'Fascia-nating' Love: A Spiral Unwinding

You might not recognize it as such, but Michelangelo's statue of David is probably the best known spiral in the world. Don't feel bad if you don't see it at first. I didn't either until last week when I participated in a 48-hour certification course for myofascial massage therapy. (In case you're wondering, the participants wore clothing for the lectures as well as demonstrations.)

Now I can see that David's body, besides its obvious artistic appeal, has a clockwise spiral orientation, common to about 70% of people. The left hip has an anterior and inferior placement. And the right leg is more outwardly or laterally rotated, which forces it to bear about 65% of the body's weight. Look at his feet. The weight distribution there isn't exactly optimal. His left shoulder is elevated more than his right one. That posture tends to compress the lateral (outside) edge of his right ribcage. Breathing could be challenged, if David were alive at this point.

Over time, this clockwise postural stance gets set in stone, so to speak, in the human body as well. Fascia maintains its contractility or ability to shorten, but its elasticity naturally decreases over time. We dry out as we age. Hydration helps some. Massage therapy helps even more. The static gel state of fascia is warmed by massage and becomes more fluid and dynamic by a property known as thixotropy. Muscle tension is released, and the body functions more effectively as the spiral unwinds a little. What's not to love about that prospect?

A Sunday Leftovers Story

The poorest experience is rich enough for all the purposes of expressing thought. Why covet a knowledge of new facts? Day and night, house and garden, a few books, a few actions, serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles. We are far from having exhausted the significance of the few symbols we use. We can come to use them yet with a terrible simplicity. It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem. Every new relation is a new word... (Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays, "The Poet, 1844")

Yesterday morning we visited a church we had never been to before. We've passed by it many times in the past year as we travel back and forth between Tallahassee and Havana and wondered what sort of place it might be. The church website doesn't give much indication of its nature. In fact, it doesn't make much sense. You would think that if some entity is trying to make itself known to the world, it would use some elegance of expression or at least clearly describe its mission or purpose for being. Maybe their Facebook page does a better job. I'm not sure because I don't use that particular social medium. A blog and a Twitter account already occupy too much of my time!

At any rate, upon our visit to the church that offers new hope--what's wrong with the old one, I'd like to know?--we discovered the members of the congregation to be friendly enough (and wonderfully diverse), the sermon enlightening (if a little too emphatically delivered), and the music uplifting. Though we may not be going back, I'm glad that we did make the effort. The whole experience was just what I needed to fine tune a story that I had written very early in the morning. It sharpened the knife, so to speak, that trimmed the fat and carved the roast, I mean the story, to be served up for your dining, I mean reading, pleasure. Please help yourself here in my other kitchen (Big Bend Over Easy in Florida) and enjoy our Sunday leftovers!

Subsidies? 'Fur' Sure!

Once in a while it's nice to get off this speeding bullet train called life. From the back porch of our temporary home, the lakeside tree house, we witness progress of a different sort. What we think might be a northern river otter, Lutra canadensis, pops its head up from the muck and chomps noisily on some crunchy morsel. A fish made sluggish by the cold winter water or perhaps a frog venturing forth from the cold mud becomes supper for this member of the weasel family. As I try unsuccessfully to capture it in focus on the camera, I think about the trappers and fur traders who once made a substantial income from its ancestors' hides. 

Beavers, otters, muskrats, and minks were at one time so popular as winter outerwear for wealthy Europeans that our own Congress under President George Washington agreed to subsidize the fabulously profitable fur industry. Something unthinkable today, this subsidy encouraged the slaughter of thousands of animals for the sake of a fashion statement. Thank goodness that was short-lived, the fashion I mean. Subsidies continue in perpetuity even though entrepreneurs like John Jacob Astor proved without a doubt that private industry prevails over the lumbering giant known as Government. Just about anything you can think of in this country is subsidized in part or in its entirety by tax dollars: Education, healthcare, ethanol production, farming, ranching, solar power, wind power, oil and gas production, churches.... Help me out here. I know there are more things to add to the list.

Aristocracy never really disappeared from this country. It just morphed into elitism that preys on sluggish minds: We know what's good for you. We must continue those subsidies, or else!

There is something so massive, stable, and almost irresistibly imposing, in the exterior presentment of established rank and great possessions, that their very existence seems to give them a right to exist; at least, so excellent a counterfeit of right, that few poor and humble men have moral force enough to question it, even in their secret minds. Such is the case now, after so many ancient prejudices have been overthrown; and it was far more so in ante-revolutionary days, when the aristocracy could venture to be proud, and the low were content to be abased....

Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of the Seven Gables, 1851

Occupy Destin(ation)--A Christmas Visit to the Redneck Riviera

Peanut, the Christmas tree occupier

Peanut occupied the space beneath the Christmas tree where the presents usually go. Her food and water bowls were full, the litter box was clean and ready for use, so what did she care that the presents were loaded into the car instead of piled up on the tree skirt? She didn't so much as wave a paw as we shut and locked the front door behind us.

Instead of the usual gathering at one of our homes, this year for Christmas we decided to occupy Destin, also known as the World's Luckiest Fishing Village. This being the off season, hotel rooms were cheap. We stayed at a fairly new, very nice one not far from Harbor Walk, and the cost was only $59 a night (plus tax). You don't have to wait for your ship to come in to enjoy a weekend stay here in winter.

There were plenty of things to see and do to keep a busy boy occupied and still for a few minutes.

Grandson would gladly have lent a hand in this catch but perhaps not so eager to help with the cleaning of the fish. He thinks he's already old enough to go on a deep sea fishing trip. Maybe next year.

We were fortunate to have a warm, sunny day for Christmas Eve. Grandson's other grandma had come for a week-long visit and said this was the first really nice day they'd had all week.

One of Grandson's favorite places to go in Destin or in Spanish Fort, Alabama is Bass Pro Shop. His daddy has been to the original, flagship store in Springfield, Missouri. He was just as fascinated by the fish swimming around the huge tank there, even though they were bass and catfish instead of redfish and jack cravelle.

While Grandson went down for a much-needed nap in his parents' room and his other grandma prepared a wonderful Peruvian meal for us, Daughter, SAM, and I took a walk on the beach. You can find snowmen even here in Florida, though they tend to sag a bit. Sand doesn't pack as well as the stuff the real ones are made of.

Sometimes they decide to get a suntan on the beach. This one was sans bathing attire. I guess he doesn't know this ain't the French Riviera. It's the Redneck Riviera, buddy, and they don't allow that kind of thing here. Count your blessings...