Hive Talking
Back in the mid-1970s the band the Bee Gees released a song called “Jive Talking.” The song was catchy and quite popular. My teenage sister had just learned to drive, and she lost all sense when this song came on the radio. Her adolescent brain focused only on the staccato beat, and she had three minor fender benders driving to the song before my parents finally banned the radio when she drove.
That song came to mind recently when I had a sad side effect to the latest Covid vaccine. Within eighteen hours I started having red polka dots popping up all over my body. Hives! The internet confirmed that this was indeed a thing with the newly developed vaccine. The shot had been recommended by my doctor due to my age and vulnerability, I assumed. I don’t want to be hospitalized or intubated due to one of the latest strains of the ever-evolving virus that no one talks about anymore.
Seven weeks have passed. I’ve seen numerous doctors at my teaching facility hospital, and yet I still have the dreaded itchy and burning hives. I’ve learned that I am what is called “chronic.” I may have repeated bouts of the rash over the next coming years. I must learn which of my favorite foods are triggers. For example, I will no longer be eating jarred anchovies, deeply beloved. My body rebelled. I had no idea such a thing existed. I am “hypersensitive.”
This bout with hives has me thinking back to “Jive Talking” and how carefree we seemed in the seventies. We had problems socially and globally, but the issues were not as numerous as they are now. I was talking to a friend recently and lamenting the state of world affairs. She agreed, sadly saying, “The world is on fire.” This was a perfect description of the impending disasters and potential disarray of global unrest.
Unfortunately for me, stress is an accelerator of hives. I am trying to think about how I can remain calm in the face of the drama of my phone sending me updated “breaking news.” I want to know what is unfolding in our world, but I want to remain placid as I hear about the latest calamity. Buddhists have mastered this skill. Me? Not so much.
Yesterday I watched on television as young, angry students protested another country’s war waging on the other side of the planet. I’m impressed that they care about human life but worry about their willingness to confront authority willing to disrupt their lives right as they are graduating from university. They have no apparent fear.
I scratch my itching elbows and ponder my role at this phase of my life. I am the elder on the sideline. I can provide a bit of influence to some issues by supporting chosen causes. I discuss matters socially in as academic a style as I can adopt, eager to avoid conflict with others. My conversation may approach “jive” casualness in its attempt to make sense of important dilemmas, some conflicts lasting hundreds of years.
Yet, the world keeps swirling and surprising me with its chaos. My hives remind me that we can’t solve all the world’s woes, but we each do our part to try and influence a bit of peace, even if it is only in our small spiritual realm.
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