees were still green.  Night had not fallen, but the blue hour was approaching.

My friend and I were leaving his office, laughing about God knows what.  When we stepped out, we encountered a young woman in crisis.  Her clothes hung off her bony frame, she was covered in sores, and she seemed to be doing some sort of distressed dance on the lawn.

I was startled and scared for her, and I froze.  My friend maintained his calm.  He approached her gingerly and asked what was wrong.  His voice was steady and soothing.

The young woman was apparently addicted to heroin, had been clean for seven months, and had recently relapsed after the death of her uncle.  She was sobbing.  Her story was disjointed, but her fear was clear.

She asked us to call an ambulance to take her to the University of Kentucky hospital.  As we waited with her, my friend maintained his compassionate, caring way.  He saw her, acknowledged her, and validated her.  He trod lightly, listened carefully, looked tenderly, and treated her with reverence.  Though I mostly stayed quiet, I held a space of compassion for both of them.

Within about 3 minutes, firefighters, EMTs, and police officers arrived.  The lights and sirens were jolting, and it must have been overwhelming for her to suddenly be surrounded by nine men in surgical masks.  But they were kind to her and helped her to the ambulance.  As she lay on the gurney, she thanked us profusely.

I have always admired my friend’s steady demeanor.  He is a gentle soul through and through.  That evening he reminded me that gentleness is life-giving.  His tender approach fortified a young person in crisis.  He helped her find the courage to wait for the ambulance and to maybe seek help. 

His gentleness also nourished me.  I witnessed its power to soothe and effect change.  After a long day at the office, he exercised focus, restraint, and compassion.  I aspire to this.  I have since deepened my commitment to gentleness and its beauty.  I imagine wearing it like a cloak, flowing softly and creating an aura of safety and tenderness.

Inspirations

Self-Soothing in Hard Times

Extreme Rest

Between, Within, Beneath

Pandemic Aloe: “Learning to Plant” Again

By Allison

pandemic aloeWe’re giving hugs again, gathering around tables with friends, and some people are even planning summer travels.  We are “learning to human again.”

I purchased my little aloe plant in fall 2020, when COVID cases were on the rise in the U.S.  Tending to my house plants distracted me from the scariness.  Months later, I can’t help but smile every time this scrawny pandemic plant catches my eye.  He is thriving but on his own terms.  This aloe refuses to grow straight.  I have gently tried to rectify this countless times.  Quietly, yet firmly I have encouraged him to “Stand tall. Reach for the light.”

But this charming aloe is a pandemic plant.  He is comfortable hanging over the edge of his terra cotta home.  Good posture doesn’t matter to him.  He languishes.  He is twisted and a little gnarly.  I have come to admire his commitment to growing crookedly.

I, too, have carved a twisty path in the last year.  Though I have not lost any loved ones, I have dealt with disenfranchised grief—the unnamable sadness that accumulates with continued disappointment and “small” losses.  Travel, weddings, family meals.  I have felt guilty for feeling sad.  What business do I have grieving when I’ve suffered so little compared to others?

As I “learn to human” again, I like to think that my aloe is “learning to plant” again.  I have an affinity for his hunched nature.  Standing tall is not necessarily easy.  Getting out into the world after more than a year of isolation is odd.  We are both off-kilter right now, but as the time is right, we are branching out.

Harbinger

By Allison

forsythiaForsythias dotted my early pandemic walks.  Against a still-grey landscape, the vibrant flowers announced spring.  Hope was elusive as the coronavirus emerged, and seeing the forsythias in bloom gave me brief moments of respite.

One year later, it was jarring to see the lemony forsythia blooms peeking out once again.  How had a year of sameness passed?  Why was I feeling lackluster as the world awakened?  The heightened panic of 2020 and 2021 had numbed me, and I’d been plodding along in a pandemic haze.

This spring, the forsythias were painfully and pleasantly piercing.  The bright yellow shrubs shot me back to the scary days of last year, but they also brought optimism and a tiny bit of joy.  Forsythias are harbingers of spring.  Often the first flowers to bloom, they announce a new season.  They instill anticipation.  And, for me, they cultivate hope.

The word harbinger comes from the Old French word herbergier—to provide lodging for.  If you’re a French speaker, think of the words auberge or hospice—spaces of protection and care.  In English, the word harbor echoes the sentiment of shelter.  Before this spring, I had never understood that a harbinger could serve as both herald and protector.  This spring and last, fiery forsythia flowers anchored my outings.  Never had I found so much solace in the landscape.  Never had nature been so comforting to me.

In Kentucky, the forsythia shrubs have mostly turned green—already!  Though spring colors are fleeting, the season’s marvels continue to serve as an escape from the traumas of late-stage pandemic life.  The birdsong invigorates, and the dappled light inspires.  The world is alive!

Inspriations

Love Musings

Between, Within, Beneath

Pandemic Language

 

Resting Bench

By Allison

banc-reposoir Alsace“I am that living and fiery essence of the divine substance that glows in the beauty of the fields.  I shine in the water, I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars.”  –Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179)

The bancs-reposoirs (“resting benches”) of Alsace are sandstone memories of 19th-century peasant life.  Spaced about 2 kilometers apart on well-traveled ways, the benches provided a place of rest for farmers headed into town on market day.  Women, who carried their goods in baskets on their heads, placed them on the lintel topping the structure.  The resting benches were often shaded by linden trees.

Throughout Alsace, about 170 bancs-reposoirs remain, built in 1811 and 1854.  Found along a windy road in Hilsenheim, France, this bench offered a moment of respite to people carrying a heavy load.  Visiting it in the 21st century, I try to imagine the trek to the next town and the weight of the wheat and bran the women carried on their heads.  What emotional burdens weighed on them?  What were their passions?  Did they enjoy aspects of this work?

It goes without saying that there is a disparity in experience between 19th-century Alsatian peasants and a 21st-century college professor from across the ocean.  Though as I trace my finger on the lichen covering the stone, I remember that time is fluid and that in this spot, the centuries touch.  I sit on the same resting bench.  The landscape I take in resembles the backdrop of their lives—neat fields, spring greens, unruly grasses in the ditch.  They may have felt a similar May breeze on their skin.  Stone, place, and air connect us.

This moment also reminds me that rest is essential.  The world is currently burdened by a pandemic.  After almost a year of living in crisis mode, we need to sit on our own figurative resting benches.  Let us stop and catch our breath.  Let us remember our fiery essences.  Let us also be still and smile, seeing how we glow in the fields, shine in the water, and burn in the heavens.