Soaking in Silence

I read a book a while back — I’m known to do that — discussing how the plague of multitasking and numerous daily distractions kills productivity.

Crazy, right?! I thought multitasking was supposed to be the bomb!

NOPE

The book is Deep Work, by Cal Newport. I’m not here to give you a book review. What I will tell you is that the ideas presented in the book have been nothing short of powerfully transformative.

Separating oneself from distractions, freeing the mind to dive deep into the sea of thought, is a tall order. Modern life is filled with distractions. Even writing this post I’m tempted to click over to local weather, the news, what’s the best movie to watch on Netflix tonight?

Checking texts, changing the Sirius XM station to play…lo! And behold! Aldo Nova!

How many of you remember that blast from the past?

And there you have it. We’re off reminiscing about high school days…

Or at least I’m reminiscing; my brother gave me that album for my birthday.

And…we’re back on topic, which is breaking free from distractions. Even background music can be a distraction.

I struggled with this for years. Even my love of distance running could be a distraction from getting serious about my writing. My ability to focus, having come a long way, still requires constant, diligent attention. I need to focus on focusing.

I love music. There are days when I have music playing from the time I wake up until I go to bed. It’s not often a distraction, but I just demonstrated how it can be. Even now: Don Henley’s Boys of Summer reminding me strongly of a girl, a woman I once knew.

When I really want to focus, unfortunately even the music has to go.

Silence.

Have you tried it lately? What in your life prevents you from finding your corner away from distractions?

Silence is its own music. It’s powerful. When all of the demands on our attention are stripped away, we’re left with ourselves and the freedom to focus.

I’m not trying to tell you that you have to unplug from everything and shut yourself in a soundproof room. I have music in the background right now. Atmosphere.

But there are some tasks that demand uninterrupted trains of thought. My trains often derail for the slightest reason. For me, silence is sometimes the sweetest salve to heal a fractured attention span.

Last night is an example. I thought I was going to catch a couple of episodes of Tiny Beautiful Things on Hulu and then read before bed. I’d just finished dinner and loaded the dishwasher.

The house was silent. Bastet was rubbing against my leg; she always has to be with me when I’m in the kitchen.

No noise from the neighbors.

Perfect silence…well, my tinnitus notwithstanding.

I didn’t want to disturb that bastion of quietude. I could almost reach out and touch it. I decided against the plan for Hulu. I read for the rest of the night.

Let’s see how tonight goes. I like the show. It’s based on the book by Cheryl Strayed.

Shut In

I used to run.

A lot.

It was common for me to go out into the world with nothing but a hydration pack and ambition. One, two, sometimes four or five hours I’d be out on the roads and trails, chasing a dream.

That dream was to be an ultrarunner, that rare condition that afflicts those with an addictive personality. I fit that bill.

Running any distance longer than a marathon is considered an ultramarathon. A marathon is officially 26.2 miles. 42.195 kilometers.

My objective was to run my first ultramarathon in 2021, although the pandemic threw a wrench in that; it was uncertain if and when organized races would resume.

The universe — God — had a different plan for me.

In August of 2020, August 16 to be precise, I had a transient ischemic attack (TIA), a mini-stroke, while driving southbound on US-23. The TIA caused me to black out.

An eyewitness later told police that I swerved and then veered off the road, hitting a tree dead-on.

The accident report estimated that I was traveling at 60 mph. Talk about a universal smack in the head!

But I’m not here to write in detail about the accident.

Long story short: I’m permanently disabled. No more running.

It took me a year to learn how to walk again. I live independently, but something changed in the wake of the accident. I stopped going out.

It wasn’t a matter of desire: I wanted to go out. I had moved from Ann Arbor, MI, to the beautiful mountain town of Asheville, NC. There is so much to see and do here.

I had spent a year in physical rehabilitation, housed with others also acclimating to the disabled life.

It occurred to me that I’d been in a bubble. Traveling to Asheville was my first extended experience as a disabled minority in an ableist world.

People move fast! And I’m slow. Turtle slow. Add to that my subconscious guardedness because my balance isn’t the greatest, and you can perhaps imagine…

Chicago’s O’Hare airport was my journey to Mordor.

Such experiences imbued in me a subtle dread of the idea of going out in the world.

It’s exhausting.

However, I’m starting to rediscover that part of me that loves doing the unthinkable.

I can’t run marathons anymore, but maybe I can hike a mile or two.

Or maybe I can even take my wheelchair somewhere that’s ADA accessible and spend an afternoon.

I’ve become too comfortable living in my apartment for weeks at a time: Amazon and Instacart take care of most shopping needs. My certified nurse assistant helps with household chores and meal prep.

It’s easy to be a shut in. It’s something most people would be surprised to learn about me.

But I was NEVER about doing the easy thing.

Some parts of me died in the accident. I’m learning that my marathon attitude isn’t one of them.

That’s a part of me that, apparently, took longer than my body to heal. Many have said a marathon can be a metaphor for life. I understand that now better than ever.

It’s all in the mind. I’m grateful for that.

PT@VA

It’s been a long time since my days in the military. Though I had a few complaints during my tenure as an aircraft weapons technician, my memories of the military are fond memories. I had a lot of fun. I made a lot of friends. And I sometimes shook my head over the inflexibility of procedures.

Sure, most of the procedures were developed over time, with trial and error being a part of the development process. They made sense. But I was reminded of intransigence of procedure when I received a call this morning. It was one of the physical therapists at the VA, calling to schedule an appointment for a wheelchair fitting.

I explained that I already have a wheelchair.

“That’s ok, Mr. Camfield. We need to start the process from scratch in order to equip you with a chair and hitch-mounted carrier.”

Oy! Don’t get me wrong…

I welcome the help. I really do, but why spend so much money on a new chair when I already have one?! Rhetorical, of course.

It’s not certain I’ll get a new chair. I like the one I have, and it has only about 11 miles on it. If I do get a new one, maybe I’ll donate it. I’m sure there are several organizations that could use a free motorized chair.

So I get to drive to the East side of town on Monday, bright and early at 0900.

It will be nice too get out for a bit and interact with other humans. I don’t get enough of that.

Ha! Forgot to post this the other day. Speaking of being human…

Mistakes will be made.

My Way

One of the most powerful and profound outcomes of my accident is that I can no longer move fast. My cognitive ability is unimpaired with the exception of occasional brain fog that I attribute to my traumatic brain injury. My physical ability, my speed in all activities, however, is permanently stuck in first gear. SLOW!

Sloth like, and necessarily so. If I move suddenly, such as by changing direction, I risk losing my balance and falling. I used to laugh at those commercials for alert necklaces, where an elderly person falls and can’t get up. Yeah, I was an insensitive kid, but I’m here to tell you that falling is no joke! Especially now that I’m older and my mobility is greatly diminished.

Don’t laugh at old people. Growing old is not for wimps.

I’ve fallen twice since the doctor and my PT agreed to rescind my bed rest order, which lasted for six months post-accident. Six months on my back sapped my strength. Each time I fell, I broke something. The first time, I broke my clavicle and one of the little orthopedic implants holding my left wrist together. The second time, I broke my right humerus near the elbow.

Both times, I needed help getting back on my feet. I had practiced getting up from the floor during PT sessions, but I mysteriously lacked strength after those falls. Getting up from the floor is called a floor transfer. It’s a considerable process with only one arm and limited flexibility.

Fun stuff!

But I needed help. I have since practiced floor transfers on my own.

Aw, hell! I’ve wandered from the path of my point.

Being a sloth.

I’m careful with how I move now, and it has impacted how I think. Slow motion isn’t just for visual effects.

I slow my thinking, deliberately. I picture a sloth and find fulfillment in the image of moving and thinking slowly.

By slow thinking I don’t mean like I’m mentally impaired. No no…I can process like nobody’s business! My thinking is meditative. Any moment is a fresh moment and in the NOW. a blank canvas or instance of silence, that vacuum that nature abhors.

and something comes to me. Sometimes profound, often mundane, but always in slow motion.

It’s ironic that I’m grateful for my disability. It’s evidence that I was on the wrong path. I lived for the physical. The spiritual didn’t matter.

Things have changed. I used to live in doubt. I feared death…

Now that I’ve died, it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m back with purpose.

I thought I was living with purpose before. I was woefully wrong. It’s not to run a bazillion miles. It’s not to make fistfuls of cash. My purpose is to share my story and my imagination to the best of my ability.

And spread peace where chaos resides; love where there’s hate; forgiveness where there’s injury; faith where there’s doubt; hope where there’s despair; light where there’s darkness; joy where there’s sorrow…

Y’know, the basic stuff. Maybe it’s a tall order, but living and thinking slowly goes a long way for me.

And walking with gratitude and grace in every step I take.

In a world filled with division, distraction, despair, and doubt, a little bit of love and focus goes a long way.

My way is my way. My path. We all must find our own path through life, but there is more than just the material. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Be grateful.

Bastet

Egyptian cat goddess, and black cat queen of my heart.

Meet Bastet. Though as any cat owner worth their salt knows, the name is only a formality, just as saying you’re the cat’s OWNER is a cosmic joke.

I rarely call her by her formal name. She is, in any given minute,

Baby Girl!

Fuzzy butt

Squeezy

Nutty nut

Google head

Another words, a creature of many personalities, moods that are at once mystifying and hilarious.

I adopted her two days shy of National Adopt a Black Cat Day. I didn’t know that at the time. I knew only that her face spoke to my heart, and I wanted a black cat. I wanted to give her a home.

She had recently successfully raised a litter of eight (the ninth hadn’t survived). All of her kittens had been adopted. But she had no home.

My home would be hers.

They let me spend time with her in a familiarization room, but I didn’t need the time. I knew.

After the paperwork and adoption fee, we were on our way home. She mewed pathetically the whole way, frightened of the unfamiliar carrier and the motion of the car. Then an unpleasant aroma signaled that she’d literally been scared shitless.

Ah, well. Welcome to pet ownership!

It has taken several months for her to feel comfortable with me, but now we’re inseparable. She loves to sleep between my feet, but she’s not a lap cat.

In fact, many of her behaviors are tailored ideally to my situation. She’s not a lap cat, and that works for me because I need my lap free for my iPad. Like now.

She also took right away to her scratching post, leaving my armchair alone. Mostly. The chair is a gift from a dear friend. I’d had to see it all torn up, shredded by razor sharp claws.

For the first few weeks, her night time shenanigans kept me up. I shut her out of my bedroom at night. She didn’t like that at first but adapted.

For a time.

Then she developed the habit of digging at the carpet where the door opens. I experimented by letting her come into the room at night. She started to adapt to my schedule.

Now she sleeps when I sleep, making that part of the 14+ hours each day that a cat requires to be catty.

We’ve achieved a beautiful and soothing relationship, Bastet and I. She does mostly anything she wants — which isn’t bad because she’s instinctively well-behaved — and I let her. Minimal fuss and mess, and it makes all the difference having another living soul in the house.

Randomness

Easter has come and gone. Enjoyable in my solitude. I wrote to two of my international penpals, enjoyed some reading and music, and I spoke with each of my sisters.

And I pondered. A lot. Such is common for me, especially on Sundays.

You might think I was pondering the deep stuff: life, love, the nature of sacrifice…

Nothing like that. My mind was often distracted by my clumsy upstairs neighbors, seemingly inconsiderate, or at least clueless of the noise they create through the floorboards.

I’ve considered going upstairs to introduce myself, out of the blue. Y’know, “Hey there! I thought it might be helpful for you to put a face to the person you’re annoying downstairs by you excessive commotion.”

My sister cautioned me against that approach because 1. You never know how someone may react and 2. I’m disabled and unable to adequately defend myself if their reaction isn’t neighborly.

Instead, I’m pondering writing to the apartment manager, explaining the situation and why I’m reluctant to address the matter myself. It’s a sticky situation.

Today is the Monday after Easter, and I’m feeling fine.

Mostly.

I’m saddened for so much of what’s happening in the world. Mass shootings at schools, and one just this morning at a bank in Louisville, Kentucky. I dance a tightrope of trying to stay up to date with the news while preserving sanity and a positive outlook.

Faith in God helps. I feel like I should qualify that statement. When a person talks about faith in God, it’s often assumed to be the Judeo-Christian God. The God I met during my NDE is so much more!

That’s not where I want to go with this post. I’m here to talk about…

I don’t know. It’s the not knowing I want to cover. I’m not posting just to post. I want to say something, but I also want to be honest about what is happening in my heart and head.

I was an atheist before the accident. Now I’m not. God was present when I died. It wasn’t Jesus that I saw. It wasn’t some old man sitting on a throne of Judgment.

God was and is all around us. They were and are in the living Earth, the rocks and water, wind and sunshine. Yes, God transcends gender. They are not him or her. They are so much more.

God surrounds us with beauty and love.

I’m a believer now, grateful for the chance to share my story. Take from it what you will, if you take anything at all. God doesn’t require belief for them to exist. You don’t have to believe that oxygen exists for it to contribute to life. Get it?

All I’m saying is that God is good and great and all around us.

Going Pro

We all aspire to something. Even the seemingly mundane life is anything but. The fact that we’re here, breathing in and out, thinking thoughts, performing tasks with hands that have opposable thumbs, is anything but mundane.

We are miraculous beings, spirits having a human experience. I’m here to attest to that. I’ve been to the other side. I know.

And I’m filled with gratitude daily for the chance to breathe in and out, to hum and sing to the best of my ability, and to share my story with anyone who is interested in listening.

I know I ramble in these posts, but bear with me. I am going somewhere, even if the course is circuitous.

Today is the first day of April. A day for foolishness, if that’s your thing.

For me, it’s the day I turned professional. I am a professional writer.

Being professional isn’t about getting paid, although that would be nice and maybe is the ultimate goal.

Being professional is a state of mind and a state of being. It’s about having goals and committing to achieving those goals.

In that vein, I’m committing to having a completed manuscript of my memoir be the end of the year. Aside from any freelance work I obtain, and aside from this blog, the memoir is going to consume my focus.

So there’s no fooling on April Fools Day. At least not for me. I’m entering into a contract with myself to be ready to shop my manuscript in 2024. It will give me something worthy to distract me from the fiasco of the upcoming political cycle.

It’s Saturday night. Time for me to find a movie to watch.

Figuring It Out

I am sitting at my desk with the intention of making my blog public as soon as possible. I can write like there’s no tomorrow. Where I run into trouble is on the technical side of things.

For instance, it is March 22, 2023. That’s not what the date on this article shows, and I don’t know how to change it. I’m sure it’s something simple. I’ll figure it out. All of this is a learning curve.

I have my windows open, and there is a cool breeze caressing my legs. I am garbed in by normal work uniform: champion gym shorts and a Henley, two of the three buttons buttoned. There was a time I would’ve left all of the buttons unbuttoned, but that was before the accident. Before my body was broken and reassembled as best as the surgeons were able to put me back together.

I don’t really want to talk too much about the accident and the fact that I am differently – abled. These are facts of my everyday life, and I don’t want them to define me. With the help of technology and a little assistance from my CNA, Susie, who is generously provided through my VA benefits, I can live a normal and independent life.

And. I. Love. It!

It’s fucking awesome.

What is even more fucking awesome is the gratitude that fills my heart whenever I think of all that it has taken to get me to this point in my life: living a writer’s life in the mountains of Western North Carolina.

I have yet to truly explore this area. I own that. It’s by own fault that I haven’t gotten out more. I admit that my disability has inhibited me. It’s not just about the physical limitations, it’s also the psychological limitations that I am working to change.

I’m always embarrassed.… That’s not right. I am sometimes embarrassed by my disability. I feel like people are staring at me even when there’s no one around. Are they watching me from the windows of their apartments? What about a passing car? It’s all in my head. I know that’s true, and I expect it will simply take some time for me to get past that.

I have already completed a substantial entry in my journal as well as worked on the novel that I’m currently writing. First drafts are joy. I don’t have to give a crap when I’m writing the first draft. It’s a matter of getting the words out there, shaping the idea, learning about the characters. It’s one of the most freeing feelings I know, to work on a first draft. And just get the damn thing done

I already have a recipe printed out for my CNA to help me make: lentil and potato soup. No mushrooms this time. I do love lentils, but I need to branch out with five recipes eventually.

Something else that has been on my mind is my reading, or lack thereof. I haven’t read much in the past couple days. I set out with the intention of reading but get sidetracked by things like watching a movie or binging on Better Call Saul. Reading always comes last during the day when it should have roughly the same priority as my writing.

I will change this. I will set out daily reading goals, and rearrange my schedule so that reading comes sooner rather than later. And speaking of…

It is time to get to the reading.

Another Day …

I’m sitting here at my CIC, my Command Information Center …

And I’m at a loss. Ever get that way? When you know, or at least think, you should be doing something, but you’re at a loss what that should be?

That’s me today, sitting here at my workstation, trying to think of anything I deem worthy to share with the public. The joke is that I write this as though I have an audience, and maybe I will, but my audience right now is an imaginary audience of one. I have in mind who that person is, but that is a secret I’ll keep. Maybe not until death, but at least until I’m old. Very old. And I intend to live a good, long life, even if my accident may have shaved a few years off my life expectancy. So what if I live into my 90s instead of my 100s? That’s still a good run.

And here I was, thinking I had nothing to say. It just goes to show yo never can tell …

This is an average Tuesday for me. I slept well and, for once, had no dreams that I could remember. Now that the weather here is more spring-like, my arm is complaining less. It was almost intolerable heading into the weekend. A drop in barometric pressure spells doom for my neuropathic pain.

I can’t speak for all chronic pain sufferers, but the few I know have corroborated my experience. Chronic pain is, well, a pain. As a writer, I’m never at a loss for how to describe my pain: sometimes it burns like the worst sunburn ever, sometimes it jabs me like an inoculation shot when I least expect it, and in parts of my arm that aren’t meant for a shot; other times it feels like my forearm is in a vice lined with spikes, and sometimes if feels like a combination of all of those.

Yeah, not fun.

I’ve learned that my pain is affected by inflammation. I can’t do much about the weather other than ride it out. I can limit inflammation, though. Diet, hydration, and even adequate sleep all have their roles to play.

I’m working on diet, going primarily plant-based, with plenty of whole-food plant based recipes that are naturally inflammatory. Don’t ask me what they are just yet, because I don’t know. What I do know is that I have several cookbooks that are geared towards things like reducing inflammation as well as preventing cancer. Funny how those two things are closely linked, and modern medicine is finally figuring that out.

So I’m excited for that! I’ll keep you apprised on how that pans out for me. I’m hopeful, because this pain is a bitch!

Navigating

This is my first post!

Momentous, I know; I’ve wanted to start getting my voice out into the blogosphere for longer than I’ll admit.

Procrastination can be an artform, y’know.

Regardless, here I am, for better or worse, rich or poor ( poor = status quo ), until death parts me from this body.

Again. Parts me again, but more on that in a few.

I’m here to grace you, my dear reader, with the words that represent the nature of my being at any given moment. Think about it: we have the power of written language. It’s a shame that power, whether read or written, isn’t tapped more often by more people. Maybe the world wouldn’t be in the mess it is now …

I’ll refrain from waxing catastrophic, at least for now. And it’s not only about what the written word can do for a person. Love plays a major role, too. In fact, one could argue that love, unconditional and universal, is the ultimate answer. The ultimate answer and power that can pull us up by the bootstraps out of this devisive, toxic, ream of absolutes and extremes that threaten to undermine centuries of progress.

So about this blog. It’s my personal platform to do what I do best: share thoughts and experiences and let the reader - you - take from these words what you will. If you get nothing from reading my words, so be it. But then I ask, why the fuck are you still reading?

Hey, it’s a fair question. If you’re here to find something to criticize, go away. The world has enough critics.

If you’re here out of curiosity, to learn something about me and what I’m learning from life …

And death …

Then welcome! Read on.

Yes, I said death. I died in a severe, freak, car accident. Just ask Mike, one of the first responders who pulled me from the mangled twists of metal that had once been my car. He later told me, after a few months of what would turn out to be a year of residential rehabilitation, that I had no heartbeat when they extricated me. Oh, and I wasn't breathing either – I had to cut a hole in my larynx so that I could breathe through my throat. If you don't believe me, I have the scars to show it.

Thank the powers that there are defibrillators! They shocked my heart back to a stable rhythm and carted me to the nearest emergency room.

It was at the ER that the doctor told my then-girlfriend that family should be contacted, that I may nor survive the day.

But survive I did, I survived the day. I survived a tracheotomy, being intubated and placed on a ventilator, chest tubes …

It’s easier just to tell you I survived 10 surgeries and a year of physical rehabilitation.

What I survived isn’t as important as it is to express that I survived when it wasn’t expected that I would.

Yet here I am writing this post, you lucky reader!

I have so much to tell you. So many observations and lessons learned. It’s enough to fill a book … and it probably will fill a book, if not more than one. That’s for another day and a separate project. This blog is for my daily thoughts … ramblings sometimes. never is it for creative nonfiction.

I do reserve the right to include excerpts of these posts in said nonfiction as the narrative requires.

Where was I?

Right! I was talking about surviving my accident and what it took for me to get where I am today. Except I didn’t talk much yet about what it took for me to get to a place of independence again.

That’s enough for now …