Making ends meet

 

June 14, 2021

 

Greetings from the lashing,

 

Making ends meet.

 I have not thought about using this term in a while, in part because it has been enough years between now and the days when I was budgeting my pennies so close to think of the phrase from a personal perspective.  Or what it means.  I’ll spare you the research; no one knows its source really.  We assume from how it’s used what it means, and now we use it without regard, practically. 

 The gist of the answer is maybe five hundred rears old; sailors would repair ropes instead of replacing them, by lashing damaged ends together, making use of what they had.  The other common answer is the idea of tightening your belt when money is short, those ends around your waist.  And just as likely, the accounting reference of making the end of the balance sheet meet, both expense and income.

 I realize no one comes to this space for the history of idioms; me either.  But it helps to set the stage, absurd as it may seem.

 Earlier this morning, about an hour before I was really awake, I could hear thunder from the storm that is idling here.  I thought of a word which made me smile and led me back to the last bit of sleep I wanted. 

 In the last few weeks, I’ve been fortunate to have some adventures, to push past some of the restrictions we have all struggled with.  There has been running and climbing and reading and sharing important things and being astonished and exhausted.  Also, sitting idle with no plans to fill those moments, and no guilt after.  It has been an emotional time, with some crying and a lot of laughing, maybe more laughing than in the last five years.  And, to present you the word from 3:39 this morning, more joy. 

 This time has given me a perspective, a bit of contrast, and I’m reminded that for me, and maybe for many of us, it can be a struggle to make ends meet when it comes to our own joy.

 Long ago, another life it seems, I walked into a bank and tried to cash a check and was instead given a hollow feeling.  The feeling that comes right after learning that the money had run out before the days in which I needed it.  I had failed to make ends meet. 

That hollow feeling has surfaced in other times, but not because of my finances.  Some days, in a moment of reflection, I realized that I was overdrawn on my joy account.  I realize how that may sound; joy is such an ambitious word, as if it can only be achieved in some crescendo moments in life. 

 There have been days, weeks maybe, where I would struggle to make ends meet.  It’s different, I think, when you are not talking about finances.  It’s easier to shortchange yourself in other ways.  There are diapers to change and lawns to cut and bills to pay and things to worry about.  There are tragedies and injustices, there are chalkboards filled with problems that cannot be solved.  How can we aspire to joy when faced with the overwhelming ache of living?

 The way this would materialize is that I would reach the end of a day or a week and realize I didn’t have enough joy to make it to the next payday.  So, I would go without, go hungry, to borrow a term.  That hollow feeling, the sense of lack, which for me was often something I didn’t even identify, grew in my core like a dark flower.  Maybe I thought it was a badge of honor to feel that hollowness, a part of being a grown up to feel the sacrifice of that light.  Of course, I was wrong.

This is not a demonstration in self pity.  For me it is a realization that sometimes, too often, I had the joy in my account, I just didn’t know how to make ends meet.  I didn’t know how to lash the ends together to make what joy I had go as far as I needed it.

 Because in truth joy exists in each moment we are given, not just mountain tops or birthday parties.  It is tucked inside grief, inside monotony, inside inscrutable dilemmas.  It is in rainstorms in the dark hour before you are ready to end sleep.  Just writing this delights me.  There is joy in this morning, and it’s not meant to be saved for a special occasion.

It takes practice, but with effort we can learn to find the bright spots in our day and link them together to create a life that feels richer and more colorful, more satisfying.  Think of the most joyful person you know and imagine how they would do it.  With song and other people and giving and forgiving and celebrating and reliving and singing and savoring and sharing.  They do this in the face of what would conspire to make them feel hollow.

 You have the means to make ends meet, we all do.  Don’t go hungry when there’s no need.

  

Hope this finds you solvent,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

Slowing Time

 

June 7, 2021

 

Greetings from the fullness,

 Each step became a journey of its own.

 Last Tuesday I celebrated my birthday, and all our birthdays, by climbing Half Dome, a rigorous ascent from the floor of Yosemite to the granite knot that towers above the tree line.  In the twelve hours we spent making our way up, and then down, I became reminded of one of the more important lessons of living.

 A week later I can still feel the fullness of the day.  Not only in my sore muscles, but in the new places that have been sparked in my mind. 

 A few years ago, I read a book by Jedidiah Jenkins, and watched a small documentary about his travels on bike from Oregon to South America.  The adventure was interesting, but the lesson was what stayed with me.

 “Routine is the enemy of time; it makes it fly by.  When we are a kid, everything is astonishing, everything is new, and so your brain is awake and turned on.” he said.  He goes on to say that as you get everything figured out and create a routine for life, the alertness goes away.  Soon the moments slip by unnoticed, and then hours and days.  Suddenly years pass.

 The cure, Jenkins says, is to create a life that demands you pay attention, be startled, afraid even.  To learn, to engage, to feel full emotions.  In this awakened state, we slow down time by crafting hours of living.  Remember those endless afternoons when you were seven years old?

 None of this is new.  I am only writing this out to remind you, and me, of the importance.  I have been thinking about the days my children were born, and those when loved ones passed, and other celebrations and challenges and adventures.  They were exhausting and demanding and thrilling and in all of that, those days were filled with such rich experiences they kept me in place.  Time stayed with me instead of racing away like a mischievous puppy.

 I woke on my birthday and stood in the dark with my brother Douglas and sipped coffee in the light of our headlamps.  We whispered our plans back and forth, giggling, already anxious to begin, but waiting for the rest of our group to wake.  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I couldn’t wait to see it unfold.

 I am tempted to share some of the day, but I’ll admit I’m intimidated.  It was a holy time for me, and in this moment I feel unprepared and unworthy to describe it all.  And still, I am going to damn well write it anyway, because that’s why I am here.

There were moments like these: Climbing the ragged steps along the Mist Trail, the waterfalls raging in the dark next to us, our headlamps weaving in the air around us like manic fireflies. 

 Unnerved, nearly crawling up Sub Dome, feeling the open cliff pulling at me.  Trembling muscles, gasping for air, heart hammering in my ears, whispering “..give me strength…run the mile you’re in…help me to feel you here…”

 The air grew thin as we rose up into the mountain, and then we could no longer take our breath for granted.  Hundreds of strangers wishing me happy birthday along the way, or joining in our warbling song to celebrate.  And the ultimate mash up: dangling from the cables of Half Dome as my brother led a group of strangers strung down the mountain behind us in ‘Hap-py birth-day dear Dav-ud…”gasping with the effort.

 Praying for my sister on the summit, under a clear blue dome that stretched over mountains as far as we could see in any direction.  Finding the perfect place, tucked inside the mountain, to keep her stone for the next millennium.  The whirl of feathers in my chest when I looked over the edge of the cliff to the valley below.  Watching Lee’s tangerine escape; bright orange bounding across the white granite, and then disappearing into the air beyond the edge.  Then, reluctantly, easing back down the cables, and into the trails below, the sun baking us in the bright places so we would love the cool of the tall pines. 

 Lunch by the river, sitting on a log eating mangled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  We were entertained by a single trout idling in the clear, emerald water.  I didn’t want to leave; “I love this.” I said.  The others, packs already on their backs looked at me quizzically.  “This.” I said, gesturing around us.  I meant the idyllic setting, and moments later, I meant all of life.

 The trail was rarely predictable.  Rocks and roots and uneven places, we wound through the mountains on switchbacks that were not polite about their intentions.  I had to pay attention to where I was stepping or I risked tripping and falling, which in some places could be fatal. 

 My legs were so tired that I had to will them to move, to have a conversation with them, asking them to partner with me again, just another step.  Each step became a journey of its own.  It is a different experience than simply getting up and perambulating to the mailbox and back, unaware of the miracle your body is performing.

 We stumbled into camp a dozen loaded hours from when we left and dropped our things and then, inspired by Cali, made our way back to the Merced River and waded in.  I sat in the icy water and felt the muscles go numb, my aches washed away with the dust on me.  I felt the weight of the day, a welcome weariness that comes with filling the hours with new experiences, with learning, astonishment, fear, exhilaration, wonder, and the deeply rooted passion that still brings tears to my eyes.

 We are given the chance to feel life this way in ordinary moments.  Preparing a meal, fixing a flat tire, planting flowers, making coffee.  It comes to us in perfect sunrises, ping pong conversations, interruptions, long hard laughter, overwhelming love.  It comes because we allow it, choose it.  When we fill our moments with intention, deliberately choosing awe instead of emptiness, we become companions with time.  It falls into step with us, keeps pace as we move through our life.  In time, there is the infinitesimal and the infinite, and what separates the two is what we fill the moments with.

 

Hope this finds you taking your time,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

What Leslie Loves

 

May 30, 2021

 

Greetings from where we rise,

 Dear World,

 I hope you will indulge me in a favor.  I’ve seen the spectrum of your kindness, so I trust that I know your answer.

 In all of our lives there are experiences we treasure, and also those that bring pain.  These are rarely dealt neatly, and often their roots are wound tightly around each other.  If you have been hungry, fallen in love, raised a child, you know. 

 I’m with my siblings in California.  We are grateful to be together, and our hearts are breaking.  The joy and the ache are one thing.  My sister Leslie is drifting in the uneasy limbo of uncertainty.  She duels with cancer, already a veteran, with her shares of victories and setbacks.  Hope, once firmly in her hands, has become slippery.  Now every moment that scurries away holds grief in its wake.

 A few nights ago, I drifted in and out of sleep here, listening to a choir of roosters down in the valley, who have ignored their tradition and practiced all night.  The thought that came to me during their performance was: What Leslie Loves.

 My sister has always lived a life of passions.  I hesitate to begin a list because hers is a rich life, resplendent with experiences that would outstrip this meager space. 

 Everywhere she has been she has been a purveyor of beauty. She does this by finding gifts, by pointing out flowers, or reminding others of experiences here or there, or of people she knows.  It’s a gift that everyone admires in Leslie.  It’s obvious in her own home, and in the homes of her friends, even my own, where her touches can be seen.  Leslie loves beauty.

 What Leslie loves:  Her husband, Bill.  Her children, Jenna and Brad, and the people they love, and the future that is theirs.  She loves her friends.  Flowers. Birds. Light houses, koala bears, blue moon ice cream.  Caring for people.  Being a hostess. Tea cups.  Creating.  Taking pictures. Seeing pictures others have taken.  Words With Friends.  Being a friend.  Being kind.

 There’s more, but this isn’t an inventory, it is meant to introduce this idea of Leslie to you, and the favor. 

 Tomorrow I will climb Half Dome in Yosemite.  It is an adventure and a challenge and a celebration.  It may seem incongruous mixed in with the challenges my sister faces, but these are the joys and aches wound together.  I will admit, as our plans mingled with her struggle, I felt awkward and a little guilty, going off galivanting with my brother and his family, while Leslie sits at home, wondering.  Except my sister is a purveyor of beauty, and so we become ambassadors for her in the world.

 I asked her for a token, something of hers we could take up the mountain to leave there, a symbol of her passions, of what she loves.  She gave me this stone, rubbed smooth from hours of her warm hands, her life infused into this tiny, beautiful thing.  Even as I write this, feeling the weight of it in my pocket, brings tears to my eyes.

 We will dedicate the journey to my sister.  When we reach that high place, we will follow the tenets of many faiths, and the thousands of years of our ancestors’ example, and offer up a prayer to the Creator, and to all of you.  Gather our strength and pour it into Leslie.

 We will ask this favor of you, too.  To care for Leslie, to give her peace and hope and the knowledge that her rich, beautiful life has mattered, has been significant and important.  

 Our precious World: We will also ask you to love What Leslie Loves.  Love her family, love her friends, because they need you.  And to love the beauty Leslie loves; grow it, nurture it, share it, live with it.  Everywhere you see it and feel it, my sister will be.  Whenever we love What Leslie Loves, the simple kindness, the intricate flower, the joyous celebration, we become more of what she wishes for our life and her own.  We will wind her life with ours, become part of her, and she of us, and we will be the beauty she would want in the world.

 Hope this finds you loving,

 David

Comfy

 

May 24, 2021

 

Greetings from the cocoon,

 I’d like to introduce a friend of mine. About my size, very warm, a comfort to me for decades.  And even though our relationship has had gaps of many years where we didn’t spend time together, when we are reunited, it’s like we were made for one another.  A perfect fit.

 I had to travel to the exotic city of Ann Arbor to find what I needed.  It was only an hour away, but almost like another world.  One of those diverse college town that spawned Earth Shoes and English Racers and, in that time, the closest town that had shops which sold outdoor gear.

 I don’t remember what else I was tempted by, but only came prepared to buy one thing; a goose down sleeping bag.  And I laid down all the money I had, maybe a hundred dollars, and left with one of the best investments I ever made.

 That was nearly five decades ago.  I confess that many of these intervening years it has been packed in its original stuff bag, resting among unused luggage and tents with missing poles and boxes of things that we haven’t admitted we won’t open again.

 But for many, many years, it was my closest companion.  It was the first thing I felt when I woke, and the last thing I knew as I fell asleep.  This sleeping bag, a perfect fit, kept me warm, and often dry.  It protected me, or so I naively believed,  from spiders and snakes and scorpions, from curious night animals.  It kept out the cold, provided me a place to rest.  It was my home wherever I was.

 I traveled around the country on my bicycle, tens of thousands of miles, sleeping in fields, on picnic tables, under bridges.  Some nights in my tent, occasionally in my hammock, but most wherever I could find a flat place to lay out my sleeping bag.  I slept in mechanic’s bays, in farmer’s yards, in soggy bayous, empty deserts, on frozen mountainsides.  And nearly every night, I slept surrounded by goose down, held in place by my companion. 

 A thousand days began this way:  I would open my eyes, peeking out from bag to see if it was light enough.  I would sit up, and let the morning wake me.  I would sit with the nylon shell wrapped around me and start my breakfast.  There would be a stray feather stuck to my skin.

 I put a lot of miles on this sleeping bag, and not all pretty miles.   I sweated inside it, some nights, it was my only protection from swarms of mosquitoes. I slept in dirty places, in snow, on gravel. The bag absorbed my life, and coffee, and bug spray, and peanut butter and calamine and spit.  I slept in the clothes I rode in, so the bag slowly took on the character of the man inhabiting it.

 One morning I woke in the yard of a family that had taken me in.  I had hung the sleeping bag up on a tree to dry the dew.  After a little while a young boy came to where I was sitting on the ground by my bike.

“Why does your sleeping bag smell funny?”

Which was not really ‘funny’ as in amusing.  More like ‘funny’ as in ‘I wonder what died in there.’  Funny.

 The bag was made by the Seattle Quilt Company, founded in 1915, maybe the first makers of goose-down quilted sleeping bags in this country.  They called these bags ‘Comfy’.  I can testify, they are.  Somehow, the feathers they collected and sewed inside this shell, created a sanctuary for me for all these years.  And not just me.

 My daughter used it.  She packed it on her own bicycle tour across the country, adding her own story to the quilt.  My son used it, usually without consulting me, on various camping outings.  Somehow, it made its way back to me.  And now I’m taking it on another adventure.

I picked it up from the dry cleaners a couple of days ago.   As I left, I turned and told the woman behind the counter a little of the history of this bag, and as I started, my eyes filled, and my voice broke.  I can’t imagine what she must have thought, this man who thought of an old sleeping bag with such emotion.

 This morning, before I wrote these first words, I took my old friend outside in the cool morning air.  I laid it out and slipped inside it and felt the familiar warmth, the fabric soft from countless nights of use.  I zipped up the mummy bag, pulled it close around the top, and my body relaxed.  I listened to the morning, felt the cool air on my face, remembered this exact sensation from the myriad experiences before.  And I slept.

 When I woke, there was a stray feather stuck to my skin.

 Hope this finds you comfy,

 David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

Matryoshka

 

May 17, 2021

 Greetings from the Matryoshka,

 I am watching the day bloom, flourishing there at the edge of the trees, the first pale light, and now the hint of color, a cameo blush.  I have the same sense of anticipation, of expectation, that I have been gifted with nearly every morning.  It is a treasure to be here for these first moments, to feel the possible, and to know this other thing.

 Last summer, I was relaxing on the deck after a full day.  It was warm, the trees were full of green, the world was ripe and lush.  I had filled the moments since I watched the sunrise that day, and I remember feeling the ache of the effort easing as I sat watching the day soften toward evening.

 I heard this sound from beyond the trees.  At first I thought it was geese, and then I realized it was voices.  But I wasn’t sure because it sounded so different; there was this musical lilt, a different cadence.  I thought it might be someone playing soccer, but it didn’t make sense, Covid had cancelled those games.  And it wasn’t the right sound.  I pushed from my chair and leaned at the edge of the deck, wondering, and the wonder pulled me to find out.

 I followed the sound until I found them.  It was a soccer game but not like anything that I’d seen played there.  Not wobbling novices, not awkward teenagers, these were grown men, fast and fierce and capable.  It was like watching cheetahs at play, not simply because of their lithe power, but because they seemed to be so happy doing it.  There were no spectators, and the only sound was their voices, and the muted thump of the ball being kicked.

 One of them noticed me watching and said “Good evening sir!” and went back to the game.  I realized then, listening to them calling to each other, that the reason the sound was different was that most were not speaking English.  The play went on, shouting to each other, weaving in and out down the green field, their voices melding into this beautiful and unusual choir there. 

 This was not a mountaintop experience, not some unique, improbable moment, it was an ordinary day, just like this Monday, that held beauty, and then wonder, and then joy, and then something else.  It was as if God had said: ‘I know this has been an awesome day, but before you go, here’s one more thing I thought you’d like.  Just be curious enough to see it.’

 Not a week ago I was running with my brother and his wife and daughter, a slice of the morning, a simple workout to get the blood flowing.  Tucked in those few miles was a question, and our answers, and as we talked back and forth, we created something new and larger than simply scraping our feet on pavement and breathing in and out.  Those ideas, and our exchange, made the moment more meaningful, memorable, and in the process we were all changed.  Speaking for myself, changed for the better; I am made more now from the experience.

 You know the classic Russian Matryoshka, the ‘nesting dolls’ that each open to another inside.  This thing we have is the opposite of that.  Each gift has another gift inside, but it’s larger.  I can see it as I tell you this, telescoping out into my day, one thing opening to something more, and then something richer, and that leading to yet another place, or another encounter, or another idea. 

I have found it plumbing the depths of my capacity in a marathon, and in exploring a new path in the woods, and in a quiet conversation with a friend.  When my daughter was born, those hours of uncertainty and excitement and the strange new emotions that are paired with becoming a parent.  And tucked inside that, waiting, was the decades of beauty that she has shared with us.

 And this: the night my mother passed away, filled with the ache and doubt, and the endless hours that suddenly were over, and also the tiny moments of grace and peace, of kindness.  Those gifts, tucked inside grief and waiting and fear, led to another even greater gift only days later; sharing the moments with my family, giving them the story so they could own it too.  That somehow was even more powerful because it became more than one experience.

 Yesterday I was running in the rain.  I was several miles from home, and almost without me knowing it, I stopped.  I was tired, beyond what I realized.  I stood there looking at my shoes, the rain soaking me, puddling around me.  I felt weary, some of it because I had pushed myself too hard.  Some of it was the weight of senseless worry, clinging to me like my wet clothes.  I crouched down and put my hands in the rain gathering there in the dirt, and closed my eyes. 

 Hidden in that moment was a new gift, this sense of peace and strength.  I felt rooted in the earth, the wet soil, the feel of the cool rain gathered into its new existence around my hands.  I breathed in the morning, and felt the gift, felt the relief from whatever had pulled me to a stop.  I know where this comes from, and I was grateful I waited to feel it.  It was greater than the experience that held it.

 The day will fill, and we are charged with making the hours, ours.  Capturing time for any part we are able and opening it up, seeing what great and beautiful thing is inside it.  And whatever we find, understanding that what lies inside there is bigger than we imagined, more than we dreamed.  We only have to look to know.

 

Hope this finds you looking inside,

 

David

  

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

The Aerie

 

May 10, 2021

 

Greetings from the aerie,

 This morning is still forming, the dark not ready to let go of the shapes around me.   I am thousands of miles from my own windows, where already the light has unwrapped the world there.   I don’t know the horizon here as well as my usual view, but even in the dim hour before dawn I am smiling at the memory.

 The world is opening again, and I eased into the trickle of people moving around the country, flew across the span between my windows and these, and landed near the Pacific.   Just reading the words in that last sentence loosens a knot in me.

 I am in my brother’s kitchen, perched on a cliff overlooking a valley.  It is a lovely view, hinted now with sprinkles of lights from a few houses below, early risers starting their day.  From here, even as the light is now outlining the mountains, I can sense the perspective that has refreshed me for a few days now.

 Like most of us I have been on the same stage for over a year, making the most of what I’ve been given, but aware of the narrowed boundaries.  Maybe not entirely aware, until now.

 A few days ago, I followed my brother Douglas, his wife Lee and their daughter Cali, on an early morning hike up Iron Mountain, a few miles up a challenging trail.  We set off in the first light, and wound our way along the trail, surrounded by mist, picking our way among the rocks.

 We talked and laughed and huffed our way up to the top.  Along the way I was barely cognizant of the change in my surroundings because the mist hid everything around us.  But as we crested the last rise, the sun peeled back the uppermost fog and we stood looking over the clouds below us.

 After a long hard effort, we emerged from the cloud, and we stood in the sun and saw the wide open horizon and felt the promise of whatever was beyond.  It felt limitless and light, and the sensation filled me with joy and hope. 

 Yesterday we gathered at my sister Leslie’s house with her family and friends, and celebrated Mother’s Day, and everything else.  There was music and poetry and food and laughter.  There were stories from other people, the natural exchange between folks getting caught up on each other’s lives.  Those exchanges, once so easy to take for granted, felt like a gift.  I had that same sensation of the horizon expanding around me.

 Cali played the guitar and sang a few songs, a gift for Leslie, but everyone gathered there shared in the giving.  Each of us was opened up a little, each of us felt the space in the other, the way leading to other lives, other experiences.  There was love woven in the place, like glitter in the air.

 I listened to my sister Jennifer talk about the plans for her new life, and I felt her world growing, saw her pushing out the horizons, overlapping with others as they make their circle bigger.  Knowing this, seeing people pressing out, erasing the limits, eased the knot in me.

 Yesterday morning I ran down unfamiliar streets, a luxury I once took for granted.  I passed people I don’t know, smelled sage and hibiscus and listened to roosters make their morning pronouncements.  I turned up a path and joined several men on horseback, and they cantered along beside me.  We exchanged good mornings and then they carried on in lilting Spanish, the clop of the horses dancing beside me kept time to their music.  I felt the gift of that moment too, felt the space we made, the opening we carved in the world.

 I’m bringing this message to you because I sense we have all been huddled in our own circles, shrouded with our own fog, and perhaps after all these months it has been hard to remember the view of the world is waiting for us.  There are other lives waiting to be shared, there is music, there are people celebrating.  Be patient, the world is opening up.

 It is light now.  I can see the foothills fall away and form this valley, roads snaking below, boulders now visible in the dense undergrowth.  The mist hovers over the ridges of the mountains around us, but that doesn’t matter to me.  I know what waits above it, and beyond.

 

 Hope this finds you with a longer view,

 David

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

Silliness

 

May 3, 2021

 Greetings from a humorous view,

 Those of you with sensitive dispositions may wish to avert your eyes while reading this. 

 A colonoscopy is not funny.  But really, it is hilarious.  The idea of it still makes me laugh.  I don’t think having one is funny, but you have to admit the process and the procedure is so ludicrous, that taken out of context, it’s hysterical. 

 To prove the comedy, I would time travel back to the 1800’s and explain it to a doctor then.

 

“I have travelled back in time from 2021 to tell you about an amazing medical procedure.”

“Why are you dressed like a tramp?  Has there been a terrible war?”

“No, this is just how I look.” 

“I see, don’t people dress to travel in your era?  All right, tell me your amazing news.”

“Well, in the future, medical doctors will put cameras inside you to see if you are healthy.”

Look of disbelief.  “It seems unlikely, since the flash would set the patient on fire.”

“No, there’s no flash.  The camera has a special light on it.” 

“Well, my good vagabond, just the process of opening the patient up to place the camera would be deadly.”

“No, that’s the funny part.  The camera is small enough to, um, insert it in the derriere to look around.”

“The derriere?  Have the French taken over the world in the future?”
“You know, the backside.  Your bottom.  Bum.  Uh, fanny.  Gluteus maximus.  Badonkadonk.”

“And this is done to cure a cold?  Or baldness?”

“No, actually those are still a problem.”

Look of shock.  “Just a moment.”  Opens a door and calls to another doctor, who rushes in.

“This tramp here says in the future they put cameras in their tookus.”

“He’s a witch! Burn him!”

 

I will confess that I think the colonoscopy is miraculous, a wonderful tool to save lives.  I just can’t help seeing the process as comical.   There is a formula in humor: tragedy plus time equals comedy.  It may not apply here but since I thought of it, I had to write it down, and I’m sure most of you have stopped reading by now.  Anyway, if I teleported two hundred years to the future and explained it to a doctor then, perhaps that would make my point.

 

“I’ve travelled in time from 2021 to talk to you about colonoscopy.”

“Why are you dressed like a tramp?  Was there another depression I missed?”

“What is it with you doctors?  This is just how I look.”

“So, anyway, you guys are still sticking cameras in your tookus?  Isn’t that inconvenient?”

“Well, yes, but it’s a necessary procedure.”

“I forget, is that how you cured the cold and baldness?”

“No, those are still a problem.”

Opens a door and calls to an android doctor who rushes in.

“This guy here says he’s from the past, asking about colonoscopy.”

“Geez, is that the thing with the leeches?”
Me: “Excuse me, I’m from 2021, not 1421.”

“Is this the hilarious procedure where the doctor drives a camera around inside you and watches on a little TV?  And the prep takes two days of drinking gallons of awful tasting stuff and spending hours in the bathroom?”

“Yes, that’s it!  I knew it would be funny.  Are you still doing those?”

“Lord, no.  The last doctor who did that was burned for witchcraft.”

 

 It is amazing how the medical world has progressed, and along the way introduced laughable practices like lobotomies and eating tapeworms and using heroin to treat a cough.  It’s easy to see them as funny now, even as they were dangerous or lethal.  Well easy for me, who somehow just dodged that lobotomy era.

 Definitely take the colonoscopy serious.  And all the great diagnostics available to keep you healthy for as long as life offers you.  But you have to admit the colonoscopy is funny.  I’m not mocking gastroenterologists, I’m sure they are the butt of a lot of jokes. (Don’t roll your eyes, you knew I was going to say it.)  I am only saying that most of life is silly, even the serious parts, and all that keeps us from laughing is time or distance.  Make the leap.

                                                                                                                                                           

Hope this finds you laughing your tush off,

 

David

 

 Copyright © 2021 David Smith