The Zen of Blood, Sweat and Sh*t

Don’t talk shit, they say! (sorry if this word offends, but also as they say, SHIT HAPPENS!)

I’ve had an epiphany, and by chance, doo-doo is something I know a little about.

But let’s go back a wee bit before I get into the main manure of this post.

My epiphany is all about the exchange of poop and its potential wonders. Praise Be Shit!

Let’s dig in, shall we?

Modern science has shown us with little doubt that transfusing blood from a young person into an older person changes the aging process, and in effect, makes the older person’s internal guts younger. It also works vice versa when transfusing from old to young.

It’s incredible and exciting and on its surface seems like a simple answer to concerns over aging.

But, to be fair, it has some worrisome aspects too.

I was a lab technologist for 37 years and I know firsthand that blood transfusion – as lifesaving as it can be – also has troublesome risks because of graft vs host rejection, just like organ transplants.

When we inject someone else’s blood into our veins, our bodies will occasionally start up the weapons’ factories, fire up the army, navy, and air force, and unleash an antibody response to a foreigner in our blood stream. It’s like the Ukraine fighting back an unwanted invader like the Russians. Russian intruders = blood transfusion… Our bodies = Ukraine…

Or maybe Obiwan vs Darth

But let’s get down and dirty now and talk shit…

Blood isn’t the only bodily “fluid” we transplant from one human to another… we also do faecal transplants to inject a healthy biome from one individual to another.

The helpful and healthful bacteria transplanted may help against a range of health conditions, from GI infections to autism spectrum disorder (ASD).

You should really give a shit about this now because Poop is more important than most of us ever realized.

Maybe it’s even a game changer.

Here’s my “wishful thinking “epiphany:

By the same notion that blood transfusion can change our internal aging clock, I’m figuring that a faecal transplant can have some pretty profound impacts too.

How about a potent and potential example or two:

• Transplant the faecal matter of someone of great intelligence into my colon and KAZAM… I begin spouting E=mc2 like a 21st century Einstein.
• For the narcissists and villains (sorry to equate the two) out there, we inject stool directly from each year’s Nobel Peace prize winner into the guts of louts and criminals and transform our jails overnight into the Peace Corps. Who needs gun control laws when everyone wants to hug their neighbours around the world. Line up and bend over Putin!
• Or, perhaps for those of us who pine to look like Chris Pine or croon like Billie Eilish or Beyonce? Pack it in the back door, and start singing or acting like the diva or thespian you always dreamed of becoming.

One last thought… for the larger expanse of us beings who are reasonably content with our inner and outer souls but might feel the need of a refreshing refresh…

… you know, a need to flush our brains of external “shit”.

This information excrement that others have transplanted inside us, often without our knowledge or consent, needs to be flushed from our systems.

An annual FT (Faecal Transplant) treatment could be the hallowed road to peace and harmony, world and inner peace.

Register for yours today… then…

Sing it with me… All We Are Saying… is… Give Shit a Chance…

Surprises, Epiphanies, And Seeds.

In 1977 I had a life changing-, life expanding-epiphany.

The epiphany? I had choices. WE have choices. 

Seeds.

I had just recently left my teen years, turning 20 years old, a freshly minted college grad… thick, dark hair and a future of limitless potential, but…

… I didn’t know that I had choices. Really?

I knew there were boxes I could open that contained minor differences, but the general course of my life was pre-determined as if I were some young Amish kid.

Pre-determined similarly to 50 years earlier when girls had free choice to be anything they wanted, you know, either… teacher or nurse. Woo Hoo!

Choice?

Not real, life changing choices where I raised the jib and held the rudder. Choices that let me contain and control the wind.

Foolishly, I didn’t know that until I picked up the phone one late September morning and a lady on the other end of the line said:

“Larry, this is Marg Ramsden in Yellowknife. We received your resume for a lab job and we’d like you to come and work for us.”

Yellowknife! Yellowknife?

Did I really send a resume to Yellowknife? What was I thinking? Yellowknife?

Arctic-ice-cold-dark-winter-night-isolated-Eskimo-territory Yellowknife? (remember, Eskimo was a happily acceptable term for the Inuit in 1977).

Then… I was offered another lab position that very same day in the Hamilton hospital lab Blood Bank where I had interned.

That was the box I was conditioned to expect.

Obviously an easy decision, right? At least I thought so.

Nice big city 600-bed hospital job crossmatching blood vs. tiny cold remote northern 72-bed hospital where I’d cover all the lab departments (hospital labs usually encompass Blood Bank, Haematology, Microbiology, Histology and Biochemistry).

Why would I trade the familiar homey scent of Hamilton smog and my “Oskey Wee Wee” Tiger Cat football team for belligerent black flies, murderous mosquitoes and -45C temperatures?

Then I surprised myself.

Yup, there can be unexpected earth-tremors along our journey.

Surprise. Life changing.

Yes, I burned away the easy choice and nervously put myself onboard a Pacific Western Airlines (PWA) Boeing 737 in Toronto that touched down first in Edmonton, then in Yellowknife, on a chill October Arctic evening as lovely tiny snowflakes fell.

I was so isolated and naive in my little world that I had tried to book a flight on TWA (TransWorld Airlines) instead of PWA … the TWA agent had no idea what the hell a “Yellowknife” was… I had no idea what the hell a “PWA” was.

My palace was shattered like a beach sandcastle hit by a rogue wave, but I only realized that in retrospect.

That was the first seed.

As I slowly grew acclimatized and comfortable in this foreign northern life, my slightly older roommate kept talking about the great time he’d had travelling throughout Europe a couple years back. I would never do that. Never.

Of course, my roommate did a lot of crazy things like drinking an entire bottle of beer while standing on his head at parties.

I’d never try that either. NEVER.

But the seed was planted.  No, not THAT seed! I’ve never quaffed a beer while standing on my head.

And so, two years later in 1979 I backpacked my way throughout Western Europe. (a few years ago, I wrote about an unusual event from that trip in another post.)

Another seed.

That was a surprise. Never ever dreamed of doing that until I did.

It was slowly dawning on me that the choices in my life were mine to make if I only opened my head to possibility… oh yeah, that and… conquering the fear factor, just like I conquered (OK, conquered may be too strong a word… I edged by…) the fear factor in jumping out of an airplane a couple of weeks ago.

I’ve enjoyed gardening, sowing and tending beautiful flowers and vegs and fruits since I was a wee gopher. I know, weird kid!

Once you become a gardener and can finally see that seeds are what grow into luscious plants that nourish us, well, you begin paying attention and looking for seeds to blow into your yard.

Some seeds turn out to be weeds that are ugly and beg to be pulled and composted. Out, damned spot! out, I say!

But then other seeds land lightly, push through the fresh earthy humus and put on an amazing display like you’ve never ever seen.

These are the seeds and plants you tenderly water and provide nutrients so that artistic natural beauty is of your own making.

Choices are the seeds that we can select to make into our life art.

Not every seed is a ravishing stunner, a scented rose, a splendiferous bougainvillea, but we can’t always tell the beauties from the rejects until we give them a try.

As John Denver sang, “… some days are diamonds, some days are stone…“… or why not a bit more bluntly from Mary Chapin Carpenter, “… sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug…”

A tiny example? Sure. More recently, a small seed that’s become a beautiful bloom for me has been tutoring a young Syrian fellow.

While he thanks me profusely, believing that I’m giving him a big jump in his new calmer world in Canada, in reality, we’re both gardeners that are enjoying the fruitful benefits of expanding our worlds.

The laughter we share when he knows he’s being mischievous in English and whispers the “F” word with a sly grin reminds me of how interconnected and similar we all are despite the huge differences.

I’ve had lots of surprises and epiphanies and seeds that drifted into my sightlines over the years.

My eyes may be growing older, but in some surprising ways, I can see better now than I ever have in my life.