Month: December 2018

The hum of the oxygen generator suddenly stopped. A power failure. Again. Mild panic followed. We have a portable oxygen concentrator with a 3 hour battery life. Would it last until power is restored?

The councilman’s WhatsApp message soon followed. Power cables have been stolen. City crews are working on replacements.

Cable theft has become a major problem in South Africa, particularly in the commercial hub of the country, Gauteng Province. According to a report in the Sunday Independent newspaper, the Tshwane municipality lost R65 million (~$5 million) in cable theft between November 2017 and May 2018 [Karabo Ngoepe; May 20, 2018]. The perpetrators are crime syndicates that target the electrical networks of railways, electrical substations, and water treatment plants. The stolen copper is then sold in scrapyards.

Various interventions have been initiated. From increased security at substations, to cooperation with scrap yard owners, to replacing copper with aluminum. The latter has very little market value and its steel core is difficult to cut. An unsolved mystery is how the thieves know exactly where to dig their trench to find the cables.

Power was restored within the hour. We breathed a little deeper, easier, and plugged in all the devices we need for living.

“There is as much comfort in perfect disease as in perfect health, the mind always conforming to the condition of the body” –Henry David Thoreau. Thoreau had Tuberculosis and died at the age of 44 years.

I reflect on this statement during times when I come close to the pain and suffering of illness. I am humbled by Thoreau’s cultivation of a state of mind that could perceive disease as “perfect” and find “comfort” in it.

Thoreau came to terms with death long before it descended on him. Thoreau remarked, “When I was a very little boy, I learned that I must die, and I set that down, so of course, I am not disappointed now”. This is a deep insight, not just a statement of fact.

We all know we are going to die, but I wonder how many of us can show the acceptance Thoreau did when the time came?

Today I signed up for a month long membership at a Virgin Active heath club in South Africa. 

The membership consultant who assisted me is a young South African man with sparkling eyes and a wide smile. As we started talking, he became curious about the path to US citizenship. After I discussed the main avenues, he responded that he would like to visit the US but he must first go to Peru. 

“Peru?” I assumed he intended to hike  Machu Picchu. 

“I want to try Ayahuasca”

“Ayahuasca? Why?” 

“Because I am seeking spiritual enlightenment.” 

We shared our theoretical knowledge about the mind altering effects of plants. I then asked him about meditation. 

“Oh yes, I meditate but they say one Ayahuasca trip opens the mind more than a million meditations can.”

His meditation method was to clear the mind of all thoughts. I said that sounded like hard work and I prefer to observe the thoughts come and go. That was less stressful than trying not to have them. Plus they’re going to come and go as they please. You might as well just let them in. I then suggested some free meditation Apps he might explore. 

It was then, with tremendous delight, that he pronounced, “you’re a hippie, just like me!”

I woke up 9 hours into my Trans-Atlantic flight to the sound of mid-flight snacks being served. The Flight Tracker indicated we were flying over Georgetown, a dot in the Southern Atlantic Ocean. Time at origin was 0330 and time at destination was 1030am. I drank a cup of coffee and set my meditation timer to 45 minutes. 

I became aware of the sensations of the body and focused on how electric these sensations are when we ignore concepts. There are no hands. Just a sea of tingling and prickling. The feet are alive with vibration and pulsation. Gradually, the whole body becomes an electric field, an amorphous wave of sensations. The boundaries between my skin and the surface of the plane seat dissolved. Where did my skin end and the seat begin? Where did my scalp end and the air around my head begin? I felt suspended in mid air without forward motion. I was in transit. In this Bardot of ‘in-betweenness’, I had left my departure city but had not yet arrived at the destination. My brain conceptually understood that I was sitting on a plane that was moving south east in the middle of the Ocean but my direct experience told me I was an energy field suspended above the earth. 

The flight attendant came rustling by collecting ‘trash’ and offering water. My neighbor across the isle chatted and shifted in her seat. The man behind me coughed. The background aircraft sounds came into consciousness. A combination of high pitched tones and low pitched engine rumblings. A child cried. Someone opened the window shutter and bright light streamed into the darkness on the plane. 

There were two co-existing realities. I was traveling towards sunny Africa in a jet plane with 100 other people AND I was an intricate bundle of energy, seamlessly connected to everything in the Universe.  

This time of the year can be challenging for the introverts among us. The Holiday Party comes to mind. 

The dread arises earlier in the day of a weekday Party. Do we need to go home and change into a festive outfit? Will there be easy access parking at the event location? Will there be any healthy food? How can alcohol or too much alcohol be avoided? What are the names of the partners we met last year? What is the right time to arrive? When is the earliest we can leave without being rude?

The first hour has the potential for the most awkwardness. Introductions, ordering drinks, commenting on the traffic, lamenting the inclement weather, admiring the adorable clothing item, and inquiring about the kids are common conversation starters.  Then stories pop up, grabbing the attention of a group. This is when I am grateful for the extroverts who can entertain in this way while I take a breath. listen, and taste the food. A little later, after a drink or two and a plate of eats, a sort of relaxation arises. Women talk about how their husbands won’t accompany them to the spa for a pedicure. Laughter follows. The laughter of understanding. People shift from their assigned places at the table and pull up a chair next to someone new. A sense of community and enjoyment fills the room. 

If you had left the party early, you would have missed the laughter and joy that comes alive when we share stories. Stories that highlight our shared experiences and restore our hope in a shared humanity. 

Watching the Breath is an integral part of insight meditation instruction. The teacher says, “watch the breath as it comes in and as it goes out”. Some teach to observe the breath at the nostrils. Others say to feel the rise and fall of the chest, or the rise and fall of the abdomen. Many say it does not matter where you focus: choose the place where you feel the breath most prominently. 

To sit and feel the breath at any of the locations above is easier said than done! As the Vipassana meditation teacher, Joseph Goldstein, says “Simple but not easy”. After 1, 2 or maybe 3 cycles of paying attention to the sensations of the body breathing, the mind will get distracted and move onto a more compelling mind object. A thought, a vision, a sound, or a feeling in the body can encroach on the breath. When this happens the tendency is to berate oneself and force the attention back to the breath. But all of this is part of the practice: watching the breath, drifting away from the breath, noticing the drift, and returning to the breath over and over again. 

I have often wondered why the Buddha and other teachers chose the breath as a way to achieve a concentrated mind. We know from physiology that long deep breaths, particularly exhalations, activate the parasympathetic nervous system. This causes relaxation in the body. When we relax, the mind can become calm and then concentrated. However, for some people, attention to the breath can feel awkward and “tight”. Focusing on another part of the body, for example, sensations in the hands, can feel less constricting and allow their minds to become concentrated. 

And therein lies the beauty of meditation. There are basic teachings and guidelines, but ultimately, each person must find their own way to the inner workings of the mind. It may be the breath, or the sound of a bird singing outside the window, or the gentle pulsing in the hands after a long walk in the woods. 

Living a continent away from family means being absent for some important life events: birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and weddings. FaceTime has made it easier to be virtually present with the promise of having another celebration when we are together again. Unexpected illness, however, is different. There is an unspoken dread of a phone call in the middle of the day at work or in the middle of the night, any time outside of expected communication.

I received such a call today. I was in a meeting at work. There was a moment of pause when I saw the familiar caller id. I briefly considered calling back after the meeting. But the call was at an unexpected time and I answered it. It was my Dad. My mother had been diagnosed with bilateral pneumonia and admitted to the Intensive Care Unit.

My first instinct was to assess the tone in my Dad’s voice. He was tired but calm. Then my mind moved to her diagnosis and treatment.  Knowing that it would take me at least 24 hours to get there, I ventured the question “Am I needed there now?” No, I was not needed now. A few hours later, I was able to FaceTime with her. She felt better and wanted to go home. I felt better too. My virtual presence was all that was needed. At least for now.

Sometimes we cling to our decisions as if they belong to us. We take them personally and defend them as if our lives depended on it.

Yesterday, I made a decision about a particular course of action that needed to be taken at work. However, I made the decision with partial information.  When additional facts emerged and my decision was challenged, I dug my heels in. 

Time passed. I clung to my version, the right version, the one that was now set in stone. But I felt uncomfortable and irritated, seeking to lay blame elsewhere.  Why could I not let go? Why was I still thinking about it? I called a friend, seeking agreement and validation.  More time passed. 

Then came clarity. I felt the familiar squeeze of pride in my chest and I recognized the ego. For a moment, the critic appeared. But she was quickly replaced by space in the mind and with the space came the openness for a different way, a modified course of action based on all the facts, and acceptable to all the stakeholders. 

How do we remember to stay open and willing to be molded into the compassionate, responsive beings the world so desperately needs?  

This morning, I woke up to 6 inches of snow outside my window.  

At the same time, in my hometown in South Africa, a rainbow formed to celebrate the end of a summer rainstorm.

How magically diverse and connected are these two weather events?

When I chose to study medicine at the age of 16 years, the model of what my life might look like one day, came from our family physician.

He was an old wise gentleman with gray hair who carried his black doctor bag and a sweet, loving smile everywhere he went. We all knew where he lived because his consulting rooms were attached to the white and light blue-painted “double-storey” house on a quiet street in our neighborhood.  As was the law in South Africa in the 1980’s, there was a separate consulting room, further back on his property, where he cared for the non-white laborers. 

If you were too sick to visit him at his house, he would come to yours. When he rang the door bell, you would straighten the bedsheets, throw away the used tissues, and prepare for the healing. I remember how he sat next to the bed or even on the bed as he gently inquired about the symptoms. Then he would open the black bag that he had placed  either on the floor or on the bedside table (if he could find space next to the cough syrup, tissues box and water jug). He took out the thermometer, shook it gently, and placed it under the tongue. This was followed by blood pressure measurement and “open your mouth and say, ahh”. Finally, he lifted up the pajama top and placed the stethoscope gently to listen to the heart and lungs. He then placed his warm hands on the abdomen. Hands filled with experience of  many palpated abdomens, recognizing the problem, and knowing the treatment. Waves of reassurance emanated from him as he gave instructions in a calm, unhurried voice. If an injection was required, it was done without much fuss. By then you would already be feeling better anyway. 

Dr. Klein healed up to the day he was assaulted in his bedroom in the dark of night. This led to a stroke followed soon thereafter by death. The loss we all felt was palpable. We were certain we would all develop disease and death because he was our healer and nobody could replace him.