My October obsession ...

There's a saying I'm fond of:

A sorrow shared is halved; a joy shared is doubled.

The second part of that certainly came true for me this morning, as I ate my first pumpkin pancakes of the season at the Village Diner.

A dear friend joined me in the breakfast sublime. 

Wonderful food, heart-warming company.
 Much more than a momentary joy.

A sign of the times ... and a summer
memory of Sandpoint, ID.

"To everything there is a season …"

So says the Book of Ecclesiastes, and so sang Pete Seeger, and later the Byrds. ("Turn, turn, turn ...")

I'm hearing that song in my head today, the first full day of fall. Summer took its bow at 4:44 p.m. yesterday, allowing autumn to move center stage.

I love living in a place where the seasons truly change. Winter, spring, summer, fall. In Philadelphia, all have their beauties, and their annoyances. And the transitions always leave me feeling wistful.

 (Another song playing in my head is Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" … "Empty lake, empty streets, the sun goes down alone." Like I said, wistful.)

So. Will I miss summer's 90-degree days with pea-soup humidity? Not so much.

But I will miss the songs of crickets in the night.

And though I just said I won't miss the excessive heat, I will miss the gift that heat gives in my dance class, where we can stretch longer and deeper because of it.

I will miss living in flip-flops, and the pops of color visible on free-ranging toes.

I will miss the ever-changing rainbow of flowers appearing in my neighbors' gardens. 

I already miss the light. The sun may not always go down alone, but it sure goes down earlier.

I think the universe understands we need to ease into all these changes. I suspect that's why we're treated to the firework of fall leaves before the winter unpacks its more subdued palette.

Goodbye, summer, and welcome, fall. 

Winter? Please wait your turn.

Welcome to my world ...

Long time, no write.

There's a story behind that … so here goes.

I think of myself as a liberal, so I suppose it shouldn't have surprised me when I began listing to the left.

Unfortunately, I mean that quite literally.

I've been listing, as in Leaning Tower of Pisa type listing, usually to the left.

Call it, "Adventures in Vertigo."

My tilting began in mid-June, in the middle of a dance class. After stretching out on the floor I started to sit up, but the room took a fierce spin around me. I fell over (yes, to the left), and squeezed my eyes shut. The wonderful women I dance with snapped into action, bringing cold paper towels, ginger candy to calm the nausea, and lots of tender, loving care. 

Not feeling steady enough to drive, I called home, and my dear family came to the rescue, picking me up and driving my car back.

I've experienced vertigo a handful of times in my life, and it usually passed within a week or so.

Not this time.

In the midst of week two of waking up to spinning walls, I saw my doctor. She outlined a plan, and recommended that I see an ear, nose and throat specialist if I felt no improvement in two weeks.

My off-center tilt continued. Walking down the street, I found myself constantly drifting to the left. (At least my liberal self got a laugh out of that.) The persistent dizziness made reading (and writing) difficult; the scrolling and quick eye movements used in computer work proved downright nauseating.

After two more weeks I headed to the ENT office, where, after a series of questions and one brief vertigo-inducing maneuver, the doctor pronounced my diagnosis: BPPV, or benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, a mouthful that means I got dizzy when my head moved into certain positions. He recommended a physical therapy practice in Willow Grove that specializes in balance disorders.

Who knew?

Since starting PT in mid-July, my eyes have been opened to the complex, wondrous workings of the human body's balance system. 

The seemingly "simple" act of standing, not to mention walking, requires constant communication between your brain and your eyes, inner ear, as well as your muscles and joints. If something goes awry with any of those "messages," your sense of balance is … tipped.

That's where BPPV comes in. (If you're not into medical detail, you can skip the next three paragraphs.)

In a nutshell, vertigo can set in when microscopic crystals dislodge themselves from the inner ear and wander into an ear canal, where they start sending wrong signals to the brain. 

  At PT, they induced the vertigo by moving my head into certain positions. By observing the direction of my eye movements (think REM with nausea), the therapists determined which canal was harboring the wayward crystals.

After that, we moved on to the "bump and dump," wherein the therapist carefully and quickly moved my head and body in a way to send the crystals back where they belong. There are different prescribed "maneuvers" for each ear canal, usually named after the person who invented them, such as Epley and Semont.

As I wrote to a friend after the first session: 

"When I wasn't on the verge of throwing up, I found it fascinating."

I still do.

I'm happy to report that the PT maneuvers were successful, and rooms no longer spin around me. Unfortunately, I'm dealing with residual dizziness, visual and balance issues, which often come with this territory.

To help with that, my PT routine includes eye exercises and balance work. My favorite is one I call "the blind flamingo," standing on one leg with eyes closed. (I'm almost up to 30 seconds!)

One side benefit of this dizzying adventure has been the necessity to slow down. My eyes can't handle too much movement -- such as letters moving on a computer screen or cars moving in traffic -- so I have to make time in the day to just sit quietly, with eyes closed.  I highly recommend it, dizzy or not.

On the down side, I wasn't able to watch much of Wimbledon this year.

Momentary Joy has been ... taking a moment.
Stay tuned this week for details.

The calendar may say it's still spring, but for me, summer officially arrived last week the moment I saw those small yellow beacons in the night:

Lightning bugs are back.

As I walked with our dog a few nights ago, a half-moon shone overhead while just in front of us a tiny airborne light flashed on and off, on and off. I reached out gently, just as I did countless times as a kid, and let my hand act as landing strip.

The firefly rested on my forefinger, bathing it in sunny yellow. Tiny feet tickled feather-light against my skin. 

My small, bright passenger hitched a ride for only a few steps before it took off again, wings a blur in a golden glow.

Beautiful things do come in small packages.

        ---

For more firefly musings, click here.

        One of my favorite quotes -- and one I often cite when I teach writing -- happens to mention lightning bugs. It comes from Mark Twain:

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter -- it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Well said.

Louie, loyal friend ... and visual aid.

I love words, which certainly comes in handy as a writer.
We use words so much, their original meanings can get lost in their familiarity. A word then becomes simply the sound we make to stand for some object, or idea.
Every now and then a word reveals itself in a surprising way, and reminds me just where it came from.
Case in point:
One recent weekend my husband and I took Louie, our resident canine, to the dog park.
While we sat on a bench by the fence, Louie -- and every other dog there -- made the rounds, sniffing noses (along with tail ends … a ritual that always makes me glad I'm not a dog). Their exuberance and joy reminds me of kids let out for recess.
On that day one small white dog in particular attracted our Lou. He pursued, they circled and sniffed, she barked when she had enough. A few minutes later, he pursued again, they sniffed, she barked. Louie returned again and again to his would-be buddy, tail always wagging, ever hopeful.
"Ah," I said to my English-major husband, pointing toward Lou. "Dogged!" 
The meaning of that word was never quite so clear.

Years ago I had a similar epiphany.
In the '70s, one of my best friends occasionally drove an aquamarine Chevy Impala convertible. On this particular night, we were driving in Ocean City, N.J., and I was in the front passenger seat.
Back in those days, buckling up was not mandatory. Feeling young and happy, I grabbed the top of the frame and pulled myself up to standing. The sea wind smacked my face as my long hair shot straight back.
"Ahh! Wind-shield!" I said, laughing as I sat back down, amazed how I had never really thought about the word in that way before.
A lesson in literal-ity.

As I mom, I have to add: If there are any young drivers or passengers reading this, just take my word for it. 
Stay buckled up. 

If only there were a scratch-and-sniff option on this blog ...

Unless you suffer from seasonal allergies, I highly recommend going outside and taking a deep breath.

If you're lucky, you may be in the vicinity of a lilac, and your nose will ascend to heaven. Those delicate lavender and white blossoms are about to leave us for another year, so gather that glorious scent while ye may.

I'm fortunate to be able to simply walk onto my front porch and inhale, thanks to a lovely lilac I transplanted from my folks' house about 20 years ago.

Mowing our front lawn last week proved less of a chore each time I ducked under those perfumed branches. 

Knowing how fleeting they are makes them that much sweeter. Savor them, because you can only experience lilacs once a year.

Unless …

A couple years ago, I serendipitously discovered a way to double that pleasure. All it took was a trip out west to visit family in Idaho and Washington state (a more than momentary joy).

It was late May, and the lilacs back home were long gone, just a fond olfactory memory. Now, I knew the Northwestern climate was cooler than ours, but never thought about what that would mean in terms of spring flowers.

Until I stepped out of our car in northern Idaho and caught a familiar, heavenly scent: lilac -- again! The bush by my father-in-law's apartment was just beginning to bloom. I felt doubly blessed, given the gift of lilacs squared.

So, if you really love lilacs, you only have to travel 2,500 miles to get a second helping.

'Twas well worth the trip.