Scent allergies: they're real and they suck!

When you live with an allergy or sensitivity that most people don't know exists, it can be tough. 

I have a scent sensitivity. It is getting worse as I get older. I am not allergic. I will not die (unless I inhale too much smoke and my airway closes, which has happened once before and then it Is possible). But I will lose my voice. I will get nauseated. I will get flu-like symptoms. My throat will catch fire. 

Here's the kicker. The things that set me off? Perfumes, essential oils, air fresheners,  Fabreze (and whatever vile chemicals are in it) and most detergents. Also, hand soaps, hand and body lotion, and incense. They are things most people use. 

Whisk, Tide, and Gain are the three worst detergent culprits. And they are also the most ubiquitous. If I spend time with people who use them, I will be in a bad way within seconds. 

It means that I spend less time socializing than I used to because I make my living with my voice. And I also prefer not to feel like I am about to hack up a lung. 

It has led to some strange events. Friends have accused me of abandoning them because I am no longer around like I used to be. That is untrue. I haven't abandoned anyone but neither will I ask anyone to change their behavior patterns for me. It's not some sort of martyr thing. Rather, it's the most expedient thing to do because it is asking to change pretty much anything anyone uses. If they use a detergent, and it has a scent, I'll be in trouble. If they forget and put perfume on in the morning before they come see me? I'll be in trouble. If they have hand lotion in their bag and they use it while we are together? I have to leave (and yes I carry my own unscented soap because most bathrooms in public places use soap that will set me off). So, it's hard to go, "Oh yes please. Go scent free." It is a huge undertaking. 

I have one person, who wanted me to be around less, who started using a scented detergent when she had not been before. When I asked her about it, she at first denied it. And then, once we had discussed the matter further, she said, "Oh yeah. My bad. I did do that." Needless to say, she and I are no longer friends. It is not because she used a scented detergent by the way. It is because she did it on purpose. Want an excellent way to ensure that you don't spend time with someone who is allergic? Just go and buy and use the thing that spikes their allergy.

At our last wedding anniversary, my husband and I had to leave early. The bed-and-breakfast place used detergent that had scent. I tried to stay one night. I woke up in the middle of the night wheezing like I had asthma. I don't have asthma. I've never had asthma. But I get asthma like symptoms if I inhale Whisk.

So, I am careful. But sometimes, no matter how careful I am, there is nothing I can do. Until a couple of years ago, for five years, we had next-door neighbors who A, smoked, and B, used a detergent that killed me. The trouble with living in these old co-op is that nothing is airtight. So, when they used their detergent, the stench from it came right into our house. I bought air purifiers. I tried to buy them their own scent-free laundry detergent that I would pay for that would be scent free. 

"I can't ask you to do that," my neighbor said

"I am totally willing to do that, it would help me out a lot and it would save my health," I replied. 

"Well, I just want to keep using the detergent I want to use because I like the scent," she said. 

So, despite trying hard to work with them, and despite trying to get mediation with our Cooperative (which they did not attend and in which the co-op let me down in a substantive way that I will never get over but that is for another story), for five years I had an on-fire sore throat. The kicker? The man living in that house had a job that necessitated doing laundry every, single day. So, yeah. For five years. Every day. I was sick.

The tough part? I couldn't leave. If you look at all of the information about scent allergies, they all say, "well, if you are experiencing scents that you can't stand or that are giving you a reaction, leave. Go home. Stay in a safe space." Well, what happens if your safe space is the place that's dangerous? What happens if it's your house that's the biggest problem? I felt for years like there was nowhere I could go. 

Why am I bringing all this up now? It happened again last night. My husband needed to have some colleagues over to work on his show. I was going to be out. I ended up not going out, but it didn't matter. One of them or perhaps both of them use laundry detergent that sets me off. I stayed upstairs. I hid in my office. I tried not to come downstairs. But, I still have almost no voice this morning. Today is being spent clearing out all of the things that need to be cleared out so that I can get to some semblance of normal. I'm washing couch cushions. I have the windows open on a cold day and I have fans going. Why? It's in the hope that by this evening, some of this will dissipate and I will be able to recuperate enough for my gig this Wednesday. That's the problem with making a living with your voice. If you need to use it, and it's not working? It's like trying to be a marathon runner with a broken foot. You pretty much can't do it.

I hope my voice will return. If not, I will be doing an all instrumental holiday caroling show. 

If you have read this far, thanks. I needed to get this off my chest. And also, if you see me and I don't hug you, please don't take it personally. I just can't take the chance that whatever scent you used five minutes ago or ten hours ago will rub off on me and cause me days, perhaps weeks of pain. 

Sending you all of my love.

Finding Strength In Weakness

My thoughts this morning turn to finding strength in my weakness.

I was working with clients over the weekend. One of them talked about how he felt weak and that he wanted to go back and be strong how he used to be.

I said, "Wait, don't try to go backward to find that strength. Look forward to the strength you will find as you move through this time of weakness. That is where we find our strength, when we feel the most weak and vulnerable. We have to go through each step, good and bad, in order to find ourselves."

Then, I talked to them about my violin. It is an old instrument, from 1872. I have owned it since I was nine years old. It had a beautiful sound. About 20 years ago, I was walking with it down a flight of stone steps. I stumbled. It fell and cracked. My heart broke along with it. I took it to Violin House of Weaver (now Potter's Violins), which is one of the best Violin Houses in the world. 

"We'll take care of it," they promised. "You won't be able to tell the difference."

I had my doubts but I left it with them. In the meantime, to prepare for upcoming gigs a friend was kind enough to lend me his violin while mine was being repaired.

During that time, burglars broke into our house and stole a bunch of stuff. They stole my friend's violin. We tried in vain to find it at local pawn shops, but we never did. Luckily, we had insurance and while we weren't able to retrieve his violin, we were at least able to get him money for it. I still feel badly about that, but there was nothing we could have done to prevent it.

Meanwhile, my violin was still being repaired. In my heart of hearts, I knew it would never sound the way it had. I knew it would forever be broken, but I waited it out until the day came to go pick it up.

"Play it," the man behind the counter encouraged me.

I ran the bow across the strings and it was magic! The instrument sounded better than it had before.

"How did you do that?" I asked as I put my lovely violin away.

"The glue we use now works with the fibers of the wood on a molecular level," he replied. "It fills the cracks perfectly and then vibrates with them the way the wood itself would. Like a broken bone, where it was shattered will now be stronger than before. You lost monetary value when you dropped it, but you haven't lost the instrument."

I thanked him, and I left. 

It was only much later that I realized that if I hadn't dropped the violin, I would indeed have lost it and sooner than I thought. If it hadn't been in the shop when it was, it would have been the violin stolen when the burglars broke in. Instead, I still have it and played it just yesterday.

So now, when things fall apart, I remember my violin and how the moment it broke was the moment it was saved. 

And then, I breathe.

http://www.med.navy.mil/sites/nmcphc/Documents/health-promotion-wellness/psychological-emotional-wellbeing/Combat-Tactical-Breathing.pdf 

Honoring my ancestors my way

In some spiritual traditions, at this time of year, people remember and celebrate their ancestors. We acknowledge our honored dead on All Hallows Eve, Day of the Dead, and All Saints Day.

I always see a lot of, "I honor my grandparents," and "You are here because of the love of thousands" sorts of posts at the end of October. And they always give me pause because I neither honor my grandparents nor believe in their love. I don't know much about my ancestors before them. They died long before I was born.

For those who don't know, I was born in the former Soviet Union. When we emigrated in 1973, it was with the knowledge that we would never again see those we left behind. Intercontinental communication was possible but calls into the Soviet Union took a great deal of doing. 

I was six years old when we left and understood that I would never see or likely hear from my grandmothers again. And I didn't mind one bit. That sounds harsh, I know. But that is the way of things.

I recall only missing one person after we left, my great grandmother, Golda (after whom my sister Golda Noble is named). Both my grandfathers died in World War II. So, the only ancestors we ever knew were both grandmothers and my maternal great grandmother. 

To say my grandmothers (coincidentally both named Rose) were evil, wicked women is both an understatement and a misnomer. Neither was particularly warm, kind, or giving. Both had the pinched and mean quality of someone who has suffered greatly and never healed. Then again, they lived through the hell that was post World War II Soviet Union. Both lost husbands. Both endured traumas I can't even imagine. And yet both survived. That must count for something.

To give an example of their lack of kindness towards me, personally, I became my own babysitter when I was two years old. Allow me to explain. Both women worked at home when I was born. Both lived a few blocks from my family. Neither wanted to watch me when both my parents went to work. I was watched by my sister, Emily until I was two years old (thanks for that, Em). Why the change? She started school at seven. My parents asked both grandmothers to watch me. Neither would. Great grandma Golda would have but she lived with my grandmother and had little power to sway opinion in either direction, from what I understand. I don't know the details of their reasons. I only know that my parents sat me down, told me what was going to happen, explained what I could and could not do (don't play with the electrical sockets, do put on your clothes, don't go outside) and then left me to my own devices all day while my sister was in school.

As a result, I never had any sort of loving feelings towards either grandmother. In fact, I feel a sort of indifference to both. When we left the FSU, I shed no tears for anyone we left behind except my great grandmother.

Grandma Golda was as kind as she could be under the circumstances. But I view her life and kindness through the lens of being in the FSU in the early 1970s. Few had anything. Most had nothing. We made do with what little we had, and children grew up fast.

Grandma Golda taught me how to read cards (regular playing cards not tarot) and stones. She talked to me about the traditions and for lack of a better term superstitions of our people. Some would call what she did folk wisdom or folk magic. She just relayed them as the way we did things. I was a sponge back then and I soaked her wisdom up. I still use a lot of what she told me in my work, and for that I am grateful.

Grandma Golda passed away when we were living in Israel on our year-long journey to immigrate to the USA. I remember the day clearly. It was hot in Dimona, in the middle of the desert. My father held my mother as she keened her grief. We had received a letter that Grandma Golda had passed away within a month of our leaving. It had already been a few months so we didn't know of her death for a long time. I think that was part of my mother's grief. She hadn't been there, and it had already been months.

As adults, my parents had both known the full impact of leaving everything they knew. They had known they would likely never see any family again (untrue in our case but we didn't know that at the time). But, my great grandmother had been 84 years old when we left. It was certain we would never see her again. 

Nowadays, the immigration experience is likely different. People can email, whatsapp, text, and heck skype across continents. Communication is much simpler for many. But back then, it took months to get word. And with the border guards often keeping what they felt like keeping, many letters and packages never arrived. When you left, you often said a permanent goodbye to everyone and everything you had ever known.

I can't imagine the impact that sort of knowledge has on the psyche. We are generally social, family-oriented creatures. Even the nomadic societies traveled in family-centered groups. But immigration? That's a whole different ballgame. It requires a separation and chasm that must permanently impact and influence the lives of those who leave and those who remain behind.

I am not a nomad. As someone who loves to travel, I also love having a home base. I want to leave and return with the certainty that I will come home. Immigration requires you to make a home wherever you settle. It amazes me how many people have done it and survived and thrived in the aftermath. My parents (who have their issues but that is for another essay) did the best they could as they embarked on the journey that brought them and their children to a new world.

A few years ago, I took my mother on a trip to New Mexico. We were going to drive around to the cool sites and spend some time together. As part of the journey, I decided to get some insight into our history. I brought a taperecorder and a list of questions. While we drove, I asked her the questions, and she recorded her answers. I still have some of those recordings. They illuminated, for me, the arduous lives my family and everyone led after the Iron Curtain cordoned off a chunk of the world. I listen to them periodically to remind myself of what we are capable of as a species and as people. We can cause each other unspeakable pain. That, I grieve. And we can muster up the will and resolve and strength to survive just about anything. That, I respect.

So, I guess if I am going to honor my ancestors, this last is what I choose to celebrate. I bow my head in remembrance and raise my eyes in hope that I will always have the will and resolve and courage to thrive.

 

May this be the day things change

Dare I comment on this?

I'm afraid if I start, I won't stop and will devolve into screaming.

Somewhere, somehow, this madness has become a viable strategy for crackpots who aren't happy with the number of dates they've gotten, what someone else worships, or worse because they woke up and decided they would like to try to kill people and see what that's like.

When did that happen? How have we become so warped as a society that this is somehow a path that is even open for consideration? How has violence, extreme violence, become such a commonplace response to stimuli? And what's more important, what can we do about it?

I could rage against the lax gun laws, and if you know me, you already know my thoughts on that. So, I won't. I could rage against the ease with which people can get guns illegally (heck I could get one tomorrow and no one would be the wiser). And I'm not going to do that either. I could ponder the thought that I've been having that the paradigm of computer games and movies which show people dying again and again and then coming back like nothing ever happened has changed our consciousness and our awareness of death and its permanent status. (I read for enough young people who tell me that have contemplated "the suicide" [their words] as a method of dealing with their unhappiness to know that they aren't truly aware that they won't come back to a better, brighter future after they have died. They don't seem to grok that it is permanent. And we spend time talking about that during their readings before I give them the number of the suicide hotline and the therapist I know who lives closest to them [yes, I keep a database].) There are any number of issues we could highlight as the reason so many choose this as a course of action.

But, in the end, it doesn't matter because people are dead. Young people who had dreams and lives they wanted to live are gone. They will never have the chance to live their purpose. That is what matters. And what's more, the guy who killed them is dead and that means we can't study him and find out what transpired inside his twisted brain that made this an okay thing to do and apparently to promote on cchan beforehand. 

Because ultimately, that is what I want to know and change. I want to know why these people are doing it. I want to know what sort of issue inside them calls them to this extreme and abhorrent course of action. I can't help thinking that if we figure it out, we will be able to change the future.

I hope so. I hope we can determine the root cause of this decision and figure out a way to avert it. Or it will get worse. 

I am an idealist. I want to see and live in a society where no one kills or is killed. I want to see us all work together to usher in a peaceful world. This morning that ideal feels much farther away. And yet I cling to hope.

My heart and thoughts are with those who are wounded and the families of those who were murdered. 

May this be the day things change.

Go at your own pace but show up.

Some people run marathons. Some people can bench press 250 pounds. Today, I am just happy that I was able to do 24 angled push-ups (three sets of eight) in my clap push-ups challenge and walk 2 miles without a cane.

A couple of weeks ago I could do no more than three sets of five push-ups, and I was walking with my cane pretty much everywhere.

To me, diligence is key. So is consistency. Whatever it is we are trying to do if we show up, day in and day, out we will eventually progress. Even if in the moment it feels like we're walking backwards, at least, we're still walking. 

Every single thing that happens to us ends up being some sort of learning experience, I think. Most especially the things that cause us the greatest challenges end up being our greatest teachers. So, my questions for you are these. How are you going challenge yourself today? What goal post will you set for yourself? How will you thrive?

My challenge remains to keep getting stronger, more fit, happier, healthier, more productive, and more active in the causes I support. If your challenge is similar, let me know. After all, we're all in this together.

We are all in this together.

I've started this post numerous ways. And I, verbose as I am, have no words for this.

Sometimes, I feel like some vital connection to all the other lives on this planet is slipping away. And that connection that used to be inherent must now be nurtured by all of us. Somehow, we have to see, really see, all those beings who need help, kindness, and compassion.

Many people, heck, all of us, are just a few tragic steps from becoming homeless or worse. So many beings (two-legged, four-legged, no-legged, winged) suffer daily. Sometimes, I have to close my eyes and ears and heart to some of it or I feel I will disintegrate in the sorrow and the rage. And yet, I keep trying to maintain the connection. I keep reaching out to others who need help in small and big ways. I live as cruelty-free as I can. And I try to leave any situation better than I found it.

Sometimes, the suffering I see debilitates me and I have choose between drowning in it and staying just a little apart from it so I can have the energy to help where I can. Damn. This is hard. I spent the weekend reading for over a hundred people. Many of them needed help in some serious ways. Many are trying to deal with surviving abuse and rape. And in those few minutes I had with them, I tried to help them. I gave them resources for therapists or crisis centers or just an ear, a shoulder and the knowledge that someone sees them - that someone sees and acknowledges how they have suffered and is grateful they are still here.

To slightly misquote the movie Rob Roy. "If they can bear to endure it, I can bear to be witness."

Here's what I keep telling myself. 

We are all in this together.

Thank you for reading.

Evaluation: Or How I Use My Time

Under the heading of: "If you can't say something nice..." I just deleted a comment/critique of a divination tool a friend had posted.

I think the concept for the tool is super cool. I think the execution is too general, pedantic, and tells you *exactly* what you already know (or should already know, like, "you are not happy when people treat you like crap" [this last was paraphrased]). Everyone else in the thread was thrilled with what they got and said so in their comments. I found it only somewhat accurate and not terribly useful.

But, a critique, in that way, was not requested, and so I removed my comment. I wasn't asked to review the product. So, why did I feel the need to give my honest response? And more importantly, why did I click on it to begin with?

I'm a natural evaluator and have done that work many times. So, I tend to look at most anything new with an evaluator's eye. I also do readings and so cool new tools spark my interest. Those explain why I clicked and why I evaluated in my head. But the question remains, why did I feel the need to write my thoughts down and post them in a comment?

Perhaps, that was this tool's use for me. I sparked my own thinking about how I use my time.

 

I believe this is about awareness, evaluation, and vigilance. If I remain aware about where my time is going, I can evaluate my activities and thoughts in the present moment. If I am on task towards my ultimate goals,* I am good to go. If I am not, I must remain vigilant of activities that waste my time and correct my course in the moment.

How about you? How do you maintain your course towards your ultimate goal? Do you set up reminders? Do have an easy or tough time with staying focused?

*More on Ultimate Goal coming soon.