The inside and outside worlds: a nitrous-oxide-induced-revelation

A prior blogpost of mine dealt with the phenomenon of achieving philosophical epiphanies while under the influence of a mood-altering substance. No, I haven't revisited the dentist since my prior post, but the revelations at that visit were so numerous that I had to divide the discussion into separate, concise blogposts. (Stay tuned for further sagacious insights.)

As discussed in my prior post, the nitrous oxide I inhale while sitting in the dental chair has the effect of freeing my mind of trivial worries and cares. Slowly, I relax into a deep, meditative ocean of mindfulness, and open to remarkable revelations. 

One idea that flowed through my consciousness was that all that we experience can be divided into two categories: the inside and outside worlds. As the dentist and hygienist worked in my mouth, my interior world was flittering with activity. Thanks to the application of nitrous oxide, the physical sensations in my mouth were not unpleasant, and I can say that I almost enjoyed them. This dental office had thoughtfully provided a television for their patients to watch and listen to, and the comfortable reclining chair increased the tranquilizing stimulus. 

As uncanny thoughts and images danced in my brain, I reminded myself that neither the dentist nor the hygienist could read my mind, so my "inside world" remained completely private. All that anyone else can perceive is transmitted through physical actions and audible words -- that which is perceivable by others is the "outside world." My skin is the metaphorical barrier between these two realms.

I have found this to be a useful way of categorizing thoughts and experiences. I admit to being a little insecure at times, and often worry too much about what others may think of me. I may have a hypersensitivity to being judged, perhaps because I was bullied as a child and adolescent. There are even some things I hesitate to discuss with my psychotherapist, because I deem them embarrassing. She probably has "heard it all before" and would not be shocked or judgmental. Generally, with her as with others, I am a fairly open person and there are few evil things I have done, or wicked thoughts I've entertained, during my lifetime. I wouldn't say that I'm an "open book," but most of my "chapters" have already been published. (How do you like that literary allusion? It's almost as if I'm trying to promote my one published novel which is available in print and eBook format at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers! 😏)

If I feel embarrassed or ashamed, I remind myself that others cannot read my mind, and confession, while "good for the soul," is not always required. Some secrets I will probably take to my grave, and no, I'm not going to share them with you either.

THE PLEASURE-PAIN CONTINUUM...

 ...OR HOW I DISCOVERED THE MEANING OF LIFE IN A DENTIST'S CHAIR.

I have my most profound thoughts about twice a year, sitting in my dentist's office, with a nitrous oxide mask over my nose. Since I don't partake of marijuana nowadays, even though it's legal, my semi-annual dental appointments are my only opportunity to get high. (I do drink alcohol on occasion, but it doesn't have the same effect. I'm more likely to fall asleep after a couple of drinks, than to experience nirvana and become open to the secrets of the universe.) The high I get from nitrous oxide is much more intense than any affects I feel from alcohol, and probably approximate that of recreational drugs. It's been too many decades since I've indulged in any of those, so I can't really make a precise comparison.

One of those profound thoughts, which I was blessed with just the other day, was a concept I'll call the "pleasure-pain continuum." I'm sure I'm not the first person to conceive this idea, but it feels worthy enough for me to share with you.

All sentient creatures have the ability to experience both pleasure and pain, though only humans have the vocabulary to discuss and analyze it. Pleasure and pain is a continuum, and since we cannot literally feel someone else's pain or pleasure, we've come up with ways to describe and communicate it to each other. Patients in hospitals are often asked to rate their pain level on a scale of 1 to 10. For me, the worse pain I've ever experienced was following a medical procedure many years ago. I was hospitalized for a couple of days, with a morphine drip attached to my arm. I'm fine now, and though it's hard to reconstruct that sensation in my brain (probably a good thing), I do remember how miserable I was for those few days.

Though not everyone has been hospitalized or had a serious medical condition, most of us have had the "pleasure" of sitting in a dentist's chair. I'm a bit of a chicken when it comes to pain, so I'll happily take Novocain or nitrous oxide when offered. If I want to describe the epitome of pain, dentistry provides a useful lexicon that most people can relate to. To me, having an extraction, filling or root canal without pain medication of any kind, is the worst pain I can conceive. Being drawn and quartered (like criminals were in the old days) is probably even worse than any dental procedure, but I have no reference point to that level of pain. I can only imagine it and I don't want to. 

The other end of the continuum is pleasure, which is a lot easier to focus on. Many people use erotic imagery to describe the ultimate experience of ecstasy, and I've even used the word "orgasmic" to describe non-sexual pleasures, such as the most delicious food I've ever eaten. We all know what pleasure feels like, but it's different for each of us. For some, sexual pleasure is the pinnacle, while for others, it may be an enjoyable experience like a fabulous concert, an exquisite work of art, a perfect sunset at the beach, a succulent filet mignon, a luscious dessert, or just the warm and loving companionship of friends and family.

But what does all this have to do with "the meaning of life" as I've suggested above? I've always been of a philosophical bent, and have pondered this question most of my life. I remember a certain period in my late teens and early twenties when I was obsessed with finding the meaning of life. I explored various religions (read my other blogposts on that subject) and at times felt like I was having an existential crisis. As I've gotten older, and hopefully wiser, I've come to believe that as interesting as the subject may be, too much philosophizing about arcana can be detrimental to one's mental health, and I'm unlikely to discover the secrets of the universe until I'm on the other side of the grave, if then. I've previously blogged about the dangers of introspection, and remind myself that I should make the best of the life I have now, since this may be the only one I have. 

My nitrous oxide induced conclusion, at least while sitting in the dentist's chair, was that we may never know the meaning of life, but what we can know and understand is the life we are living right now, and that all of our emotions, sensations and experiences lie somewhere along the pleasure-pain continuum. It is primal, existential and universal. Even my cat Dexter understands this, though he doesn't have the words to communicate it. I know he feels pain, when I accidentally step on his tail, and his purring, kneading and nuzzling when I pet him  suggest pleasure, or whatever the equivalent is for a cat. None of us know, but all of us feel. I think we should savor life as best we can, and experience joy in whatever form is meaningful for each of us.

Reflections on the life and death of President Jimmy Carter

 

GRIEF

SOLEMNITY

DIGNITY

HONOR

RESPECT

SERVICE

PATRIOTISM

PRIDE

PEACE

BEAUTY

LOVE

AMERICA

The Ghost of Greenwich Village

I'm usually down in Greenwich Village about once a week, where I volunteer for "God's Love We Deliver." I live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and take the 1 train about 20 minutes to Houston Street most Fridays. Recently, during my 5 minute walk from the subway to God's Love at Sixth Avenue and Spring Street, I encountered a presumably homeless person, completely covered in what looked like a white sheet. It was pretty cold out, and I remember thinking that the white covering couldn't have provided much warmth. I did not take a photo, partly because I needed to get where I was going, and partly because I didn't want to take off my gloves to snap a picture with my phone. I also felt it would be disrespectful because I couldn't get their permission. I take pictures along my wanderings in NYC and farther afield all the time, and often post them on Facebook. I just kept walking, but the image of this "ghost," likely a freezing homeless person, remained in my mind for some time. If I'd had the presence of mind and the person was not fully encased in the sheet, I might have stopped and asked if he or she would like a cup of coffee or some food. But I chose to leave the "Ghost of Greenwich Village" alone. Hopefully, he later got something to eat and a chance to warm up.

"Murder" in the kitchen...

 

...or how my holiday cookie-making became a baking disaster!

I'm not handy in the kitchen, unless we're talking microwave, not oven. At this point in my life, I've accepted my limitations, or rather, my preferences. Yes, I can cook or bake in a pinch. I can read a recipe and follow directions. I'm a widow, and before, during and after my marriage, many people (usually well-intentioned relatives and friends, and less so my late husband -- maybe because he knew me best of all) would encourage me to flex my culinary muscles, and even send me cookbooks or suggest recipes.

 

Today I accept myself where I'm at, know my strengths and weaknesses, and am not ashamed of my lack in interest in food preparation. Domesticity has never been my strong point, but I'm better at math than many of my friends and relatives who don't work in finance like I did.

There have been rare occasions when I've willingly put on an apron and plunged into the culinary arts, usual when I have a friend staying over who likes to cook. Otherwise, it's reheating packaged meals, take-out food, or very easy dishes like omelets and PB&J. I could probably even cook spaghetti and heat up some jarred sauce if I had the time, interest, and motivation.

When I was younger, I used to bake once in a while, and my mother was a very good cook and baker. However, I don't seem to have inherited those genes. Nowadays, the stove only needs to be dusted off on occasion, and the oven is used mostly to store pots and pans.

A few weeks ago, I participated in a holiday cookie exchange at my place of spiritual fellowship, the New York Society for Ethical Culture. We were encouraged to actually bake for this event, and not just contribute store-bought cookies. I Googled "easy festive cookie recipes" and found one that looked interesting, and maybe even fun! I had nearly all of the ingredients on hand, and only needed to buy more unsalted butter and red food coloring.

The afternoon of the day before the exchange, I donned an apron and set to work. Being methodical in nature, and a bit nervous about this endeavor, I had assembled and arranged the ingredients, hand mixer and other tools on my kitchen counter earlier that day.

Mixing the dry ingredients with a whisk in one bowl was simple enough, and then I set upon combining the butter and sugar in a separate bowl with my hand mixer. Well, lo and behold, the mixer didn't work. I knocked on a couple of my neighbors' doors, but they were either not home or using their mixer at that very moment themselves.

Hand mixer in hand, I went down to the lobby of my apartment building to consult the doormen on whether the mixer was indeed kaput (it was) and to ask if they knew which apartments might be most fruitful in my search to borrow a mixer (i.e., who was home, and who was more likely a baker). I didn't want to knock on sixty apartment doors in search of the elusive appliance. As luck would have it, just as I was picking the doormen's brains, the elevator doors opened, and a neighbor whom I recognized appeared. Long story short, she kindly lent me her heavy stand mixer, which I gratefully carried from her apartment to my own.

Whoever claimed that these are easy festive cookies has a different definition of the word "easy" than I have. I struggled along, trying to follow the directions as best I could, until disaster struck! I accidentally knocked over the tiny bottle of red food coloring on my kitchen table where it pooled and then instantly spilled onto the floor below. 

Cookie making was immediately halted and a frenzied clean up began. My kitchen looked like a murder scene, with the "blood splatter pattern" even reaching my cat's water bowl under the kitchen table. Dexter saw that his mommy was freaking out a little and came to investigate. He sniffed at the "blood pool" on the floor but I shooed him away quickly. I didn't want a trail of red paw prints throughout my apartment.

After the "crime scene" was cleaned up, I wearily returned to the dough. I won't detail every step of this very not-easy process but believe it or not, by midnight or so, I had produced 18 ginormous candy cane cookies that looked pretty good and didn't taste bad either. If you are brave and daring I can send you the recipe, but I will not be making these cookies again. Nor will I ever open another bottle of red food coloring, or any other color for that matter. Any future cookies baked in my kitchen will be colorless, though hopefully not tasteless.

Good King Wenceslaus

Wenceslaus I, Duke of Bohemia, was a real person, and not just the hero of the famous Christmas carol. This morning, I was listening to Christmas songs before venturing out into the cold, on the way to my place of spiritual fellowship.

 

Crossing Broadway in the frigid weather, walking very slowly, in a skirt with no stockings, was an older woman with a rollator. I asked if she would like a coffee, and she said yes, "light and sweet," and a bagel with vegetable cream cheese.

"Good King Wenceslas" played in my head as I waited in line at the bagel shop. I don't usually eat breakfast on the go, but had been running late and hadn't gotten a chance to eat before I left home. As it turned out, I didn't really want a bagel, and had been planning on stopping at a bakery for a croissant and an almond milk latte. 

The line at the bagel shop was longer than usual (a lot of other folks had ventured out into the cold too) and I feared that my neighbor would not be able to wait out in the cold, and might have moved on by the time I paid for her breakfast. 

But she was still waiting patiently at the corner of Broadway and 86th, and then inched her way in my direction with her rollator. 

Years ago, at a different spiritual fellowship, I remember being told that good deeds don't "count" if you tell anyone. They are supposed to be between you and God. After this unexpected detour, I was a little late for the service, and mentioned my good deed to our clergy leader. He gave me dispensation on the spot. So yes, I told another human being, but I don't really think any god or goddess will hold it against me. And of course, I'm telling YOU now, but I've decided that blogging about one's good deeds doesn't diminish them, and might actually inspire YOU to buy a coffee and a bagel for the next stockingless elderly woman you see. 

In case you're not familiar with the Christmas carol, here are the lyrics. I think you'll agree that they are fitting. 

Good King Wenceslas looked out,

on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
deep and crisp and even;
Brightly shone the moon that night,
tho' the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
gath'ring winter fuel.

"Hither, page, and stand by me,
if thou know'st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives a good league hence,
underneath the mountain;
Right against the forest fence,
by Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,
bring me pine logs hither:
Thou and I shall see him dine,
when we bear them thither."
Page and monarch, forth they went,
forth they went together;
Through the rude wind's wild lament
and the bitter weather.

"Sire, the night is darker now,
and the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how;
I can go no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, good my page;
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod,
where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
shall yourselves find blessing.

The joys of "throwing out"

In a rare burst of energy and enthusiasm, I decided to tackle my underwear drawers. The "treasures" I was able to finally part with included:

20 year old sports bras in near mint condition.

30 year old silk camisoles and lacy strapless bras that bring back memories of black tie galas, and the sexy strapless dresses I once wore, and of being a bridesmaid long before I was a bride.

Panties in pristine condition, some brand new, that I could still wear again, if I lost 40 pounds.

Socks with "sentimental" value because they have cats on them and were gifts from my sister, but are now dingy and have long lost all of their elasticity.

Really warm and thick socks, from my early twenties, when I wore heavy work boots in the snow, instead of the more practical black Uggs. Those work boots are long gone, but if I remember correctly, they looked something like this:

These are the ones I wear now when it snows, and they're even warmer and more comfortable than the work boots. As far as style... judge for yourself:

I now have much neater and more organized underwear drawers, and threw out enough stuff to produce an entire empty drawer, waiting to be filled again! But nothing went to waste. I brought the two shopping bags full of my old memories to Housing Works, the charity thrift store where I volunteer. We don't resell underwear, unless it's brand new and still in the package, but we send out any donated textiles to be recycled. Someday, my sports bras, strapless bras, panties and old socks will be reincarnated as something useful, and worn again by some needy person.