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The Power of Grace

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Family Ties
gracie-3
Sean took this when Gracie was younger.

I first saw you on the internet. You were my rebound baby- chosen on a whim as I mourned the loss of my sweet little rat terrier Belle, a victim of a hit and run. Belle was fierce and protective, exposing her tiny canines to dogs and humans alike, any creature that would dare intercede between the two of us.

I’d wanted to replace her and decided I would rescue you, a furry little white pig from a farm in Iowa, put up for adoption by a Jack Russel Terrier rescue. I saw your wiry face on the website and made arrangements to make the drive to retrieve you.

Imagine my surprise when the dog that awaited me was so wild and compulsive, she wanted nothing to do with me.

You vomited the entire ride home from Iowa. I tried to comfort you, to hold you, but you were having none of that.

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Our grand-daughter Madeline with Gracie & Jack

They told me you were about 3 or 4 years old then, but you would have never known- you had the energy and wild spring of a puppy, and my friends laughed at the marks on my kitchen wall where I’d keep track of your high jumps.

You weren’t interested in cuddling or learning, and I wondered aloud to my son at the time. “What the hell am I going to do with this animal?”

An old soul, only ten at the time, Sean replied, “you’re just going to love her like you did Belle.” Other sympathetic friends wondered if I should ‘take her back,’ but you can’t un-rescue a rescue dog and I took my son’s advice and let go to simply love you.

That was the first lesson you taught me.

I became unattached to what I wanted you to be and accepted you as you were. I prayed for Grace and named you that to remind me. I forgave you when you peed on the carpet and dragged rabbit entrails into the house. I defended you when you picked fights with dogs four times your size at the dog park. And I laughed as you skipped and ran like a manic squirrel around our backyard.

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You had to wear a clown collar as you got older as you licked yourself silly.

I learned that you needed lots of exercise and we ran together in the days when that was possible for both of us.

When you got tired, you would just stop running and refuse to go on until you were good and ready. No amount of coaching or shame could motivate you; my little 18-pound Jack Russell taught me the power of clarity and decision in self-determination. You were headstrong and beautifully rebellious, and it drove me nuts.

As we both grew up, you opened your heart to me, gradually accepting the love and touch of others.

You began to let me rub your wiry neck and exposed your belly for a good scratch. I took note those many years ago when you ran up to Herb, on his first visit to our home, and jumped into his arms. It was so unlike you that it amazed me; you knew instinctively what I would come to learn in the coming months, that Herb would come to love me and you, and take care of both of us as our most trusted friend.

Small dogs live longer, and I was lucky to share your world for over fifteen years. I always underestimated your age because until recently you seemed so young, but like all of us, age became evident in your slowing down. First, you lost your hearing, then your eye-sight and finally your ability to tolerate the extraneous. You preferred your own space in the heated garage, away from distraction and noise so you could rest and simply be. In recent months when friends came to visit and asked where you were, we’d open the door to your room which we jokingly called the “nursing home.”

gracieSo, of course, we all knew your time to go was coming, but today was not the day I wanted to say goodbye.

You lead me once again, dear friend, as you stopped eating and drinking, finally needing our help to stand.

Today you could not walk and your breath, labored and heavy, let us know it was time to let you go. So we wrapped you in a blanket and cried all the way to the vet, knowing that you were counting on us to have the courage to help you go, but hating the decision all the same.

As we sat waiting for the doctor, both of us crying, I turned to Herb and said, “I guess this isn’t such a good display of how I am going to be able to help you.” But of course, that’s not true. Letting go of loved ones is a bittersweet reminder of what it means to be human… the very act of loving another creature all the while knowing life’s impermanence is one of our greatest gifts and, on days like today, challenges.

So I held you as you slipped away today Grace.

I loved you and saw you and took care of you through your last breath. Thank you for teaching me patience, and acceptance, surrender, and yes, perhaps, even grace. You, my love, were such a treasure.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I miss you already.

Power Struggle

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Growth Opportunities, Reflections

God and I are in a power struggle. So far God’s up, three to zip.

First, it was Herb’s diagnosis with mold toxicity- a disease that was dormant in his body for years and triggered by a perfect storm of unfortunate misdiagnosis, bad meds and a horrible condo rental in Costa Rica.  His pneumonia in January signaled an abrupt change in our world, providing a new opportunity for education and adjustment that we’d just as soon have avoided.

Then came the systematic dismantling of our home and forced exodus to squatting in a hotel for a month.  

Like two Hobo’s we carried our clothing in sacks, bad food, and longed for the comfort and safety of a place that was our own.

Soon the day came when we could move back home.  The remodeling had not yet begun but the mold tests had come back negative which meant we could move home, even if our house was still torn apart and our furniture, neatly stacked in piles to provide a pathway from kitchen to bathroom, made us feel like hoarders.

It didn’t matter because we were home and we had a kitchen and we had a shower and most of all, we had a bedroom- our last refuge, where, at the end of the day, we could fall into bed, watch tv, rest, and simply be together.

The simple things are magnified when your life is a shit storm.

Three days after we’d moved back, on a sunny Wednesday morning, a swift and fierce gust of wind uprooted our neighbors 120-foot Oak tree, toppling it with all the force of a train, onto our house and through the roof of our bedroom.  I kid you not.  A fucking tree came straight through the roof of our bedroom.

I was in the back of the house when I heard the crash.

I was sure a transformer had blown because there was no storm outside to warrant the thunder.  I went out back to check on my dog Jack and we just looked at each other.  I looked around the backyard.  All good. That was strange, I thought, as I turned to go back inside.

When I glanced towards the front of the house, the front window was completely dark, blocked by branches, of course. Stunned, I opened the front door to discover my home buried beneath this giant tree.  I was also surrounded by curious and concerned neighbors who’d gathered due to the crash.  It was a neighbor, in fact, that pointed to the roof; I’d walked outside before discovering the damage to the bedroom.

Somehow, I’d missed the air thick with dust, the door blown off its hinges, the mangled metal air vent, and the gaping skylight created by the limb which now pierced our roof.

The bed, our last oasis, was destroyed.

I was in shock. I only managed the necessary tasks with the insurance company, etc. because the situation was so surreal.  But by Friday I’d come out of the ether and was in an extremely hateful mood.  I was angry and indignant and begging someone to knock the chip off my shoulder just so I’d have the excuse to clock them.

I cussed and swore at stupid drivers on the road.  I glared at strangers in the grocery store.  I flipped off a bus driver and honked at an old person.  

I was rude to a friend of mine on the phone.  This was entirely too much to handle and God was an asshole.

Later, I got a text from the friend who I’d been rude to.  This is what it said:

” I attended a charity event last night (to support orphaned kids/families in Rwanda, because of the genocide that occurred there several years ago), and heard a story about a Rwandan woman who watched her husband, kids, and entire family murdered. She was raped, had her teeth macheted from her mouth and barely fought back to life and lived. An American dental surgeon came to her village, and when he “restored her smile” with new teeth, she told him she couldn’t wait to go to the village where that savage lived, and smile at him, to show he could take everything that mattered to her, but he couldn’t take her smile.”

This got my attention.  Nothing like a well-timed (and meaning) text put your indulgent insolence into perspective.

A tree fell on my house.  It did not fall on me, my kids, or my husband.  I woke up on a Wednesday morning, a tree fell on my house and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to prevent it.  Random shit happens.  Lack of control and vulnerability is what scared me and made me angry, not the damn tree.

By this time in my life, you’d have thought I’d learned that control is mostly a myth, highly susceptible to abuse and always overrated.

So what do you do when God gives you a swift kick in the pants to remind you? You can tell him to GFH, or you can exhale, let it go, and, yes, even smile.

I’m pretty sure that’s what God was doing when he heard me tell HIM to GFH, anyway.

Like he doesn’t hear that all the time anyway, right?

Sunday The Right Way

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Reflections

It was a bright Sunday morning, the sun was shining bright in the Winter sky, and best of all, Herb woke up feeling better than he had in weeks. This was reason enough to make a plan for an outing, a field trip! (Back story: on our recent trip to Costa Rica, Herb contracted pneumonia which had the expected detrimental effect.)

We were both excited to enjoy a Sunday together, and, as we’d been recent shut ins, get the hell out of the house.

Cindy Cart, one of my clients, had generously shared tickets to an exhibit at the Nelson Atkins Art Gallery where she works. Another client had just reported that this unusual exhibit was fabulous and a must see, so I was eager to go and Herb, feeling so much better, was easy to coax. So after our morning ritual of coffee together in bed, we jumped in the shower, and, all smiles and unicorns, set out for our Sunday morning adventure.

We’d planned to get to the gallery as it opened at 10. Imagine our surprise when we drove up just minutes after it opened and the line for parking snaked all the way down the west edge of the building. Wow, we thought, it sure is great to see all these people out at the Nelson. So much for our unique idea.

What we hadn’t realized was that it was a special day at the gallery to celebrate the Chinese New Year. Families of all ages crowded the Bloch wing to enjoy a program full of free exhibitions, dancing, tea tasting, and music. The energy and excitement was contagious…. but we did secretly have concerns that we might not get into the exhibit we came to see (or rather, hear): Forty Part Motet by Janet Cardiff.

When we presented our tickets to get in, we were pleasantly surprised that most people were otherwise engaged in the special events of the day; there were only four or five other people in the exhibit. We were curious about what we’d heard about the installation but still did not know what to expect. All we’d heard was that it was a sound exhibit and wonderful. True, it turns out, on both accounts.

When first entering the exhibit, there is the usual explanation of the artists’ intention and hope for the observer. Janet Cardiff, a Canadian artist has created an interactive space where the visitor literally steps inside a piece of music. Her thought is that people need a way to connect and experience presence, in this case, through music, for emotional fulfillment and release.

Surrounded by forty separate speakers, each one filled by a single voice, we were literally immersed in the astounding beauty of the music. The piece, (Alium Nunquam Habui, written by 16th-century composer Thomas Tallis) is sung in Latin, in a capella; the clarity of the notes both breathtaking and somber.

We had the option to sit in the center of the speakers where we could hear the piece in unison, surrounded by the power of forty magnificent voices joined together in song. Or we could walk slowly around during the piece, pausing in front of a single speaker or group of five speakers, hearing the clear, often awe-inspiring voice of a single tenor, soprano or child singing their individual part.

The effect for us was just what the artist intended; we were impacted emotionally, not only by the beauty of the music itself, but by the metaphor for what is possible when individuals gather with a common theme. The effect was an immediate presence- to the music, the moment, and the miracle of the human voice. The result was not only powerful, but transcendent.

When I looked up the meaning of the word Motet, it read, “a motet is a mainly vocal musical composition, of highly varied form and style, a piece of music in several parts with words, from the late medieval era to the present.”

Further, it was thought at the time that the motet, “was not to be celebrated in the presence of common people, because they do not notice its subtlety, nor are they delighted in hearing it, but in the presence of the educated and of those who are seeking out subtleties in the arts.”

When many of us are feeling agitated, angry or simply depressed by our current political climate, the Forty Part Motet is a potent reminder of our capacity as human beings to come together to create something good, shared, beautiful and profound. Standing in the center of that circle of separate voices, one doesn’t hear disparity or separation: instead, we hear the splendor and glory of co-operation, unity and shared effort.

Aristotle’s statement, “The whole is greater than the sum of it’s parts,” has been debated by mathematicians, psychologists and philosophers; but in the end it is our interpretation that matters most.

The Forty Part Motet asks us to consider our individual gifts and how they can serve the larger score. Now seems to be an excellent time to decide what it is we want as a country and decipher a way to unite to create something we want all want to listen to and more importantly, something that we’re proud to sing.

GOALS: Overrated or Necessary

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Health and Wellness, Reflections

As someone who coaches people to help them make positive changes in their lives, it may seem curious that I am lukewarm regarding the subject of goals, goal setting and even, ‘goaltending.’

Not all goals are good, even when created from a place of sincerity.  Some goals, in fact, can hinder our forward progress simply because they miss the mark.  We think we’re sure-footed on the path to the Summit because we can see the peak, only to find we’re off the trail, lost footing in scree, helplessly lost and frustrated.  It happens.  It’s happened to me, PLENTY of times.

That’s when it’s decision time- we can slide back downhill and say it was just too hard or dangerous to continue, or we can pull up our big people panties and figure out how to get out the hell out of our current mess and keep going.

As someone who makes her living by asking people to look beyond what they may believe is possible, I’m also asking us to also look beyond the goal itself.

Because it’s not the goal that drives us, it’s the energy and vision behind it and that’s something very different. That’s intention.

The reason so many of us fail to reach our goals is that we haven’t done the prep work. Perhaps, because we were told that we’d never accomplish anything without setting goals, we understood this to mean that the goal was the goal.

The goal is NOT the goal.

When I was 8 years old, my parents took me to a dude ranch in Colorado called Peaceful Valley.  It was the first of many Summer trips there that I remember with great affection.  These trips were my first exposure to the mountains, wilderness, the grandeur of nature, and horses; all still great passions of mine.

The Ranch’s owner divided the parents from the children which was, of course, a great relief to both of us. Emancipated from my parents, I had the freedom to explore, run wild, make new friends and, fall in love with horses. My first love was a horse named Strawberry.

 

This was no casual romance.  I was completely, insanely, unconditionally smitten.  

In retrospect I can see she was a geriatric, definitely past her prime, (I mean, what kind of horse are you going to put a little fat, inexperienced and excitable eight-year-old on), but all I saw was her solid beauty and magnificence.

On her back, I felt regal, powerful, free and entirely happy.  I loved the smell of her, the way my feet felt in the stirrups, the rough touch of her mane and the way she sassed her tail about.  As we meandered through thickets of pine and fields of Summer flowers, I felt that unique inspiration reserved for young children. She and I were ONE and I knew, whatever it took, that I MUST have a horse of my own.

I informed my parents of this fact and they said that was great!  I certainly could have a horse of my own, when I earned the money to purchase one.  Knowing my parents, I’d suspected this was coming and resigned myself quickly to the reality that this was going to take some time.

My goal was to own my very own horse.  

But even at eight years of age, I knew this might require more from me than I had to give.  That scared me and made me resent my parents.  Why couldn’t they just buy me the horse; that’s what NORMAL parents did.

It took me several years to earn the money through babysitting, errand running, delivering magazines door to door, etc, but I did it.  I finally had enough money to go horse shopping.  You can imagine my intoxication at my first horse auction; the smell of horses, the hay, the cowboys and that silvery tongued auctioneer! I sat there dreamy and dazed, hypnotized with romantic anticipation; my future horse and I would literally ride off into the sunset.

I didn’t purchase a horse that night, but I do remember a definite shift in my consciousness.  For the first time in my life, I knew I was near accomplishing a really, really big goal, and that has a way of redefining who you know yourself to be.  Even at twelve, especially at twelve.

Later that month, I found a horse in the classifieds and made him mine. I can still remember the clothes I had on, the new brush in my hand, the breathless drive from stable to stable.  His name was Santana, and as it turned out, he would be instrumental in teaching me many more lessons.  But that is another story.

So yes, I do believe in goals.  But only the goals worth making, (not having).

The kind of goals that require action and planning, passion and pruning. The kind of goals that through the process of achieving, can literally change our lives.

Of course there are no guarantees.  Even with the best of intentions, the greatest of plans, we can falter, stumble and lose our way.  The truth is, any goal worth the effort is freaking hard work and we’re going to have to recalculate our intentions along the way if we truly want to succeed.  This recalculation is the tricky part and that’s the part that interests me most in my work.


What we expect and what we get in life are rarely in sync.

 

I love this picture because it says it all.  The first step in managing this, I believe, is to have a really good sense of humor.  Shit happens, ok. Move on. Look up.  Keep going.

It’s how we keep going that’s the good stuff.  That’s where I like to play. That’s also where I feel we can have the most impact with one another – by taking the time daily to be mindful not only of ourselves but the people around us.

Once you see that we’re all doing the best we can, the noise quiets down and it’s easier to hear that voice in your head (and now I’m talking about the good one, not the critical one); the voice that calms you and centers you and makes you laugh at stupid stuff.

The small and patiently persistent voice that whispers, ‘Go, ahead, make my day. Be kind to yourself and others and see what happens.”

Because when we do that, our goals come around with a lot less effort and a lot more joy…. the length of our journey and the path we take is still all up to us. But as long as we’re on it, isn’t it good to remember that the journey is half the pleasure and all about purpose.

The Problem with Discipline

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Growth Opportunities, Health and Wellness, Reflections

It’s that time of year when we tend to get riled up and set all sorts of lofty goals for ourselves. In layman’s terms this is called New Year’s Resolutions… in my industry it’s more like a False Positive- a brief jump in gym attendance due to this sudden burst of inspiration; inspiration that peters out sometime between Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s.

If it sounds like I am being judgmental, I am not. I’m just as vulnerable as the next person (perhaps more so) to the allure of making promises to myself that I do not keep. My Dad would have called this ‘putting the cart before the horse’ or ‘stepping in it because you weren’t looking’ or, if he were alive now, perhaps, ‘texting while driving,’ none of which are safe or productive.

The issue isn’t the very real desire we have to improve ourselves…I would hate to consider a world where we didn’t. The issue is more about where that thought originates.

WHY do we want to lose weight, stop smoking, eat better, exercise more, sleep better and be kinder to our spouse? Probably because we think we’d feel better, be healthier and happier of course. And we probably would.

Then WHY do so many of us feel so miserable when we fail to follow through? What derails our sudden genius; unwinds our enthusiasm, undermines our fortitude?  Why can’t we, as my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Myers directed, “finish what we begin?” The problem is discipline.

discipline
noun dis·ci·pline \ˈdi-sə-plən\

1. Punishment- suffering, pain or loss that serves as retribution
2. Instruction- a direction calling of compliance
3. Training that corrects, molds or perfects the mental faculties or moral character
4. Orderly or prescribed conduct or pattern of behavior
4. A rule or system of rules governing conduct or activity

The Merriam-Webster’s dictionary, further defines the word. ” Given that several meanings of discipline deal with study, governing one’s behavior, and instruction, one might assume that the word’s first meaning in English had to do with education. In fact, the earliest known use of discipline appears to be punishment related; it first was used in the 13th century to refer to chastisement of a religious nature, such as self flagellation.”

Talk about a buzz kill. It’s no wonder we have an issue following through if is this is where our motivation is seated.

In lieu of getting all preachy here, what the hell are we thinking? Is this a cultural phenomenon? Fall out from the Puritan Ethic?

Is it generational – as a Boomer am I doomed to constant self criticism and recrimination? Or is it simply about being human? Do dogs feel guilty when they overeat or forget to take out the trash? I know cats don’t.

One thing’s for sure, this approach ain’t much fun, so it’s probably NOT gonna get done.

So what CAN we do to motivate ourselves to do the things that do indeed make us healthier, happier and kinder to our loved ones?  How do we align what we say we WANT with what we DO?

We just stop. And be still. And look within ourselves to examine what it is we truly want. This may sound simple, but it’s not easy.

Being a terrier by nature, I have an innate disdain for slowing down and introspection. (Squirrel!)

My inherent anxiety often presents itself in manic overwork, over scheduling, over functioning, and over indulging! – all in the guise of “achievement.”

Down deep I know that instead of helping me reach my goals, this busyness is simply a distracting way to soothe my unease. Just because I get shit done doesn’t mean I am present to my deepest desires.

This is ironic because it’s in stillness that we can discover what it is we truly want.  Perhaps we may also learn that it doesn’t have to be so damned hard.

When I was around fourteen and had done something errant that warranted a serious sit down with my Father, I pleaded with him, trying to excuse my behavior (and subsequent grounding) by saying, “Dad! You just don’t understand! Times have changed! What you expect isn’t reality any more! It doesn’t apply! You just need to accept it!” He took me gently by the shoulders, turned me towards him and said,  “Tina, times may have changed, but kids have not.”  And then he grounded me, (I could never win an argument with that man.)

This lesson still resonates for me because it reminds me of my responsibility to myself and others. It’s tempting in these tumultuous, crazy, unstable times to forget that one thing remains constant: our ability to choose.

We have the right to choose to be healthy. We have the right to choose to be loving. We have the right to choose to be kind. And we can choose to be happy.  We deserve to be happy. That IS the buried treasure of being human; but reclaiming it beneath the bullshit requires excavation.  The sitting still kind; the hard kind.

When I realize that it’s not about THE goal, or the DISCIPLINE, or even THE timing of the outcome, but being true to my core beliefs, life’s complexities fade to the background and I can see more clearly. I can see that it’s a process not a place; that it takes practice and mindfulness and connection to other people around me.

It takes risking, asking for help, accepting it and finally, letting go.  Having faith is difficult, but it is the key to all possibility.

Today I’m choosing to create my life from a different perspective.  I don’t want to jump to the conclusion that my life, (with all ‘s messy terrier detours and distractions), makes me a failure or less deserving or simply less than.  I’m giving myself and break- hell, I’m giving myself a boost, just by knowing, not hoping, that I still have the power to choose the life I want.

The path we take is the path we make. I’m here to help you. Will you help me?

What are you agreeing to and how does it serve you

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Reflections

tina hike bcI want you to ask yourself what you are agreeing to and how does that serve you.

If you are a current or former member of T School, I am pretty sure you were motivated to join that program as you were unsatisfied the way something was going in your world and wanted support to make those changes.

That might have been wanting to lose a few pounds, have more energy, or take a stand for your self by improving your health, vitality, and ability to be present for your loved ones.

Whatever it was, you cared enough about that change to invest in this program and become part of this community.  Now here it is, almost two-thirds of the way into it and you may have forgotten what the big deal was anyway.

You may have thought the first 21 days were your challenge, but this is the true challenge: continuing when it’s no longer a defined endgame- when it’s real life and decidedly NOT sexy to remember why you began.

Herb and I recently returned from a very interesting adventure in Canada,  The trip turned out nothing like we’d planned and we found ourselves bored and restless.  It rained so there wasn’t much outdoor activity to be had and you can only stare lovingly into your partner’s eyes so long before you go nuts…. and nuts is exactly what we went.

bacon marysWe ate hamburgers and yam fries and drank Bloody Mary’s with bacon on top.  We ate fish and chips (worth it!) and drank beer and wine (what!  we never drink beer and wine!) and got so deep in our cups one night we told our waiter in Vancouver it was our 30th Wedding Anniversary to get a special dessert.

30 th anniversaryI remember after that particular day/night of debauchery, Herb reaching over to me in the morning and saying. “How are you feeling this morning?” to which I replied in a voice unrecognizable to humans, “Well how the hell do you think I feel?”

So the question is, what did I agree to and how did it serve me?   I think you might know the answer.

I was served all right: OVER SERVED.  But those choices had not one thing to do with serving me, my goals, my health or my sense of well being.

liquor vs food (2)

So why do we do this to ourselves?  We say one thing and we do the other.

Of course, if I had the answer to that, I’d have shared it with you by now in
T School!

The short answer is we’re all human.  We are creatures of habits- even when some of them turn out to be inconsistent with what we say we want for ourselves.

But we’re looking for PROGRESS here, not necessarily PERFECTION, right?

As someone who has made the same changes in her life as she is asking you to make, I know it’s a matter of PRACTICE to become healthier in our choices.  It’s not automatic and our progress is never linear.   But I also know, for all my F-ups along the way, I have actually learned a different way of eating, moving and living in the process, AND achieved my fitness and fat loss goals along the way.

If you ask anyone that’s been through this program more than once, the choices you make do change over time.  It really does become less and less of a chore to eat well and move more.  In fact, the penalty for looking the other way is a resounding wake up call;  how bad does it feel to feel so awful when you know what it’s like to feel really good.

i feel fat todayOkay, I can hear some of you now…. “yeah, but I never felt good and I don’t feel that bad now- I just feel fat.”  

Well, then there’s that.  And for most of us, like it or not, feeling fat is probably the reason we got into T School in the first place.

And if we look a little deeper, that feeling is just the icing on the cake (sorry, I had to go there).  The real issues we have with food just go so much deeper don’t they?  Why else would continue to repeat the same habits that keep us stuck and unhappy?

Those are questions we are addressing as we move into our third trimester of T School. Getting sugar out of your house and your body was the first step towards ridding yourself of your cravings and creating more room for choice.  It was also designed to quiet that nagging assaulting voice in your head for feeling powerless over your cravings.

And guess what.  You did it.

Now it’s time to look at what drives you backward AND what moves you forward.    How can we overcome the persistent pull to regress, make excuses and then judge ourselves?

Coming home.  When it comes down to it, our bodies and our health are the only home we’ve got.

So, what are we agreeing to and how does it serve us?  That’s the question.   That’s everything.

Why I Went to Rehab for my Summer Vacation

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Reflections

To say it’s been an interesting year is an understatement.  

It started off okay, but took a serious detour when I had my left hip replaced for the third (and hopefully last) time.

It seems my body doesn’t like foreign objects; a fact born out by the fact that the cup in my acetabulum, secured by bolts during my second procedure, had once again shimmied out of place, leaving me in pain, frustrated and pissed off.

When I tell people about this, the question is always the same:  What happened?  Why isn’t this working?

I’ve seen fear in the faces of others who’ve had their own hips replaced, and confused judgement in those who suppose I must have done something stupid to incur such bad luck.  I don’t blame them; I’ve wondered the same things myself.  But the bottom line is simple:  my bones were just too hard (aka scarred from previous bone on bone friction) to hold the cup securely in place.

Yes, He really is old enough to be my doctor!

So what do you do?  You get a new (highly recommended) surgeon, try a different surgical approach, incorporate a new regimen of supplementation that you help enhances bone receptivity, and install a new prosthesis.  

Most of all you cross your fingers and hope like hell the third time really is the charm.

And you follow directions.  You see your doctor for follow up appointments.  You’re religious about your physical therapy.  You walk and squat and log every damn clam shell on your way back to recovery. And if you’re very lucky, you have a fabulous partner and wonderful co-workers, clients and friends who support you and encourage you every step of the way.

You begin to see that there really is a light at the end of the tunnel and you prepare for your much-anticipated return to work.

You’re excited and laughing and having a blast teaching your first Pilates mat class back at work and twenty minutes into it, doing the most unassuming movement, you dislocate your brand new hip.

And the pain is worse than anything you’ve ever experienced, including childbirth, and your body goes into shock and shakes wildly as you get carried out on a stretcher by the EMT’s,  grateful that it’s the only time this has ever happened at your studio and it’s you (and not someone else).

Pretty, right? They put my hip back in! Yeah!

Pretty, right? They put my hip back in! Yeah!

It took a few people in the ER to pop that sucker back in place (don’t worry, they put me under), and I felt immediate relief to be out of that pain.  But the event later proved to leave a lasting impression, one of fear, apprehension and low-level depression.  It’s no fun when you can’t trust your body, especially when you’ve used that body for most of your life to teach, inspire and, oh yeah, make a living.

So, being the terrier that I am, I doubled down on my PT.  I backed off all other exercises and focused on the minute and precise movements prescribed to strengthen the muscles that would hold my hip in place.  And I walked.  I walked a lot.  And the more I walked, the better I felt and the more I walked the more grateful I became.

That’s when I decided to go to rehab.  In Colorado.

We left for Basalt, (a town located between Glenwood Springs and Aspen, Colorado) on my 57th birthday.  We planned to stay for five weeks, an opportunity that had long been only a dream of mine.  And now that dream took on expanded meaning- this would be my time to push myself beyond the limitations of my post hip replacement thinking: I wanted and needed to feel like I could conquer mountains! And so I came and put my self in rehab.

CASTLE PEAK

Signing in at the top of Castle Peak in 2008.

There are fifty-two peaks in Colorado that are over 14,000 feet.  I’d climbed my first 14’er, Castle Peak, several years ago with Herb, who, having lived in Colorado for a time, had climbed many of them himself.  He became my guide and pushed me to get over my fear of heights and later just fear of fatigue.  He challenged me to change my thinking about what I was capable of mentally and physically.  It was part of our courtship really, and I developed a deep respect and admiration for him on those hikes and climbs.

But as frightened as I was back then, this year was worse.  I was secretly afraid I would fail.  Would my hip have the stability, strength and endurance to do this? I was terrified to find out.

But I was here and the mountains were here and it was time to simply do.

IMG_5112

As it turns out, tromping around these mountains almost every day has been the best (extended) rehab my hip could have.  Together, Herb and I have logged hundreds of miles and thousands of feet of elevation and, despite a few hairy moments when we got off a trail or two, nature has proved once again to be the ultimate teacher and healer.

When I look up and see those big peaks and begin hiking up towards them, I feel nervous and excited and a little apprehensive.  But I also feel grounded and happy. As corny as it sounds, nature puts my life in perspective.

And when you finally get to the top and you look around at all that magnificent, powerful, steadfast beauty, thinking just kind of stops and for a moment, you simply ARE …. and that’s the kind of rehab I like.

 

JUSTINThank you to Lisa, Britt and my entire team for being so awesome that I could take this time and not worry about the studio.  Thank you, Herb, for making me laugh and understanding when I was shitty (once).  Thank you, Chuck and Doris, for being amazing mentors and friends and for proving that folks can still be happily married after fifty years.

And thanks to my doc and Justin and Biago at Elite PT for getting me to the point that I could walk and hike and heal.  It’s good to go to rehab, but it’s even better to get back home

 

 

The Case for Daddy’s Girls

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Family Ties

I am a Daddy’s girl; always have been.

That’s because I got lucky; the Universe paired me with Ehret Oscar Ramey to be my counselor, teacher, mentor, protector, and friend.  Ehret Ramey was my adopted Father.

As a child, he had curly hair, and his lower income family moved a lot which made him vulnerable to teasing and bullying.  He learned to fight at an early age, which knowing him as I do, must have been hard because his inherent nature was so gentle. I suppose those fights helped define who he was and who he wasn’t because as my Father, he never chose a fight, but also never stepped away from defending what he believed was right.

And what he thought was right for me, usually was.

I wasn’t exactly an easy kid, and being the only daughter, I know he worried and was disappointed by a lot of my choices. But he never judged me or ignored me or made me feel less than or ashamed; he was always there when I finally came home with whatever I needed; a kiss to my forehead, a long hard embrace, words of love, or, no words at all.

My Dad was my champion and I always knew that.  That changes a person. 

I liked to run away when I was a kid to assert my Autonomy and Independence. One time I “ran away” to a Young Life Skating Party. When my Dad picked me up and discovered his 12-year-old was drunk, he took me to the hospital where he worked, cleaned me up in the Doctors lounge, and bought me a toothbrush.  He said I’d better brush my teeth, stay away from alcohol and not to inform my Mother of my escapades.  There were a few things we agreed not to tell Mom.

My parents were married for over 60 years, something I both admire and am amazed by.  My Father chose a difficult woman to love and I often wondered how in the world he could not only love her but completely adore her.

I thought my Mother was insane but he was unconcerned, and in retrospect, his example of loving another human has provided something like a wellspring for me: a spring that I dip in when I am feeling particularly empty myself.

My Dad was handsome.  My Dad was accomplished.  My Dad was a man of service and his word.  My Dad was a teacher, a physician, a friend, and caretaker to all.  He loved to sing and dance and tell horrible jokes,
(and I mean B A D jokes). But he would get so tickled telling his own stupid jokes that you finally had to give in and laugh along with him, dreading the punchline all the same.

He also liked to make things in his wood shop when he retired when he was still able to, before he had his stroke.

After the stroke, it was my turn to give back to my Father and I am here to tell you it was my great pleasure.  It wasn’t always easy, (I used to call him Dr Magoo when I was at the end of my rope); loving him so, it could also be heartbreaking.

Once when I took him to the movies, we were ordering a coke and he couldn’t get the words out, grasping the Coca-Cola display cup with a death grip and just be mumbling to me.  I knew what he was trying to say and gently tried to pry the cup out of his hands as the fountain jerk (and I do mean jerk), just stared at us.   I wanted to tell everyone, “You don’t know this man- you don’t know how brilliant and kind and loving he is!  How many lives he’s touched- how many lives he brought into this world…” but instead we went in and sat down and watched the movie which made my Dad laugh a lot, and that made me feel better, too.

As I said, my Dad was a gentle soul and as a parent always treated us kids with respect even when we were clearly over the line.  I can only remember two instances when my Dad lost it and both times it was because my older brother or I said something disrespectful to our Mother.

The slap I’d never seen coming stung much more than my face; the lowest place I could ever inhabit was the one called disappointing my Father.  I burst into tears as he pulled me to him.  That only made it worse.  You can see, I still remember.

So, today on Father’s Day, I celebrate my Father, E.O. Ramey, and all the other wonderful Fathers that I know.  

What a blessing to be a Daddy’s girl because that means you were taught how to be loved deeply and completely by a wonderful, caring man.

Thank you, Dad.  I miss you.  I sure do.

Happy Father’s Day Dad from Tina Sprinkle on Vimeo.

A LETTER TO MY MOTHER ON MOTHER’S DAY

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Family Ties

My mom was 89 years when she died.   She was also feisty, hard-headed, and a little more than off-center. This wasn’t a product of her age- it was just her being Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant Ramey.

Five days before she was gone, she was eating with my brother at her beloved Applebee’s, crying tears of joy because he’d come to visit her.

Four days before she was gone I received a voicemail from her head nurse, Laura, saying that there was nothing to worry about, but my mom, angry that she was not allowed to sit in the nurse’s chair, had “put herself on the floor.” 

I sighed and asked if I should come out to help; they said they’d call me back. Twenty minutes they that she had simply gotten up and walked back to her room, having made her point.

Three days before she was gone, I walked into her room to find her breathing labored, her speech incoherent and alien.  

My heart sank when she was unable to navigate the warm cookie I brought to her mouth; her hand simply wouldn’t allow the task.

“You can always eat it tomorrow, Mom,” taking the cookie from her. But of course, even then, I knew that wasn’t true.

“Mom, you look a little tired today.  I’m going to take your laundry home and I’ll be back first thing in the morning. You’ll feel better then.”

And then, with sudden order and clarity, she reached for my hand and said, “Be careful out there, there’s a lot of traffic.”   

Those were the last words  I heard my Mom say, and of course, they could not have been more caring.
 
The fact that my mother was afraid of traffic, weather, and insults real and imagined, did nothing to deter her from fighting against it all. She took names after kicking butt, not before. You don’t apologize for doing the right thing after all, even if the right thing existed mainly in your own mind.
She and I took a long road home and I’m embarrassed to say I lived most of my life in reaction to her.  I resented her for everything we did not have in common.

She weighed 89 pounds soaking wet. I was born so fat she wondered if I had a neck.

She was dainty and lovely. I was bald, boxy, and skeptical.

She taped plastic flowers to my head so people would know I was a girl.

A southern belle, she feigned weakness but ruled our home with an iron fist.  The fact that she covered it with a white glove didn’t fool me-  I hated her hypocrisy and made it my mission in life to prove her wrong.

I called her ‘Little General’ behind her back and mocked her to her face when I was an adolescent. 

I loved my Father and couldn’t understand for the life of me why he worshipped a woman like her!

When he died in 2008, he wouldn’t let go until we all promised to take care of Mom.  

If there was one thing my Dad loved more than anything else in this world, it was his little Dene and he was not excited about leaving this earth without her.

He’d spent 63 years loving, protecting, and providing for her; he simply couldn’t leave her unless we promised she’d be safe.  

And that’s a promise you don’t make unless you can keep it.

My brothers lived out of state. They were great about flying
in and out, and generous with financial support, but the day-to-day fell to me.

When she agreed to move to assisted living, her shyness made it hard to connect with others. So I’d show up to help—organizing “play dates” and prompting table talk just to get her started. Eventually, she found her people and settled in, but the transition wasn’t easy.

 

She expressed her discomfort the way she always had: by fabricating stories and projecting motives onto others. It was consistent with a lifelong pattern—struggling to take personal responsibility.

 

Along the way, we navigated heart disease, broken hips, glaucoma, and one particularly harrowing visit to a psychiatrist when she became unusually paranoid and delusional.

 

We also narrowly avoided a $250,000 lawsuit. After leaving her faucet running in her third-floor apartment, my mother flooded not only her own unit but the two below. When the corporation that owned the facility sued her for damages, I was stunned.

“What in the world!” I complained to my dear friend Jennifer, “The idea of holding an 87-year-old woman with dementia financially responsible is reprehensible! Isn’t that why corporations carry insurance???”

 

Jennifer, one of Kansas City’s best attorneys, agreed and interceded on my mother’s behalf, refusing to take a cent for her time. Meanwhile, Mom went from apologizing for the accident to complete denial—demonizing the facility, the attorneys, and anyone else who mentioned it. It triggered her paranoia and obsession.

““Great news, Mom!” I said, when she showed me the latest piece of “hate mail” from the attorneys. “I’ve hired someone to make this all go away, so you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

 

“Who’s that?” she asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

 

“You know her—Jennifer, my friend at Shaffer Lombardo,” I said, pulling out the demand letter. “Here, look. It’s all going to be fine.”

 

She snatched the letter from my hand, squinting at the signature. Her face twisted.

“Oh noooooo! Not a woman!” she wailed.

Before I could stop myself, my hand flew up and came down hard on the table between us with a loud thud. Papers scattered in the air, matching the force of my anger.

 

Those three words—Not a woman!—hit a raw, familiar nerve. They triggered a lifetime of frustration with my mother: her competitive misogyny, her deep distrust of other women, and her ultimate rejection of me.

“Go to hell, Mom! I’m done with this mess—trying to help, trying to take care of you. Fuck it! Let Mike and Tim handle it!”

 

And I meant it. I was blind with rage, sobbing all the way home. I called Herb from the road, shrieking, “I’m done with this shit! Let my brothers do the heavy lifting—Mike’s her freaking hero anyway!”

“Come on home, babe,” he said gently. “And be careful.”

He listened to me rage for two full days. I couldn’t let it go. I felt like a child again—rejected, dismissed. The wound was deep and raw.

My brothers were sympathetic but helpless. How were they supposed to manage her doctors’ appointments, the twice-weekly warfarin tests, her medications?

That moment was pivotal for me. I realized I wasn’t taking care of my mother because I had to, or because my father once asked me to. I was doing it because that’s who I am. I wanted to.

And that shift changed everything. It freed me from a lifetime of reacting to her as a wounded child. I was no longer that girl. I was a woman now—conscious, and free to choose. And I chose her.

 

 

I don’t think anyone was more surprised than I was that I loved my Mother so much.  I was completely unprepared for how deeply I wanted to be with her, take care of her and be strong for her.  This was not me.  

And so, as she reclaimed her innocence; when her days became indistinguishable from the other, when she wept in confusion, I was happy to be there – to learn that I could comfort her and give her peace.  

We went to Applebee’s, painting class, Sonic, and JCPenney. We saw movies, wandered the museum, strolled the park. We got manicures, pedicures—even facials. When she needed to go to the dentist or dermatologist, I made an appointment, too.

But her favorite pastime was sitting in the common area at Delmar Gardens, delighting in tawdry gossip about each person who might walk by.

My Mother had a detailed imagination and once she got started on a yarn, you’d just as soon settle in and listen.  

And so I learned to listen to her without having to be reasonable, and her stories made us both laugh…. and the more I laughed, the more she told them until it didn’t matter anymore- and soon we were two ladies cackling and being silly.

I wouldn’t trade a moment of the last few years of my Mom’s life because we finally got to have the kind of relationship I’d always wanted. I knew she loved me and I knew I loved her.

When I was younger acting like a know it all, my Mom warned me, “Best not to count your chickens before they’re hatched, Tina.”    

It was lost on me then; I just thought she was a hayseed from Tennessee. But now I understand.

Life is a miracle that will surprise you every damn day if you let it. And so, today, on Mother’s Day, I’ll not count my chickens, Mom, just my blessings. 

We love you, Mom! We miss you, Mom! Happy Mother’s Day!

Exercise, Calories and Fat Loss

by Tina Sprinkle, posted in Food for Thought
fitness_101In our last T School Intensive discussion about the importance of keeping track of your food, exercise and sleep, one of our participants asked how best to record our exercise calories burned in the MyFitnessPal app.
She asked for a simple way to record calories burned through common activities, like walking, weight training, High Intensity Interval workouts, and our classes at Pilates 1901, etc, as there are no preset activities in the app to make this simple.It was a good question, so I followed up on her request. (Thank you Lisa K.) But before I continue, I need to preface my finding with two
pre-requisites.  When considering the effects of exercise, it’s important to not focus solely on the total calories burned during the activity, but to consider the overall metabolic effect on your body.IS IT REALLY ABOUT CALORIES IN AND CALORIES OUT?  NOT EXACTLY.

While more calories may be burned in cardio session than a resistance training session, the long term results of that resistance training session may have the greater impact on fat loss because you are building and maintaining muscle mass, your metabolic furnace.  The best fat burning workout option is interval training which combines cardio and resistance exercises performed at an intensity level that takes you outside of your comfort zone with periods of rest and recovery.  This creates what is called the EPOC effect.investment
EPOC STANDS FOR EXCESS POS-EXERCISE OXYGEN CONSUMPTION.
Similar to how a car’s engine remains warm after being turned off, once a workout is over and you’re back in your daily routine, your body’s metabolism can continue to burn more calories than when at complete rest. This physiological effect is called excess post-exercise oxygen consumption, or EPOC. Also known as oxygen debt, EPOC is the amount of oxygen required to restore your body to its normal, resting level of metabolic function (called homeostasis). It also explains how your body can continue to burn calories long after you’ve finished your workout.

Your metabolism is how your body converts the nutrients you consume in your diet to adenosine triphosphate (ATP), the fuel your body uses for muscular activity. ATP is produced either with oxygen using the aerobic pathways or without oxygen relying on the anaerobic pathways. When you first start to exercise, your body uses the anaerobic energy pathways and stored ATP to fuel that activity. A proper warm-up is important because it can take about five to eight minutes to be able to efficiently use aerobic metabolism to produce the ATP necessary to sustain physical activity. Once a steady-state of oxygen consumption is achieved, the aerobic energy pathways are able to provide most of the ATP needed for the workout. Exercise that places a greater demand on the anaerobic energy pathways during the workout can increase the need for oxygen after the workout, thereby enhancing the EPOC effect.

 

HIGH-INTENSITY INTERVAL TRAINING (HIIT) IS THE MOST EFFECTIVE WAY TO STIMULATE THE EPOC EFFECT.
The body is most efficient at producing ATP through aerobic metabolism; however, at higher intensities when energy is needed immediately, the anaerobic pathways can provide the necessary ATP much more quickly. This is why we can only sustain high-intensity activity for a brief period of time—we simply run out of energy. HIIT works because during high-intensity exercise ATP is produced by the anaerobic pathways; once that ATP exhausted, it is necessary to allow ATP to be replenished. The rest interval or active-recovery period during an anaerobic workout allows aerobic metabolism to produce and replace ATP in the involved muscles. The oxygen deficit is the difference between the volume of O2 consumed during exercise and the amount that would be consumed if energy demands were met through only the aerobic energy pathway.

 

EPOC IS INFLUENCED BY THE INTENSITY, NOT THE DURATION OF EXERCISE.
Higher intensities require ATP from anaerobic pathways. If the ATP required to exercise at a particular intensity was not obtained aerobically, it must come from the anaerobic pathways. During EPOC, the body uses oxygen to restore muscle glycogen and rebuild muscle proteins damaged during exercise. Even after a HIIT workout is over, the body will continue to use the aerobic energy pathway to replace the ATP consumed during the workout, thus enhancing the EPOC effect.

 

RESEARCH HAS SHOWN THAT RESISTANCE TRAINING CAN PROVIDE A GREATER EPOC EFFECT THAN RUNNING AT A STEADY SPEED.
In an extensive review of the research literature on EPOC it was concluded that resistance exercise produces a greater EPOC response than steady state cardio exercise. For example, one study found that when aerobic cycling (40 minutes at 80 percent Max HR), circuit weight training (4 sets/8 exercises/15 reps at 50 percent 1-RM) and heavy resistance exercise (3 sets/8 exercises at 80-90 percent 1-RM to exhaustion) were compared, heavy resistance exercise produced the biggest EPOC.

 

fitness-reformerSO HOW TO KEEP THIS SIMPLE IN MY FITNESS PAL?
At this point, we are not able to share set kcal burn for different workouts in the myfitnesspal app, but you can each individually import the estimated kcal burn in the attached “cheat sheet” that I created.  Please keep in mind that this is just an estimate of kcal burned as I used the following parameters to run the calorie burn calculations:
The participant is female, 50 years old and weighs 145 lbs.  To get a more accurate count for your personal workouts you will need to visit one of the calorie calculator sites listed below and enter your personal stats.

You will notice the greatest number of calories might come from cardio and interval training classes but all resistance training (ie Mat, Ball and Pilates equipment workouts) are helping you build and maintain muscle which determines your ability to burn calories not only during exercise but at rest.  Further, over training, or doing too much exercise in the name of burning more calories undermines your ability to maintain muscle mass and may actually sabotage your best results.

 

DON’T FIGURE EXERCISE CALORIES BACK INTO YOUR TOTAL DAILY CALORIES
The other thing that people are tempted to do when looking at calories burned by exercise is to think they can add them to the total number of calories they consume per day.  This is incorrect and most folks only slow down or sabotage their fat loss goals by “eating them back on.”  Do not make this mistake; instead look at the exercise calories your burn daily as a way to propel your progress and not simply a way to justify eating more food.

To calculate your own kcal burn doing different types of exercise, explore the following resource links:

 

facebook_Happy Woman jumping shutterstockTHE BOTTOM LINE
It all comes back to journaling about the kind of exercise that you LIKE and WILL DO, and HOW YOU FEEL after doing it.  Consistency in your habits, including the foods you choose to eat daily, the movement you engage in and the commitment to getting quality sleep is what matters.

Your body isn’t a math calculation and although it’s important to have guidelines to work within, your awareness and connection to your daily choices is what will transform your body, body composition and your life.