The Instagram Perspective

A snippet from the Instagram Welcome email reads like this:

“Share your perspective by capturing and sharing photos and videos from your day, whether it’s your morning routine or the trip of a lifetime"

On the face of it, the words are accurate. You are in fact literally sharing your perspective by showing whoever happens to be following you what you are seeing… or what you want them to see. But the previous statement also has the implied promise that if people see what you see they will feel what you feel.

Is it actually true?

Certainly I appreciate pictures of clear blue waters that show up on my feed from my coworkers vacations. But do I actually know what it is to be there in the sun and the sand? Or does it instead inspire a sometimes vague and sometimes less so sense of envy and discontent? There have been multiple articles in the recent past that suggest it is very much the latter.

Why then do we continue to use such technology?

Because when it all boils down to it we do, very much, want people to feel what we feel, to share our perspective of the world if even for a brief moment, because in that sharing we feel that we ourselves might become known.

And there is very little knowing going on in current culture. I was fortunate to have grown up before the technology boom and can therefore survive for several hours and sometimes even days at a time without my phone or indeed any electronic devices.

But I’ve recently run into a problem. While I am perfectly capable, judging by past relationships and ongoing friendships, of starting and maintaining a conversation, the people around me are growing less and less capable of providing the other side of such a conversation.

I spent the last two days at a leadership conference here in Rochester. It was at a location that I’d never visited before, and the only person I knew there was my brother, who came as my guest.

The first day, the only people who deigned to talk to us were the greeters, and one random pastor that I met in the lunch line. Even the people sitting at our lunch table were entirely involved in their own conversation and their phones, so much so that they didn’t even say hello. At a leadership conference.

I would like to point out here that there is a certain amount of humorous irony in that.

The second day I made the extra effort to strike up conversations during the meal, and I was rewarded with a tepid stream of basic facts that wound down into painful silence. Once we were the past the where are you from and what do you do part of the questions, no one seemed willing to go any farther. Why?

Personally, I was tired of trying to draw out even the dullest facts. Small talk is a tapeworm to my soul. It’s all well and good if you have to talk to someone in the grocery line, but it isn’t meant to last any longer than that. After that you have to have something else to say, something of substance and value.

Unfortunately, many such topics have at this point been ruled politically incorrect. Taking the risk of mentioning anything of gravity opens you up to all sorts of possible vehement and critical responses. Of course, you might also have the nice surprise of finding that the other person agrees with you. Or you might have the even better surprise of discovering that they don’t, and are still able to discuss their opinion with you in a manner both respectful and casual.

And that, dear reader, is what actual perspective sharing is about. Listening. Learning. Talking. Thinking. Not necessarily agreeing, but considering with grace and respect.

This is not something that can be captured in a photo or selfie, no matter what the current exchange rate of words/photography.

It isn’t something that is being taught in our schools, our universities, or our churches. I failed to mention this was a Christian leadership conference and therefore much of the normal fear of being shot down shouldn’t even have come into play.

And yet…

Could I have started something more serious myself? Certainly. Do I have a truly good excuse for not bringing up some facet of the day’s teaching and gathering opinions? An excuse, no. But an understanding as to why I didn’t. Yes. Conversation, any kind of conversation that goes deeper than the shallow subjects of one’s number of children and current career path, requires at least a modicum of interest in having a conversation to be shown on both sides. If even getting you to say hello is like pulling teeth, no one is likely to want to sit down for a nice chat about the current theological/political climate, or the state of the gender wars.

Sharing perspective is important. It is vital for communication that moves people forward. And it is dying, if not already dead and cremated, because this rich tool that, properly wielded, can bring together diverse people from cultures and countries around the world has been substituted for something no thicker than a single moment captured on a digital print that will itself vanish in 25 hours.

Begging for Questions

Currently, I am living in a setting where I have known no one for more than a few days. This is an intensely uncomfortable place for me to be, because there is the constant fear of being misunderstood, that my rather dry and sometimes stupid wit will cause offense instead of laughter. The longer I am here the more I am realizing that I have not made it a habit to get to know people outside of my core group of friends.

I am a genius at small talk, but I rarely go any farther than just listening to whatever story they want to tell me. This has been a consistent trend in my life. I am not a person who requires a large group of friend. In fact, I feel the strains of required socialization quite keenly at times.

However, as I do feel I have been called by God to this location to be used as a witness not just for my medical skills, I've attempted to formulate a plan for getting to know people at more than a superficial level. For many, I realize, this may come naturally, and it may be helpful for you to know that some of us struggle, and it isn't because we don't care. If anything I think it is because once I really connect with someone I will never be able to stop caring about them. Love brings pain. They are inextricably connected. You cannot care about someone deeply without feeling what they feel, without being hurt when they are hurt or damaged when they tears themselves away. And this is a pain, or a risk of pain, that I have trained myself to be very good at avoiding.

Onward then to what I mean to do about this unacceptable fear. The question I really want the answer to is this: "What's your story? Who are you?"

This is a phrase that I always mean to use, and never quite do. Possibly because I'm terrified of what people might tell me, that it won't be something that I can respond to in the right way, or that it will irrevocably bond me to them in a way that maybe I don't want to be bound. 

And yet, without knowing someone's story, there is no real opening for relationship, any friendship is based only on what may be seen as common interests, as flimsy as a paper doll.

I am as guilty of not wanting to answer this question as I am of not asking it. The few times that people have really sat down and asked me to tell them about myself, my first defense is deflection and humor and a desperate hope that they will leave me alone inside my shell because it's pretty comfortable in here. Perhaps, another reason I don't ask is precisely because I don't wish to make anyone else feel that discomfort.

There is, however, a certain type of persistent person, who continues to look at me with questioning eyes after my first few attempts at throwing up a decoy. And it isn't until that moment that I actually start thinking about answering the question. I feel this isn't entirely a fair question either. It doesn't give any hint of what the asker is looking for in a response, and while it may simply be an accurate reflection of their interest in you as a person, it is entirely daunting to be expected to sum up your whole life in a coffee break or lunch. In order to give a little direction to the conversation, it might be easier to start with this question instead:

"What do you love?"

This question I think would be easier to answer as it has more defined limits than the expectation that several decades of experience could be condensed in any kind of articulate way. And it would, therefore, be easier for me to ask. Although, it could do with a decent segue. Again, it isn't often asked in my experience, but if you know what a person loves, it gives you a strong idea of who that person is and what is the best way to communicate with them. Some people love writing, or music, or art, or hiking, sailing, their families, holidays, working with disabled children, tutoring, speaking in front of crowds, or lying in the sun. I may be using the word love a bit too lightly here, but it's stronger than just a sense of 'what do you like to do'. These are things that bring solace to the soul. It might be better phrased as 'what do you think is the best thing in life?'

"What makes you angry/breaks your heart?"

This would be even easier for me to answer than the previous question, and once again, easier to ask. I have answered this questions, at least in part, in many of my other writings, and say nothing more about it, except that it is a question anyone can answer with, hopefully, very little set up.

I don't think this connection thing is a problem I face alone. There is a lack of honest dialogue in the world. And the fact is that it does require work, and you do take a risk in any kind of connection with another person. Culture in America has become one that teaches that discomfort is to be avoided at all costs, that pain is bad, and that simply is not true. As I said before pain is attached to love, to caring for anyone else. It is only through discomfort and uncertainty that we can press on to overcome challenges to create connections, to learn new skills, and ultimately fulfill our purpose as ambassadors of God in this world. If I dare not love the people around me, then what makes me think I might be capable of loving God?

"But Much-Afraid, I have already warned you that Love and pain go together, for a time at least. If you would know Love, you must know pain too." 

-- The Shepherd in Hind's Feet on High Places 

by Hannah Hurnard

Stories and Storytellers

In all stories, we are told by our high school and college writing professors, there must be a core element of truth. You can only expect the reader to suspend reality for so long before they lose interest if the story becomes unreliable. This means that although you can have unlikely devices and twisted plot lines and magic and zombies, the characters who use such devices, traverse the plot lines and defeat magic-zombies must always act in a way that is realistic. In other words, in a way that we as people who have been studying the way other people react all of our lives will find believable. So a man who has never in his life forgiven anyone for a slight cannot suddenly forgive some young woman just because it helps a romance along. There must be a catalyst, a force of change, something that is believable because it holds to reality.

To switch tracks a bit, let’s assume you are a person living during the height of the Roman Empire. In this time period, it was not unreasonable to assume that a god or goddess might step down to earth and dally with humans. This is primarily because said gods and goddesses had extremely human traits, quarrels and jealousies. They were, in fact, little more than immortal humans. And they were born of stories created by human minds, following the very important laws of storytelling to make them believable and relatable.

However, if you are talking about God, and not gods—if you were Jewish (which you most likely were if you were a monotheist in those days) the assumption that God would come down and live among men was another proposition entirely. We are talking about God here—the one who laid the stars in place and spread out the oceans, who stores thunder and lightning and fights in pillars of fire. He held all of the supposed power of the Olympians combined and even more.

King Solomon the wisest man who ever lived did not believe that it was possible. He said, “But will God indeed live on earth with man? Even heaven, the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this temple I have built.” (2 Chron. 6:18)

So when we tell the story of God coming down to earth we must see that it is not a story that a human mind, who understood the vast power of God, could imagine telling. It doesn’t hold to reality. It is not expected. It isn’t simply a plot twist, it is a twist of the very fabric of the world—this thought that God could consent to be a companion of men, to put on flesh and blood and time itself—the God who created TIME, submitting himself in so many ways to his own creation. It is fantastic and unearthly.

This is not a story that anyone who believed in the one, true God would dare to create on his own. It’s too impossible.

Truth became infinitely stranger than fiction on the day Jesus was born.

And yet, it isn’t strange at all if you consider that God loves humans. Because love is a catalyst, a game-changer. Love explains deeds that would otherwise appear irrational (and perhaps sometimes they still are). God proved his love by sending his son, and up until that point it was not something that man could comprehend—God’s love. Now it is. He put it into context for us. He told a story that we with our limited human understanding could never create on our own, but one that we could believe.

“…One will come from you to be rule over Israel for Me,

His origin is from antiquity, from eternity.” (Micah 5:2)

DreamBroker

A gilt and rather dusty wooden sign stuck out over the sidewalk in front of the door of 23B Liver Street. The door, much like the sign, needed a good washing and a new coat of paint—the original coat of which had been deep blue and sported a flaking pattern of silver stars. The sign, in ornate copperplate, read: Dream Distillery.

The door stood a single step above the sidewalk, and a young man sat on the step with his back against the door and his shoulders hunched deep inside his coat, which was good quality wool. The suit he wore beneath was just as well-made, neatly tailored and paired with a set of shiny hand-sewn shoes. The man started as the door to 23A opened with the tinkling of a bell and a woman stepped onto the street. She paid him no attention as she passed, preoccupied with the package in her hands, and he sank back down again.

He drew a finger through the fine sand that covered the step where he sat. It glittered slightly on his fingertip as he lifted it for inspection.

At the corner of the street, a streetlamp flickered to life with the coming dusk. Cars passed the entrance to the street but rarely turned down Liver Street itself. Another streetlamp came to life and another, until they lit the whole street of stone building fronts and inset doorways. Still, he waited until at last he heard the turn and click of the lock opening behind him.

He scrambled to his feet without bothering to brush the sand from his pants.

“Ah, Mister Darien,” said a voice with a slight Scandinavian accent. “I hope you have not been waiting long. Do come in.”

Mister Darien stepped hurriedly inside and shoved the door closed behind him. “It didn’t work,” he said in a clipped, angry voice as he drew a small vial of dark liquid from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Haven’t you got anything stronger?”

“Stronger,” said the shopkeeper as he moved down the hall and through the second door into a small room lit by a single lamp with a dark green shade. “I do not think you would like anything stronger. Terrifying things—-”

Darien slammed the little vial down on the desk in the circle of light made by the lamp. “Listen. This doesn’t work. I’ll pay whatever you want. Just give me the strongest you’ve got.” In the shadows of the room, his face was lit ghoulishly by the light reflected from the surface of the desk.

“Very well,” muttered the other man, moving through the gloom along the shelves. “The strongest I’ve got. Just as you say.”

A clink of glass and a liquid sloshing followed. Then the shopkeeper returned to the desk with a vial even smaller than the first filled with liquid as thick as molasses and blacker even than coal.

Darien swept it up and tucked it into his coat before dropping a tight roll of bills onto the desk.

“Use it carefully—” the man began in warning.

Darien muttered an impolite remark and left through the door of faded stars. He slammed into a younger man who stood to one side of the step, so hard that he sent the other man sprawling off the curb and into the street. He muttered another curse as he hurried toward the end of the street. In his hurry, he neglected to close the door all the way, and it with its silver stars swung gently open again into the hall.

At the same time, a distant roll of thunder preceded a sudden spot of rain. The man picked himself up from the pavement and studied the abraded palms of his hands as he moved into the shelter of the building. Overhead the gilt and dust sign creaked in a chill gust of wind that swirled down the seat, gathering the detritus of the day. A paper kite in the shape of a carp with scales of blue and gold and green was caught in the gust and went swimming neatly down the street until its trailing string tangled about a decorative arm of the lamppost. The kite swung about, tail and fins fluttering, its sides moving in lifelike rhythm.

He smiled at the sight until another burst of heavy raindrops bore the paper fish to the ground and turned it into a shapeless, pulpy mass. A warm breath of air ran across the back of his neck from the doorway.

“Do you mean to stand in the door all night? If you do, you might have the decency at least to come in and close the door.”

The young man started at the voice and turned quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said and stepped out into the rain and wind, which had become in a moment, a raging downpour.

“Are you waiting for someone?” the voice asked, appearing embodied in a small, wrinkled man. “Come inside before you’re soaked through.”

The young man moved gratefully into the small hallway with water already dripping from his sleeves. “I don’t mean to bother you,” he said. He looked back at the storm. The shopkeeper pushed the door closed. At once, the crash of rain was lost.

“I am never bothered,” the man replied. “Won’t you come in?” He opened the first door in the hall into a pleasant library-like room with comfortable chairs set near a crackling fire and thick carpets of stunning patterns overlapping on the stone floor. Lanterns of colored glass hung from the ceiling on loops of silver chain. The room smelled of warm cookies and coffee.

“Won’t you sit?” the shopkeeper asked, waving the young man toward the chairs.

The young man moved across the room. He felt as though he should be thoroughly disoriented and stifled by the colors and patterns between the carpets and the lanterns, not to mention the staggering intricacy of the wallpaper. Instead, he felt a sense of comfort so deep that he was nearly asleep as soon as he sat down. He thought, just for a second, that something glittered in front of him like a dust motes in sunlight or a glitter of sand. Then his eyes were closed.

He slept there until morning, dreaming delicious dreams of a fantastic wood where he could turn into a bird at will and soar through the branches up to the clouds or, if he dove into the water, he became a sleek, glittering carp with scales of green and gold and blue, and he slid along the bottom of the lake past a tiny kingdom of crawfish at war with a nearby country of water slugs. Then he went up, up and up again and burst from the surface of the water as a great cat. The water became moss beneath his paws. He strode through a jungle of dense shadows braided with vines and full of the chirping of insects and the calls of birds. As he surveyed the jungle, he heard a voice that did not belong there. It was a sweet, silver chime of a voice that sand a melody sweeter than honey, and it filled him with the most wonderful sense of longing.

He found the singer, a maiden with long coils of silver-green hair falling all about her as she sat on a large red toadstool with her feet tucked up neatly beneath her. He had become a man again by then, but found himself still as brave as the tiger when her eyes met his. Her eyes were drops of lavender. She leaned forward with a laugh and kissed him so her eyelashes brushed his cheek. Then she morphed into a butterfly with wings of silver green and two spots of deep lavender. She swooped once around his head before she fluttered away.

He woke from his dreams easily, still so filled with a sense of wonder and awe that he could see, without trying, the shopkeeper’s shape was little more than a facade. Behind it there was a power older than stories and legends, and if it had not been so sweet and peaceful, he might very well have been terrified.

“Did you sleep well?” asked the shopkeeper, and he was once again just a little wrinkled man in a small, strange shop.

“Yes, thank you,” the young man said as he roused himself. “I—I would very much like to come back again.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I know where to find you.”

“You do?” He blinked as he got to his feet and noticed quite suddenly, the ceiling, which was covered in splendid murals that seemed almost to speak of his dream.

“Yes, quite, but you’d best be along now. The storm has ended.”

The young man walked to the door to the hall and heard footsteps just outside as he opened the door. A wrinkled little shopkeeper stood before him, as near a copy as the one behind him as was possible.

“Oh,” said the one behind. “My brother. No need for you to meet him just yet. He’s always about on his business. He has more work, nearly, than I do.”

As easily as the transition in a dream, the young man found himself on the step outside of 23B Liver Street. The door, with its silver stars, shone in the rain-washed morning light. He thought back on his dream, of the feel of the wind beneath his wings, and the water against his scales and the moss beneath his paws, and remembered the soft kiss of the butterfly. And he smiled.

Behind him, the sign with its gilt letters hung still on its post, so the sunlight caught the words and set them ablaze.

***

Note: This story is loosely based on the legend of Ole Lukøje, or the Sandman. Also, this is a semi-companion story to one from last year. Read it here! 23A Liver Street

Exciting news! I've had a short story and a sketch published in the third edition of MavGuard Magazine, which you can buy here: http://www.rad-writing.com/store/

Fire Drill

It's the middle of the night. You're tucked under your blankets blissfully unaware of the surrounding world, when you're suddenly woken by the shrill shriek of the fire alarm and the smell of smoke. With your eyes still blurry and your heart pounding, what do you do?

Do you crawl out the window? Call the fire department? Run for the kids? Or do you lie paralyzed as the haze grows thicker?

When I was younger, my parents used to have fire drills. They were awesome. Mostly because it involved crawling out of a second floor window on a special rope ladder. My parents had a plan. They knew who was responsible for grabbing which kids, and when we were older, we knew where we were supposed to meet outside the house. Fortunately, we never had to use that knowledge, and the only time the fire alarm went off was when the chimney fell over onto it, or someone burnt something on the stove. The point is, however, that we were ready.

The same principle underlies the training I've had to complete as a nurse. I train repeatedly for emergency situations, and when they happen, after the initial moment of brain-stopping panic, I know what to do.

If we can apply these principles to physical emergencies, I wonder why we so often overlook such planning for other aspects of our lives. Tragedies occur everyday. We can't, anyone of us, think that we will escape them. And yet, how often do we sit down and think of what we will do when the worst happens? I'm not talking about preparing for a zombie apocalypse and hoarding canned food. Honestly, I'm not even talking about preparing for a true apocalypse. I'm talking about those normal, yet life-changing tragedies: a death or hurt or loss that changes the structure of your life. What do you do when you can't see to take the next step because your eyes are stinging with tears? What is your emergency strategy?

The thing about the rope ladder from the second floor is that the first time down, you're terrified. By the second time, you know it will hold. And on the third, you're seeing how much you can make it swing...well, maybe not. Still, it's an exercise in building faith. The middle of the night with a house on fire is not the best time to discover whether or not the ladder will hold. It's best to make the decision to act before the problem ever arises.

So run your fire drills. Practice your faith. Make sure you know where your ladder lies, so when you need it the most, you won't be paralyzed in a smoke-filled room.


DANIEL 3

Self-destruct

You know those movies, the old sci-fi flicks with more cheese than lasagna where the courageous Captain decides to self-destruct rather than let his ship be dragged into a planet's gravity by some arch-enemy thereby destroying life on the planet. You know the one. It's an old plot, so I wonder if anyone thinks about how hard that would actually be. I mean, to put it in real-life perspective it would be something like diving in front of a bus to push someone else out of the way, or intentionally veering into a side rail to keep from hitting a kid on the road. To bring it down to an even smaller level, it would be like keeping your mouth closed when your pride is stinging rather than striking out in retaliation, or working quietly without worrying about whether or not you'll get the credit.

Sometimes, the grander gestures, the more visible sacrifices are so much easier to think about, because the answer is so obvious. The small things though, tend to trip me up like invisible snares. But small by no means equals unimportant.

Self-destruct. Tearing down the self. Stripping it away. Undoing it.

I could use a self-destruct button in my own life. If I had my way, it would be big and red and blinking. Because there are a lot of times I should use it and I don't. There are a lot of times that I self-construct instead. Culture tells us that this is a good thing. Be proud of who you are. Don't let anyone tell you who to be. You are good. You are beautiful. You deserve great things. And on and on. None of those statements are bad in their own self-contained, encouraging way. I certainly don't think people should go around thinking they're scum or ugly, or that they should be treated that way. Self-esteem and arrogant pride are different things. But being too self-effacing is also, definitely, not where my own flaws lie.

I don't know about you, but I don't need to be told to be proud of who I am. Sometimes, I need someone to remind me that it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Anything I do outside of Christ means absolutely nothing, zero-Kelvin-middle-of-space nothing, and anything I do in him, means life. Those are the only two options. 

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. - Matthew 5:16

Notice, he doesn't say, do good works so people will see you as a hero, send you candy and flowers and discuss you on talk shows. Do good so people see God, not you, and praise him, not you.

So, yes. I need a self-destruct button. I need to use it every day. Because self-construction builds up fast, like hard water residue. It grows uglier and thicker and the longer you wait to scrub at it, the harder it is to get rid of it--the harder it is to notice that blinking, red button.

Being in the Elevator

     This morning, as on many others, I stepped into the elevator and pressed a button for the floor I wanted. The elevator moved, which is nothing unusual--in fact, I prefer it that way. I was rather surprised when it went down instead of up, and I looked a little foolish to the man who got in on the subbasement level while I was trying to figure out where I was. In the end, however, I figured it out and started up again.
     It occurred to me while I was hanging in a metal box suspended by, I assume, cables and tracks, how much faith I have in ordinary things. Faith is, by definition, being certain of what we don't see. When I'm inside the elevator, I can't see the cables that are holding it up. I can't even see the floors passing. If it weren't for the delightful red display of numbers ticking steadily up (or down) I would have no idea where I was at any given point. And yet, I never doubt that I'm going to get where I need to be...in an elevator.
     An elevator, I feel the need to point out, is a machine. It doesn't think. It doesn't feel, and it certainly isn't infallible. The elevator doesn't care if I get out on the right floor, and if a cable were to snap, the elevator would not save me from a fall. So why then do I continue to take my life in my hands and climb into an elevator rather than taking the stairs. Faith. Well, that and the fact that eight flights of stairs are rather too daunting a task for me. But the elevator, despite all that could go wrong, has never let me down. I've never been in an elevator that fell. I've never been stuck, although I think I remember one opening a little off between floors. Obviously, it wasn't enough to make a truly lasting impression.
     So it comes to this. If I have that sort of faith in a machine without even thinking simply because I've never had one break on me, then why, oh, why is so difficult for me to trust God so completely? Why do I hem and haw and hesitate as if he's leading me somewhere I don't want to go? Why do I struggle and fight when I could be relaxing and being glad that I don't have to go through all those steps myself?
     Rather than just stepping in each morning and letting him take me were I need to go, I try to be helpful. I try to press buttons and flip switches, and I panic at every creak and jolt because I can't see what's happening and I'm in no way in control.
     This week, I'm going to remind myself every time I step into an elevator that God knows where I'm going, he knows how he's going to get me there, and he isn't going to let me fall.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

Medicinal Herbs for Fictional Use, Part 2

1. Urine, that wonderful liquid gold.

Splash, photo by Pro2

Urine has had many uses in history and in historical medicine, everything from being used as a face wash to tanning hides to a detergent for tough stains. Urea, a main component of urine, is used in many beauty products today that are used to treat dermatological conditions like psoriasis and eczema. Urea can also dissolve the nail plate of an infected or overgrown nail without damaging the healthy tissue.

Now, depending on your fiction world, urine might very well be the most aseptic liquid available. Urea, a component of urine, can debride wounds by breaking down the dead tissue. If it came right down to it in a survival situation, I would probably go with urine over alcohol for a large wound since alcohol kills all tissue, both healthy and non, and the urine of a healthy person probably contains less sugars and odd yeasts than your fermented beverage of choice.

On a side note, urine is supposed to be a wonderful fertilizer so if you have a compost pile of your own...

2. Mullen (Mullein Root, Wild Ice Leaf, Hag's Taper, Candelaria) is still proclaimed today to be a wonderful cure for things like ear infection and respiratory disorders. Historically, the leaves steeped in vinegar were used to treat lameness and internal bruises as well as respiratory congestion. Do note that the hairs on the leaves can cause contact dermatitis, so people shouldn't be picking them without gloves. The flowers are used to create a wash for minor wounds and abrasions.

Mullein, photo by Schnobby

3. Lobelia inflata (Indian Tobacco) leaves and seeds were used dried, crushed and tightly bottled, made into a tea, tincture or pill. A few teaspoons were given at a time to treat asthma, whooping cough, difficulty breathing, consumption, cholera, lockjaw, rabid animal bites, wasp or poisonous insect stings and, surprisingly, hydrophobia. Lobelia is toxic in large doses and does tend to cause vomiting indicating that the dose needs to be titrated according to response.

Lobelia inflata, photo by H. Zell

4. Knotgrass (Polygonum Aviculare) extract was used for nose and gastric bleeding. When powdered it was drunk with wine to treat poisonous bites. And was in general considered to be a remedy for gangrene, ulcers, broken joints and dysentery.

Common Knotgrass, photo by Aiwok

5. Foxglove (Digitalis Purpurea) was first documented for use in cardiac issues in the late 1700's and contains a strong cardiac glycoside that slows and strengthens the heartbeat. I can't see a reason any character in any of my stories would conceivably use this as it deals more with a chronic condition than an actual disease process. But I found it interesting so I'm including it anyway. Honestly, it would, in fiction land only of course, be more useful as a poison. Overdose of foxglove causes visual disturbances (yellow-green halos around lights), vomiting, dizziness, seizures and ultimately death as it stops the heart.

Digitalis Purpurea, photo by Kurt Stüber

Well, that's it for this section. This is, of course, in no way comprehensive, but I hope it has helped to imbue a modicum of historical accuracy to your literary endeavors. Happy writings, everyone!

Medicinal Herbs for Fictional Use

For those of you writing either historic novels, or novels where such wonders as penicillin and morphine have yet to be discovered, you may be wondering what you can use to help your ailing characters without just throwing random (or made-up) herbs into a poultice. So here is a list of herbs used in the 19th century for various ailments. 

As a disclaimer, this is not sound medical advice for real world people living in the 21st century, so please do not try any of these remedies on yourself without doing some thorough research of your own.

1. Chocolate Root (purple avents, geum rivale) can be used to treat fever, consumption and sore throat. Mix about twenty grains of the powder with honey. Take every day. Can also be made into a tea.

Indian Chocolate: Photo by Jeffdelonge , Les Verrières de Joux, France, mai 2005

 2. Bloodroot (sanguinaria canadensis, bloodwort) is used for fever, wound cleaning, cough and croup, dental hygiene, and, in those cases where it is desirable, to cause vomiting. The underground part of the stem (rhizome) was used for medicinal purposes. Dosing is not specified. However, if taken orally it is an emetic (causes vomiting) or it can be placed directly on the skin around a wound to clean away dead tissue and reduce inflammation. Bloodroot may have some antibacterial and anti-inflammatory properties.

Bloodwort: CC-BY-SA-3.0/Matt H. Wade

3. Crow's foot (buttercup, ranunculus) is supposed to be good for blisters and can be used to treat asthma if made into a tea.

Creeping Buttercup: Photo by Laura Brolis, Wikimedia Commons

4. Canada Snakeroot (asarum canadense) has a "spicy" flavor and was used to treat catarrh, cough, colds, scarlet fever and lung complaints, such as tuberculosis. It must be said, however, that it is now known to contain a carcinogen.

Asarum canadense: Photo by Chris S. Packard, Wikimedia Commons

5. Comfrey (comphrey, knitbone, boneset) is still used today, and I can actually vouch for the authenticity of this one when used to treat burns. It is also supposed to heal with healing fractures, various skin ailments, bruises, wounds and sprains. Either create a poultice with honey and oil and place it directly on the wound or ailing part, or boil it down and use the extract, or have them drink it as a tea.

Syphytum officinale: Photo by Agnieszka Kwiecień, license: CC-BY 3.0

Well, that's all for now. Join me next time for URINE and its various uses.

Note: Most of these herbs were found in "The Ladies' Indispensable Companion and Family Physician" published in 1854. Another of the remedies for burns found in said book is to burn the inside sole of an old shoe and sprinkle the ashes on the wound...

Three Personalities

"In the late 1940's, WH Auden became enamored of the idea that every writer's mind is a household containing three personalities. T.S. Eliot's, he wrote, included an Archdeacon, an old peasant grandmother and a young boy who liked to play practical jokes." - Adam Kirsch


I came across this quote as a writing prompt and decided to try my hand at it. I think there are far more than three floating around in here, but these are the top three personalities that I find myself writing into every story without conscious decision to do so.


LadyAmadeus' Household

1. The Flawed Hero
This is the protagonist who strives and strives for perfection even while making, sometimes extremely destructive, mistakes. He uses his strength (or sometimes weakness) to protect others as best he can while being singularly unconcerned for his own safety and well-being. This is a growing role. Flawed men turn into Heroes throughout the course of the story. And, yes, it usually is a "he," because in my own opinion females are far too complicated for this role (but this is an entirely different subject and may appear in another post at length, so we'll leave it to rest for now).


2. The Misunderstood Villain
My favorite is the misunderstood villain, because, if you are willing to let him, he can unearth a level of empathy that a hero is simply incapable of evincing. It requires the realization that everyone has their own reasons for doing what they do. Very rarely do people set out just to be evil. There are extenuating circumstances. There are turning points and cruxes and opportunities for change. The degree of separation between this villain and the hero can sometimes be as small as a single moment of decision, but that decision was shaped by a past, which is what I'm interested in. I myself am very rarely a hero, even a flawed one, but I do like to think that if I ever play the part of a villain it's simply because my actions are being misunderstood.


3. The Younger Brother
This is the one who desires more than anything else to make others proud of him, to make them acknowledge his skills and ability, and to live up to a standard that was set by someone, usually older and more skillful, going before him. The younger brother is useful in that jealously and unreasonable decisions as well as labile mood are completely in character. You still love him and want him to grow up well, but sometimes, he's simply maddening.

The Alley

Thanks to Nicholas Schafer for the lovely picture that inspired this story. This is just an opening scene, and I don't plan to run it as a series on this blog. However, if you are terribly interested, let me know and I'll send you a copy when the story is complete.



I.
    Alois blinked several times. Paint dripped from his fingers. He could smell it. He stared at the wall in front of him, but he couldn’t see anything except a blur of browns and greens without his glasses.
    He wiped the paint off on the leg of his pants and wondered where he’d gotten the paint from this time. His head ached, right behind his eyes, and he drew his somewhat cleaner left hand across his face. He knelt down carefully and felt across the ground for his glasses, but he couldn’t find them.
    “Not again,” he muttered.
    “Hello? Alois?”
    “Jana?” he said, squinting at the figure coming toward him.
    “Thank goodness and mercy. I didn’t think I was going to find you.” She handed him a damp cloth and his glasses.
    “How long was I gone this time?” he asked.
    “I was out until about an hour ago. You were gone when I got back.” She looked past him at the wall. “What this?”
    He shrugged and turned to see what he had done.
    “This is amazing. How do you do such detail without even a brush?” she asked, leaning closer to the still wet paint.
    “I don’t know,” he said. He glanced at the scene, a sunny forest glade.
    “I feel like I could walk right into it,” Jana said.
    “You’ll get paint all over you,” Alois said without a hint of humor.
    “Probably.” She turned back to him with a smile. “We’d better go. It’s almost curfew, and you don’t want the badges seeing what you’ve done. Even if it is beautiful. They don’t like people painting up walls that aren’t theirs.”
    Alois gave a startled look up at the street light that stuck out of the wall and past it at the darkened sky.
    “Come on now,” Jana said, holding out her hand to him.
    He looked up at her. “Are my parents home?”
    “No, darling boy,” she said with a look around her eyes that was pitying. “Come along, and I’ll get you something to eat.”
    Alois rubbed at his temples, trying to stop the pain behind his eyes as he followed his nanny out of the alley.

II.
    At half ten, long after the curfew bells had rung and the lights had gone out, a boy about sixteen years old darted into the alley with the sound of boot steps following him down the street. He wasn’t surprised to find that the alley was a dead end. That was just the way his luck was running that night. He crouched against the wall, hoping the shadows would hide him and knowing that they wouldn’t.
    It wasn’t a part of town he normally hung about. The people who lived there were the posh of the nobs, and he was a factory worker who lived in the Shatter. The kind of guy who came home with grease embedded in every crease and crevice.
    He wouldn’t have been there at all if the Rocker Men hadn’t been waiting for him outside the building where he kept a room. He rubbed the back of his head where the first––and last––blow had landed. As soon as it had, he’d scrambled back up and run, because that was what he was good at––running, not fighting. He wasn’t used to having anyone so very intent on catching him though.
    They were going to gut him, he was sure, and he was very particular about the amount of blood in his body. If he could have his own way, it would be all of it. He studied the walls in the dim light, but they offered no way up. The one behind him was covered in a mural and smelled of still wet paint.
    “Come out, little Joe,” said a voice he recognized as belonging to Figs, the mouth of the Rocker Men. “We just wanna have a nice, little talk with you.”
    Four silhouettes appeared at the end of the alley, and Joe eased back, never minding the wet paint. It would wash out easier than blood in any case. But he couldn’t find the wall behind him. He slid back farther and his hand came down in something damp and soft. He drew it back at once, not wanting to think about what he might have stuck his hand in.
    He looked over his shoulder just for a second to see where exactly the wall had gone, only to discover that it wasn’t there at all, and neither, when he turned back, was the alley. He sat alone in a clearing surrounded by deciduous trees and filled with the faint but distinctive smell of wet paint.