Teeter-totter, or, “The Precision of Pain” vs “the Blurriness of Joy”
Featured image: A year ago or so, I saw a photo by Salt Lake City poet, writer, community literary-arts leader, photographer—and my friend—Joel Long on his nature and wildlife blog that raised gooseflesh on my arms. Teeter-totter is his shot of coyotes on the salt flats of the Great Salt Lake, the Davis County Causeway to Antelope Island, in the Spring of 2024. I met Joel decades ago when we attended the University of Utah’s MFA program at the same time. At the time he’d changed from teaching English in a public school to a private one, where his people-loving power resulted increased the cult following of teen literature and poetry lovers he’d already built up. After graduating from the U, Joel and I continued our friendship at the art events he arranged during his 8 years as director of the City Arts Program. Soon after, he retired from teaching to pursue his own writing and—to my and his other followers’ great delight—started publishing remarkable wildlife photos online. Thanks, Joel for the honor of letting me start my post with your photo.
With the exception of the 10 days after the cortisone hot in my hip, I have now—at year’s end—been in pain for two-and-a-half months. This post was triggered by my teetering between pain and hope since my hip/back was torpedoed by arthritis/stenosis in the middle of October. The experimental home (below) is like my life at the moment, tilting like a see-saw as you walk around inside it. This modernist retreat is actually a study in how architecture affects relationships. In my and Peter’s relationship, the loads on either side of the pivot point are the tumble-down architecture of my spine and the hit-by-a-bus frangibility of my dementia brain.
The origin of the word “teeter-totter” is old the Old Norse word tittermatorter, an onomatopoeic combination of two words with more-or-less the same meaning, something like “hurly-burly” or “easy-peasy”: 1), titra, meaning “to shake, totter, or tremble,”and 2), totra “move with shaky steps,” “to and fro,” “quiver,” or “shake”).
I can convey nothing more eloquent about the tittermatorter of my misery than a range of sufferer-statements in Yehuda Amichai ‘s poem “The Precision of Pain and the Blurriness of Joy,” 1999.
….I’m thinking
How precise people are when they describe their pain in a doctor’s office.
Even those who haven’t learned to read and write are precise:
“This one’s a throbbing pain, that one’s a wrenching pain,
This one gnaws, that one burns, this is a sharp pain,
And that—a dull one. Right here. Precisely here,
Yes, yes.”
An untitled image by contemporary South African artist Diane Victor (Born in 1964 in Witbank) was made with the deposits of carbon from candle smoke on white paper. She’s well known for her prints and smoke-drawings that explore social injustice, war, and corruption, particularly portraits of missing children. The images “are exceedingly fragile and can be easily damaged, disintegrating with physical contact as the carbon soot is dislodged from the paper,” she explained. “I was interested in the extremely fragile nature of these human lives and of all human life, attempting to translate this fragility into portraits made from a medium as impermanent as smoke itself.”
Like many artists, Frida Kahlo’s paintings show that physical pain is almost always accompanied by mental pain. In 1925, she was riding a bus with her boyfriend, Gomez Arias, when it crashed into a trolley. As a result, Frida had a broken spinal column, -collar bone, -ribs, -pelvis, and 11 fractures in her leg, An iron hand rail punctured her abdomen and uterus. She spent three months recovering in a full body cast. Although she recovered her ability to walk, the aftermath of her injuries infused the rest of her life with crippling physical pain.
Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera married in 1929 and divorced in 1939. The primary catalyst was his infidelity with her sister Cristina, the then last of his many affairs. They remarried the next year, 1940, but their relationship remained strained. In 1945, Frida went for spinal surgery in New York. It failed. Her health worsened. She painted The Wounded Deer (above) in 1946. I reflects not only her physical pain, but also her feelings of hopelessness in relation both her unsuccessful surgery and failed marriage.
For the past 11+ weeks, I have had the most long-lasting pain experience in my life: around October 11th, my left hip buckled one morning when I got out of bed, could not carry my weight. A searing pain ligtninged down my left leg, pitched pins-and-needles all the way to my toes. I stumbled to the bathroom by holding on to the furniture and doorknobs. I tried ibuprofen and acetomenophen, the pain continued. Peter took me to a team of eventually 3 successive doctors. I had an Xray and two MRIs; received prescriptions for 3 different non-opioid painkillers; was given 1 steroid shot in my hip, then 2 in my back. No luck. I self-medicated with opioid presription left-overs I’d stashed away: it dulls the pain, but does not take it away. The pain takes my energy, my day. Peter’s energy, Peter’s day. I have to rest my legs for large chunks of time by sitting on a chair, lounging in my lazy-girl recliner with my feet on a stool, or sitting-lying in my bed. To leave our apartment unit, requires a wheel-chair, mostly used for endless doctor appointments and diagnostic procedures. To get around our apartment, Peter got me a walker. That helps a lot for mobility, but nevertheless aggravates the pain after. Other than for 10 days after the shot in my hip, I’ve not had sufficient pain relief to do my share in the household or be in the outside world.
While Yehuda Amichai’s “The Precision of Pain and the Blurriness of Joy” is voluble about the misery of pain, it does say—all too enigmatically— that something positive can come from physical suffering : “I learned to speak among the pains,” is the poet’s only clue. It presumably means that “learning to speak” is a positive result of mentally overcoming your pain in order to develop a higher level of self-actualization. In other words, facing pain and learning to deal with it with can nurture a problem-centered approach, develop our inner strength, induce acceptance of reality (flaws and all). Does that count as “joy,” though? One could say that Amichai makes provision for such an interpretation by ascribing a ‘”blurriness” to joy: most languages have hardly any synonyms for it, while abounding with precise words for about pain. Pain, after all, is familiar. Researchers of the phenomenon of joy in fields ranging from history to theology to literature to psychology agree that we have to develop vocabulary to allow for different flavors and/or degrees of this universal emotion. Because “it is not a state that we encounter frequently,” it’s “unspeakable.” In joy, “words cease to function as they familiarly do” (American poet and physician C. Dale Young). Neurobiology—because as a science it works with tangible materials vs abstract concepts—was quick to find and name the chemical underpinnings of this universally (but rarely experienced) emotion.
The main “happiness hormones” (Dopamine, Oxytocin, Serotonin, Endorphins) or DOSE, and the general brain areas they affect. These chemical messengers drive the regulation of mood, emotions, and overall well-being.
Mood researchers, each in their own discipline, have distinguished various “degrees” of elation: for example, the 2 kinds (there are more) that I show below originated in the sculptural expression of art.
1), Serene joy, “the quiet joy of the body in equilibrium”
The buffalo in Omaskêko Ininiwak (Cree) artist Duane Linklater’s sculpture is “pampering” itself by wallowing in the dust: it first works loose the soil by trampling it, then rolls in it, and finally settles into a relaxed lying-on-its-tummy position. Other than the one shown above, Linklater sculpted 6 more self-indulgent wire and papier-mâché buffalos in other self-indulgent activities: getting rid of critters on their coats, cooling off, smelling smells, picking up grass seeds in their fur that will attract pecking birds—being picked clean is another pleasurable and calming experience. Such behaviors are observed only when the animals feel comfortable and safe, and never when they’re in captivity or otherwise stressed.
2), Excited joy, or “leaping for joy”
An sculptural example of excited joy is Bliss Dance, is a 40 feet tall structure by Marco Cochrane and model, Deja Solis that depicts a woman dancing, eyes closed, expressing her joy, her energy, herself. They followed Bliss Dance with 2 more giant sculptures. Before they went big, Deja had modeled for 7 of Marco’s “regular-sized” sculptures. At the completion of the last one, she one morning struck a dance pose and said, “I want us to do this next.” Mark immediately started sketching and shaping clay models. Bypassing his former “regular-sized” work, Marco wet for a larger-than-life size. But making a metal core strong enough to support a sculpture’s weight required an engineering team and months of trials. As his fascination grew, so did the sculpture. The complete work consists of 7,500 pounds of steel posts and tubing formed into geodesic modules, that enable consisting straight, rigid bars to support curves. Stainless steel mesh constitutes the dancer’s skin, which shimmers in the sun. By night, it alights brilliantly with a complex array of 1000 slowly changing L.E.D. colored lights. It debuted at Burning Man in 2010, was moved the next year to Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay, where it stayed four years. In 2016, Bliss Dance found a permanent home at The Park on the Las Vegas Strip.
Bonus, shared joy: Times Square, 2026
Researchers found that experiences during which joy was shared with others (70% ) were far more common than individual joy (30%).
dIt is now New Year’s Eve. My back- and leg pain is worse than before. I live in self-captivity, our apartment is my world. To what kind of joy can I realistically aspire? Not even the “tame” joy of wallowing-buffalo serenity, as that requires tittermatortering as when settling into a spa mud bath. Neither am I “dancing with joy,” not even when assisted by my walker! Yesterday I had an appointment with my orthopedic doctor (DO). She said she’d by now tried every option short of surgery to relieve me of the pain. Peter and I are now exploring a back operation. I have an appointment with a surgeon for January 12th. Research tells me the joy I’m feeling is of the anticipatory kind, which occurs when the fulfillment of a desire appears within reach. Why would a surgeon’s appointment evoke any joy at all? Surely, without a miracle—toward which the indifferent universe is not inclined—just talking with the surgeon is not going to disappear my pain! An analysis of anticipatory joy—written by no less a connoisseur of the human mind than Jane Austen—echoes my feelings. Her sly humor vaults across the 213 years that separate us to spring newly minted into my 21st century life: Elizabeth Bennett, the heroine of Pride and Prejudice, (1813),”found that an event to which she had looked forward with impatient desire, did not—[after] taking place—bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other future period… upon which her wishes and hopes might be fixed. [She could then temporarily enjoy] the pleasure of anticipation one more time, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment.”
A Short History of Plungers and Other Things That Go Plunge in the Night (2022) by artist and MIT-trained roboticist Alexander Reben, 2022. printing.
Given that I subscribe to André Gide’s philosophy that “embracing joy is a moral obligation,” I knew I had to find something more immediate than anticipatory joy to get me through the next days, weeks, and months before I can reasonably expect to have pain relief on a scale that helps my daily living. When my back/hip pain worsened, I recalled that Gide says nothing against instant gratification when it comes to seeking out joy, which encouraged me to approach my anti-opioid doctor for a central nervous system depressant/narcotic strong enough to make a difference. She consented. Hydrocodone has certainly dulled the pain. However, I can’t take the prescribed 2 doses per day because that makes me fight sleep all day. I take it in the morning only, so it can ease my start-of-the-day chores, including grooming. The good effect is that I do get around better with my walker. However, moves less internalized than walking —like sitting or lying down—still ignite fractals of lightning through my back, hip, and left leg.
Einstein, Kekulé, Matisse, and Salvador Dalí each spoke about their own modes for accessing non-linear, intuitive, and imaginative states of mind that include daydreaming, dreams, or hypnagogia (the brief, hazy period between wakefulness and sleep). Einstein, for example, would sit in an armchair, holding a key or spoon just above a metal plate on the floor. As he drifted into a fleeting, semi-conscious reverie, his grip would loosen, the object would fall and clang on the plate, instantly jolting him awake. This allowed him to freshly capture the fresh ideas and unexpected connections that arose during his “quasi-hallucinogenic” state before they vanished into deep sleep. The iconoclasts mentioned above (and many others) used similar methods to enhance their creative potential. Matisse, the only one among his fellow seekers, deliberately sought the experience of pure joy and new insights on how to portray it. Two of his paintings about joy, described variously by critics as “a whirl in ecstasy,” “the most beautiful painting of the modern world,” “the most joyous painting in all of art history.” But is it, as Matisse had intended, a work of “unqualified joy”?
Matisse’s La Danse, 1909-10
Matisse painted La Danse (above) in 1910, after earlier (1905-6) having incorporated the same circle of dancers in a similarly-themed 1906 painting. Its size is a jubilant 9x 13′ feet: if it is laid flat on a California king bed, approx 5 ” will hang over on each of the four sides. The artist applied pure, saturated colors in large, flat areas, bypassing realistic shading or perspective. Against a vibrant green earth and deep blue sky, the larger-than-life red figures gyrate rapturously in a landscape not to be found in nature. The circle of connected hands could have been cribbed from Kekulé’s trance.
Given La Danse’s ripped-from-a-drug-high sensibility, why wouldn’t someone seeking joy while in serious pain jump directly to “the real McCoy” of street drugs? One of the origin stories of the “the real McCoy” expression makes a nice metaphor for substance-induced joy: During Prohibition, bootlegger Bill McCoy was known for supplying high-quality, undiluted liquor. His product was so pure that customers called it “the real McCoy,” distinguishing it from watered-down “rotgut.” The chances of me imbibing Bill McCoy’s nirvana is as unlikely as me ingesting/injecting/sniffing hallucinogens. For me, CONTROL OVER MY BRAIN is the real McCoy. If anything in my declining years affirmed my “just say no” attitude, it is surely my vascular dementia. By the time my brain difficulties were named, I already knew that I had some form of dementia. My mother had it. I read a lot. In one way, I can say that dementia was the biggest blow of my life—it certainly snuffed out so many of the most important aspects of my identity: there went my well-working brain, my ability to control my own life, my prefrontal cortex‘s ability to assess the potential social fallout of a comment in medias res: in rushes Doña Quote’s blurting of social bloopers before they fall off my tongue…how long can I go on listing my failings without boring everyone to death?
During my last meeting with my physical therapist this past Thursday, she drew from her 40-year or so experience with people who have spinal stenosis, or the thickening and enlargement of spinal bones and ligaments that then put pressure on the spinal cord and nerve roots (the nerves hat branch off it). One type of frequently used surgery trims off the extra bone around the affected nerve roots. She told me that the bone inevitably grows back again, in the back pain recurs. Pain management is just a part of getting older. I appreciate her honest report, but it is disconcerting. Resorting to anticipatory joy, I still hold out hope for some kind of successful surgery. Think ahead so as to be somewhat mentally prepared for the worst case scenario is a hallmark of the control freak. Given that, since my dementia diagnosis, I have been resolved to ultimately exert the control to take my own life when my quality of life is no longer acceptable. I have and want to continue having an action plan in place. I cannot live joyfully and be at peace unless I have it. I’m of course not alone in timing the point when I’ll cause my self-death, because Peter and I have discussed it with each other and our family for many years now. It goes without saying that I have to consider Peter’s desires too. “When” will be a mutual decision. But we both want to stretch out our time together as long as possible, which means I must decide while I’m still capable of performing all mental and physical actions by myself. I have promised him the time would be a mutual decision. But we are dealing with the impact that ongoing pain is now a possible factor in determining a worthwhile life on top of my dementia, we are in the middle of a big rethink. In this respect, my dementia diagnosis has been easier to accept than living with this pain.This is because, even before my diagnosis with microvascular dementia, I already knew that DEMENTIA NEVER GETS BETTER, whereas—in my prior experience—pain had always been something the medical establishment had been able to relieve. I assumed that would be the same for the stenosis-triggered pain.
Overcoming pain(2020), sculpture by self-taught Armenian artist Karen Axikayan. His work captures the quiet tension between strength and vulnerability, where a hard material is shaped to into emotion-filled gestures of pain, softness, or grace. Click HERE to see, see, for example, hisWind Play.)
Despite my long report of what feels like a major disaster, there are still many moments of deep pleasure in my daily life—with or without my rational intent to seek joy. Peter brings me joy every single day. Many times a day, his love acts as a buffer between me and the physical- and psychic pain. Ordinary-ness is the shield: we keep on doing our ablutions in the morning, me with the safety bars and other safety measures in “my ” bathroom that installed; I love that I can do my chores sitting as I swirl from kitchen counter to stove and fridge moving on the swivel chair he got me; we still toast each other at dinner with wine and loving every day; he has found a way to cuddle me during the night that does not trigger my pain. Marissa, Adam, and Dante come over and call more frequently to keep us cheered—and Marissa helped Peter sign up to order groceries online and have them delivered at our door. Newton, Cheryl, Kanye, and Aliya also pop in often, giving their company and help—this past week Newton picked Peter up at the eye doctor when he went for his macular degeneration shots that make his eyes too fuzzy to drive. I daily feel joy about the lovely warm apartment where we live, the luxury of having my own computer, my lazy girl chair and new footrest where I can prop my legs. Writing my blog and family history books for my grandkids are the most supreme food for my soul. As Martin Amis says about writing in his autobiographical novel The Inside Story, “How else can you come to terms with the fact of your existence on Earth?”
Above, 1) Peter makes a prototype for the safety-handles he is designing for my swivel chair. 2), After many days at home, Peter took me out for coffee—courtesy of the opioids!
Below, a), Matisse’s SECOND painting on the theme of joy, Danse (I), (1909), is housed at MOMA, NYC. In this one the color of the dancers is a pale, grayish pink. It is slightly smaller than the one with the red dancers that I showed earlier; and 2), a close-up of the spot where a hand from each of two adjacent grayish pink dancers reach for the knee of another dancer in the background. THE CIRCLE OF DANCERS IS RUPTURED AND ON THE VERGE OF COMING APART AND COLLAPSING
January 12, 2026 @ 1:54 pm
Sommer net baie liefde. so pragtig geskryf. Embracing joy is a moral obligation. dit het ek nodig gehad
January 14, 2026 @ 12:54 pm
So wonderlik om internet liefde van jou te kry! Ek dink met ‘n hartseer nostalgie aan die jare toe ons mekaar so baie in die vlees kon sien. As ons dan hard moet soek vir “joy,” is ek bly dat ons dit nog saam kan doen in die gees.
January 13, 2026 @ 10:23 pm
Gerda,
You continue to amaze me, teach me, make me think, smile and wait for your next writing. Thank you. I’m so sorry to hear about your physical pain and you continue to make me realize that we are all aging in our own way but we did share times with much less pain and a lot of good times. I hope your hip/leg/back pain gets better or at least more manageable. As for us, we are doing well, aging like most of our friends. Our kids are great with grandchildren for us to get to enjoy. Dori, Rebecca, and Robert and families are here in Utah. Nathan and family in Colorado. Hello to Peter, the kids and grands.
Kathy
January 14, 2026 @ 12:49 pm
My dearest Kathy, how wonderful to hear from you–and read your kind and much appreciated comment that my writing means something to you. And for the good wishes about my back/hip pain–by now I’ve heard that surgery (the end of January) is my last resort. I’ll write about it soon. I think with amazing memories of how you and Bruce have embraced us and let us be part of so many of your family celebrations. How fantastic that 3 of your kids are in Utah. And Colorado is close too. The one great compensation for the pains of old age is that we have our children and grandkids to enjoy. Love to you and your beautiful fam=ily too.
January 16, 2026 @ 7:42 pm
I can’t believe you could write this while in so much pain. You amaze me xoxo
March 19, 2026 @ 2:33 pm
You are so kind to read my 1000ss of words of complaint. Thinking of you on your trip to Daniella and the GIRLS! Love you