The Guesthouse

It now seems clear that the lower back pain that every so often visits me is now headed out the door - that is, without me.  Oddly, though I'm relieved to no longer have to carry the pain around, I am not entirely happy to see it leave. . . .

Let me explain:

About two decades ago I found myself frequently bending over and picking up wobbly and rapidly growing 20 to 50 pound objects.  Twisting, turning, carrying the parcel for hours at a time on my hip or in some kind of rucksack; or in a bike pannier type conveyance or trailer for many miles.  It seemed my strong young back was inure to any amount of cavalier hoisting such bundles - bending at the hip solely with the back, twisting while reaching to the side, lifting off of high shelves one-handed, you name it - and even on occasion I might accidentally bend 'properly' at the knees.  All was going quite well.

Until - you prolly saw this coming - one day an excruciating lower back cried out, UNCLE!  Or more precisely, DAD!  (Actually, it was more like @#$%&!!!)  Days of careful walking followed, and much more careful picking up of big baby(ies) and/or toddler(s).  Learning about back exercises, proper movement, heating pads, cold packs, ointments, chiropractor offices, special pillows and chairs, etc.  The whole nine yards.  (Yard number ten being back surgery, but I didn't even consider that, thankfully.)

Then one night while having a stressful dream the torturous pain hit me harder than ever and I was forced awake to find the pain follow me into consciousness.  I immediately limped my way downstairs to recline on the living room futon couch with alternating ice and heat, and visions of a crippled life which would surely be mine if this continued.  But the vaguest seed of doubt had been planted - how could my back be taken to such a throbbing agony by just lying in a comfy bed?  Particularly as I was lying 'properly' on my side?  Might something other than muscles and tendons, that is, other than just the physical, be involved in this conspiracy?

Soon after this pain infected nightmare, my mom sent me a book.  Having heard about my vertebral issues, and having read the small paperback she received in some kind of monthly book subscription, she'd read it (having a history of back issues herself), and thought I might appreciate a look.  Its rather ill-advised title was Mind Over Back Pain, by Dr. John Sarno.  (Right, I thought, as if a person could simply think his way out of such a horrible affliction - or worse, that it might somehow by my fault. . . .)

Ready for just about anything, though, I quickly got over the judgmental title, and would read it while lying in a hot bath, or later in bed on ice packs.  A professor of rehabilitative medicine at New York University and an MD who also headed a back clinic, this fellow seemed to have plenty of bona fides and experience.  Perhaps not likely to be some quack anyway.  As I read the book, it seemed my experience was described spot on, even the transitory nature of the excruciating pain which would rise independent of - but often correlated with - movement, or physical position, or other physical stresses.  However, the anticipation of the pain - the fear of it - was highly correlated with the pain to follow, arising even as the fear arose.  Which was a key to understanding.

He noted that in his clinic he would encounter patients with crippling back pain whose CT scans or MRI's looked very healthy.  On the other hand, there were some patients whose discs and other tissues clearly appeared quite damaged and mangled in their scans but who experienced no pain whatsoever, perhaps only difficulty with range of motion, say, or something unrelated entirely to the back.  These experiences and more led him to the theory that something other than just the physical was at work with respect to pain, and that very something was emotional tension and stress.

A typical patient was 30 to 50 years old, generally in very good physical condition - even sometimes bordering on obsessively so, running five times a week for instance.  The condition needed a scientific sounding name, so he called it tension myositis syndrome, or TMS.  What he fortunately did not call it, at least not at the clinic, was psychosomatic.  However the book did tease apart this Greek derived word (coming from psyche, 'mind', 'breath,' or 'spirit,' and soma, 'body').  We have somehow developed an aversion to this word, erroneously thinking it basically means that some malady or other is just imaginary, or 'all in our head.'  Actually what the word is meant to describe is the simple fact that the mind and body are interwoven and influence each other enormously.  Such a concept of the 'mind-body continuum' now has a much wider acceptance.  In any event, he came out some years later with a much better title for a similar book:  Healing Back Pain.  If you or a loved one suffer from such pain, I highly recommend it.

In terms of back pain, what the tension we suffer from 'learns' to do, is create a tightening of the muscles and tendons at a very focused level that ends up cutting off oxygen supply to the area - similar to a cramp, just much more focused - which results in intense physical pain.  Yes, it is real pain, no doubt about it.  You couldn't make this stuff up if you tried.  But at its source is the mind, not improper movement or poor conditioning (these might be there, and probably need some attention, but they are rarely the cause of the pain).  And with practiced attention the pain can come to be viewed as a reminder to slow down, open up, breathe, be mindful, and eventually, as I point out in the lead paragraph of this post, after having resolved and dissipated for years or more, it will occasionally come back for a brief visit.  Sometimes it will return 'masquerading' as pains in other areas of the body, and once it is revealed to be the psyche at work, it again will gradually lose its hold.

Why the desire to have it stick around?  The thing is, it is a very powerful and immediate reminder of what fruits can be savored by opening up to the truth of a moment.  It's just more straightforward - once its bluff has been called - than the usual and frequent mental stresses and tensions we often carry moment by moment.  Can we eventually see these also as helpful reminders to open up, slow down, and if not 'let them go,' at least let them be?  And other challenges we may face, like MS?

Or, as a great poet once put it:


THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-- Jelaluddin Rumi,

A Fatuous Concept?

I have heard it postulated that a person can only think, or imagine, or entertain ideas as far as his or her language mastery will allow.

For me the jury is still out on such a view, namely that even imagination could be limited by language.  And to use language for any reason other than the obvious - to understand and to be understood - that is, to communicate or even sometimes to obfuscate, I'm not so sure that one's imagination would be at all circumscribed.  And yet. . . it occurs to me just now (particularly as an introvert) that I - and I can imagine others, possibly even extraverts - usually have a running monologue going in my head, and therefore I suppose these thoughts parading past my awareness would be 'limited' by my language abilities.  However, the suggestion that all imagination and creativity would be limited in this way seems to preclude the possibility of ideas, emotions, memories, images, and so on, that are beyond words - visual, tactile, aromatic, musical, culinary, etc.

Furthermore, I think we all, even the young among us have had the 'tip of the tongue' experience:  you are talking along when all of a sudden you stop and try to search for the word that would come next.  You may end up making a poor substitution, or defining it, then your partner supplies it for you.  My point:  is this not a moment of knowing something - like really feeling it in your bones - but literally not having the word for it?  Even if you once did, and may soon find it again?  This strikes me as an experience that supports the idea that imagination and ideas might actually precede language and words.  Or that at least sometimes they do.

How about this:  do you need to know what 'synesthesia' means in order to have the literal sensation of the color blue when listening to Miles Davis's music?  Or Joni Mitchell's?  Or Muddy Waters's?  Or, in my case, knowing what synesthesia means, how come I never experience it?  Short answer, it is a rare person who can be called a synesthete.  (For more information about this interesting phenomenon, including a definition, go here:  http://www.bu.edu/synesthesia/faq/#q4)

And, even if a language does not have a specific name for the color yellow, couldn't a person say, or imagine, 'like the color of a lemon?'  If you think it unlikely that such a language might exist - or did in the past - I recall learning of just such cultures and languages in anthropology class in 'antediluvian' times (a word from Latin, meaning 'before the Biblical flood'), a word I use to further illustrate my point.  That is, that there was a time (not too long ago. . .) when I would not have known what this word meant.  I would have understood 'back in the day,' or 'back before you were born,' or, 'in my college days.'  My point is that I could imagine the concept of 'a long time ago' without knowing such a 'ten dollar word.'

But more fundamentally, what if I didn't understand the words in the phrase A LONG TIME AGO?  Perhaps I was a feral child, raised by a pack of wolves.  In other words without language, or without a culture that most of us would recognize.  I think the very concepts buried in such 'basic' words - that is, their meanings - would elude me.  Concepts such as the passage of time, time gone by, a small amount of time versus a long amount, present vs. past, etc.  The concept of time is not so obvious at all.  Even some modern physicists do not allow that such a thing as time even exists.  (Seems to me that any 'proof' would necessitate the assumption that a duration of time had elapsed.  A circular argument summarized by the statement 'time exists because it does.'  E.g: yes, last night you put your reading glasses on the bedside table, and now they are missing.  Just where is this thing you call 'last night?'  This thing you call yesterday?  These are leaps of faith we take.  Anyway, this digression is, by definition, beside the point.)  Yet, the feral child thought experiment does lead me to accept the premise that language and culture could indeed be limiting factors in not only our understanding, but also our very imagination, to some extent anyway.  Or in more positive phrasing, that they further empower these human capabilities.  Give them voice, as it were.

This post title has a word that I only fairly recently learned:  fatuous, meaning foolish or silly.  I knew the words foolish and silly, so learning the word I don't think did anything to expand my imagination - even as fatuous as I may have been.  (When I explained the word to my son, he said, 'yeah, like infatuation maybe?'  This can happen when your kids learn Latin in school.  And sure enough, both words derive from the Latin 'fatuus'.)

Some words are so refined or arcane, or are just plain foreign, that when they are used in conversation they come across as an affront or reproach, as in 'look at me, I'm so clever.'  (Which I fear this very blogpost may be sounding like. . . for which I beg your pardon, I honestly do not harbor any such illusion.  However, it is true that I enjoy reading, learning new words, their etymologies, languages, and so on.  I even make flash cards to practice them - how nerdy is that?)

Some words I've only learned in recent years like quotidian (from the French meaning daily, or ordinary like prosaic - think of the restaurant Le Pain Quotidien); nonpareil (from Latin via French, meaning unrivaled); sui generis (Latin, meaning unique, or literally 'of its own kind').  Not words I would normally use, but when I read or hear them, I will now know what they mean.  Which might allow learning, or insight, even mirth on occasion.  There are of course many words more commonly used from Latin, French, and other languages:  détente, avant-garde, ad hoc, status quo, Gesundheit (German, meaning health), angst (G., fear), namaste (Sanskrit), pandit (S., same as pundit). . . ad infinitum, it seems.  We may not use these often - or ever - but we probably understand basically what they mean when we hear or read them in context.

But again, does such vocabulary comprehension - hence, language - enhance our imagination?  As I engage in these thought experiments, going from the feral child extreme to another extreme of üb-erudition (to coin a dorky word), I am coming to allow that to some degree it might.

What says the choir?  The soloist, either alto or baritone (words from Italian)?

SAVANNOLA!™

AKA, grain-free granola.

So, let me explain.  For many years I have enjoyed a breakfast of granola with plain yoghurt - any kind of granola, with traditional, goat, greek, or some other plainly sour yoghurt, sometimes even buttermilk.  The combination of sweet and tangy was sublime.

A couple years back a friend sent me a link to a TED talk given by a woman with a very debilitating and rapid case of multiple sclerosis, who was able to reverse her symptoms in a matter of months, first with over the counter vitamins and supplements, but then with what she called a savannah based diet.  Fresh vegetables and fruits, some organic or wild-caught meats and fish, but nothing made with flour or grains.  If you haven't seen it (I think I covered it in a blog post maybe a year ago?) you can click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLjgBLwH3Wc

Generally my veggie diet was in line with this - except for the meat - but my morning bowl of granola seemed to stick out with its oats and other grains.  So I tried experimenting with various nuts and seeds, such as chia and pine nut, and different dried fruits like currants and goji berries.  Of course also the more traditional walnut, cashew, raisin, banana, blueberries, etc.  But nothing too bizarre or unavailable, or expensive for that matter.  The idea was to use the nuts and fruits more in season - at least in the time zone or geographical boundary that would be reflected in price/availability.

I've toyed with the idea of crowd-sourcing this concept, or patenting it, but have concluded, based on extensive research, that the potential niche market for such a relatively bland (bland sounding, that is, though it is far from bland, just not overly sweetened) and nutritious breakfast/snack food would probably be smaller than the vast readership of this blog.  In addition, the complexities of marketing something that is always changing, and specific to various bioregional seasons across the country, or world, seem pretty foreboding.  More importantly, I find that the process of making this part of what is so good about it.  You can't put that in a box.  And in the unlikely event that somebody else were to produce and market such a thing, bravo, I would be happy to buy it!

The 'recipe' has evolved to mixing the nuts and seeds with a little honey, hemp oil, and molasses then baking for about a half hour at 250/275 degrees, then blending with the dried fruits.  Let me know if you want the detailed recipe, though it may sound kind of vague with items like 'two cups of large nuts.'  This is to accommodate the fluctuations in what is available.  For this reason, each batch is unique - which I find one of its best features.  Because I use very little honey and molasses (mainly as a kind of binder) the result is not too sweet, which most granolas are.  In fact, you can taste the sweetness inherent in, say, a plain pecan.

If you have a difficult time imaging this, I recommend you try a 'nut meditation:'  find a quiet place to sit.  Pick up a whole pecan, shake and hear it rattle, notice the smooth slippery shell - then open it with a nutcracker, picking off the big pieces and small shards, feeling how hard this protective container is, maybe even biting it gently.  Feel the retrieved 'meat' between your fingers, tracing the lines and valleys on the surface with you fingernails, peering down as if taking a heavenly gaze at the grand canyon, or a scientific inquiry into the undulations - or sulci - on the cortex of a brain.  Bring it to your nose and smell its subtle redolence of earth, autumn, and life.  Notice the breath enter and exit your lungs.  Do feelings of hunger arise, even if just a hint?  When ready, place the nut on your tongue, close your mouth, and 'roll' it around.  Does the skin taste bitter?  What do the textures of the 'valleys' feel like to your tongue compared to how they appeared to your eyes?  Allow the feelings of anticipation and slight hunger consummate in a slow and deliberate chew, stopping occasionally to notice the changing textures and subtle flavors as they are released.  Are there olfactory sensations?  Notice as your trachea and esophagus deftly alternate - even when you don't pay attention - so that you do not choke while breathing and swallowing.  What miracle is this body?  Back to the nut, notice as it gets finer and smoother, then flows down your throat.  Follow with some water, and notice with the same caring interest all the similar bodily movements and functions involved in drinking.

Now, you are ready to explore life, all of it, with a reverence and awe for the divinity inherent in your very being...

A closer look at Savannola!™ 

Homeopathic insecticide!

Way back a lifetime and a half ago, picture me with a plastic tank on my back with several gallons of fluid in it - a 'backpack sprayer.'  With my left hand I'd pump pressure into the tank, and my right hand would wave a wand from side to side spraying some form of synthetic herbicide, or very occasionally an insecticide on my parents' Christmas tree farm in Oregon.  Round-up, malathion, 2-4-D - yes one of the ingredients used in 'agent orange' in this nation's war against Vietnam.  The wind would blow it all 'away,' and I'd wear a filter mask . . . usually.  Good times.  Any connection to a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis two and a half decades later?  Honestly I doubt it - not to say I think it was a good thing to expose my body to this, to say nothing of the very earth that sustains all life, song, dance, and poetry.

I certainly feel that such synthetic '-cides' (herbi, pesti, insecti, etceteri . . .) have no proper place in our human ecology.  The flora and fauna on which these toxins are doused - not to mention the streams, rivers, air, land, and ground water - are precious gifts from the good earth.  And if we are to have any 'relationship' with them at all - at least in so far as gaining material and spiritual sustenance from them, or from the rich tilth under our feet or in our spades - then it should be a relationship based on stewardship.

Now, let go of that image of teenage Pete spraying weed-killer in the summer heat, and fast forward to September of 2001, when I was diagnosed with MS.  (I think of this as my own private 911.)  For about ten years I jabbed myself with various hypodermic needles, or sat receiving intravenous elixirs for a few hours, chemo-therapy style.  These chemicals tinkered in various ways with the workings of this body's immune system.  There is a chance that these meds helped to slow the progression of the autoimmune process of MS.  And my doctors have said that the MRI scans I get every so often look 'stable.'  But what I never experienced were any improvements in my 'clinical,' that is, boots on the ground symptom management.  Until about three months ago that is.

As I have mentioned once or twice in these blog pages in the past, I take daily 'metrics' of just how my various symptoms are doing.  Some of these numbers are subjective - like 'mood' or 'energy level' - but some are objective.  For instance, how many steps does it take me - without my cane! - to walk from our door down the hall to the elevator each morning?  (You might imagine, this is not such a graceful picture . . . .  I've even fallen a couple times - two 'penalty strokes' per fall, or one stroke for bumping into the wall!  No worries, the hall is carpeted, no breaks, maybe mild bruising, and the opportunity to practice falling safely.)

So, in February, just about ten days into a new oral medication named 'Aubagio' (pronounced oh-bajio, like in aubergine), some of these metrics actually got better - specifically the counted steps.  Not pre-MS better, I'm not quite jogging down the hall, but my goodness, any improvement had never happened since my diagnosis.  (I must also add that my subjective gait numbers have not changed much, either positively or negatively, that is, my hobbling with the cane, particularly throughout the day, feels more or less unchanged - which means that if not for taking these daily metrics, I might not have caught this.)  Am I going to take an ad out in the newspaper, shout from every rooftop how potentially wonderful this is?  Don't think so.  Am I even going to post this blog entry?  We shall see.  Have I allowed myself to feel any hope that this might be the one?  Ever so cautious optimism, and a few grains of hope.  Am I concerned that this might just be a 'placebo effect?'  Perhaps a little - however, given the very scientific approach I've taken with the metrics all these years, I'm relatively confident that it's not.  Or at least it's not just placebo at work.  Partly because it was a week and a half before any improvement was noted.  And for full disclosure, I've had some side effects to deal with.  But, like I said, this seems to be the very first time I've felt any main effects, which so far definitely outweigh the side ones.  Even if this med should gradually run out of steam, or stop having any positive effect, I have experienced something new:  a medicine that actually had a good result - if this one doesn't continue helping, at least I've seen that something actually can.

But, the careful reader may be wondering, what on earth do the herbicides and insecticides described above have to do with any of this?  And while the sixties' adage that 'everything is everything' is by definition always germane, the relationship I actually intended bears a closer look.  In the 1980s the Hoechst AG chemical company looked at several compounds for potential use as pesticides.  Lo and behold, one of the chemicals was found to 'defend against inflammation.'  (I suppose I could research this further, maybe find out how in the heck they discovered it did such a thing. . . were they spraying it on MS patients?)  At any rate, the compound was eventually developed into a drug to treat rheumatoid arthritis (another autoimmune condition), then eventually to treat MS.  (Which may or may not tie up that loose end for you.  I know, some may find my logic ranging from oblique to opaque.  However, obtuse it most definitely is not!)

However, it is clearer to me than ever that the regular exercise and physical therapy I have been doing all these years is paramount - any improvement in gait or balance ultimately rests on these keeping my muscle tone at a feasibly maximum readiness.  Which is something no drug can provide.  Reminds me, time to go to the gym!

Handicap prophesy

Several months ago the doors in our garage access to the elevators were newly equipped with motors and buttons for ADA compliance.  What I find odd is that the majority of non-handicapped people I see will push the button, even if doing so is no faster, even sometimes slower, than using a few extra calories to turn the handle and push the door open.  When I don't have a bag of groceries for instance - which with my cane in the other hand makes the handicap entrance a definite and useful help - I will normally open the door the 'old-fashioned' way, thankful for the extra tiny bit of exercise, physical therapy, and moment to wake up and be mindful - am I in a hurry, am I stressed about that email?  Or that phone call?

Similarly, back in my 'young and healthy' days, I would often walk the stairs instead of riding the elevator or escalator.  Actually, come to think of it, I would do that as often as not in our old apartment where we lived on the second floor:  cane held under my arm, steadying myself with the handrail.  Again, if I didn't have a bag of groceries.  But now on the 15th floor, the only time I walk it is during a fire alarm, of which we've had two so far.

The stock photo above came with the caption 'only in America,' which sounds like a German or Dutchman, more unctuous and smarmy even, perhaps, than this blog poster.  And though the escalator riding individuals in the picture don't necessarily look headed to the gym - no spandex or sweatpants - they don't look very handicapped either.  Or encumbered with shopping bags.  Perhaps they will go to the gym later.  What is it that keeps us using these labor saving technologies, when obesity is on the rise, and fossil fuel consumption endangers the ability of this planet to sustain life?  Instead, can we revel in the natural wonder and miracle of the movements of our bodies - even a human body afflicted with MS?  As I type, I am sitting on my butt, of course, and thinking about how this week 'got away from me' and I only made it to the gym once.  And perhaps it is a challenging progressive neurological condition that has allowed me to see the beauty of movement, even as my own mobility seems to be gradually diminishing.  You don't know what you've got till it's gone...

I encourage us all to hear the music of our prosaic motions - even at times when they may sound discordant or off-key - and take the stairs or turn the handle and open the door.

Nickel and Dimed

This book was written by Barbara Ehrenreich, and published in 2000.  Her inspiration to try to live off low-wage earnings - waitressing, housekeeping, nursing home help - was the so-called 'welfare reform' that was debated and approved in the 1990s.  One of the talking points for the new 'Temporary Assistance to Needy Families' was the 'uplifting' value that paid labor can bring, even menial tasks for minimum wage.  Ehrenreich put this assertion to the test, working for several months at various locations in the country.

At the end of chapter two, there was quite a rich soliloquy of sorts about the odd need for Ted's (the supervisor's) approbation felt by her coworkers at 'The Maids', a franchised national house cleaning service she worked at.  I will copy it here verbatim, and recommend that you check out the whole book if you get the chance:

"The big question is why Ted's approval means so much.  As far as I can figure, my coworkers' neediness - because that's what it is - stems from chronic deprivation.  The home owners aren't going to thank us for a job ell done, and God knows, people on the street aren't going to hail us as heroines of proletarian labor.  No one will know that the counter on which he slices the evening's baguette only recently supported a fainting woman [who was malnourished and pregnant, and abused by her husband we learn in the story] - and decide to reward her with a medal for bravery.  No one is going to say, after I vacuum ten rooms and still have time to scrub a kitchen floor, 'Godddamn, Barb, you're good!'  Work is supposed to save you from being an 'outcast,' as Pete [a colleague at the nursing home] puts it, but what we do is an outcast's work, invisible and even disgusting [at least the way the are told to do the work].  Janitors, cleaning ladies, ditch diggers, changers of adult diapers - these are the untouchables of a supposedly cast-free and democratic society.  Hence the undeserved charisma of a man like Ted.  He may be greedy and offhandedly cruel, but at The Maids he is the only living representative of that better world where people go to college and wear civilian clothes to work and shop on the weekends for fun.  If for some reason there's a shortage of houses to clean, he'll keep a team busy by sending them out to clean his own home, which, I am told, is 'real nice.'

"Or maybe it's low-age work in general that has the effect of making you feel like a pariah.  When I watch TV over my dinner at night, I see a world in which almost everyone makes $15 an hour or more, and I'm not just thinking of the [news] anchor folks.  The sitcoms and dramas are about fashion designers or schoolteachers or lawyers, so it's easy for a fast-food worker or nurse's aide to conclude that she is an anomaly - the only one, or almost the only one, who hasn't been invited to the party.  And in a sense she would be right:  the poor have disappeared from the culture at large, from its political rhetoric and intellectual endeavors as well as from its daily entertainment.  Even religion seems to have little to say about the plight of the poor, if that tent revival was a fair sample [she'd stepped in on early in her stay in Maine].  The moneylenders have finally gotten Jesus out of the temple.

"On my last afternoon, I try to explain who I am and why I've been working here to the women on my team for the day, a much more spirited group than Holly's usual crew.  My announcement attracts so little attention that I have to repeat it:  'Will you listen to me?  I'm a writer and I'm going to write a book about this place.'  At last Lori leans around from the front seat and hushes the others with 'Hey, this is interesting,' and to me:  'are you like, investigating?'

"Well, not just this place and not exactly 'investigating,' but Lori has latched on to that concept.  She hoots with laughter.  'This place could use some investigating!'  Now everyone seems to get it - not who I am or what I do - but that whatever I'm up to, the joke is on Ted.

"At least now that I'm 'out' I get to ask the question I've wanted to ask all this time:  How do they feel, not about Ted but about the owners, who have so much while others, like themselves, barely get by?  This is the answer from Lori who at twenty-four has a serious [back] problem and an $8,000 credit card debt:  "All I can think of is like, wow, I'd like to have this stuff someday.  It motivates me and I don't feel the slightest resentment because, you know, it's my goal to get to where they are.'

And this is the answer from Colleen, a single mother of two who is usually direct and vivacious but now looks at some spot straight ahead of her, where perhaps the ancestor who escaped from the Great Potato Famine is staring back at her, as intent as I am on what she will say:  'I don't mind, really, because I guess I'm a simple person, and I don't want what they have.  I mean, it's nothing to me.  But what I would like is to be able to take a day off now and then . . . if I had to . . . and still be able to buy groceries the next day.'"

I want to assure the one or two of my legions of followers who might have read this far, that the author is very caring and compassionate in her relations with coworkers, to the extent that her harried and exhausting work schedules - sometimes working two or more jobs - afford her.  The facts of the matter dictate that some jobs will be menial, and difficult.  But they do not have to be compensated with hunger wages, which the author finds is what she is paid, barely to manage rent.  Healthcare and episodic expenses can devastate.  It is high time to raise the federal minimum wage!  And empower unions whenever we can - at a minimum vote out of office charlatans like Wisconsin governor Scott Walker who actively (or should I say reactively?) attempts to undermine teachers' and other public employees' unions.

However, as I believe that labor, the sweat of one's brow, is indeed inherently sacred, I want to end this post with the wise words of the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  “If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well.”