Shadows

Shadows, those playful patches of pitch which, somewhat ironically, happen best on the brightest of days, lend many images. From suggesting a sinister presence ("only the Shadow knows") to a slight presence ("he's a mere shadow of himself") they give me much to think and write about.

Shadows are on my mind lately because an acquaintance of mine, Cole Wolford (www.colewolford.com) who paints bright, striking watercolor pictures (currently) of life in Germany is having an exhibition entitled "Shadow Journeys". Many of his paintings show the wonderful impressions that shadows offer. I sat in the English Gardens ("the backyard") and wrote this. This blog is my gift to Cole.

As our dreams show what can happen when our consciousness is blocked so shadows show us the results of blocked light. I've watched children play with their shadows. I've seen grown people use their hands to create shadow pictures of dogs and birds on a wall or movie screen. Outside, our shadows can make us look tall and lean or squat and misshapen like fun house mirrors. And shadows are a great source for riddles. "What follows me everywhere yet never makes a sound?"

Man's rough, paved ground duplicates the straight edges of his evenly built structures precisely, leaving nothing, really, to notice while nature's soft, rolling earthy areas bend and twist those edges unpredictably until no two things are alike.

Shadows remind us that God is not going to set everything in the light. We must hunt. We must notice. We must figure.

While many look at the heavens - stars, planets - and feel small, I have always felt big because I'm a part of it. Shadows remind me that even something as powerful and deadly as the sun can be blocked with the simple gesture of a gentle hand.

Shadows give us balance, like yin and yang. Look at a tree against the sky. It is very shadow-like. The trunk is large, whole and solid, but it opens into branches and then limbs to compliment and play upon the background. When learning to draw trees, many art students are instructed to draw the empty space instead of the branches and that is how many find success.

Music without rests sets an exhausting tone that is overwhelming. A story told without a breath or dramatic pause loses its intensity and color. Silence stands between one note and the next, between one idea and another giving us a moment to appreciate what has passed and anticipate what is to come. Shadow stands between the sun and earth, between us and that which we face when we turn our backs to the light and face the dark patches.

Note to my readers: Some of you more observant readers (Howard) may have noticed that I posted a blog called "Fantasy and Reality". I then removed it from my blog. I did this because it was written so poorly. I am revising it and will repost it. Those of you who didn't see it, count yourself among the lucky ones. Those who did (Howard), I apologize.

Guided by the Ruts

I had a pair of dreams last night in which I was driving over ruts. In the first dream I was exiting a parking lot that was heavily rutted with old dried mud that sometimes stood or sank a couple of feet. I was nervous about getting caught in them, but I was able to easily turn and drive over them getting to where I wanted to go. In the other dream I was on a road that was all loose gravel. The ruts on this road were shallow. I wound up following on of the ruts, actually driving in it.

I've been researching dreams lately and found the images of the ruts very intriguing. Immediately I associate ruts negatively. We talk about being stuck in a rut, needing change. I tried to make different associations with the image of ruts. I can see how ruts can be guiding, like a well worn path keeping us safe from surrounding dangers as they are tried and true. They can indicate doing something very common that many before me have already done. I'd like to hear any associations you can make with ruts.

I thought about the dreams for a while as I considered what is going on in my life. While my life seems exciting in our moving from country to country (and it is) it is easy for me to fall into a daily routine that doesn't get me out exploring the area. That was more understandable in Tashkent, it is inexcusable in Munich. So, last week I kicked myself out onto the street and explored the city a little. This is intimidating for me so I admit with some embarrassment that this was a big deal. I visited Nymphenburg Castle. I'd attach a picture, but dumb cluck here didn't bother to take any pictures. I'm just not a picture person. Sorry. Back to my not being in a rut. I have started practicing piano again after being without it for about a year and a half. I have even chosen a new challenging Chopin piece to learn. I'm focusing most of my writing on my novel on which is I'm making good progress. I have even changed up my exercise routine. Twice a week I get on a stationary bike and do my best to imitate the Spinning classes I used to take - right down to the puddle of sweat on the floor, bright red face and various promises to God if He'll let me live through this. Two or three times a week I go through the weight machine circuit then get on the treadmill and do a mix of fast walking (4.4 MPH) and skipping. I've never been a runner. I'm proud that I'm skipping. It's hard to keep up and I work hard. Forgive me if I've said this before, but I do get a little embarrassed if the marines are in the gym pumping tons and doing pull ups and sit ups with weights. I want to announce, "This is like the widows mite! Comparatively, I'm working as hard as you all are!" But I don't. I just try to stay invisible.

I'm not in a rut. So I considered the dreams again. In the first as I am leaving a parking lot to enter onto a road. Perhaps there is some meaning there. Maybe as I head into new territory (being published? learning the difficult Chopin piece on my own?) I need to watch closely and avoid the ruts. Maybe since, in the dream, I was able to successfully drive over the ruts the message to me is I'm on the right track. That would be nice.

A rut is not always a bad thing to be in. As I mentioned before, they can be guides keeping us on the right path. Some people consider a long marriage a rut. That is one rut I intend to stay in. Um, not that being with Doug is a rut. It's not. I didn't mean it that way at all. It's great. Really Maybe I've said enough. I'd rather find myself in an exercise rut rather than not care for myself in that way. I guess, in that sense, there are ruts and there are habits. Ruts tend to be seen more as traps, thoughtless places we leave ourselves in.

This brings to mind a scene I witnessed at the YMCA. A young boy (9 or 10) was running wild around the lobby and halls. His mother stood in one place, waited for him to run by and gently called his name. He came over to her. She waited until he looked her in the eye (she had to wait, but she didn't have to tell him to) then she said, "I want you to act deliberately." He was out of breath and sweating. Through his breathing he replied, "Okay."

That's what we need. We need to act deliberately. I have so many reasons to stay in this marriage it would take pages to fill. That's a good rut. I started to fall into an afternoon lay-on-the-couch-and-read-while-eating-candy-then-sleep rut. That would not be a good rut to fall into. That's the kind of rut I'm very capable of stretching on for miles and miles until it's so deep I can't see over the edges. I know this because this is a rut I was in while living in St. Paul. It was, interestingly enough, a dream that pulled me, no jolted me out of that rut. Briefly, I dreamed that I was home taking a nap in the middle of the day and Douglas came home. I didn't want him to catch me napping so I tried to get up and greet him, but I couldn't move. He came upstairs and laid in bed with me and held me while talking, "I know this is hard, but you know it's for the best and it will be over soon." I realized in the dream that he was poisoning me and he had come home to be with me when I died. That was why I couldn't move. I woke up very upset with this dream. So what did I do? I rolled over and went back to sleep then dreamed the same dream again. This had never happened to me before nor has it since. Upon awakening the second time from this seemingly horrible dream, I said "Okay, you've got my attention." I sat and thought about the dream. Carl Jung proposed that the dream characters are not who they appear to be, rather they are aspects of yourself. So that's where I started. Why would I poison myself? Immediately I knew what the message from the dream was. Every day in my coming home to nap for a couple of hours between students I was wasting my time. I might as well die an early death. With all the time I was losing sleeping when I didn't need to sleep I could have done so much. That was the last unnecessary nap I took.

Dreams are powerful things. So are ruts. So live deliberately, delve into your dreams and stick to a good path even if it is a little rutted.

Our Christmas in Munich

We are in the land of Christmas. The Christmas markets - which I featured pictures of in my last entry - went up shortly after Thanksgiving and are open seven days a week all day through Christmas eve. We enjoyed walking through them - shuffling through them, really. They are quite crowded, but, as everyone is happy, that's okay. I think we ate more than we bought gifts, but that, too, is okay. We particularly enjoyed Thor's Hammer which is mead with a shot of Irish whiskey. We also drank Feuerzungenbowle (fire tongue bowl, also known as Feuerzongenbowle) which is mead with sugar and rum added. It is served in a special goblet which has a lip extending from the side (kind of like a sippy cup, but there is no lid to cover the goblet). In this lip or shelf is placed a sugar cube. The goblet is filled with gluehwein, strong rum is poured in and over the sugar cube and the entire concoction is lit. You blow it our (duh!) then wait for the sugar cube to cool and sip the gluehwein through the sugar cube. Yum.

The official drinking vessel of Feuerzungenbowle

Unlike Tashkent where there were no Christmas trees, I was able to find a tree here not too far from home. I walked about a half mile to a an open square where they were being sold. I chose one and carried it home. Yes, I had to carry it home. My muscles hurt for days. Although our car arrived before we did, it has been an ordeal getting it and us licensed.

The Christmas tree lot in Odeonsplatz

About a week before Christmas, we walked to a concert by the Moscow Cathedral choir, a boys and young men's choir. The booming, manly sounds of the men paired with the cherubic sounds of the boys was a perfect way to head into Christmas. The personality of some of the boys was very evident in their stage presence. One boy managed to be simultaneously focused and squirmy. Two boys who stood right in front of the conductor elbowed each other giggling through one song. I don't know how they evaded the eye of the conductor. Another boy, who was singing, was looking off to the side. The conductor slowly walked towards him and gently touched the hand holding the music folder never breaking his conducting beat. The boy's attention was returned to where it needed to be. There were two boys who stood next to each other who, for some reason, I noticed early on. I remember thinking, "They must be the cream of the crop". Later, one of them stepped up for a solo.

I used the Frugal Gourmet Christmas cookbook (the only cookbook, I believe, I have ever actually purchased and the only one I have read cover to cover) to plan our Christmas dinner. I decided on Crown Roast of Pork as the main dish. It sounded way too big for the two of us so I substituted a pork loin, but otherwise used all the seasonings called for - fresh, whole sage and thyme. To accompany it I made the suggested sausage stuffing. I'm not sure why it's called stuffing when it's not being stuffed into anything except our mouths. I made roasted potatoes which required over two hours of oven time so I made them the day before saving the final broiler step for Christmas day. They baked for an hour with butter and garlic - boy, did the apartment smell good - and another hour in chicken broth. When Christmas day came, I forgot all about them. They were still sitting on the balcony in our outdoor refrigerator. Finally I made baked onions. Neither Doug nor I had ever eaten an entire onion (unless you count Bloomin' Onions) so we weren't too sure whether or not we'd like them. They were boiled in chicken broth then baked. They were so sweet, we loved them.

The entire Christmas dinner (including the potatoes)

After we stuffed ourselves, we walked about a mile and a half to see the St. Petersburg Ballet Company present the Nutcracker ballet. The day was perfect - in the forties, floating clouds, little wind. The performance wasn't the best - like I'm a critic. First, it was danced to prerecorded music. The start of every dance sequence always came as a bit of a surprise to all on stage. There was more posturing and posing than challenging dancing. But, as it was Christmas day, it was delightful. It was opened with a storyteller telling the story (in German). Then a mirrored jester came out. He was quite a sight. He literally glowed. He stood before a tray of water glasses and played bits of the melodies on these tuned water glasses. It was very pretty, mystical and captivating. He had to watch what he was doing, of course, but he was able to look up at the audience. I write 'at' in italics because I could tell he was looking at people, at their reactions, not just glancing up for good stage presence. He made several more appearances throughout the ballet. I realized what a sexist environment the ballet is. And, this time, not against women. The men often are, in Doug's words, props to hold up, balance and gesture to the women. I don't know ballet audience etiquette. I was taken aback when, early on, a male dancer came out and danced, I thought, quite well - a solo. When he finished I started to clap. No one else did, so I stopped. Next came a female dancer who also did a very good job. Everyone burst into applause. After the pas de deux, having both danced splendidly -really danced, finally - the couple took their bows, or, rather he stood back while she dramatically bowed and bowed and bowed. I was so put out, I stopped clapping. I didn't want to encourage that. I know I'm not a ballet aficionado, but, when I sang in the opera chorus, all the principal singers took their appropriate curtain calls, not just the women. Perhaps someone reading this can explain this to me.

Our apartment is in the middle of about four or five churches that all have bells that peal throughout the day. They were particularly active Christmas eve, Christmas day and the 26th (which is also a German holiday - the second day of Christmas - no turtle doves). When they all get going at once it is glorious, soothing and just lovely. My mom told me that there was a church somewhere in Phoenix that installed bells and the neighbors complained. How sad. I can understand wanting quiet, but I don't understand picking on the gentle sound of church bells. No it is not necessary, I also understand that. And sometimes any sound is irritating. Leaf blowers and lawn mowers are not necessary, yet for some reason that painful, irritating sound goes unchallenged. I'm glad I'm in Germany right now to hear these bells.

Advent

It is Advent (of which I've written before in my "If I Can" blog - December 1, 2009) and this year in my waiting I find myself not merely waiting, but anticipating and moving forward.

I'm trying to learn to be more mindful and it stands to reason that the season of waiting - Advent - would be good practice. But there must be something I'm mindful of. If I am waiting, I am mindful of what is to come. But if I am being mindful of what is to come, then I am anticipating, thus the mindfulness and forward movement. What can I do now in anticipation while I wait for the future?

Before moving to Germany I decided to make my time here a time of conclusions. Specifically of several stories (novels, really) that I've been writing for years. Then fate kindly stepped in (which it rarely does in a kindly manner) and, when I asked Douglas what he wanted for his birthday, he answered, "I want you to finish one of your stories to the point you can send it to an editor. It doesn't have to be by this birthday, just before we leave Germany."

I love Douglas.

So, while I wait, as I anticipate, I sit and make forward progress (page 50 something as I write - feel free to check up on that page number from time to time) on one of my novels.

But it's Advent and Advent is the time during which we wait for Christmas.

A scene from the Marienplatz Christmas Market - the largest in Munich

These years, Christmas brings memories to me. Memories of anticipation because, as a child, it always felt as though I were waiting for something.

For instance, I always knew something good was about to happen when I noticed that my mother had set out butter to soften. Would it go in candy or cookies?

And my father would get a certain look on his face as he strolled into my room shaking car keys. I knew he wanted company on an errand and he was in one of those moods - maybe we'd stop for candy (don't tell mom).

The sight of the UPS (or FedEX, DHL, whichever) truck stopping in front of our house always caused excitement - read anticipation. The bigger the box the more excitement.

Here in Munich I've started a new practice. Just before Douglas comes home, I turn off most of the lights in the apartment and light a single candle in the entryway. I hope it looks gentle, soft, relaxing and welcoming. I hope it tells him that he's home now and no longer needs to work. I hope it tells him that this is his time - our time.

I like how, in the Jewish faith, the Sabbath day - the day of rest - begins at sundown the evening before. They prepare. They anticipate. Sabbath, I believe, is God's way of telling us "Relax, this is your time, our time."

The Christmas market is in the square of the famous Glockenspiel, a beautiful setting.

Char: The Only Seasoning Added Through the bottom of the Pot

It's been a rough week in the kitchen. This is not meant to be a complaint, just a statement of fact. When we moved in here, roughly five weeks ago, we were told that the kitchen was brand new. Nice. But everything takes some getting used to.

The microwave takes about 30 seconds just to soften butter. In my experience, five or so seconds does it and that leaves me scrambling to shut it off before I have a pool of butter covering the carousel. It takes a good five minutes to boil a cup of water. I now just use the stove top. The stove top has opposite problem as the microwave. Put on full hot, I'm sure these burners could melt steel girders. I'm not often a very patient cook. If I must bring something to a boil I do so in as little time as possible. I fill the pot with water or whatever, put the burner on high and wait to turn it down after it has reached a boiling point. I did this with some soup last week. Within three or so minutes it just wasn't smelling right in the kitchen. I stirred the soup. Everything not liquid had been welded to the bottom of the pot. I quickly picked up the pot. A small flame appeared underneath said pot. I didn't exactly panic; nor did I think clearly. "New kitchen" I thought. "Don't put it on the counter." For that voice in my head, I blame my mother. Sorry, mom. Probably not your fault, but I don't want this to be my fault. Anyway, there sat the new cutting board. The new plastic cutting board. I sat the overheated pot on the plastic cutting board. It slid. "What the . . . ?" Oh . . . (Two plus two . . .)

So now we have this nice unusable soup pot that has a good chunk of the cutting board  stuck to its bottom.

Think, Laura, think! How can you get the plastic off so you can use the pot?

Something else that has taken some getting used to in this kitchen is the temperature of the hot water from the faucet. I don't have a thermometer, but I would not be surprised if it is on the verge of the boiling point. This thrills me. In Tashkent we had to wait a few minutes for very warm water to eventually emerge. I remember catching my housekeeper drinking out of one of our glasses and, instead of washing it, simply rinsing it and putting it back on the shelf. I told her that she needed to use hot water and soap and wash it before putting it back. She turned on the water then stood there looking at the ceiling as she waited (and waited) for hot water.

Here in Munich we have extremely hot water within seconds of turning it on. Nice. Maybe it's hot enough to melt off the plastic or, at least, soften it so I can scrape it off. Nope. And I have the blisters to prove it.

Back to the soup. The apartment stunk with the smell of charred potato leek soup. We opened up every window and the hall door to alleviate the stench. Thank God the neighbors didn't complain. I told Douglas that he didn't have to eat any of this soup. I would consider it my penance for not thinking more rationally. I threw in some very salty spices I got in Uzbekistan that pretty well masked the char flavor so I could get it down a bowl at a time. Why didn't I just throw it out? After all that work? And I'm too cheap.

Which brings me to the back story of this entire saga. The first round of potato leek soup I made, weeks earlier, turned out perfectly, though I had to cut everything by hand since we no longer had a food processor. After that, we went out and bought a food processor that works with European electric current. Great. First thing the morning of this kitchen saga, I couldn't figure out how to put the thing together. I read the instructions and followed them as best I could. The wand, which is supposed to attach to the shaft leading to the blade, was a different size and wouldn't attach. I looked at the pictures, read, looked at the pictures, looked at the wand, the shaft, but it wouldn't fit. I was ready to make soup and did not want to spend another hour cutting potatoes and leeks by hand when I had a brand new food processor sitting before me. I decided to wait for Douglas to come home for lunch and get him to help me figure it out. He put it together before he went back to work. Unbeknownst to me and unmentioned in the instructions is the fact that the wand comes apart. Okay. After he left, I went to work.

Now, there are two or three parts to this food processor that, in the sketches, look somewhat alike. I grabbed the wrong part - the ice shaver. It doesn't work with potatoes. Don't even try it.  The potatoes stuck to the blades. A few small pieces fell through, forced through in the poor processor's efforts to shave a potato. I realized it would be faster to cut them by hand. But I am stubborn sometimes. I refused. I waited for Douglas to get done with work and help me yet again. We were supposed to have the soup that night for dinner. I felt like the soup Nazi, "No soup for you!"

It was hard to eat anything with that stench in the air, but we both choked down a bowl that night just to get rid of the stuff. I know, we could have thrown it away. I know, I know . . .

A few days later was Doug's birthday. He turned 50! I wanted to make a Red Velvet cake for him. Finding some of the ingredients using German was difficult. "Shortening", "Non-stick spray" and "food coloring" are not in my German dictionary. Oh, the charades it took to get these items . . . Thank God for patient, easily amused grocers. The cake turned out okay, but there were some problems. What passes for red food coloring here does not turn food red. For some reason, the cream cheese icing liquefied and barely stuck to the cake. It would have worked well drizzled over a bundt cake, but this was a Waldorf Cake! It looked like an old man's head: thinner here, thicker there. (Not exactly what you want on a 50 year old man's birthday cake.)

Doug's birthday cake. The flowers in the background were one of his gifts. They dried beautifully and we still have them.

Somebody Pinch Me

Douglas and I are in Munich, Germany now. We will be here for two glorious years. We arrived early morning to the first of many rainy, gray days. I love the rain so all my German teachers at the institute said that I will love Germany. Yes! Upon arrival, we were driven to our apartment which, in a word, is charming. Although we were told we’d be in a spacious four bedroom apartment across the city from the Consulate, we are in a small two bedroom apartment a couple blocks from the Consulate. I’m glad. I wasn’t, but I am now. It has beautiful wood floors, huge windows overlooking trees and another bright yellow apartment building with flower decorated balconies, huge closets and lots of storage. We are given a maid’s quarters upstairs which is now my writing room. It’s a small, plain, square room with a closet and a window overlooking more trees.

Doug was delighted to learn that he was not expected at work our first day in Munich. Our hosts left us enough food to take care of us for a couple of days so we didn’t have to run out and shop. Wednesday, our second day in Munich, we spent visiting various people in the Consulate for introductions and information. Doug had more meetings Thursday and Friday. Thursday I went in to straighten out the Consulate’s library books which may seem like a selfless act on the surface, but is actually my way of getting my hands on good books. I found one gem in particular in a book called, “Legends and Tales of Old Munich.” It has historical and mythical stories relating to various famous sights in Munich. As I am hoping to do some storytelling here, that may be very helpful. Friday I went grocery shopping for the first time. It was easy, but expensive. $$$$$ Today I made a huge pot of chicken and wild rice soup that was relatively inexpensive and will last us for days. I must find more things like that to do, because the food is very pricey.

One of the many exquisite view along the 20 miles of walking paths in the English Garden

Our shipment from Tashkent arrived Monday. The men unloaded everything putting it just where I wanted it (even if I changed my mind). When they finished, they came into the apartment and shut the door behind them which made me slightly nervous. The one in charge said, “Now we unpack for you.” I laughed thinking he was joking. They stood stock still looking at me, not getting the joke. “You’re serious?” I asked. The man leaned forward and said in his heavy German accent, “You are in Germany now.” They were serious. That was the greatest as I could put things away without futzing around with breaking down boxes, piling them and trying to stuff all the paper used to wrap in a box.

I have my piano. I was concerned about playing it and highly enforced German quiet hours, but there seems to be some distance between us and the ‘neighboring’ apartment. Our door is the only door on the landing in this hall. Someone beneath us or above us may hear it, but everyone else in this building is American and from the Consulate so they’ll probably be at work all day. I’m relieved.

This is the Monopteros which overlooks the gardens.

Oktoberfest began our first weekend here. We intended to go to a parade Saturday morning – the parade of the hosts – but we overslept. We went to a parade Sunday morning instead, the parade of the costumes. It was nearly three hours long. I have never seen so many bands and costumes in my life. I loved it. My favorite bands were made up of drums, glockenspiels and fifes. We saw oxen, men threshing hay, whip crackers, birds of prey and pretzels and cookies tossed to the onlookers.

The view from the Monopteros.

Tonight Douglas is at a basketball game with the Deputy Chief of Mission from Berlin. I cleaned lint out of my hairbrush. That’s okay. I was in the mood. It was kind of a Zen thing.

You know how, when you’re in another city or state or country, something will happen that tells you that you are no longer home, you are somewhere else? On our first day, we took a walk in the city and these young men were skipping down the street carrying cases of beer and singing. And this was in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon! Later that week I was walking and heard “Allo!” I turned and saw two very young children peeking out a window grinning at me. The window was like a door in shape, but opened by swinging up vertically instead of your typical window which swings out horizontally. They were squeezed into that little opening watching me walk. Precious.

These beautiful gardens are right across the street from our apartment.

My Left Arm

Tell me, have you ever dressed yourself with one arm? Try it when you have some time and patience to spare. Ever tied your shoes with one hand? It is possible if you're flexible and have long laces. One more, no, two. Ever washed under your right arm with your right hand? Shaved? No? Lucky.

In Tashkent I began experiencing pain in my left elbow It worsened and spread to my shoulder. I didn't seek any medical care there because our Embassy was limited in equipment. Locally many 'doctors' got their licenses through bribery. So I waited until we got home to have my arm checked out. A long awaited MRI showed a torn rotator cuff and superior labral tear. I opted for surgery.

That was July 9th. My left arm was in a sling for a week and had to remain absolutely passive.

Poor Douglas.

It wasn't too big a deal the first two days because I was not allowed to shower or bathe. My shoulder was covered with a huge dressing to provide not only coverage, but padding. I looked like my left side was geared up for football.

 What made me laugh was that underneath all that gauze lurked three little bandaids. We've made so many medical advances that we are not sent home from surgery with a bandaid. After the dressing was removed things got a little sticky. Really sticky. The gum from the bandages adhered to my arm seemingly permanently. I asked the Physician's Assistant if she would clean up my arm a bit as I had to walk out in public after I left the office and my arm looked very, very bad. She said that she had nothing with which to clean it.

What? No alcohol in a doctor's office? No, she assured me. I could look around if I wanted, she gestured. Not necessary, I replied. I was just surprised that a doctor's office would have no alcohol, that's all. I turned to Doug, who was with me, doesn't it seem strange to you that a doctor's office would have no alcohol? (Note: when you want backup, sometimes your husband is not your best choice.) Well, he began, it depends on what sort of doctor's office . . . never mind, I interrupted. To finish this teensy saga, when I was taken away for an x-ray in this same office not one minute later, I asked what the staff did in the event of, say, a paper cut. Make an emergency pharmacy run or just suck it? I got a blank look from the x-ray technician. I explained that I was told there is no alcohol in the office. Who told you that, she wanted to know. I told her. I also got several alcohol soaked cotton patches which sweet Douglas used to attempt to clean my arm up a bit. They didn't work.

Now, the timing of all this was somewhat good and somewhat bad. The surgery was on the 9th. Doug's German exam was to be on the 15th. He was surprised that week to learn that they had moved up his exam by four days without bothering to notify him. I was a physical mess; Doug was a mental mess. I needed a lot of help with everyday things like bathing and dressing. I could let my left arm move in specific ways as long as it remained passive. I could bend forward letting my arms dangle while I swayed and let them pendulum this way and that. So I decided to try and undress myself. Remember the sticky goo from the dressing that we couldn't get off? Imagine me dangling over while I tried to take off a shirt one-handed that was adhered to the back of my shoulder. Frustrating. I had to be careful with my right arm as the elbow is already showing signs of tendonitis which is what started this whole thing with my left arm. So I had to call Doug away from his important studies to undress and dress me. You want to know what got the goo off my skin? Old fashioned sweat. I went to the gym and rode the bike for a hour. When I got home, it rubbed right off.

 Poor Douglas.

The good news was it turned out that my rotator cuff was intact. It was a bone spur that was causing so much pain and limited motion - that and the labral tear. There was a bit of good news there, too. My superior labrum was shredded which means he couldn't repair it. That sounds bad, and I thought it was until it was explained to me that a repair would have meant weeks more immobility and physical therapy. Since it was 'just' shredded, he could clean up the shredded ends like you would trim off fraying fabric. I should have complete recovery.

Part of my therapy included the use of a cold therapy machine up to which I was hooked for two and a half long hours daily.

Fast forward to the date I'm actually publishing this account. I have regained much range of motion. I still have minor pain when trying to stretch, but I can stretch. Otherwise, my arm simply won't move and must be manipulated into place. I have begun strength building exercises which cause some pain, but, again, it's minor. There is one exercise that really hurts. I use a cloth held in my right hand (of the 'good' arm) trailed over my right shoulder. My left hand reaches behind and grasps it while my right arm pulls my left arm up my back. Therapists always ask, "How much does it hurt, on a scale from one to ten?" One therapist described one as taking a nap and ten as getting your arm caught in a combine and it's being pulled off. This new exercise is around eight and a half.

Oh, more good news. Douglas passed his German exam. He's now taking a consular course to train to be a consular officer in Munich. It's almost countdown time. We have tickets for Munich and one more visit home. Bad news. Our long awaited four-bedroom apartment in Munich has turned into a two bedroom apartment. We will be unable to house any guests unfortunately, though guests are still very welcome.

In the meantime, don't take scratching your back for granted. It's the little things, you know . . .