The Impact of Others—and 'Muskrat Love'

It was another bittersweet night in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) at the hospital where I volunteer each week. The night started out with the usual finger-to-elbow soap scrub and antibiotic sanitization, the check-in at the nurse’s station, and then the search for the perfect baby to rock. The night ended with a profound need to acknowledge the impact others have had on my life and the lives of others.
 

In the first NICU bay, at the first bed, was a squirmy little one who needed cuddling. I didn’t hesitate.

I don’t know if all baby rockers have elaborate conversations with the infants they hold, but I do. This baby had obviously been on this journey before. His squirms were an impatient sign that he was ready to get this life stuff going. He had things to do! People to meet! Art to create!

Yes, while holding him, I intuitively knew that he would grow up to be an artist. And that he would have something inspiring and powerful to offer the world—art that would change lives. I felt honored to hold him, and soon his impatience waned and he fell asleep. I rocked him for about 90 minutes before his nurse took him for feeding. I told the nurse that I was headed next to see my Ninja Warrior, the baby who’d been struggling for months in another bay.

She shook her head “no,” and her lip curved downward.

“About an hour ago,” was all she said.

My heart sank.

I dragged my Sketchers through the long hallway, wondering if the baby and his parents were still in the bay. They weren’t. In fact, the corner of the bay where the Ninja Warrior had fought so hard for so long—once filled with cards and prayers of encouragement—was already cleaned out, sterilized, and ready for another infant. And yet, the little one’s spirit still seemed to be there.

Boy, what a fighter! I thought. You did good, buddy. You did good. Rest now.

I started to imagine the pain his parents must be feeling—and I started to feel a debilitating sadness myself—when out of a small isolation room erupted the most thunderous cry I’d ever heard.

“Oh, you want to rock her?” asked an overwhelmed nurse with big eyes. “She’s all yours.”

Determined to comfort this baby as best I could, I returned to Expert Baby Rocker mode. I reached into the bed and gently lifted the infant into my arms. She was wrapped as tight as a bean burrito, and she tooted like she’d just eaten one too! Maybe she had gas. Maybe that was the reason that she was so irritable. NICU nurses have a name for grumpy babies like this: “hangry”—hungry and angry. These are the babies who, because of certain circumstances, get a hard start in life, and they’re quite unhappy about it. But this little girl was different. She wasn't hungry. Her diaper was dry. And yet she was inconsolable, and she proclaimed her displeasure loud and long. Repeatedly. This little girl had a feisty spirit and some lungs!

When you rock in the NICU long enough, you quickly realize that all babies are different, and that what works to comfort one doesn’t come close to easing the anxiety of another. However, all babies have a sweet spot—a position, a song or a combination of things that allows them to relax and settle into rest. This little girl was testing that reality.

I held her horizontally, her head cradled in the bend of my elbow. She cried.

I switched to the other side. She cried.

I held her up closer to my chest, and for a minute, she was silent. And then she cried.

I held her up on my left shoulder so that she could see everyone and everything better, and for a minute she was silent again. Then she cried. I switched to the right shoulder. She cried.

I rocked her, bounced her, patted her on the back and then patted her on the rump. She still cried.

I played musical chairs with this little one, trying to find her sweet spot. Nothing was working. And that’s when I remembered my kung fu training:

Never expect. Never compare.

I began to relax when it occurred to me that I'd expected her to calm down and stop crying.

Taking several deep breaths, I began accepting that it was O.K. that she was crying—that maybe that’s just what she needed to do. My job wasn’t to keep her from crying. It was to hold her. So I started to pat her on the rump while singing Captain & Tennille songs. She began to settle a little with a slow version of “Love Will Keep Us Together,” but I guess in another life she knew that Daryl Dragon and Toni Tennille got divorced, so she began to cry again.

Next I softly sang “Muskrat Love.” Now I’m not the best singer (I only sound good in the shower), but there was something about the melody of this song that made her close her eyes for a long second. Then a longer second. Then a minute. And then minutes. I watched as her face relaxed and her breathing changed pace. The monitor’s long white vertical lines clumped together, indicating my suspicion: She had fallen asleep.

I kept humming “Muskrat Love” a while longer, and as I hummed, I wondered if Willis Alan Ramsey, the guy who wrote the song, and Toni Tennille, the singer who helped make the song a hit, ever thought that something they created would be used in such a kind, loving, and powerful way—that it would be a tool to comfort a little baby who came into the world with difficulties and who just needed a little help to heal. I wondered if any of us realize how who we are and what we create affects others.

Soon, the little girl’s mom came into the room, and I handed her over. She remained calm and comfortable.

As I left the bay, I passed the empty corner where the Ninja Warrior fought his last battle, and I said a prayer for all those who would come after him—that they’d have an easier time. That they’d have first birthdays, second birthdays, kindergarten, first dates, college, and babies of their own. And I promised to tell others when they’ve had a positive impact on me—that I’d take a moment out of my day to say to people like Sifu that even though I’m a scattered brain kung fu student who has been missing a lot of class lately, I’m never not on the kung fu floor mentally. I take the art and his lessons with me every day.

So to honor the life of the Ninja Warrior, I challenge you today to reach out to someone and tell them how they’ve impacted your life.

This journey is way too short to not realize how special each of us is to one another.

A Life in Three Minutes

What do you do when you hear a NICU nurse say that the baby you’re about to rock “is incompatible with life”? Just what do you do?

I volunteer once a week in the neonatal intensive care unit of a hospital in Austin. I started volunteering in December because of the things I was learning about myself via kung fu: I love babies. (You learn a lot about yourself when you stand still enough and perform purposeful movement of a form called Siu Nim Tao.)

But I knew going in that there are things that come with the territory of a NICU unit, and rocking babies who won’t survive is one of them.

So what do you do? What do you say? You give them a life in three minutes:

You say, “Happy birthday! Happy Thanksgiving! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!”

You recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

You sing. You sing the ABCs.

You tell them that they were born in a place called the United States of America, and though it's not perfect, it's home. And then you sing “America the Beautiful”:

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America! God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

You hum the tune of every holiday song you can remember, even the ones you've always found annoying.

You say silly things like, “And the Oscar goes to…you!”

And then you sense a tear rolling down your cheek because you realize how hard it’s got to be to be that baby—and the parents. So full of hope and excitement. A life ending before it got a chance to start.

Too soon, the nurse says she needs to get a few stats, so you hand over the Little One for the first and last time, and whisper into the left ear, “Thanks for coming to visit us. Come back again when you can. And stay longer next time.”

The Weekend I Didn’t Spend at a Buddhist Temple

When I pray, The Universe listens. When necessary, it answers. I don’t have to be chanting in a Buddhist monastery to receive the answer. I can be sitting at my cluttered kitchen table, my bags packed by the door, ready to take a short drive to the outskirts of Austin for a four-day silent retreat at a Buddhist temple when I get a voicemail from a monk going on and on about communication issues, dignitaries making a surprise visit, and the decision—with apologies—to cancel my stay. (This a whole 90 minutes before the retreat was supposed to begin.)

Stunned in silence, I sat at my kitchen table for about 30 minutes; my car keys still in hand.

I’d reserved my spot at the temple a month in advance. The silent retreat was part of the spiritual development portion of an upcoming fourth-degree black belt test. But I’d said a couple prayers earlier that week along the lines of “…and if for any reason I shouldn’t go on the retreat at the temple, please intervene on my behalf.”

The Universe answered.

And though disappointed—on the verge of crushed—I knew that there was a reason for the intervention, even if I may never know why.

While planning for the retreat, I’d tried to apply my kung fu Sifu’s advice of “never expect; never compare.” I didn’t think I had any expectations of how the weekend at the temple was supposed to go. But I did expect to go to the temple. If there was an underlying expectation beyond that, it was the acceptance that I’d likely be uncomfortable at some point during the retreat.

The Universe has a wicked sense of humor. I was uncomfortable alright.

I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I was looking forward to living at the monastery for four days of silence. I had told coworkers before leaving that ever since watching Kung Fu as a child, I’d wanted to shave my head and move to a Buddhist monastery, just like “Grasshopper.”

 

 

What was I supposed to do now?

·       First thought: Go see my niece Amanda in Corpus Christi. She gave birth to a son six months ago. I hadn’t yet met my great-nephew, Landon.

·       Second thought: Get dressed and go to work. No since in wasting a perfectly good vacation day.

·      Third thought: Go get a donut.

I went with my first instinct: I quickly reserved a hotel room near the Corpus Christi bay front, grabbed an extra pair of shorts and my comfy white ALABAMA T-shirt, and decided to make “lemonade”—spend as much of the weekend in silence as possible. New rules: No radio, no television, no social media, calling Mare and responding to texts within a one-hour span in the evening, and “speak only if spoken to.”
 

Day 1 Observations: Sadness

On the drive to the beach, without the radio blaring, I note:

·      The terrain changes from tall trees to short, stubby bushes. The grass along the frontage roads takes on a dry brown hue typical of summertime in Texas. One burning cigarette tossed out a car window would start a wildfire.

·      Two semi-trucks fly by me with Bible verses printed on their cabs. Never seen that before.

·      This day 28 years ago, I made the same drive to interview for a newspaper job in Corpus Christi. (Weird coincidence #1)

Upon entering the lobby of the hotel:

·       I realize I’m in the exact place that the newspaper put me up at 28 years ago during my interview. The hotel has changed ownership and seen better days, but it is definitely the same place. (Weird coincidence #2)

·       I’m a tad annoyed that I have to speak to the hotel clerk at check-in (the nerve!), but she is really nice, and it isn’t her fault that I’d rather be at the temple.

In the room, I’m silent:

·      The only noise comes from the hum of an air conditioner and my annoying, chronic tinnitus.

·       I reach for my cellphone repeatedly out of habit, then pull away at the last minute as if it were hot coals.

·       It feels weird to be at the beach and not plan fun outings.

·       I feel sad when I realize that when I woke up this morning, I thought I’d be ending my day in a completely different place.

·      Through the hotel window, I watch seagulls fly around the building—because I have nothing else to do. And I’m sad again because, while the seagulls are entertaining, this is not what I want to be doing or where I want to be. Then I notice a baby seagull. How cute. Pretty sure I’d have never noticed the little sucker if I weren’t just watching in stillness and silence.

At sunset, I take a walk outside:

·       I wonder if this silent weekend counts toward my test if I’m not at the temple.

·      A humid, hot bay breeze hits my face as seagulls chirp overhead. I hope the birds don’t poop on my head, but then I think that it’d be fitting considering how the weekend is going thus far.

·       I become sad all over again. Lots of sighs and deep breaths. After all these years of sobriety, my go-to emotion in times of disappointment is still sadness.

Back in my room, the sun now gone, I toggle between studying a book of quotations from Mother Teresa and another from the Dalai Lama.:

·       I read about the “Tree of Self-Defeat,” and notice how often I feel empty and inadequate.

·       I read about forgiveness, and realize that on many levels, I’ve refused to make peace with myself—that I won’t let myself off the hook for certain imperfections.

·       I read about “freedom from mental anguish.” Boy, do I want that.

I’m so ready to not be sad anymore.

Day 2 Observations: Water, People

I’m ready to go down for the hotel’s free breakfast when I realize that I have a dark T-shirt on, and that if I plan to hike in 100-degree heat, I best put on something lighter. I choose my trusty white ALABAMA tee.

Now down at the breakfast bar, I grab some oatmeal and coffee and try to find a place away from everyone. I see an empty spot at the bar, but the moment I sit down, I know it’s not the right place. I get up and move to another table in the corner.

Two boys—a teenager and another about age five—come sit at the next table. Their mom quickly follows. She eventually leans over toward me: “So how do Alabama beaches compare to those in Texas?” She’s looking at my T-shirt.

I look down at my T-shirt. I had forgotten what I was wearing. “Oh, I don’t know. This is a souvenir.”

She was from Alabama, hence the conversation starter. We talk for AN HOUR. Turns out she knows my ex-brother-in-law. (Weird coincidence #3) Had I not changed T-shirts at the last minute and moved seats, I might have never met her, and her conversation was a welcome reprieve from sadness.

After breakfast, I take a long stroll along the bay front, where there is a fascinating display of the planets, placed much like the Stations of the Cross.

I’m in awe at how much the information seems perfectly suited:

·       The sun is one big bunch of hot air—a lot like me!

·       Mercury has a lot of craters. “Craters cover the surface,” the display reads. “Most are scars from the dawn of the solar system, when asteroids and comets pounded the planet. Now all is still and silent.” I’ve “cratered” before, I have a lot of childhood scars, and I’m still and silent this weekend. Hmmm. Who knew I had so much in common with Mercury?

·       “Jupiter’s beauty masks turbulence… Between its colorful bands of clouds swirl hurricane-like storms.” I look at the Great Red Spot in the display’s photo. I know that Inadequacy is my Great Red Spot. Like Jupiter, I mask it pretty well. I think that everyone probably has a Great Red Spot, though. They just don’t blog about it.

As I continue to stroll, I notice a banner for the Corpus Christi Hooks, the city’s minor league baseball team:

·        Sadness and inadequacy are “hooks” that keep me stuck. Whoa…

I go to a restaurant for lunch. While eating, I write a letter to myself—an honest account of how I’ve held myself back all these years:

·        You’re unfairly hard on yourself.

·        You’re a good person. Other people see it. Why don’t you?

·        Will you ever let yourself off the hook? Life is short, you know.

After lunch, I walk to the edge of the bay, tear up the pages of my letter, lay down near the water, and toss the tiny pieces of paper in the water. I watch the individual pieces slowly sink to the bottom, some quicker than others.

I gave my worries to the water. Which is Earth. And now I think it was fitting that I saw that planetary display earlier. (Weird coincidence #4) I learned that the Earth and its water are huge—big enough to absorb my little worries and take them out to sea, far away:

·        I can already feel some distance from the pain.

·       The sun feels good on my skin.

·       The coastal breeze feels good on my face.

·       The rhythmic sound of the waves lapping up against the shore is comforting.

On the walk back to the hotel, I realize that I’m a naturally social person—with a generous side of depression—and that staying away from people on a long weekend on the heels of disappointment probably isn’t the smartest thing to do, and may be a tad unhealthy. As I wait for a traffic light to change, I hear the whine and howl of the wind as it pushes the street signs back and forth. The hotel is located on the corner of Water and Peoples streets.

Back in the room, I’m restless:

·       I want to turn on the TV.

·       I want a soda pop.

·       I’d LOVE a donut.

·       It’s hard to stick with the silence when I’m sad. And again, the thought occurs to me that doing a solo silent retreat may not be the healthiest thing for a person prone to depression.

·       I meditate for 40 minutes.

I decide to break my silence, calling my niece to see if little Landon is awake. He is, so I go visit for a couple hours. He is cute and giggly and adorable. My spirits lift.
 

My great-nephew, Landon

I return to the hotel later in a better mental place. Some people and water time was just what I needed.

People.

Water.

I remember that the hotel is on the corner of Water and People streets. (Weird coincidence #5)
 

Day 3 Observations: Peanut Butter Deprivation

I’m wide awake at 5 a.m., so I get up and write about some awakenings with old-fashioned pen and paper:

·       I actually like early morning silence.

·       I need to make more time for silence and meditation, daily reflection, and spiritual study.

·       I’ve enjoyed studying my books.

I meditate for 20 minutes, then get dressed and take another walk to the shoreline to watch the sun come up. While I wait, I practice the two martial arts forms I’m working on at the moment: Taekwondo’s Pyongwon and ving tsun kung fu’s Siu Nim Tao. It feels good to be out this early. I watch the sun rise, take some pictures, and stroll back to the hotel.

In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering why I thought it was so important or necessary to do a silent retreat. What am I trying to prove?

I remember a day that Mare and I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She asked me why I spread the peanut butter so thin.

“Slather it on thick!” she urged, taking the butter knife, digging it deep into the peanut butter jar, and emerging with a clump the size of a squirrel. “Otherwise, it’s not a peanut butter sandwich. It’s a bread sandwich.”

It was my first awakening to a warped sense of deprivation:

·       I think that suffering or going without basic comforts is a noble endeavor—that by going without, I’ll somehow be stronger.

·       I’ve told myself for a lifetime that I don’t need much—that I can get by with very little. And I have. Now, though, it’s working against me. (It never really worked. It was just a coping skill that I used to get through a childhood living amid the family disease of alcoholism.)

·       I hear the voice of my mom, saying, “Don’t use too much. We have to make (fill in the blank) last.”

·   When other people go on the No Sugar Challenge, it’s about cutting something horrible from their diet. When I do it, it’s about punishing myself because I like cake and donuts.

Sitting on the bedside, I realize that while the silent retreat was born out of a challenge to become more centered and present, it ended with me depriving myself of all contact with people. I had gone to the opposite extreme—from community to isolation—and, as suspected, it indeed wasn’t healthy. Because I went into a deprived state of being on the heels of disappointment, I really set myself up for unnecessary pain:

·       The Plan B retreat deprived me of talking, of connecting with others—something that I truly need and love. I like people. I see now that I got it wrong.

·       It’s not silence I need as much as stillness. Peace. Reflection. Observation.

I decide to return home a day early.

All packed, I walk through the hotel room one last time for any forgotten items. And that’s when it hits me. By the door, I see my packed bags, stacked the same way they were the morning I thought I was going to the temple. I can’t stop the tears. I wanted to go to the temple so bad. I was looking forward to it. I excitedly told my coworkers and friends about it. I had my heart set on it. I cried hard. “Little girl” hard, because that’s probably the last time I really got this excited about something.

On the drive home, I feel numb. The drive feels familiar, though—not because I’ve driven it so many times, but because 25 years ago this month, I drove away from Corpus Christi having had my last drink of alcohol. I’ve been sober ever since. No wonder this has been a hard weekend.

As soon as I walk back through the door at home, greeted lovingly by Mare and our furry pack of puppies, my spirit lifts.

I’m imperfect—still a work in progress. Though the weekend didn’t turned out the way I’d planned, I am oddly grateful. If I hadn’t decided to take the stupid fourth-degree black belt test, and as a result go on a silent retreat, I may not have ever learned that:

·       Sadness and inadequacy are my “hooks.”

·       It’s O.K. to need and want to be around other people.

·      The beach is not always the solution to ever problem, but it’s good to check.

·       I don’t need to spend the weekend at a temple to practice stillness—to reflect in silence.

·       As usual, I have everything I need right where I am—and that’s enough.

·       I’M ENOUGH.