Posted by owner on September 6th, 2010 — in Memories
I missed the pomegranates. For weeks I watched the fruit on the tree, watching it grow, seeing it ripen, and drooling over its promise. I even picked one early, putting it in a brown paper bag with an apple in the hopes it would ripen. But pomegranates only ripen on the tree. So I sat and waited and watched. This morning when I looked at the tree my heart sank. The spots of red were gone. The coatimundis were better watchers than I. Overnight they took every pomegrante and left me with none.
Something ate my squash. I picked some rather large squash, a basket full and a blue Rubbermaid tub full of squash. They exploded overnight in the garden to gigantic proportions and honestly I was unsure what to do with them they were so big. I like my squash small and tender but they hide under the leaves and easily escape my sight. By the time I saw these they were huge.
I put the squash on the deck outside the front door. I had been warned not to leave food outside but for some reason I didn’t think squash would attract critters. I was wrong. Big chunks were gone. Or maybe they were little chunks that put together made it look like one big chunk. Either way a lot of squash was eaten during the night. And none of us knew a thing. The dog didn’t bark, the cat didn’t meow and I never heard a thing.
I wish I knew how to do forensics, take a cast of the teeth marks and match them up. Was it a squirrel? A javelina? Or maybe a skunk? Perhaps a deer? I found deer scat on the lane today. I feel certain Cody the coatimundi went for the pomegranates but does he also have a taste for squash? I’d like to know the size of the critter that was two feet from my front door. Whatever it was it had to climb up onto the deck so I want to think it was something small and unterrifying. The alternative makes me a tad uncomfortable.
It makes me wonder. Are these critters planning an attack on the garden? It is fully enclosed with chicken wire, a double layer sunk a good two feet into the ground and fully covered on top. The lizards get in, but they are only after insects so that doesn’t bother me. In fact I am happy to have them go after the bugs. I like to watch the lizards zipping along the ground so lightening fast I can’t even see their feet. They remind me of the hovercraft that Luke Sklywalker flew around in Star Wars, skimming inches above the ground faster than fast. With an effortless leap the lizards go right through the holes in the chicken wire without a moment’s thought. It shocks me! If they miss the hole and hit the wire they would be guillotined in an instant! How do they do it? Their eyes are on the sides of their heads rather than straight on which I think would be a hindrance when it comes to zipping through chicken wire. I would think their eyes would need to coordinate somehow to target the hole rather than operate independently each one looking out for the wire on its side. Those lizards seem to fly right through that chickenwire and they do it every time without a scratch.
I’ve gone out to the garden in the middle of the night twice now both times when I woke in the middle of the night with the realization that I forgot to turn off the hose. Each time I tried to convince my dog Oro to go out there in the dark with me. She looked out the door, at the dark, then looked at me as if to say “you’re crazy if you think I’m going out there.” Now I could have left the hose on but I knew the garden and the lane and who knows what else would be flooded by morning. So I gather my courage and my flashlight and do the right thing. Walking out in the dark in my oversize t-shirt and flip flops I expect to see critters hanging on the fence plotting ways to get in and devour my produce. They’ve never been there although I imagine they aren’t far off plotting to ambush me from behind, blind me by pulling my t-shirt up over my head and gain access to the garden. I imagine all I need to do is point my flashlight around the woods and I would see their eyes shine. But I am more worried about snakes beneath my feet so I keep the light trained on the ground and start talking very loudly.
“Critters! Keep your distance! Or I’ll throw a shoe at you!”
They knew I was kidding. I am too worried about snakes to heave a flip flop and go barefoot. I managed to successfully turn the hose off each time and make it back to the safety of my bed.
And now this, a half eaten squash. I took it and heaved it into the woods. A peace offering of sorts that I hope will keep the critters happy for now. I hope they don’t develop a taste for it though and decide to storm the fence.
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Posted by owner on September 3rd, 2010 — in Memories
I read an interesting concept today, that your life purpose can be summed up in one word. It is a different word for each individual and no one can tell you your word, you must discover it for yourself, but that one word defines your calling, defines what your purpose in life is. And it is a simple thing, the lesson you are meant to learn in this life. And to find your word, all you need to do is look at your failures. What you are weak at is the thing you are here to achieve in this life, your purpose.
This concept is so beautiful in its simplicity, so basic in its premise that my gut told me it was true. And how provocative is this concept, to delve into one’s failures to uncover one’s word. We search and search for the meaning of life, chasing our passions, reaching to grab the brass ring, certain there is one great thing we are destined to do. But what is great? Great for you may not be so great for me because our words are different. And that word for each of us has been there all the time, at each stumble and fall. It took little effort for me to figure out my word. My earliest failure at the age of five ignited a pattern that has plagued me all my life. My word is speak.
There was no such thing as preschool in the late 1950’s; instead our parents registered us early for kindergarten. Age requirements were loose back then, as long as you turned five years old before the end of the school year, you were in. As a March birthday, I entered kindergarten the September of my fourth year. I was smart though. I mastered my numbers, could add and subtract, nailed the alphabet and began to read. I did so well that near the end of the year, at the tender age of five, I found myself transferred to a first grade class for reading. Kindergarten was colorful crayons and glue, comfy mats on the floor for napping, a playhouse with toys and tiny chairs pulled up to tiny tables that felt like home. First grade was an overcrowded room with metal desks bolted to the floor in rigid rows, dusty green chalkboards, and not a toy in sight. That first class a teacher I had never seen before called my name. I stood up. Then she told me to read, to read out loud in front of this packed room of children I didn’t know, bigger kids kicking their desks, sniggering behind their fists, sticking out their tongues. I stood. I picked up the primer. I was hooked on phonics, I knew these words. I opened my mouth to speak. My mouth opened but it was full of cotton. My tongue was dry and glued to the roof of my mouth. Nothing came out. The teacher’s voice rose unkindly. My chin quivered. My eyes watered. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.
A lifetime of not speaking followed. Mom used to prod me “the squeaky wheel gets the oil” and in the next breath “children should be seen and not heard.” “Don’t speak unless spoken to.” When visiting another family’s home we were told we could accept food or drink if it was offered to us but under no circumstances were we to ask for anything. Like my father I became stoic. It was applauded. Adults complimented me on my good behavior. At all the critical points of my life, speech escaped me until after the event when I would silently rant to myself about all the things I should have said. I was good at coming up with snappy things to say but it was always after the fact. I suffered in silence through a difficult marriage and divorce. My emotions never had a chance to come out. I was viewed as the quiet one. People described me as reserved.
About a year ago I attended a one day workshop on integrative breath, a form of meditation. Twenty of us sat on the floor in a circle, going through the exercises, talking about the power of this process. In the afternoon we had the obligatory “go around the room” whereby each person had a turn to be the center of attention while the others spoke one or two words sharing their impression of that person. When it was my turn on the hot seat, the usual words were used: quiet, reserved, kind, nurturing, searching, capable, and strong. And then one small bright young woman looked at me. And with a sly smile she said “hidden fire”. I heard the woman next to me suck in her breath in surprise. And I knew why. The shock of those words was like a glass of cold water thrown in my face. Those words threw me off balance. I was a book she had picked up and instead of reading the back cover, she went right to the core to get the gist of my story. Hidden fire. At the end of the workshop this tiny woman sought me out, gave me a hug and told me “let that fire blaze!”
I never saw her again, can’t remember her name and hadn’t even thought about her until today but that doesn’t matter. Whatever her word is, I’m sure she mastered it. For me, in the space of that one day workshop and from across the room, she saw the heart of me more clearly than anyone ever had before. She saw the embers smoldering. She poked them with a stick and blew on them to make them flare. She encouraged me to keep the fire going. Rest assured I’ll remember her from now on. Every time I speak.
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Posted by owner on September 2nd, 2010 — in Memories
Sitting on the deck, book in my lap; I heard a tapping beyond the trees. It seemed too loud to be a woodpecker, more like a ball peen hammer striking a piece of wood, short, small and swift. But I am alone out here, except for the trees, the mountain and the wildlife. So this sound surprised me. The noise didn’t disturb the birds in the least, they continued singing. It stopped then began again. Stopped then began again. I had to find out what it was.
I walked down the lane and onto the trail to the slot canyon. I stopped to listen. There it was again. It seemed to come from directly in front of me which seemed odd. In front of me is a jagged rock cliff from which sprouted ocotillo, barrel cactus, prickly pear and palo verde. I suppose a woodpecker tapping on any of those might make that sound but I didn’t think so. I walked forward and down into the canyon. The noise stopped. I stood in the shade of an old mesquite waiting for it to start again but no luck.
I glanced at the mesquite. The top was lush and green, the bottom branches dead and drooping. It has been my habit to trim those dead branches from the mesquite on the property but today I looked twice and saw those branches with new eyes for the first time. Black and brittle they swept down on the ground supporting the upper green branches giving them a foundation to grow. The light and the dark, I resolved not to trim anymore mesquite for cosmetic purposes. I found how beautifully balanced the tree actually was.
I followed my nose to the scent of ragweed. An ugly name for a raggedy plant that makes my eyes water and my nose sneeze yet I adore the scent of it like fresh laundered linen, clean and crisp as a just picked pear. Hiding beneath the ragweed were tiny purple flowers no bigger than a quarter. Their faces turned toward the sun and I stepped aside so as not to shade them.
Here at the base of the rock cliff the creek is forced to turn and carve a new path. No musical trickle here, it slams into the cliff and crashes around the bend reminding me of the elevated trains I left behind in Chicago. I walked down to the creek and realized the recent rains had changed the landscape. Stones and pebbles had washed down to bolster the sand bank which had become soft and smooth from the rains. Good rocks, I thought but I would leave them there as they looked at home. A cracked cottonwood had fallen over the willow saplings crushing them. Should I remove this too or leave it as is like the dead branches of the mesquite? No matter what I would choose to do the landscape was forever changed.
Last weekend I drove in towards Phoenix to have dinner with a friend. I left the ranch late in the afternoon planning to arrive before dark. The mountain roads turned to valley highways to freeways to expressways. I exited into the southwestern version of suburbia, cloned homes stretched as far as I could see with the occasional saguaro sprouting up instead of trees. Every corner had a strip mall lined with fast food and gas stations. And I remember thinking to myself that the first few times I visited Arizona it had been to a place like this, a repetitive brown beige that left me feeling lethargic. It took several visits to various spots for me to discover the energy and beauty of the desert, the places not yet covered by concrete.
I used to live in the heart of Chicago in a box of a condo. I was a city girl, accustomed to gritty traffic, nights lit by street lights, asphalt and gloom. I moved as one of the herds of people pouring into the Chicago Loop every day, learned to quickly dance my way through the throngs of Michigan Avenue. I moved to a rhythm dictated by to do lists, fulfilling obligations to everything and everyone but myself. This trip to suburbia brought it all back, the landscape of my former life. As I pulled into the driveway of my friend’s home, I wished dinner was already over. I couldn’t wait to leave.
I never discovered what that sound was that prompted me to get off the deck today. When it realized I was listening, it stopped. I walked back up towards the singlewide, taking my time, breathing the blue sky, the morning sun growing hot on my head, the dust coating my sandals. How my landscape has changed. Not only externally but deep inside me it has changed. I can’t go back to live in a box anymore. I’ve thrown away my lists. I dance for no other reason than the joy of movement. I crave this fresh air and the surprise of purple flowers. And I prefer the dust to concrete because I can wash the dust off my feet in the creek. My internal landscape has changed. My heart feels at home.
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Posted by owner on August 19th, 2010 — in Memories
It’s coming. The clouds are low and I can smell the rain. For me, a Midwesterner, the smell of rain reminds me of earthworms. After a good rain, the sidewalk would be littered with dozens upon dozens of worms, their long brownish grey bodies weary from the trek to escape their flooded homes. The air was full of the scent of worm sweat, a musky earthy odor that announced their presence long before you saw them. I have yet to see an earthworm here, although I know they must be around somewhere. Back home they would stretch out to dry on the concrete. There are no sidewalks here but worms are smart, they likely have figured out another place to go to dry out.
As kids, after a summer storm we would race outside to stomp through the mud puddles and chase rainbows. The air was freshly cool, the trees and grass were glistening with wet, and the worms were out. The boys, of course, couldn’t resist. They went for the worms scooping them up by the handful and chasing the girls. We would run screaming and threatening to tell Mom but the boys called our bluff. They were fast, those boys in their red PF Flyers. There was no getting away from them and they would dump those worms in our hair and down our backs. As much as I hated the feel of wet earthworm down my back I couldn’t help but think how much worse for the worms.
Circumstances forced them from their homes. They had to take their chances out on the concrete. But did they have any inkling of what was in store for them? Do worms have eyes? Could they see the giant hand coming down from the sky to grab them? Do worms have ears? Could they hear the menacing laugh of a boy as he plucked them from the earth? They have no tiny hands. They couldn’t grab on to a blade of grass and hold on for dear life. They have no tiny feet. They couldn’t scurry away to safety. They have no defenses against being ripped from the only world they have ever known and being tossed high in the air without a tiny parachute. How frightening!
How like me. Certainly I did not have to leave Chicago. I had free will. But when circumstances came up, like those worms, I took my chances. My senses have been on high alert in this new place yet I am continually surprised. No matter how much I plan, no matter how much I organize I can never predict, or imagine, all the possibilities. We may think we are on guard but life always comes at us from the blind side. It catches us with our pants down and without a parachute.
I like to think that the worms eventually ended up in new earth, settled in and started doing their worm thing, burrowing a new life. I like to think they found that the new earth was meatier than the old, warm and dry and full of good stuff to ingest. I like to think that they welcomed the rain because it gave them the opportunity to once again try something new. I like to think that they love those new experiences. For that is how Arizona has been for me. David remarked recently that I lead a minimalist existence. From society’s perspective he is right. I have few material goods and I spend next to nothing. And yet, I have never felt more alive. Each time I conquer a new challenge my confidence soars. Every new experience is a rebirth. Every day feels new. Unlike the worms I can look to the sky for that giant hand, I can listen for that universal laugh. I haven’t seen it yet. I haven’t heard it yet. But like the rain, I can smell it. I know it is coming. I can’t wait.
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Posted by owner on August 10th, 2010 — in Memories
The tip was cut, the gun loaded, my finger light on the trigger. Sweat trickled from my temple along my cheek. I brushed a stray hair out of my eye the better to stare down my target. Taking a deep breath, I sat down on the edge of the tub, aimed for the far corner and squeezed the trigger. Hooray! I was caulking.
This may seem like a minor task but I had never caulked before. I had never refinished a bathtub before either but the epoxy came in spray cans. How hard can that be? I practiced my spray technique on an old piece of cardboard before tackling the old porcelain. I managed to do a decent job of refinishing the tub over the weekend. Refinishing a tub is tedious work and preparation is everything. I taped any metal I could not remove and painstakingly stripped the old caulk seal around the tub. It came away in bits and pieces, cracking and crumbling from years of hard wear and tear. Wash and sand, wash and sand, then wash and sand again. I allowed the tub to dry for several hours then moved in with painter’s tape and plastic trash bags I had ripped open, covering the tile walls and floor. I mixed the epoxy and sprayed the first thin coat that afternoon. The second coat went on the next morning. Then I walked away from the job for a day to allow it to cure before removing all the plastic and tape. It’s been three days now. The new finish looks good; it looks cured to my untrained eye. It was time for the final step, the one I was most nervous about. The task that required the most skill, the task I found intimidating: caulking.
My dad passed away a few years ago. He was a blue collar man, the kind who could do anything with his hands. He built furniture, added a room on the back of the old house, repaired cars, he could fix anything. I would not call him a master craftsman. His woodwork was not ornate but rather followed straight lines with slightly routered edges. But those lines were level and true, those edges were perfect. His seams were flawless. And so was his caulking.
Helping Dad with his projects was a challenge, his high standards impossible for a child to reach when it came to do-it-yourself home projects. Whenever he would call for one of his children to come hold a board he was cutting, we all cringed. Holding those heavy boards level was required but the whine of the circular saw would always pierce the edges of my sensitive nerves and without fail I would always flinch. And Dad would yell “Hold it straight!” I always tried my best but secretly avoided being anywhere near the woodshop whenever he was in the middle of a project. But I knew how to caulk from watching him. Snapping the tube of caulk into the caulk gun, he would press that trigger and lay a fine, thin bead of a line the entire length of the seam. It didn’t matter if he came to a corner or a turn, he never stopped. The caulk line never broke, his hand never wavered, and his pressure was smooth, steady and sure. After laying the bead of caulk, he would take his thumb and run it along the line, smoothing it into place. No touch up required. It was always perfect.
I tried to remember Dad’s technique but realized I only knew the basics. The thought crossed my mind to leave the task for David to do on one of his trips to the ranch, but pride would not allow that. I refinished that tub, damn if I couldn’t caulk it too! Sitting on the edge of the tub, I pressed the trigger. The caulk blobbed out, something it never did for Dad, but I took it as a sign to continue. Squeeze, blob, squeeze, blob….I managed a herky-jerky line along the back of the tub, bits of caulk on the tile and tub. I ran my thumb along the line which made it worse so I resorted to the wet sponge technique, finally managing to accomplish a neat line of caulk between clean tiles and tub. It took me close to an hour to finish the job, one that Dad could have knocked out in 15 minutes. My hands were sticky with caulk but as I stood back I thought “Damn Dad! That looks pretty good! What do you think?”
My eyes watered a little. In my mind I heard him say “Good job.”
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Posted by owner on August 8th, 2010 — in Memories
I am shaking. I slipped on the boulders lining the creek bank and landed on my back. Since it was a good 45 degree angle down to the creek and I was stooped over as I navigated down, I didn’t have far to fall. In fact I fell in slow motion, so slow I thought wait! I need to stop this! But I was enough off balance so that there wasn’t any point at which I could regain my equilibrium. My left ankle and right arm took the brunt of it which is lucky. Worst case, I could have rolled all the way down the bank breaking a bone or two along the way before landing face down in the water ultimately drowning. But that low center of gravity also known as my behind kept me from that fate and lodged itself squarely between two big red boulders which I felt certain harbored a rattlesnake den. I tensed waiting for the two fangs to puncture my skin but he must have been out for the day and I was spared that additional humiliation. The worst that happened other than the damage to my ankle was a ripped and dirty page out of my journal which I happened to be clutching in my right hand.
On a recent hike with Pat the Ranger I envied his long legs. Pat stands at least four or five inches over six feet and 75% of it is legs. He climbed up rock walls with ease, taking three or four long-legged steps whereas I had to climb using both arms and legs to push and pull myself up. Oh to have long legs like Pat! But then I suppose I would have had farther to fall. Oro, my dog, watched the whole thing. She didn’t bark or lift a paw to help me most likely thinking that this was simply another one of the strange things her owner does on a regular basis, like climbing up and down the stairs to the deck a hundred times a day for exercise. As such she took it as her cue to find something more interesting to do and left me to my own devices.
I lay for a few minutes like an upended turtle. I was at a strange angle on my back, arms and legs splayed, not sure what to move first to resolve my situation. It’s good when you hit a low point like this. To sit in it, let the enormity of it envelop you and make you think before making a move, like standing on a street curb in the rain. A car comes by and slams through a puddle drenching muddy water onto your good dress, staining your legs and shoes. You stand in disbelief and take stock of the mess you are in. And you learn. Stand back from the curb. Jump. Or in my current situation wear hiking boots instead of sandals and climb the rocks using all four appendages like Oro does.
It’s a beautiful spot I was working my way to, large red boulders under a shady cottonwood tree where butterflies dance to the music of the flowing creek below. I managed to finally make my way to it, propping up my scraped and bruised ankle and calming my shaking nerves. From my vantage point I could see the second story deck of the ranch house with its comfy wicker chairs and swaying hammock laughing at me, calling me. Hey! Old lady! What do you think you are doing down there? Get up here where you belong!
And I considered it. I considered crawling up the bank and parking myself in one of those safe wicker chairs. It is lovely to sit on the deck, feel the breeze and hear the birds sing. It’s a great place to sit and visit with friends over a glass of wine. You can hear the creek but you have to get up from your chair and look over the rail to see it. The butterflies never hang out there. You can’t smell the flowers. For me it’s the difference between playing and spectating. Do I want to sit and observe, haul out the binoculars and cheer nature on from a point of safety? Or do I want to take my chances and get in the game? Lean back against a tree, climb those rocks, plunge through the creek, admire a bark lizard up close, watch the mosquito fish swirl in the water around my feet and see all the wondrous secrets nature has to offer? The secrets that are hidden from view up on the deck? For me it’s not a matter of choice. I’ll take my chances. I have to be in it.
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Posted by owner on July 29th, 2010 — in Memories
I need to take my own advice. Carry a notebook and write things down when they hit me. That’s what I tell the people in my writing group. I used to do it but then I downsized to this itty bitty leather wallet size bag. It’s convenient, lightweight and holds only my cash, cards and keys. There is no room for anything else so the little notebook is tucked away in my computer bag. Lot of good it is doing me there. Something occurred to me today…a thought, an idea, something and at the time I remember thinking I have to write about that later. But now that it is later, it is gone.
That happens to me a lot. Senility, senior moment, brain freeze, whatever you want to call it, the important stuff, like the stuff I want to write about, leaks out my ears and vaporizes into nothingness once it hits the air. The other day I heard about an old ship that was unearthed at Ground Zero in New York. Archaeologists were rushing to the scene to glean as much information as possible from this amazing find before it crumbled into dust upon exposure. I am sure they remembered their notebooks.
So what was it that occurred to me today? What was the thread that yanked at my awareness? It’s like waking from a dream that instantly vanishes the second your eyes pop open. I’ve been told that if you can’t remember your dreams, at least write down how your body is feeling when you wake. What was I feeling when that fleeting thought ran through me this afternoon? Inspiration. But about what?
I let it go.
As I stooped to pull yet another weed, the sun vanished. I looked up to see steely clouds spilling over the mountain, filling the dome of the sky. A drop of rain hit the dirt leaving a mark as big as a quarter and I knew it would be a good storm. Rather than try to outrun it back to my place, I walked to the porch of the ranch house, dusted the bat droppings off a wrought iron chair and settled in to enjoy the storm.
The fat drops came down in a steady hypnotic beat lulling me into a state of drowsiness. I struggled to watch the storm but my eyelids closed and soon I drifted off, my mind emptying. Did I sleep sitting up? Or was it a meditative state? Maybe, but perhaps that was what Mother Nature intended. Maybe she was sending me a message, to sit down and watch the rain. Feel the wet breeze against my face, to slow down and do nothing. To play dumb and not analyze everything like I am doing right now. Simply to appreciate the beauty of a storm and know that inspiration will come.
A far away telephone rang once in the distance of my mind. A wake up call from Mother Nature, calling me back from wherever my mind wandered. I opened my eyes to see the rain had slowed but not before gilding the grass and trees with silver. The sun broke through steaming the damp air in an instant. I rose from my seat to resume pulling weeds. My back ached from stooping but I ignored it. My scalp grew damp under my hat, sunscreen melted into my eyes, my armpits grew rank, sweat circled my waist. Yank and pull, rake and shovel, I worked and worked to bring a semblance of control to the weedy lawn. My garden gloves grew slick with green.
The sun vanished. I looked to the sky to see the storm clouds had boomeranged and now were rolling in from the West. Another fat raindrop hit the ground. I smiled and thought Mother Nature doesn’t want me to work today. And so I let her have her way.
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Posted by owner on July 19th, 2010 — in Memories
The Arizona summer has me craving the dark.
I walk from tree to tree, seeking the comfort of shade,
The dark cool a relief from the unrelenting light.
We aspire to the light, we reach for it
Bathe in it, desire to fill heart and soul with it
To dispel the darkness of our emotions.
And yet, it is that darkness I crave.
The desire to feel overwhelms me,
To wallow in the mire up to my knees
Pulling up handfuls of the dirty muck
Like a child kneading it into mudpies
To fling with wild abandon.
The night breeze brushes over my skin
I throw my arms wide to catch it but it slips by
What I sense in the moment is gone in an instant
But the emotion it stirs lingers in my heart
And I am grateful to know
I feel.
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Posted by owner on July 12th, 2010 — in Memories
That damn C word again. Cancer. I hate that word. I want to grab an eraser and scrub it permanently from the English language, banish it to hell, stomp on it and grind it to nothingness, never to fall from my lips again, never to assault my ears again. My daughter is a cancer survivor, defeating a malignant melanoma that struck her when she was only thirteen years old. My younger brother died from colon cancer when he was in his late thirties. My grandfather succumbed to thyroid cancer, an aunt fell to cancer of the liver. I have never had cancer and never will (do you hear that Universe?) I intend to live well into my nineties and beyond. I am not afraid of death, well maybe a little. I think I have come to terms with it and understand that it simply another transition. I mean, I want to have a say in it, to orchestrate it. I want it to be an easy thing. I don’t want it to hurt. And I don’t think about it much, the truth that someday I will die. But the thing I hate, the ugliest truth that swims around my brain from time to time is that of my children’s mortality.
Matt, my son, had a colonoscopy today. Two polyps were removed and now we endure a week of waiting for the results from the biopsy. He is thirty years old. Family history prompted the test. His uncle, my brother, died from colon cancer. His father, my ex-husband, had colon cancer a year ago. Genetics are not in his favor. I am so grateful that he is taking a proactive approach to this. Those little polyps are ticking time bombs. Ticking time bombs without a countdown clock, you never know when one has reached detonation and is secretly exploding sending its shrapnel everywhere. Dirty bombs.
When Jill, my daughter, had melanoma I knew she would survive the disease but I wasn’t sure I would. I prayed and begged God to take the melanoma from her and give it to me. I told God I didn’t want her to go through the pain of the disease but the truth was that my heart could not bear watching her in pain. For a parent the greatest hurt is the inability to end your child’s suffering. When my brother died, I watched my mother break. Not a breakdown, no shattering, rather it was a white-hot lightning strike that split her heart in two, searing the edges with a black scar that will never fully mend. It doesn’t make sense. A mother’s love, a mother’s kiss, a mother’s touch is supposed to cure everything. But life doesn’t really work that way.
Matt sounded tired. He needed his rest. I told him I loved him then hung up the phone. I walked out the door and headed to the corral. I hung my arms over the top of the fence resting my cheek on my hand. The railing was hot to the touch from the heat of the day. I welcomed the burn. The horses looked up from their grain and, sensing my mood, walked over with tails swinging from side to side. They nudged me, warm breath puffing out of their nostrils onto my hair. I stroked their velvet noses and whispered hello pretty girls. The sun dropped behind the mountain, dusk edging to dark. No tears, not yet. I believe Matt will be fine. I need to believe that. The horses turned and walked back to their feed. I patted their rumps as they sashayed away.
I went back inside. To wait.
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Posted by owner on July 8th, 2010 — in Memories
Lately it seems to me that people are tossing that word around casually as if it were the equivalent of hello and good-bye. It feels like a fad of sorts, like the latest slang. It makes me wonder do they know what they are saying? Do they understand how profound that one word truly is? Do they get it? This word is so powerful that I actually got up after writing those sentences and took a walk. Talk about procrastination! But the idea of putting words around that word, Namaste, intimidates me. The goddess in me bows to the goddess in you.
It’s not the bowing. That’s easy. I can bow all day! Or give a little curtsy (does anyone still do that anymore?), nod my head, give a smile, or shake a hand. It’s merely a social nicety. It’s not “the goddess in you” for I do believe Spirit is in everything and everyone. The blue sky, the cottonwood saplings, the graceful horses, the heat of the sun, the music of the creek remind me every day that Spirit is all around. When it comes to people I admit it’s a little hard with those who try my patience and make me angry, but I am pretty good at accepting even those folks as they are.
The difficult thing, the words that catch in my throat, stick in my mouth and trip my tongue are “the goddess in me.” Knowing Spirit is in me, is part of me brings me to my knees like an emotional earthquake that cracks my foundation and tumbles my walls. I look at the pile of rubble that is this life and all I can say is c’mon. My mind reels with the enormity of it picturing an all powerful being with the ability to leap tall buildings, call in the rain and ooze compassion from every pore. That isn’t me, not even close. So saying those words is arrogant and humbling all at the same time. Who do I think I am? I’ll tell you:
· A fifty seven year old gray haired divorcee who still feels shy meeting new people
· A mom who did her best but knows she could have done better
· A woman who struggles every day to honor her body as a temple no matter how many snacks are in the cabinet
· An eternal student still learning new things and trying her best not to fall flat on her face
· A procrastinator (see above)
· A daughter of Spirit who should meditate every day but sometimes life gets in the way
With all my failings, should I knock on that door? Am I worthy of admittance? How humbling when the door opens and the invitation is spoken, please enter. And it comes to me that the meaning of Namaste is not about acknowledging that a deity resides within any of us but rather that the thread of Universal Spirit stitches us together into a patchwork quilt that is vibrantly colorful and rippling with life. I may be only a tiny thread but pull on me and the entire pattern wrinkles. A tiny thread but if it is cut, the patchwork falls apart. Some days I am frayed and in danger of unraveling but the goddess in me steps in to moisten the end, re-thread the needle and make the repair.
These thoughts were running through my mind this morning as I was cleaning the corral. I found myself humbled by the knowing that:
It takes a goddess to shovel shit.
It takes a goddess to put that shit in the compost pile.
It takes a goddess to till that compost into the garden.
It takes a goddess to plant and water the seeds, to pull the weeds and to harvest the tomatoes.
It takes a goddess to enjoy the taste of a ripe, juicy tomato still warm from the sun.
It takes a goddess to nourish my body so I can get up the next day to shovel more shit.
The energetic tie that binds, it takes a goddess to understand the connection.
Namaste.
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