(Un)Happy Feet

The offending appendage

I feel like an utter fraud.

This is the kind of injury dedicated runners get, or people who climb tons of stairs. It’s even known to be caused by shoes laced too tightly.

NONE of this applies to me. It is as if I got the bends from just washing my face, or carpal tunnel from waving bye bye once in a while.

On Saturday morning, walking to meet Rose at the Oreland train station, I noticed my right foot was aching. Didn’t think much of it—in fact, I proceeded to walk two more miles, to the Acme and back. That evening, a group of us went down to Delaware to see Steve in Guys and Dolls. By then, I was hobbling, and after the show I couldn’t traverse the path from theatre to car without assistance.

No sleep that night due to intense pain, even after taking 600 mg. of ibuprophen. I spent early Sunday morning divesting myself of my obligations for the day ahead—teaching Confirmation, delivering the children’s message. I was really looking forward to attending the opera that afternoon with my friend Mary Ellen, but the prospect of navigating Center City on foot was way too much for me. So I passed the day resting, elevating, and icing the offending appendage. By then it was pretty clear I had extensor tendonitis (an inflammation of the tendons of the foot). This is one of those delightful ailments for which time is the only real cure—and I don’t have time for this!!!

Ironically, we’d just covered St. Paul’s letter to the Galatians in Bible study (the one listing the various Fruits of the Spirit). I’d been feeling a bit smug as I checked off my Fruits. Yes, I am (often) kind! Yes, I exhibit self-control! Sometimes! Loving? Faithful? But of course! Ish!!  But then I got to…Patient. And I had to admit. I am not only impatient, I am IMPATIENT, especially when it comes to issues of health and wellness. In a world where so many of my brothers and sisters are living with genuine, long term disabilities, I am instantly infuriated by a slight, temporary limp.

My life circumstances can change on a dime—as can yours. This week, I walked a literal mile in the shoes of a disabled person. I hope to emerge from this miserable experience with more patience, and compassion. I am not getting any younger, and I anticipate more and more system failures going forward. And I’ll have a choice when confronted with the inevitable aches and pains ahead. Will I be grouchy? Or gracious?

A day as miserable as I am!

As it write this, it is a sleety Tuesday afternoon—not a day to be outside, even with fully functioning limbs. I can now put some weight on the foot without agony (though it isn’t loads of fun). Clearly I am on the road to recovery, and anticipate being back on the dance floor by next weekend.

Except I don’t dance.

But you get the idea.

Little Ms. Orchid

The little gal herself, in (slightly) better days

My friend Julie brought me a sweet birthday gift in December: a small orchid plant. Jaunty purple blossoms, glossy green leaves, in a tiny black and white striped ceramic pot—what a thoughtful present! And how motivating! I vowed I would surround my new orchid with beauty and peace! It would perch on a sleek new desk from IKEA, presiding over my leather sofa (which would be magically, and permanently, de-cluttered), my re-organized and sorted bookshelves, and the striking wall hanging I would create from my cross collection (which currently sprawled all across my work surface). Like the mustard seed of Scripture, this tiny little orchid gave me great big faith—I could build a Martha Stewart life! Wouldn’t the folks who pass through my office en route to the sacristy be amazed? It would be like walking through a Zen garden!

I had no time during the hectic holiday season to clean or rearrange anything, so Little Ms. Orchid remained the one tidy and beautiful thing in my office. I watered her carefully (one ice cube per week, as recommended) and promised that she would soon be the focal point of a lovely room. As the weeks went on, she began to shed her lavender flowers, slowly but surely. Oh dear! Were my ice cubes too cold? Was she getting enough light? My expectation that she would generate new blooms was quickly dashed—apparently, while orchid flowers last quite a while, once they die, the plant often doesn’t ever blossom again.

January was gray and blustery, but I remained hopeful. My friend Sally spent her day off helping me clean the closets, and I was briefly buoyed. But within two weeks, I was kicking my way through the mess on the floor left by the MLK Day of Service projects (boxes of stuffed plush bunnies, bags of homemade peppermint bark, piles of colorful fleece scarves—all bound for one charity or the other—eventually). I put in my request for new furniture and was approved. As soon as I knew that new stuff was coming, my current surroundings looked instantly 1000% shabbier. How had I lived 17 years with this ugly desk—which was a hand-me-down even back in 2002? Rusty metal file drawers that stood empty (I have everything on the computer and rarely keep paper files anymore), zero artwork on the walls…suddenly intolerable!

But it seems I CAN still tolerate it all, because nothing has changed. An echo of the sad state of things, Ms. Orchid is down to one solitary bloom (and that one ain’t looking too healthy). How to cheer my small symbol of hope? If Marie Kondo can chat with her belongings, I can as well! “Stay strong, my dear!” I whisper to my bedraggled little plant. “IKEA delivery is coming! Your home will soon be a showplace, and nothing will ever mar its perfection again!!”

And then, I get my reply. The final purple flower droops, about to flutter to the table.

Sigh.

Martha would be appalled...

Celebrating Groundhog Day (Again)

My first essay for The Philadelphia Inquirer (published February 2, 2011)...

GROUNDHOG DAY SHOULD BE A NATIONAL HOLIDAY

There are many silly made-up holidays in the 28 days of blah that constitute February: Spunky Old Broads’ Day, National Spay Your Pet Day, etc. And of course, February has two biggies: Valentine’s Day and Presidents’ Day. The former, supposedly a celebration of love, is really a shameless shakedown for guilt-laden cash. The latter exists just to create a long weekend: nothing but time and leisure to enjoy your closed bank, shuttered state store and undelivered mail.

But Groundhog Day! It’s just about perfect. It is an oasis of optimism against the odds, such a great message for a bleak month. Everyone is captivated as Furry Phil (looking astoundingly good for his advanced age) emerges from his burrow and predicts the end of winter. And that’s pretty much that. No need to spend a dime on decorations. No scrambling to trim a tree or roast a turkey or dye an egg. Only the merchants of Punxsutawney itself see a profit from what is otherwise a purely commercial-free day. Phil delivers a clear message: Spring will be here in less than six weeks. Or it won’t. And occasionally, he’s even right—surely a track record that is the envy of meteorologists everywhere.

Unlike some of his fanciful counterparts, this lovable rodent doesn’t demand teeth under pillows or milk and cookies by the fireplace. His prognostication is simple and heartfelt, and offered free of charge: someday soon (or soon-ish), the flowers will bloom again, the birds will sing. We’ve all nearly made it through another season of cold and dark, and Phil cheers us on: “You can do it! The finish line’s just up ahead! Maybe!”

And how would we observe this new day off? We could start, like Phil, by going back to sleep for a few hours. We are, all of us, very tired. On Groundhog Day, snoozing would be mandated. Later, we could make shadow puppets with the family, and maybe gather for a simple meal of hickory nuts, roots, leaves and grubs. But the primary activities would be Encouraging and Hoping—two lovely things to do that require no equipment or expenditure. Encouraging might include calling a friend who has the blues. Smiling at the harried checkout cashier. Pointing out to your husband the spots he missed while shoveling the driveway. And hoping? On Groundhog Day, we can declare a moratorium on gloom and doom, turn off the sad, scary TV news and step away from the Internet. We can dream of that halcyon time ahead when the snow boots are stored and the heating bills go down.

Like Punxsutawney Phil, we are merely speculators, not really knowing the hows and whens and wheres of life. But on this new national holiday, we can learn from our wise animal friend, and just keep showing up. Just keep giving life our best shot, looking on the bright side for positive outcomes.

And then we can take another nap.

Serendipitous Synchronicity

With my friend Michael, an amazing link to my sister

Synchronicity: meaningful coincidence

Serendipity: finding something valuable and delightful when you were not looking for it

I’m pretty sure actor Michael Baran was not expecting to find my book Unhaling in the waiting room of his doctor’s office in New Jersey that day.

I know I was not expecting to hear from him after almost 40 years.

But my book just happened to be there, he just happened to pick it up, and he just happened to recognize the person who wrote it—the sister of a girl he used to date, Maureen Cunningham.

I do a lot of mental gymnastics when things like this happen. My “logical” side says “totally random event.” What are the odds that four young people, living in Atlanta at the same time in the late ‘70’s, would connect in a way that would still resonate so many years later after no contact at all, three of them reunited in remembrance of the fourth, who died much too soon?

My sister Mo was involved, as a teenager, in a Catholic youth movement called “Search.” As the name implied, she was searching for God, for a way forward in a pretty chaotic life. She found a supportive community of young people who became her dear friends. During her time as a Search participant, she met Michael, and they dated for a while. Michael was contemplating a theatre career. Mo arranged for him to meet Steve and me (and in fact, Steve and I spoke at a Search gathering). The advice we gave him, though certainly not earth-shattering, still apparently made an impression (“get lots of experience performing, go to college for theatre, then go to New York”).

And so the decades passed. We lost my beautiful sister in October, 1981. We left Atlanta, settled in Philly, raised our family. I became a church worker and writer, and published the first of my four books in 2010. And then, out of the blue (or not?), Michael reached out to me. After several years of Facebook messaging, there was finally an opportunity to meet again face to face, last Monday in Manhattan. Michael had been cast in an off-off Broadway showcase. I decided to go up and see the play, and Rose, Julie and Gil met me in New York.

After the show, we waited in the lobby. I admit to being nervous, especially at the prospect of introducing him to my daughters, whose only contact with their Aunt Mo was pictures and stories. I needn’t have fretted. Michael was so gracious, and told some wonderful stories of their dates and what she had meant to him. He regards Mo as one of his muses, watching over him from Heaven as he continues to perform.

Skeptics will say that all of this was mere happenstance. I prefer to call it serendipitous synchronicity. Standing in the theatre lobby that night, I could see my Mo, smiling at this random group of people who loved her. Who love her still.

Maureen Cunningham 1957-1981