I miss my brother.

…I thought I had more to write than that… But I guess I don’t.

Tally so far: $25

Complaint #4: My shoulder hurts. A lot. STILL.

Complaint #5: I feel like a pre-pubescent teenager with acne.

Realization: Complaining is not a painkiller, nor beautifier. That energy, however, can be put into action (or non-action, as the case may be).

I have chronic shoulder pain, the result of years as a competitive gymnast, hyper-mobile ligaments, and a car accident. In recent years it has been getting worse, and I find myself complaining when the relief I keep expecting doesn’t come, and I think to myself: “I’m twenty-six years old… what kind of pain am I going to be in when I’m EIGHTY-six?”

It’s very frustrating. And painful. (Not that I’m complaining.)

I really am, most of the time, warranted in my bemoaning of my pain — I really do have a pretty fucked up shoulder. However, with my recent Prospective Fund Project, every time I start to complain, I instead take the more economical approach and do one thing which might help remedy my ailment. In the past week, I have done the exercises a physical therapist gave me (twice) which I otherwise ‘forget’ to do (oops), made an appointment with an osteopath, seen an accupuncturist, and got up from the computer when my shoulder was screaming SET DOWN THE MOUSE AND WALK AWAY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

Normally, I would just bitch.

I’m finding the money as negative reinforcement is only secondary; at the end of the day, I would happily donate $25 to a good cause. The true benefit of this project is the mindfulness that comes along with it. Where I would normally complain with little to no recognition that I was even complaining, I instead feel a little buzz in my chest right before I open my mouth that whispers is that really what you want to be saying, what you want to be doing, in this moment?

The answer is usually ‘no’.

Now, the acne thing — that’s another story. I suddenly (one day, one month, last year) broke out all over my chin, and it will not go away. I have never had a pimple in my life, and now my chin is chronically red. Stress, you say? Possibly. Diet? I eat like a friggin’ Alice Waters. Hormones? I knew I was a late bloomer, but this is ridiculous.

Well, as it turns out, no one can tell me why — not a doctor, not a dermatologist, not even my psychiatrist. So I have been meditating on the problem, and have figured out that it is life’s way of punishing me for needing to know. Once I don’t care, I reason, things will mysteriously clear up. In the meantime, the Perspective Fund Project is helping me bite my tongue every time I pass a mirror. I have better things to do:

I added up all the moments I would have spent feeling insecure, ugly, and sorry for myself, and instead wrote this blog post.

Tally so far: $15

Complaint #2: That my new gym didn’t show me around when I first signed up, and I therefore didn’t even know where the locker room was.
Realization: Complaining doesn’t help me find it. Ask and let it go.

Complaint #3: General bitching about love and boys.
Realization: That was the best $5 I ever spent.

Tally so far: $5

Complaint: That the Crane Canyon Regional Park parking toll was “too expensive for such a small park.”

Realization: It’s $4. Get over it and hike.

Also, my mother has joined the cause.

After a recent conversation with some friends about the general running of the mind over that which doesn’t need to be run (?), and specifically the physical self in all of it’s glorious imperfections, challenges, and frustrations, I am realizing joyfully that this needless, indulgent cycle has no end — until, of course, we end it.

While I ain’t no Golden-Buddha-Monkey Zen Master than can turn off my superficial thoughts like a light switch, I am putting this rumination to good use.

I have been, as many of you know, the witness of many incidents of loss in recent weeks — a reminder of what a transitory time we have here, and how much precious time and valuable energy we spend worrying about things which are utterly, insanely, fantastically meaningless.

How strange that not even 2 months after the blow of my brother’s death I find myself still bemoaning that elusive 5 “extra” pounds we ladies (& some men? & some men!) love to fret about. 

Oh, the Luxury Worries! 

How much time — (the precious fleeting ticks of our lives!) — do we waste on these trivialities?

To find out, I am starting a “Perspective Fund” (aka, a shoe box) to which I will add $5 every time I needlessly bitch, whine, or complain about a physical problem — love handles, acne, flat hair, saggy boobs, knobby knees, crooked left middle toe — or quotidian problems clearly beyond my control — traffic, someone being late, the price of gas, a hole in my sock, someone mistaking me for an ewok — etc.

Using the equation time = money, this project aims to make me aware of just how much time/money I “willingly” throw away.

At the end of six months I will take accumulated funds and donate to a charity I feel strongly about*[1].

I have encouraged my friends and family to call me on my complaints when they hear them:

ME: “I wish my knees were cuter. They’re so… bumpy. [pout]”
THEM: ”Shannon! That’ll be $5!”

I’ve even encouraged them to consider doing a “Perspectives Fund” themselves. I would pose no less a challenge to you, Dear Readers…

Why does it matter to discover how much time we spend a-bitchin’? Because you can always make more money — but you can never get back time.

*[1] Of course, donating money to charity is hardly “throwing it away;” however, it’s better than burning the money after 6 months wholly on principle, right?

See — life isn’t all doom and gloom: my cat Patches, at 16 years old, finally learned to use the litterbox! We celebrated this morning with an extra serving of Giblets & Gravy (for her) and freshly-brewed homemade Dong Quai tea (for me). Then I sat down to write.

It is precisely at this moment — when I find myself not only celebrating my elder cat’s ability to piss in a box but my writing about it — that I realize I am still the same goofy nerd as ever. No amount of loss or tragedy can squash my dorkism, thank God.

I am smiling.

A letter came in the mail. It indicated I had a package waiting for me at the post office. From the Trident Society. I knew what it was.

Carrying the box from the post office to the car, I noted how unbelievably heavy it was (my brother was a big guy). Do you know how much your ashes will weigh? More than you think.

I thumped the box into the passenger side. The seat bounced quietly. I noticed the price to ship: It cost $21.06. It was sent UPS ground.

It had my name on it, addressed to me as if it were an Amazon.com order, some late Christmas gift I had ordered but had come too late.

I came home to my mother pouring coffee in the kitchen. She looked at me, lumbering into the hall with a brown parcel and I could tell that she knew, too. I set the box down in the other room, making sure it was away from the kitchen, but not too far away to be disrespectful. It’s a very strange thing, finding the right spot for remains.

My mother went over to the box and attempted to lift it. She looked sad. I thought she might cry. She lifted her head and raised her eyebrows instead.

“It’s heavy!”

“How much to do you think it weighs?” I asked.

“10-15 lbs.” was her guess.

She left for an appointment. With the rest of the house empty, I took the opportunity to wander from room to room and yell at walls. I accused them of being motherfuckers, of their unfairness. They stared back at me, white, emotionless and unapologetic.

I sat on the bottom stair and sobbed. It was true, this death of my brother’s; he had not — as suggested by my mother, desperate for an alternate reality — moved to Alaska and orchestrated an elaborate hoax. No, no: he really had died.

And now he was sitting in a 12″ x 12″ x 24″ box on our living room table, underneath the china teacups.

I went upstairs and called Fidelity Investments. I opened up a 0% fee Rollover IRA and a Roth IRA and the nice man on the phone helped me rollover my Simple IRA and 401(k) into the Rollover IRA, and then plan for a Roth conversion because it’s better to pay the income taxes now since I’m in the lowest tax bracket this year and also I can avoid the monthly contributions and initial deposit if I rollover which is good and I was beginning to feel better until I had to fill out the online application which asked me to designate a beneficiary.

I no longer have any beneficiary.

My brother had always, always been my “primary designated beneficiary.” When I got my first job and set up a 401(k), we joked that if I ever kicked the bucket he would be in a prime position to inherit the mighty sum of $300.

But slowly I am coming to accept that the only thing I will ever give him are these words.

I have stories to tell from New Year’s, and Mendocino, and the general endings of 2007 and going-forth-ness of 2008 — but first I need to take a moment to reflect, once again, upon death and loss.

Since my brother died, every day is strange and different, difficult and sometimes joyful in the most unexpected ways. But the thing that I have continually come back to is the utter non-uniqueness of my experience.

So many people came/still come forward to express not only their sympathy, but their empathy to reminded me that I am not alone in this pain.

I am reminded again today of our good old Buddhist-Buddies and their motto that “Suffering is a Part of Life”:

Today I found out that my father’s very good friend was in a car accident with his two sons, fracturing ribs and jaw and nerves; his other friend — a kind, quiet man who we just saw at my brother’s memorial — committed suicide; and the mother of my friend and yoga teacher finally passed away after a 6 year battle with cancer.

“This has been a hard winter,” my mom said, her eyes losing their focus into the floor. Her shoulders dripped heavy.

“I’m beginning to think this ain’t an exceptional winter,” I said, catching her eyes, “I’m beginning to think this is just life.”

* * *
I came across an old thought I had jotted into the corner of some notebook. It read, Life, for the strong ones, is just a series of good-byes.

I know many of you Readers out there have had to say good-bye at some point in your life — whether it from death, the leaving of someone, a particular time in your life, a dream, some other letting go — and those of you who haven’t, will.

For your benefit, and certainly for mine, I’m posting a favorite story of life, and death, and inseparable nature of the two — and the strange peace that can be found because of it.

* * *

The story of Krishna Gotami

When Krishna Gotami’s first child was one year old, it fell ill and died. Grief stricken and clutching it’s little body, she roamed the streets begging anyone who could to give her medicine to restore her child’s life. Some ignored her, some laughed, and some thought she was mad. Finally she met a wise man who told her the Buddha was the only person who could perform such a miracle.

So she went to the Buddha and laid her child at his feet. The Buddha listened with infinite compassion. Then he said gently,

“There is only one way to heal your affliction. Go down to the city and bring me back a mustard seed from any house that has not lost a parent, grandparent, child, or friend. ”

Krishna Kotami felt elated and she ran out to the city to find a house that had never had a death. Each home she came to, the people took pity on her and offered her their mustard seed. But when she then asked if they had ever lost a parent, grandparent, child or friend? they answered “Alas, the living are few; but the dead many. Do not remind us of our deepest grief.” She went all around the city asking but there was no house but that some beloved had died in it.

She took the body of her child to bury and said goodbye to him for the last time and then returned to the Buddha.

“Did you bring the mustard seed,” he asked.

“No,” she said.” I’m beginning to understand the lesson you are trying to teach me. Grief made me blind and I thought that only I had suffered at the hands of death.”

* * *

Hey ya’ll.

New Year’s we had a gen-u-ine hoe-down in a friend’s barn: fire-pit, chili-dip, moonshine (yup, someone whipped up some homemade vodka), live band, keg, pig-tails and hay bales (actually, they were alfalfa, but who’s keeping score?)

Still recovering from the boot-stompin’, line-dancin’, free-wheelin’ good time; that, and the rain has me mesmerized. Stay dry, and I will be writin’ soon. Come back now, ya’ hear?