Chillin'

"future"
Originally uploaded by dogfaceboy.

Migraine sufferers have this in common: cold hands. It's possible, then, that warmer hands lead to fewer migraines. But we're not talking gloves. We need core warmth.

How to warm the core? Meditation. And unless you are a tense, uptight, angry control freak, it works.

My therapist told me weeks ago, when I squinted through a session and complained about my pain, to meditate for twenty minutes a day. "You know how to meditate, don't you?" Sure I do. He fished out a hand thermometer from his drawer. I was to take the temperature of my fingertips before and after, keeping a journal of the numbers.

The first time I did it, I was amazed at how quickly the tips of my fingers felt as though they were on fire. This was heat from the core. It was a miracle.

I did this once or twice, and then I got lazy. (Start me on a once-daily regimen of chocolate, however, and I won't miss.)

This week, despite the warm temperatures, my hands feel as though they've visited the arctic tundra. I torture my daughter by putting them on her naked tummy to wake her in the morning. I irritate my husband with them before bed. I cup my hands and exhale hot breath on them every few minutes. I make tea just to hold the cup.

On Saturday, when my hands were their coldest and my head hurt its worst, I tried to meditate. Different methods work for different people. Some people like to focus on an object in the room. Some like music. Some have mantras. Some sit in full or half lotus position. I close my eyes and imagine an electric blue dot in the distance. I stare at the dot and repeat, "INhale, OUThale," concentrating on nothing but breathing until even that concentration disappears.

But my hands are freezing, and this is all I can think about at the moment. "Warm the hands," I say, in an even, relaxed monotone, as if this were an incantation. "Warm the hands," I repeat. My hands are still freezing. "Hands, get warm. Warmth go to ye, oh hands," I say. "Warm up, dammit!" I yell. The meditation is not working. I quit meditating for six days

On the seventh, the day I am to meet with my therapist, I take my hand temperature. The thermometer only goes as low as 68 degrees. I cannot get the mercury to rise. So I attempt meditation one last time. In the living room, a secondhand ticks in the background, and I begin, to the rhythm of the ticking: "Warm. Hands. Warm. Hands." After two minutes, my fingertips are still 68 degrees. Now it's important for me to get this right. I have two ice cubes dangling from my wrists and a brain-freeze headache. It is time to relax. To get serious. And so I fix my legs, sit up straight, close my eyes, find that electric blue dot, and repeat, "Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick." After three minutes, my fingers are on fire. They are 92 degrees. I have done it. I meditate for ten more minutes, and my hands are toasty.

When I tell my therapist the story, he laughs. This is classic me—aggressively pursuing a goal. I attack it like I attack sleep. (Sleep, dammit!) You have to know when to fetch and when to roll over. You have to know when to let go.

Chill, he says.