Rooting Canals amidst Life and Death

 Ovidia--every other Tuesday

I was going to make this a poor-me post after learning I need a root canal on one of my molars--and possibly more than one. 

'But why? Why me? I brush, I floss, I take calcium supplements, don't chew ice cubes and am probably in better health than I've ever been...'

'Possibly due to high doses of antibiotics and antihistamines in your preteen (adult tooth enamel formation) years--'

Okay. I can accept that. Given those anti-bug drugs kept me and my teeth alive till now, I'm grateful to them. Because remember, I'm one of the generation of school kids that got lined up in rows over the drain outside our classroom to learn to brush our teeth.

And that was because our parents and teachers, the generation of war survivors, were determined to give us the best they could... bottles of milk in a tin pail of ice in a corner of the classroom, followed by antihistamines to stop the allergic reaction the lactose triggered in me.

But then I got the news that an(other) old friend just died, far away in the UK. For years she was a friend and fixture in the Singapore arts (especially drama) scene. She coordinated scripts for shows she also acted in, like Bumboat! for the Singapore Festival of Arts and she directed too. I remember she did To Touch The Soul of A God and there were others I can't remember now. And after her return/ retirement to England, she crocheted cute animals that would turn up in Singapore for Christmas and birthdays 'Surprise!'.
I know we're all getting older but it's a shock because in my mind I'd had her fixed eternally at the age of her departure. And now she's gone, in my memory she's even younger than I am, back to the energetic, funny, wryly sarcastic dark-haired friend with no pain, no mobility issues, no problems at all. 
And it's all right, because I know there's no more pain for her now. Rest well now, sweet Katie. Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

You see why I can't grumble about my teeth?

But life goes on, so back to root canal preparation. Luckily a friend who's already been through the process (twice!) gave me this advice: 

"ask the dentist to lather on the anaesthetic gel on your gums where they're going to do the root canal BEFORE they inject the actual anaesthetic for the nerve. Yes, that half of your face will go numb and you'll drool worse than someone suffering a stroke but if it means zero pain, it's worth the price."

Which I'm sharing here for anyone else who might need it because he's someone who generally knows exactly what he's talking about and I'm a big fan of 'zero pain'.

And given that the root canal process is all about removing infected pulp and debris among the roots then cleaning, shaping, filling and hopefully bestowing a new lease of life, I decided to do the same to my limau purut or makrut lime (Citrus hystrix) tree. 

She was getting pretty pot bound, poor thing. 

I got to play at doing my own root canal, imagining what it's like for a dental surgeon going in and trying to clear the stuff in there. But luckily, on loosening the caked soil, I found she still has a root strong central root--

So I believe there's hope yet! This is temporary, though. I didn't have enough good soil mix, so in a couple of months there's going to be one more round (minus the trimming of rootlets) with some slow release fertiliser mixed in. 

Kind of like my follow up treatments and new crown, I guess. And sifting through the soil with my fingers really helped me too. 

Now I feel like I want to clean out forgotten debris from my life and bookshelves as well as from my teeth and plant pots! Because life goes on. You either clear the debris, flotsam and jetsam clogging your life or you become part of it.

On a happier note, we've received our CDC (Community Development Council) vouchers. They're from the '$1.1 billion Cost of Living Package' the government allotted every Singaporean household this year. We got $250 for groceries and $250 for food and I celebrated by splurging my first $5 voucher on this laksa.

 It was good too. The stall keeper was happy to take my voucher and threw in a stick of grilled chicken gizzards ("give you try-try--I make for myself one, not for sale") for free. Not to everyone's taste I know, but they were really good!

And I realise it's Pongal in Singapore now, from last Sunday 14 January till tomorrow, Wed 17 January. 

Pongal is a Tamil festival and Day 1 or Bhogi Mantalu is the day when people clear out unnecessary or outdated items from their homes--which also ties in with my rooting out debris theme, almost as though the universe is trying to tell me something. Traditionally these discarded objects are burned on a bonfire of cow dung patties with singing and dancing and thanksgiving, but I'll bring mine to the recycling stations and quietly thank them for their service.

Pongal celebrates Indra's victory over the dragon Vritra, when the sun, the rains and the cows were released from the dragon's control to be shared by all. It's a reminder that the joy and abundance of true prosperity and progress only counts when it is shared by all--a lesson we all need to remember!

  

My greatest fear is to be buried in uncomfortable shoes

Leye - Every other Wednesday

By Birgit Brånvall, CC BY 3.0 no, 

Don’t die, don’t die

But the earth reclaims its dust

Man, from nothing came

And to nothing shall return

Those are the only lines I remember from a poem I wrote a little over two decades ago. I open with it today as proof that my focus on death has nothing to do with me getting older. Or perhaps I’m in denial.

I recently went over my collection of unpublished short stories and I realised that three of them are about old men contemplating death. An early draft of one of the stories starts with the line, I have long played host to death sitting cross-legged in the easy chair at the foot of my bed.

It seems death has been on my mind for a while.

Lately, I’ve once again been thinking of the debt we all owe - as the Yoruba people in proverb say. And from all that thinking I have come to be afraid of being buried in uncomfortable shoes. You know those looked-good-felt-good-in-the-shop but later hurt-like-hell kind of shoes? I’m not sure if it’s the current agony of owning a pair of one such shoe that has created this phobia. A beautiful black number I picked up on sale. They look oh so good, and they felt ‘aite’ in the store.

Why don’t I just take them back? Well, for one, I’ve worn them outside the shop after wearing them in the shop and feeling them, pacing in them, checking them out in the foot level mirror, looking up at the shop attendant and getting the nod, smiling to self over the thought of doing a moonwalk in them, stumping on the rug, checking them out again and thinking, ‘Yeah. These feel good. They look good and they feel good. Yeah.’

It is for this reason that I own several pairs of shoes that are too tight for my too-broad feet. Too tight and too painful to wear for long. Six, at the last census. I have a thing for shoes, you see. Shoes and bags. Close to thirty pairs of shoes and at least ten bags. I even have a bag of bags – but that is another unresolved issue altogether. 

I’ve had varying success getting the shoes professionally stretched. There’s this pair of suede ankle boots with zippers on both sides. Sexy shoes, if ever there was one. ‘Took them to my shoe guy’s shop near Liverpool Street station. As I was bringing them out of one of my office bags he goes, ‘I can’t do anything with those, guv.’ He went on to explain that being suede, they would rip down the middle if he put them in his shoe stretching machine. They are now one of the other pairs set aside to be donated to charity when I get round to taking all the other charity-shop-destined stuff to the charity shop.

I’ve given out too tight shoes in the past. Brand new. Worn just once to realise I’d made the same mistake again. They might feel good in the shop, but I have to have them on for a length of time before I can tell if they’re good ones or torture devices in disguise.

Now I’m afraid to be buried in one such pair of shoes. I told this to twitter and a twat pointed out that I’d be dead. It’s not like they’ve been dead before and know for certain that the dead don’t feel pain. I would have, if I could be bothered to, explain to them that it’s just a thing. You know, like, a thing. Anyway.

There’s another Yoruba proverb that goes ‘Each person knows where his or her shoes hurt.’ I guess it’s about us all having our private issues that we’re dealing with, but to think that shoes that hurt the feet are so accepted as a fact of life that they even feature in a peoples’ proverbs? Like, really? Comeon!

When they choose what to bury you in, I imagine they go through your stuff looking for the best outfit to dress your dead ass in. I imagine when they’re picking the shoes, they overlook the well worn, wrinkled as shit, fits-like-heaven, pair of old moccasins and go for the, ‘Hey, look at these; they look like they’ve never been worn before,’ pair of feet-killer dress shoes.

And that is why I’m going to make the trip to the charity shop this weekend. With the sole mission of giving away all my too tight shoes. I cannot take the risk of forgetting about them till one day, a grand offspring upon whom the task falls, discovers them in the back of a closet and thinks, ‘Papa will look good in these.’

Life, Death, Hope and Joy

-- Susan, every other Sunday


It's an honor to be the MIE blogger who holds the field on Christmas Eve, and I spent some time considering what angle to take on this holiday post. I'm in Tokyo at the moment, and the Japanese love of all things culturally Christmas offers fertile ground for yuletide blogs, from the Bavarian Christmas markets:

Tokyo Christmas Market

To the forest of magical Christmas trees that spring up around the city:

A 20' tree composed entirely of living flowers. Because Japan.

I also considered blogging about the amazing desserts -- for which Tokyo is famous at any time of year.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! (Hopefully some of you are old enough to get the reference...)

But sometimes, the post picks the author instead of the other way around. This afternoon, while walking through the inner garden at Meiji Shrine, a different post chose me.

Winter in the inner garden, Meiji Shrine

Meiji Shrine is famous for its iris garden, which features over a hundred different varieties of iris. In May, visitors come from all over Japan (and other countries also) to view the lovely blooms.

This is a photograph of the iris beds I took today:

World famous flowers. But you'll have to take my word for it.

In winter, they look more like a cemetery than a world-famous garden. The labels identifying the blooms stand guard above the barren earth like tombstones over the flowers' graves.

Gravestones - er, markers - identifying the irises.

And yet, as I stood there in the freezing wind, I saw something more valuable than flowers, more encouraging than death.

I saw faith, hope, and patience: the very things we celebrate--and anticipate--at Christmas time.

The newly-tilled earth revealed the gardeners' belief that, in due time, the flowers would return. They churn the ground in hopes of easing the passage of the tender shoots.

Newly-turned earth around each flower's bed.

They wait, with patience, for the warmth of spring to chase away winter's chill, and for the warmth that will encourage these precious plants to grow again.

Japanese irises in spring.

At its heart, Christmas is the same. Those of us who celebrate it do enjoy the trees and cakes and presents. If we're fortunate, we feast and make merry with the ones we love. But there's more to this celebration. Beneath the sparkling decorations, twinkling lights, and Christmas cheer we find a deeper message--one that shares a root with other faiths' and cultures' celebrations that take place this time of year:

From darkness, light. From death, new life . . . for those with the patience to wait and to believe.

The message of the iris beds transcends religion and belief. It speaks to a deeper truth embedded in the fabric of the world: hope can survive in even the most barren of times and places, if people have the faith to maintain it and the patience to see it through.

Whatever (and whether) you celebrate, my wish for you, this Christmas Eve, is that you have health, happiness, and joy in the year to come--and hope and faith sufficient to sustain them for many years to come.