If weeds were a cash crop, I’d be a millionaire. Along with the gorgeous days of spring, filled with blooming bulbs and flowering trees, comes the chore of weeding. It seems every home has a pile of mulch in the driveway, ready to be hauled around by the wheelbarrow full. Heat wraps, Ben Gay and Aleeve are flying off drugstore shelves, scooped up by weekend gardeners with low back spasms.
Just a few days ago, as I was admiring the planned and planted blooms in my back yard, I was also cursing the dreaded weeds that had come in to join them, uninvited. Wild mustard, with its bright yellow blooms, stands tall over unidentifiable purple blossoms, and beneath them all there is a groundcover of chickweed. Unable to face the chore ahead of me, I decided to get some pictures off of the camera card my brother had dropped off for me. He said there were some shots of the pretty wild flowers in the orchard behind our parent’s house. I loved picking flowers in the orchard when I was a child, gathering up big bunches and sticking them in jars and glasses all over the house.
The fruit trees are old and many of them no longer bloom. But the ‘wild flowers’ are still there. I had to smile when I saw the pictures of them. I suppose it’s all about perspective. I am now quite sure that when I was a little girl, I would think of my current back yard as a flower filled wonderland.
Time for tea surrounded by vintage treasures (photo: Lorie Sheffer)
One day my friend, who happens to be a psychiatrist, and I were discussing stresses in everyday life. He shared with me that on more than one occasion he has heard the complaint how every time we turn on the television, we are bombarded with bad news and horrible images. His suggestion? “Turn off the television.” For only $175 an hour, that is some pretty simple advice. Why, then, can we not seem to figure out the obvious? Why do we feel increasingly unable to disengage?
I absolutely feel it is necessary to educate ourselves as to what is happening in the world around us and to form our own opinions and views based upon facts and not hearsay. With the information we all have at our disposal, it is inexcusable not to do so. But where do we draw the line? At what point do we stop and realize that we have the story and all we are doing is bombarding our emotions with the details? If we can in some way help, then we need to continue gathering information. If simply drawn to events in some strange voyeuristic way, then maybe it would be best to take a break. At the very least, we may need to step back and take a breath.
Ridiculous as it may sound, afternoon tea is a wonderful way to refresh our mind and recharge our soul. It’s quite different from guzzling a grande coffee with a triple shot of espresso from a paper cup. It’s totally unlike sipping from a stained old mug, tea bag tag hanging from the side. What I’m talking about is brewing a pot of real tea and then drinking it from an old vintage cup or at the very least a clean, unstained mug. Savoring it with a small sweet treat only adds to the joy of it. If the weather is hot, iced tea or lemonade, not the instant kind but the fresh made variety, seems almost decadent when it’s sipped from a tall frosty glass. Sit by a window and watch the snow fall, or the birds fly or the rain splash on the pane…… but sit and look outside, away from the television, computer and iPad. In the good old days, this was known as break. It was thought to help relieve stress, give some fresh perspective and allow us to mentally escape for a few moments. And the last time I checked an afternoon break cost quite a bit less than $175 an hour.
I’ll admit it; I was bored. I was channel surfing and stopped when I saw one of my all-time favorite athletes, Olympic champion diver Greg Louganis. What was he doing pushing someone who looked like Louie Anderson out of a pool? I soon realized I was watching “Splash”, a celebrity diving show. As I said, I was bored, and I have always liked to watch diving, so I stopped surfing and watched. I was soon hooked.
Greg Louganis is now 53 years old. His hair has turned silver and he is even more stunningly handsome than he was when he competed over 20 years ago. But perhaps what is most startling is remembering that he was diagnosed as being HIV positive in 1988. Louganis is acting as coach for the celebrity divers, and when he took to the 35-meter platform, his dive was as flawless as ever. He is proof that, with proper medical care, HIV is not the death sentence it once was.
Greg Louganis was not the person who most amazed me, though. Louie Anderson, 60 years old and 400 pounds, is the person who brought tears to my eyes. Louie learned to swim when he was 55 years old. He claimed to be on the show for all the people out there that are too embarrassed to be seen in a swimsuit or in a pool. On Anderson’s first day of practice, he was unable to get out of the pool without the assistance of Louganis and two others. He was mortified. But he never gave up. In competition, 27-year-old former Playboy model Kendra Wilkinson, unable to overcome her fear of heights, withdrew from competition. Anderson never wavered. He outlasted a former Cosby Kid, a professional football player and the former playboy model. Finally, he was eliminated after a night of flips. “I can hardly turn in bed”, he quipped just before sitting on the 16-foot board and rolling backward into a tumble.
After receiving a score that eliminated him by .25 of a point, he said, “This is not my last dive. This is my first step into a brand new life.” He said he did the show because maybe it would get someone off of the couch.
Lorie Sheffer, Christmas 1965 (photo: Mom or Dad?)
What baby-boomer doesn’t have memories of sitting down in front of the family television on a Sunday evening, eager to watch The Wonderful World of Disney and Bonanza? Tinker Bell flew around that castle and with one tap of her wand, turned it into a world of Technicolor. Ben Cartwright and his three handsome sons would ride across the Ponderosa, the map of the ranch burning to reveal their arrival on gorgeous horses.
This past Thursday, I was reminded of another thing our televisions brought into our living rooms. April 4 marked the 45th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Growing up in the 60s, his was not the only assassination we were witness to. We also lost President John F. Kennedy, his brother Bobby, Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, and Freedom Riders Goodman, Schwerner and Chaney to assassins’ bullets. Chet Huntley and David Brinkley were the bearers of tragic news via NBC’s Huntley/Brinkley Report. Edwin Newman delivered events, as did, perhaps most famously, CBS’s Walter Cronkite. Added to the horror of losing our leaders on a regular basis, we also were dealing with nightly footage of the war in Vietnam. US deployment started in 1965, and the war went on until 1975.
My first clear, detailed memory is the afternoon of Friday, November 22, 1963. Thanksgiving was coming, and after that, Santa. My mom was doing whatever it is that moms do, and I was sitting on the floor with a coloring book- my favorite, a bride and her wedding party. As the World Turns was on the television. There were lots of silly commercials for Niagara Spray Starch. A man broke in with a Special Bulletin; President Kennedy had been shot. My mom got our coats and we ran next door to my grandmother’s house. Gram was crying. I was 4 years old.
Now, with our 24-hour news cycles and high definition flat screen TVs, I wonder what the effect will be on my grandson’s generation. The assassinations have evolved into mass murders of ordinary citizens in movie theaters and shopping malls. What began as shootings in Universities and high schools has now moved to elementary schools. Single shots fired have escalated into hundreds of rounds in a matter of minutes. And all the while, our children are watching.
A few years ago I broke off the cusp of a molar. Apparently teeth that were filled when we were kids tend to crack when we hit midlife. I’m not gonna lie, when the old filling was ground out and replaced with the newer white type, it hurt. A lot. It involved a nerve that was none too happy to be toyed with after being cocooned in there, undisturbed, for 40 years. So this week, when I bit into a carrot and felt that familiar sudden, sharp pain, I knew I had cracked off the repair work. I was far from looking forward to a replay of the nerve pain.
Sitting in my dentist’s chair, waiting for him to enter the room and begin the repair work, I felt a wave of anxiety. Having given birth to both of my children without the aid of any medication, and having had an upper endoscopy sans sedation, I’m not a total wimp when it comes to pain. But the thought of that drill, that high-pitched drill, and the hot smell of burred molar that comes with it was sending me toward panic. My foot began tapping and I was having some pretty strong heart palpitations. Too late for an emergency Xanax, I was starting to feel overwhelming claustrophobia. Time to try a technique that I was sure was NOT going to work. But at that point, my only other option was to get up and walk out. I didn’t want to be there, so I went somewhere else.
Step one is to take oneself out of the room mentally. Conjure up an image of the single most relaxing, non-threatening place you’ve ever been. I closed my eyes and transported myself to 9 S. Pennsylvania Avenue, Bethany Beach, Delaware. A summer rental cottage with the best out door shower ever. I imagined walking out the back screen door, the feel of the wooden floor under my feet. Down the steps and across the corner of the gravel driveway. The sun shining, humidity low, a cloudless, azure sky. There’s the sound of a lifeguard’s whistle from the beach, the obnoxious cry of a gull. Across the grass back yard, the soil turns spongy beneath my feet as I near the shower stall. I can hear the sound of one of the small planes that fly up the coast, dragging a banner that advertises crab balls and $2.00 beer on tap. I can hear the rustle of the ornamental grass in the neighboring yard as a warm breeze blows by, and the sound of someone peddling by on their bike. The shower door makes that familiar sound of a rusty spring groaning open and it slams when I let go of the thin metal handle. I can smell the milk and honey body wash in the closed-in space. I feel sand in my hair, and can taste salt on my lips from the ocean. The faucet and knobs are metal and rusty, and they feel rough. They screech on and the water comes out in a sputter, the sun shining through into the roofless stall makes it sparkle. The skin on my shoulders feels tight from the hours in the sun and salt water.
When my dentist walked into the room, not only was I calm, I was about 30 seconds away from actually dozing off in the chair. While the procedure that followed wasn’t my idea of a fun way to spend my time, it was much easier and less involved than the time before. My tooth is now repaired, and I can say for certain that mind over matter really can and does work! In the wake of an especially stressful day, you don’t have to be someone who suffers from a full-blown anxiety disorder to reap the benefits of a mental vacation.
