New Year Thoughts

On the other side of Solstice and Christmas, I can sit at my red-bedecked kitchen table to let my mind wander. I watch a raven swoop over the garden, calling to its partner, maybe reporting I’ve not left the daily food offering yet.

I’m mostly feeling grateful this morning. I appreciate I’ve enough wood for the fire, the pump hasn’t frozen, and my solar-charged batteries are still working (even if they are five years old). Among many other things, the generator still starts with the hand pull. I have plenty of food, and I finally have the refrigerator gasket problem glued with gorilla snot in place. Oh, and my phone works.

I’m grateful the yard is strewn only with small branches and tree limbs. If anything big came down, it must’ve happened in the forest areas away from the house and out-buildings.

I have to admit I’ve been the recipient of a kind of magic around this year’s holiday season year.

Did Santa Claus leave me surprise presents under the non-existent tree? Not one bit. Was I visited by the spirits of Christmas present, past, and future? Not as gaseous forms. Only in my thoughts.

In fact, no talking snowmen, magic princes, or oracle-like frogs crossed my threshold.

But there was magic.

During a brief sunburst between storms, every raindrop at the tips of every fir and pine needle sparkled in splendor. Whenever I needed to go for wood or tend to the generator, the rain stopped until I was done.

When I lost my purse on a shopping trip, it was returned to me. When I faced the make-up department in Wal-Mart, a sprightly, young woman happily shared her knowledge and skill in this art I’ve neglected for 30 years without judgment of me or a question of why I wanted to start painting my face now.

Surprise phone calls helped me over some rough spots. Invitations arrived when I needed to go out. Inspiration came when I had to solve a problem.

And in the quiet of the house, I felt myself move with our Earth as she turned on her axis and become part of all life as it shifted and changed through this season of slow growth and rebirth.

The Puzzle of Loss and Gain

How is it that devastating loss can be freeing?

Fran Brown, my Reiki Master/Mentor of 25 years passed away last year, and a cloak of responsibility to carry on the traditional teachings of the Usui System of Natural Healing dropped across all her students. For me, I also felt freer to express who I really was to the world and stand as a Master with my own gifts.

And when my step-daughter, Linda, died in June, 2009, the turmoil of our 31 year relationship uncoiled. I no longer had to fear the mine-field of our communications or her visits. I did suffer the loss of the only one of our four children who remembered with enthusiasm every holiday of the year, and my birthday.

Since my sister/friend of 30 years moved away, my routine of regular check-ins over coffee have had to be replaced by occasional hour-long phone conversations where her wise comments whisper in my ear instead of from her distinctive face. I miss our routine connections but am finding other individuals popping in irregularly to offer feedback and observations. There are also more spaces in my life where I am on my own to figure myself out without her mirrored vision of me. I’m having to see myself from the inside.

And so it goes with every loss I’ve experienced in 2009: a dance between loss and gain with doors closing and doors opening.

Did all that happen to give me some kind of teaching so as to get me through the loss of my husband this year? As I stumble through my days without him, I feel the weight of the responsibility to keep our hearth and home intact as well as the freedom to do it my way at my own pace. I’m learning what fits for me and what doesn’t.

As I’m facing the loss of the opportunity to celebrate each day with my best friend, I am freed from having to pay attention to someone else’s likes and dislikes, his chosen routine, and the passing flavor of his attitudes and forceful opinions.

I no longer have my sounding board against which to bounce ideas or refine plans. Nor do I have the comfort of companionship and sharing. What I do have are whisperings in my ear, suggestions and reminders I can choose to follow or not. I am comforted by their quiet presence. Sometimes they cheer me on to a new level of confidence, and I find myself having a new experience.

I’m startled frequently by glimpses into a future so different from my past in which I blossom as my own unique flower rather then entwined as a bud around another.

A Coping Method

Every day, it seems, I’m living my life as if I have, what I can only describe as, a temporary case of selective amnesia.

Let me try to explain this.

Try living a morning or a day so engrossed in what you’re doing you never chance to see a reflection of your face. All of a sudden you pass a mirror and wonder ‘who is that person?’ You realize your hair was never combed or dirt smudges your cheek. Those of us growing older, but who still feel young, are startled by grey hair and wrinkles.

In that instant of seeing ourselves we feel frustration at the disarrayed hair, anger because no one told us we’d smudged our face, or sadness because we recognize our loss of youth. When we were doing and experiencing our life in the ‘now’ is shattered by an awareness of another reality, a different set of details than the ones we were working with. And that’s how it goes for me.

The instant one thing causes a memory to arise, I’m slammed with a sharp energy, reminding me how totally my life has changed.

Each moment of reconnection is momentous and, until recently, I reacted helplessly. I don’t think this will ever really go away, but I’ve devised a plan where I’m protecting myself from the onslaught of unpredictable emotions.

To protect myself from the helpless awareness of how much my life has changed, I’m choosing to change it myself. I’ve donated the 20-year-old dishes and bought a newer, smaller set. The extra leaves to the kitchen table are stored now, and I’ve added a placemat and dried flowers where the Lazy Suzanne once sat. I moved the butter dish to a cabinet, recovered the living room couch, changed the bedspread and rearranged the bedroom. These aren’t drastic actions, but doing them gives me a small feeling of control. I remind myself I’m free to make these choices for myself now as well as make new memories. For now, this is what’s working.

Decisions . . . decisions!

(This was written in July, 2010, during Y’s illness.)

My mind was in turmoil again. Do I still want to publish my first novel, The Marriage Bundle? Is it the right timing now? Do I even want to publish it, ever? Maybe no one will like it! Then I've wasted all this time and money on something as pure foolishness. Maybe they’ll like it and try to find me and ask me for more than I can give them, especially now that time is so precious with my husband. What if I can't get enough advertising, and no one even knows it's out there? How can I pay back the loan if I don't publish and sell the book? What do I do about the people I've already told if I don't publish it? Around and around, again and again.

Talking to my wise web mistress helped, as she pointed out, “We are all being asked to step forward with our gifts, to be all we can be, to take the chance of exposure, surround ourselves with like-minded people, and trust in the powers that be.”

So I heard her, but her words didn't diminish my questions. I've stepped out before, by becoming a Reiki master and then a Universal Life Church Minister and self-publishing a Reiki Book and doing other ceremonies and seminars. Never have I had so much pressure at home though. Surely what I've accomplished so far is enough, but these books seem special: 'Inspirational, New Age Fiction,' they're called. The teachings inside weren't meant for me alone. So I dither and procrastinate, then dither some more, a habit I'm well known for doing.

In the middle of this muddle, I closed down the computer and collected the fresh laundry off the clothes line (lovingly known as the solar dryer). I'd already swept the floors twice that day and watered everything in the garden and green house. As I descended the stairs from the upper yard to the back door, a butterfly caught my attention. Flitting and fluttering in front of me, it reminded me of me. It just flew in circle after circle, until I prayed it would find a purchase, some place to land. I grew exhausted just watching it, so when it finally hung upside down under the eave, I breathed a sigh of relief. It had committed to some place of calm. And these words came to me: “Commit yourself to your path, and you will feel the calm of attaining some kind of resolution. Even if you feel upside down, you've reached a place of quiet. You can go from this point, which is at least somewhere.”

The butterfly then wiggled until it was upright. With a quick hop to the window frame, it gradually opened its large wing span and became still, never even budging when I walked past it and into the house. Putting the clothes away, I had to admit I had an answer.

It's like that sometimes for me. I stew about a problem I'm having until I let go and watch the world around me. Every time I allow my attention to shift from inside myself to outside my brain, I receive a teaching from the critters or in a conversation with a friend. My conversations are like meditations where I discover another form of connection to the 'all that is' and find peace and inspiration.

Looks like it happened again. “Commit to something and see,” are the words I remembered. I have to ask myself, “What's the worst that can happen?” Lose the rest of the money I've borrowed without having a product to sell or giving away the books and finding another way to pay back the money are two answers. Can I live with those possibilities? If that's the worst, either way, then yes I can.

So I'm deciding to go ahead with the publishing contract, to go for it and try my best. I'll never be happy if I don't at least try to offer these books to the world.

I am at peace and grateful.

Being Too Thrifty

Being thrifty has become a way of life for me. Looking through Cold Creek and other high end clothing catalogs gives me ideas of how to put together certain 'looks'. I get caught up in these dreams sometimes, only to discover the assembly of color and style look good only on a slim, trim figure, not my apple-shaped 65-year-old form.

Using and reusing plastic bags were the bane of my husband's dish washing chore. He flatly refused to wash aluminum foil anymore but suffered through all sizes of bags until they would either leak or not close.

His own thriftiness left me with piles of partially used lumber, boxes of electrical wire, plumbing parts, nails, screws, washes, and 'whatzudoozers' that might be used for some kind of project about which I have no idea.

We'd been talking about downsizing. Thank goodness we spent two weeks over two years ago clearing out ¼ of the metal building so the kids could have storage space during a move. Now I have a staging area for more 'stuff' to recycle, sell, or dump.

The reality that I might not need to be as thrifty with food as I have been was brought home recently. I have a habit of using the last dabs of anything to create something else. My kids dubbed my left over casseroles as Earlene's ETEs (Extraterrestrial Experiences). Everyone of them could never be repeated because they were based on the left over portions of what we'd eaten for the preceding three to four days.

I kept this habit long after everyone left home and was continuing it after Y passed away. So many wonderful soups and stews came my way. I couldn't throw out a thing until one day I detected a suspicious smell coming out of one 'reused' bag.

I knew I shouldn't eat it so I took it outside for whatever animal it might serve.

In about 10 minutes, I turned at the sound of heavy wings flapping in the yard.

Three vultures were perched, each on separate metal fence posts, watching a fourth try my concoction. They then vied to be the one to finish the last morsel.

I'll be setting uneaten food out a lot sooner from now on.

"It's a Good Day to Die"

I've been pondering the phrase “It's a good day to die.” I've always equated these words with those movies having American Indian themes where this phrase is written into their scripts as the thing one Red Man says to another before they go into battle. Taken in that context, my perception is that it's a macho statement; conceited, warrior-like, and selfish. No matter what the squaw and her kiddos are going to do left back at the tee pee without their provider. No matter that these beautiful hunks of filmdom bodies will be destroyed on a battlefield.

My husband never used those words in his last days. What he did do was have me help him into his recliner draped with the hide of a young buffalo. He settled his beaver bag filled with his chanupa into the crook of his left arm and with a cup of coffee nearby. From this vantage point, he watched the Earth come awake. What he thought or what insights he gained there I'll never know. He was too weak to tell me. His consciousness wasn't in the realm of forming words or concepts. My guess is that he was just experiencing the morning, being in it, and relishing every second of the coming of the light. I was the one who thought the words as I padded back to bed.

So I tested these words out loud on myself recently. “It's a good day to die,” I said to all that was around me. My system shocked awake. Muscles grew taut. I instantly wanted to take the words back in case some force beyond me heard them and decided to take me up on my thought.

“Erase . . . Erase,” I said until I realized my muscles weren't frozen in fear. They were on an edge, ready for something.

Ready for what?

Not war or destruction, and definitely not dying.

But ready for life, for living to their fullest extent. To do whatever was in front of them, be it hauling in wood, writing the next novel, sitting in the warmth of the fire and listening to the rain on the roof.

Just ready.

My Choice In the Matter

A long time ago I learned how to wallow in the self-satisfaction of misery. When my Dad was overseas, I could use the emotion of missing him to get out of all kinds of trouble. The stance of shoulders bent forward coupled with an unsmiling face got me lots of attention from peers and teachers and fit right in with my mother's demeanor. We were a pair of martyrs; yes, we were.

We suffered through birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, while he was away; not quite letting ourselves enjoy our being together because HE wasn't there. The truth of the matter was that those events when celebrated with him in the house weren't that memorable either. Nothing stands out in my mind unless I review the photo album where a picture can bring a draft of a memory. Unfortunately, other memories around my relationship with my father arise, and I'd rather not go there.

I can also remember fabricating reasons to be glum. Face it, in our society, a Pollyanna is often outside the circle of individuals who would prefer to recount tragedies and fears rather than look at the positives in life.

Gradually I stepped out of the martyred role I shared with her. I'm glad now, because I could easily don the cloak of widowhood and let it suffocate me. Sure I cry and wail and rant when my body is so tight with grief I am sinking into despair. Expressing the emotions moves me onto the next plateau of recovery. If I held them in, I'd become numb to myself and to the world around me. That's something I definitely don't want to do.

I want to live, and live fully. If that means struggling through an hour or a day and night of tears and whining, I'll do it. In fact, I've done it already. When coming into the second day of it, I found I was almost bored. It was enough for then, so I stopped.

I found I have many decisions to make; I have to gather my wits about me to understand my options.

So here's the jist of it now! I could choose to be miserable every single moment of every day, OR, I can choose to feel my feelings, express them, move on to face the challenges I have of living alone in the woods and make the best of it. I'm choosing the latter.

A Little Adventure

The repetitious fog horn sounds in the distance. A Siamese cat surveys my invasion of his territory from the corner and swishes his tail in his own rhythm, quite contrary to the boom, boom, boom of the radios in cars passing in front of the pottery barn in which I'm am cozied up for the night.

I've gone on a bit of an adventure, to spend time with the friend who made Y's urn, to check in on my mom, and have an excursion to the Bay Area to play with Bella and make contact with my family there. I had to get out of the house in the mountains for September 27th would have been Y's 70th birthday. The way I was going alone there, the puddle would have turned into a pond, and I thought I'd do better out in the world for a change then struggling to find things to do at home.

There is no end to the list of things to do; sometimes I just don't want to do them.

So to go on this adventure, I had to get behind the wheel of the car again. I'm not sure if this phenomena was strictly my own, or if others in grief have a fear of driving. All I know is that my reaction time of moving my foot from the accelerator onto the brake had slowed down too much to be safe. I'd forget where I was going as I was driving toward town. I literally shook with anxiety. So, I had others pick up my mail, the prepared food left at the quilt shop, or do my shopping.

When I got this plan to leave home, I realized I needed to do something about my problem. I had to take small steps, so I drove to the post office and back one day. The next morning, I did a dump run and made a deposit at the bank. Then I tackled going 22 miles to Willits. I made it there and back with flying colors and only twice drifted over the center line. Thank goodness there was no one in the other lane.

Then I took myself 50 miles to Ukiah and made my two appointments, one with a counselor and one with a chiropractor. I did everything on the list, made all the required left hand turns, and got home without an incident.

It doesn't seem like much, I know. In fact, it seems silly in retrospect, but I did have a problem, and I had to solve it, all by myself. This set of tasks helped me pull myself together. Keeping to a schedule helped me keep the goal in mind. I don't want to be a recluse. I don't want to be a dependent old lady who has to live in the back room of one of her kid's homes to be able to survive. I can do this thing, called living alone, and I plan on doing it well. I just have to take it one step at a time and expand my confidence as I go.

I have a new prayer. “Thank you for who I am. Thank you for who I have been. Thank you for who I am becoming.”

The cat is on the bed now, accepting the inevitability of having to make friends with a new person for the night, and I am so new, even to myself.

Not Sure Why

I promised myself I would not 'set myself up'. I know what it means to pine away over such contrived memory land-marks as the first date, the first kiss, etc. I did enough if it when I was younger with teenager love-lost situations. I decided this kind of memory thing struck me as a form of self-persecution.

I also promised myself I would get busy, not so much that I'd get run down or sick, but enough to increase my activity and begin preparing the house, garden, etc. for winter. Having projects diverts my from focusing on what I no longer have to what I can create. They help me through the day.

What doesn't help are the moments when I expect something to be done by my absent partner and realize I'll have to do it myself. Having to take his fanny pouch off the chair and go through the contents of his wallet for the first time in our married lives threw me for a loop. The first smell of fall which always thrilled me because it meant football and popcorn and slower days made my eyes water until the sun went down.

So, I wondered why I kept his denim shirt out of the wash, separating it from the last batch of clothes he'd worn. His smell lingered on the collar. It held the last essence of his physical body. I tucked it away for at time and brought it out today. Pulling it on gave me a strange comfort, like reaffirming his life had been wrapped around mine as much as his shirt covered my arms and breasts and buttocks. It helped me know how much I was loved and probably still am from across this great divide separating us. I've hung it away again in a corner of his closet for some day in the future when I might need to be reminded of that love, or when I might need a good cry.

Surviving

What's inconceivable to me is how life keeps on going. Outside my bubble, my protected nest, all that was set in motion before Y's illness and death is happening. My novel is still getting published. His donated photos are still selling as a 2011 calendar. People are going to work and shopping. In truth, only my world, my day to day journey, has been affected. There are many who think of him and me, I'm sure, but they have to attend to their responsibilities. My son, Spence, admitted how easy it was for him to immerse himself in his job, his basketball team, and especially his four-month-old daughter's smiles; all of it easing his loss.

I learned something from him, and I tried this tactic yesterday. I made lists and chose one task, just to see if I could focus on something outside the pressure in my chest. I applied sealer to the deck railings. Sun rippled through the trees. A soft breeze teased the flowers blooming in the redwood planters. Blue jays cawed. At first I was only going to do two small outside sections, but, after accomplishing that small bit, I started the inside portion behind the planters which were the hardest to reach. I wanted to reposition the newly-planted flowers then redo the drip system, eventually.

I thought to stop there and do something else but decided to change my pattern of dancing from one project to the next. Instead, I painted until I ran out of sealer, a much different ending point for me.

When I was done, I was hungry for the first time in days, so I cleaned the brushes while my husband's voice whispered in my ear, “Not done until you finish the paperwork.” I could smile instead of cry and move on to the next task without being stopped in my tracks by a memory.

And so it went, one small job after another. I got through the day, until bedtime, when there were no diversions; where life stopped and past memories and future fears took over.

Laying in bed, I pushed my attention out the open window, into the night, and heard an infrequent croak of a groggy frog, the soft call of an owl, and I was reassured about life going on in a darkness which would only last until the sun came up again.

Another Change

The house is quiet now without the burbling humidifier on the O2 tank or the click of the on-demand oxygen concentrator. I can sit in his place at the head of the kitchen table and enjoy the full spectrum view of garden and trees from here. I can turn on lights and make noise in the middle of the night and throw away the old fashioned Corelware dishes we've had for 28 years.

And I can wail and rant because I have all the opportunities for changes and adventure I can create and do alone. It's just that I don't want to do any of them today.

In one short moment, in the early hours of 8/28, his life stopped. Our life together came to an end.

I never, ever, thought I would be a widow. In the middle of the morphine and tube drainings. . . while I was immersed in and focused on his needs and wants, I lost myself more totally than I had before his illness. I craved the proximity of his body, patting and rubbing it whenever I was near. A dose of medicine or a bite of food always concluded with a kiss . . . a hug . . . a meaningful stare.

On the day before he died, I began letting him go in a ceremony for myself where I regrounded thickly with Earth and Sky. On that afternoon, I retrieved the energetic cords binding me to the layers of his body and chakras. I feel those cords now, writhing like octopus arms, searching for a hand hold on something or somebody else. Each time I sense the grasping, I wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight to this person I think I am at this time.

I know I am not broken, only overwhelmed with an indescribable sadness for the loss of this man who shared his life with me and the daily opportunities we gave each other to do just that.

And Watching

What to say? Nothing bubbles from the well of numbness beginning to creep beneath my skin. My face feels dead, a mask with dark circles and sagging cheeks unable to lift into a smile unless a special moment occurs to warm my heart.

He is being brave and cracking jokes about his situation. Then he quiets, and we stare at each other. That's when I try to memorize the way the lines crinkle at the edges of his eyes, and how his mustached upper lip pulls back across his teeth, and notice his eyes glint with a shade of his old, merry twinkle.

To watch him struggle to breathe breaks my heart. To see his strong frame shrivel from lack of food that won't pass the pressure-filled sac around his heart makes me want to scream at this cancer, “Leave him alone. Let him die with a robust body.” But cancer doesn't work that way, and neither does death.

Dying in the prime of life happens by accident or design. For too many of us, we have to have our skin and muscles wither until they turn to dust or ash.

My only consolation with this anguish is that when he stops breathing, I will probably say, “Thank God.”

Waiting

Feels like I'm sitting on a powder keg, watching a lit fuse slowly burn closer and close to my perch. I'm not tethered to the keg, more like immobilized. There is nowhere to go, no way to escape.

Anxiety builds in my chest, making it tight. I frighten myself with feelings of left chest pain, tendrils of dull to sharp aches moving up and down my arm. Then I take my Chinese anti-anxiety pills or my Rescue Remedy and settle again, trying to ignore the flame moving closer to explode the reality of what has been my life as a wife.

Looking at whatever is around me helps. Daytime helps, unless I become overwhelmed with my need to control. I pester my husband, “How do you feel? Do you need oxygen? Or Morphine? Or what do you think we will need to do toward the end? Or what do you want to eat? Or how do you think you are going to feel when the accumulation of fluid around your heart squeezes it to death?”

He looks at me, shaking his head, and a grin spreads underneath his beard. “I don't know. I've never done this before.” We laugh. I settle again.

Nights are hardest because the darkness makes my worries more apparent. I startled awake one night and heard no breathing next to me. Patting his warm back reassured me, but I wanted to know his pulse so I scooted out of my side of the bed to his and searched for his wrist. His deep voice resonated from the pillows, “I'm breathing. Go back to sleep.”

So I returned to my side of the bed and counted his respirations as if they were sheep jumping a fence and finally drifted away, for a time, from the shortening fuse of his life.

A Metaphor

The idea of death being an ugly, scaly, fire-breathing dragon challenges me to fabricate a shining sword and take on the conquest to try to eradicate this demon from our lives. Staking out a protective bubble around my husband, I thrust and parry until I'm breathless and fatigued.

It is not my fight.

Even when my husband describes his vision of the next experience as 'his next adventure', I want to help by using my sturdy implement to slash the energetic filaments connecting him to this world in an attempt to make his transition quicker and easier.

It is not for me to untie the knots binding him to this life. I can only release my ties to him.

My imaginary sword seems useless until I secure it, warrior-style, in a scabbard along my spine. There my steely blade strengthens my being so I can walk beside him until we part, and I have to go on alone.

Walking with the Fear of the Future

Human beings on the whole exhibit a lot of fear about their future. When I think about it, isn't this the main reason for building bigger houses, to encase ourselves in some kind of solid space we can call our own? Isn't this the reason we amass toys and gadgets to divert our attention from the 'what ifs'? And what about addictions to TV, drugs, gambling, sugar, coffee, or any thing to keep us focused on anything rather than the unknown?

One of the coping mechanisms I've discovered is the technique of forming stories with happy endings, just to give myself hope. I find myself skipping across the potential details of my near future to a place where my novel is successful, where I'm busy writing the next one with a covey of friends flittering about. The day dream helps me through the downright, stark and blazing fear of what the next months, or few years, may bring. I can't handle the details my minds trips over as I try to look over (overlook) the pictures of oxygen tanks, home health nurses, special diets, dashed hopes, and sleepless nights.

I can't go there, and to daydream myself past it all, well, it's really a farce too.

Cherishing the 'now' moments is again the theme. I'm planning as if there is a tomorrow, you know, the one right after today and working at being conscious of the small treasures of the current 'here'.

Blue jays fluttering through their morning bath and squabbling when one tries to move through the queue before their time. A hummingbird upside down so it can nose into the contorted last bloom of a day lily. Fresh ollalieberries for a cobbler. A bobcat sauntering across the driveway. The peace rose with more than two blooms for the first time in years. My first zucchini of the season.

Life comes down to precious moments cobbled together as a path making its way through the disaster of sorrow and fear.

It's Different in the Night

Whoever said, “Life can change on a dime” had the right concept. Or maybe it was “Life can change in a second.” Or maybe the words were more like “Change is inevitable” or “Without change, there is no life.”

I've known, intellectually, when we get older, we can get sick. We can break bones or lose hair. Disease processes are around so we have something to die from. I just never thought about any of it in relationship to my life, my world. Now my husband and I are faced with the reality of this intellectual concept. See how calm I can be when I write this all slowly in my notebook? I can pick and choose my words in an attempt to distance myself from their reality. It's early morning, the birds are chirping; the air is fresh. I'm calm here.

Last night was a different story. In the darkness, anger bubbled. Made me sick around my heart, squeezing my vital organ with such pressure I had to get up from our shared bed and find solace screaming onto the pillows on the couch. The anger knew no bounds. It took in the Universe, AMA, my husband's stubbornness, the government, the oil spill, the cancer, anything and everything was targeted until I felt spent.

“Move your emotions through your being,” a counselor friend suggested. “Feel them all so you don't hold on to them and get sick yourself.” Eventually, after a Tylenol for the headache I'd brought on with my rant, the edge of sleep crept across my body so I could crawl back to bed, letting the new rhythm of his breathing lull me into hopeful dreamlessness.

Helplessness

July 12th? . . . 13th? Sunday? . . . Monday? Hard to figure what day it is when the only thing I can anchor to my memory is the afternoon I drove my husband to the VA hospital. He was short of breath and feeling poorly. It was a tense, four-hour drive. He wanted to be behind the wheel, I know, to give himself some sense of control, but he admitted he didn't feel very well.
And he had reason for it. I don't want to go into details, that's not my intent here. What I want to do is process this feeling of shitty helplessness. There was and is nothing I can do except wring my hands and pace. I try to read but can't concentrate. I think I want to talk to others but can't find any words worth saying. I have a sinking feeling in the middle of my stomach, and my head swims. I am told I need to find and have one solid thing to hang onto.
I tried making the floor of the hospital ER my piece of solidarity, but it meant I had to maintain contact with it. I didn't want to leave it, which was not healthy, and clinging to it put me in the way of nurses and doctors. So I ended up visualizing any horizontal surface beneath my feet as my grounding surface and made my legs into grounding cords. When I felt rocky and out of sorts, I diverted my attention to my memory of being on deck of the Crustacea, a friend's 40-foot sail boat on which we toured Alaska's inland passage a few years ago. It helped.
Another friend who lost her husband last year suggested I eat grounding foods: protein, chocolate, or whatever felt like it helped to maintain that connectedness. “Take showers,” she said. “No problem,” I said. The tears flow better when I'm underwater.
Holding a stone from the parking lot and keeping it in my pocket acted as an emergency treatment for weightlessness. So did laughter with family and strangers.
Some kind of control over anything helped: like deciding to leaves voice messages rather than be asked questions I couldn't answer. Emailing and texting are handy. Methods of forgetting what's happening are Soduko and crossword games and action-packed novels. TV doesn't seem to involve my attention as well.
I continue to dig deep for any bit of sanity I can find, appreciating prayers and the small ceremonies of gratitude I usually practice. I am my own antenna between Earth and Sky and attempt to circulate the energy available from both through my body. Using my Reiki hands keeps me in place too. There are parts of the day when my husband is dependent on me to be the rock he can lean on, a person who is real with a sense of humor. Other times, he serves the same purpose for me. I'm grateful we are alternating our positions for each other on an as needed basis.
We can't take away the fear of the future for us. I can only make this moment right now, memorable, and then this one, and now this one . . .

Change I Really Don't Want to Talk About

Twenty-eight years ago when we first visited the Northern California coastline above Ft. Bragg, shore life was abundant. Seagulls held vast conventions on selected spans of sand and hovered over fish teeming in frothy waters. Seals bobbed in the waves. Ecoskeletons of tiny crabs littered the seaside as well as seaweed and kelp, opened mussels, and partially eaten octopus and fish remains. Any visit was lively with sounds and calls and wind.

Yesterday we drove with friends to see the shore, and I was reminded of a poem I wrote in 1983 about changes.

I walk along the sandy beach
Watching the break of the waves
Crashing them creeping upon the shore
Returning to watery graves.

You see, the seagulls were few and far between, and, in the course of an hour, we saw five pelicans pass overhead. There was no oily glaze to the waters, but the sand, once white, was gray on top and blackened and sticky underneath. People were net fishing in one cove, but the usual display of birds announcing the presence of the three inch long surf fish (or schmelts as I have called them) was absent.

The changes are upon us, and it doesn't take an oil spill to spoil what nature gave us. We've done it already by ships dumping their waste far out in the waters. We've done it by leaking civilization sewage off shore and downright funneling it into the ocean in huge pipes. Pesticides used on crops and lawns have found their way to the sea. Over fishing has done its part, along with society's attitude of taking more than it needs and wasting the rest.

The ocean's had enough, that's for sure, otherwise there would be more visible life forms still dipping and playing in the summer air. More seagulls, other birds, and animals inhabit dumps these days than they do the seashore.

Are we past the point of no return? I can only hope we're not, but I have a suspicion humankind has pushed itself close to the edge of its existence on this Earthy plane. The silent shore is but one sign of the future.

In the MIddle

With the advent of my mother's descent into dementia, I am slowed in my walk through life much as I was when I ambled with first one toddler, then the second one, hanging onto my finger as they learned to put one stubby foot in front of the other.

I'm looking forward to slowing way down again with this newest grandchild so we can investigate a tuft of grass (taste testing as we go at times), sow bugs (illusive balls of shiny armor when touched), caterpillars (squishy messes when pinched), and oh, so many other wonderful things on the ground.

Walking with my mom is an exercise now in the overview. We watch the wind blow through the firs, the changing pattern of the sun casting shadows, the contours of clouds scattering across the sky.

Where children seek to know everything in their paths, my mother seems to be looking at something beyond this spot in life and time. It's as if she's searching for the way to ascend into her place as a heavenly spirit.

I'm praying to reside somewhere in the middle, between the grounded view of the little one and the sky view of the old one. I'm hoping to be that point of balance in the middle.

About the Novels

Walking in balance is a foundational teaching for all indigenous peoples. Early nations’ writings, whether they be memories documented of elders from all over the world or the retelling of ancient tribal stories, show this basic tenet to be universal.

Disease is believed to be brought by disharmony, and this can be the disease in a human’s body or of their surroundings.

So, as I’ve listened and sat in ceremony for the last 30 years, this teaching has become a personal goal.

Seven years ago, “Balance Point” dropped off a shelf at a used book store into my hands. Now, who could ignore that kind of synchronistic event?

It’s an odd book, only because it seems like fiction. It isn’t. It’s a true life adventure that brings together research and conclusions regarding the devastation of our Earth and the current decline of our society. The best thing about the book is that Joseph Jenkins gives us the gloom and doom as well as offering simple solutions for balance in our lives. His presentation was and is an inspiration to me, one that urged me to tell my own kind of story about balance.

I’ve taken it a bit farther in The Sacred Bundle Series. The four books in this circular tale are not just about economic, political, and environmental balance. They are about personal balance and seeking balance in all relationships, whether it be with ourselves, our significant other or other people, with our spiritual path, or with our Earth.

If you get a chance to take a look at Jenkins’ work, I’d love to hear what you think about it. The web site for his work is www.jenkinspublishing.com. If you’d like to download a free couple pages of “The Marriage Bundle”, the first novel of my series, please visit my web site at www.standinginbalance.com.

You’ll also get put on the list of interested readers and have the opportunity to pre-order a copy for yourself at a discounted price.

We See What We Want To See

Years ago I read about an experiment in a science magazine with instructions to stand at the edge of a robust meadow and looked at the flowers. Sounded fun, so I did. First, I told myself to see the yellow blooms, and I marveled at how many were scattered throughout the green grasses. Then I suggested to myself to view the blue ones. My eyesight shifted and mostly blue blossoms emerged before me. I did that with the color purple then pink, red then white. Each time I suggested a color to myself, that's what I saw. It was difficult to encompass them all. Scanning as an overview did not give me the opportunity to see the details, but I did comprehend clusters here and there as well as the magnitude of the meadow.

I really can't remember the point of the article any more, but the experiment showed me something that has come in handy in my 'Choosing to Change' Seminar, as well as in my private practice as a Personal Growth Facilitator. Human beings have the tendency to focus attention on one thing at a time. This is not only true with flowers but with perceptions and attitudes. If I want to view a situation as fearful, I can. Everything about the people, the environment, even the weather, the color of the sky, the sounds around me, will be scary.

Movie directors do this on purpose to make us get the adrenaline rush they want us to have.

We also choose to do it to ourselves. We look for the elements in our lives that will keep us fearful or hesitant or angry. Pollyanas look on the bright side of life because they choose to. Pessimists look for the negatives.
Someone said, “The only thing in life one can change is one's attitude.” It goes farther than that. Once I get an idea about my life or someone else or something I want, I can feed that perception or decision, because I will only see what I want to see, what I program myself to see. Stepping out of any 'way' of thinking takes courage to want to change the vision, the attitude.

Just like standing at the edge of the flowered meadow, I can stand at the edge of my life and decide to see rosy opportunities rather than weedy walls or rutty sameness. It's up to each of us to decide what we want to see.

In the Night

My home is as familiar to me in the lonely night as it is in a busy day. In fact, I may know the toe-catching corners better and avoid them with more ease than in my hurry-up day mode.

I know my kitchen, bathroom, and living room more intimately because I wander there more frequently these nights at 2 or 3, 4 or 5am. On the Full Moon, when this transitioning spot light casts shadows across the linoleum floor, I can see every piece of furniture, undone project, and paper pile in three dimension. On New Moon nights, I have to use my sixth sense or allow my eyes to adjust to the subtle beams from the multitudes of stars hanging out in the sky.

Night time used to be a harrowing time to be awake because I worked an eight to ten hour job. Now that I'm retired and retreaded and work from home, I have an improved attitude about my wakefulness, while ticking clocks keep me company.

I would like to think of night as the other side of day, but in some areas of cities, there's more activity in the darkness. The desert has more animals roaming. The trees may seem to slumber but they can dance in a wind just as flirtatiously as in daylight.

My mind is just as active. I can work myself up into a good worry or have endless conversations which include variations of all the things I should have said or want to say. Prayer comes easier at night, for family, friends, the state of the Earth and governments. Most nights my mind is tugging my heart into constant prayer about wars, oil spills, our economy. Only after my pleas for peaceful co-existence, salvation for our water, and stabilization of financial institutions will I pray for my health, my home, my family, then comes the specific prayers.

Maybe I should pray for the end to greed first. It seems to be the bottom line of our most recent catastrophes. Then I can offer my most frequent prayer for those suffering from lack of food, water, clothes, and shelter, to be touched by the love of the Divine, however they name him or her, especially if they are awake in the darkness too and feeling alone.

Where Do Babies Come From?

If you've ever had small children, you remember when this question came up. Traditionally its usually asked in public. My daughter presented this question in a check-out line in Longs when she was five years old. Everyone snickered and waited for my answer. I wanted to say Cincinnati to get a laugh but decided to play it straight and answered “from its mommie's belly”, then quickly added the question, “Do you want gum or candy?” to divert her attention.

The question is more philosophical to me now. I know where the physical and genetically inbred body of my new granddaughter came from and how.

But looking into the wisdom of her deep brown eyes, I wonder at the spirit learning to live there. Where did that knowingness come from? What could she tell me if she had the words to speak? What is she trying to convey to me that I'm even intuitively unable to comprehend?

These are no real answers, only the wonder of her small, perfect hands and feet, the miracle of her sweet breath, the softness of the top of her ears and her skin.

I can only glory in the innocent presence of Bella Spencer in my life and be grateful for the chance to see her grow.

Co-Creating

So what do I do when I feel my hands are tied? Meaning I can't do anything about anything? It's been the toughest scenario to accept. Surely I can make something happen the way I want it to if I work hard enough, pray harder. I always think I can take away misery with enough compassion. I can get a person who is like an immovable object to levitate, a little. Certainly I should be able to change the course of tragedy, bring smiles to everyone's face, make their lives a little lighter, just by my presence. At least, that seems to have been my plan for a very long time.

What is occurring to me is best stated with the curious slang word, “Fooey!” It seems to me to be a contraction of FOOL ME! That's what I've decided I've been doing: Fooling Myself.

Granted, I might have some impact on a person or persons around me. I can give temporary relief from a gray mood or a disappointed attitude. The best thing I think I can do at this time is pray to help me leave my friends to their own pace.

I heard a phrase once; “Love means you have no expectation of your friends' emotional, mental, physical, or spiritual development. That's it. No expectations. I've had the hardest time with this until I began letting go of my expectations, druthers, judgments and began going with the flow. This doesn't mean I 'don't stay conscious of my responses and responsibilities. “Hanging out” doesn't mean relinquishing self-respect, integrity, and personal boundaries. It does mean being open to possibilities and deciding to relinquish control by letting others have a say in what they want to do – or eat – or watch – or play.

When I can do this, I'm always amazed at what I learn, what new music or thoughts I hear, what different foods I get to eat. It's enlivening, like climbing out of a rut and looking at possibilities as endless as the horizon in Montana. Life actually gets creative, and I benefit so much for having let go of the rudder of the life boat. It's like co-creating the day's experiences, and I feel blessed. My hands are no longer tied over any issue. I don't have to push my agenda, and, what do you know, but my going with the flow seems to help others feel empowered, brings smiles to their faces. We have a shared relationship.

Instead of FOOEY, life becomes WHAHOOEY!

My Biggest Current Challenge

My biggest most recent challenge is learning to keep my mouth shut.

I've had opinions about everything ever since I started talking. I remember having answers for everyone's problems in school. In fact, if I didn't get asked my advice by at least one person a day, I felt crushed in high school. The same held true in junior college and nursing school. As a young married woman in Denver, our circle of friends were those who seemed to need my helpful hints. In Germany too! Why, I was always dishing out my thoughts on marriage, motherhood, and military life.

As a divorcee and working single mom, I dispensed even more words of wisdom and made it my business to offer my opinion to co-workers and etceteras.

I even built a personal practice on giving advice to my clients on wellness, particularly theirs . . . that is . . . until recently.

The last few years have seen me begin a shift to helping clients answer their own questions about what might make them happy and healthy. I've had an epiphany of sorts. I've been so busy minding everyone else's business that I realized I hadn't been paying attention to my own. Now much of my advice to the love lorn or those with other problems comes in the form of sensing when they've found an answer that resonates in their bodies. I can validate their feelings and dreams. I'm proud I've been able to make this change with my clients.

Then there are the current questions friends are asking. I'm trying not to tackle these decisions about job opportunities or choice of husbands. I'm allowing my ready answers to stutter into nothingness while I offer back only encouragement. It's also become imperative I stay out of my grown children's lives, whether my heart breaks because I would like them to consider options they refuse to see or I want to warn them about potential dangers or failures.

I'm trying to keep my mouth shut, but I'm not being as successful as I want to be. I need to find the place of balance where my mouth remains in a gentle smile, while prayers filter through the chambers of my mind and heart with hope that the consequences of their actions will be things they and I can handle.

Be Prepared

Friends of ours in South Dakota moved their modular onto undeveloped land even before their water and septic was completed. Their 13-year-old son said after two months of hauling water and waste, "Mom, I just want to be able to take things for granted again."

His words have more meaning than he intended, I think. With ice storms, tornadoes, earthquakes, fires, volcanic eruptions, and other natural disasters, many people are seeing how easily electricity and clean water are lost. The news showed how people affected by the ice storms disaster, for instance, moved into hotels for warmth and their TV. Many ate daily at restaurants. Most complained they were running out of money by using these strategies to cope with a situation which seemed it was never going to end. One woman on her front porch said she and her family didn’t know what to do with themselves.

I’m not a dooms-sayer, but preparing for disasters indigenous to an area just seems like common sense. My thoughts follow the tract of each person being responsible for themselves. As individuals we can gather candles, flashlights, a battery radio, spare blankets, bottled water, a camp stove, etc. on hand. We can set aside canned foods in a special corner and rotate them through our meals so the supply is kept updated. We might even want to stay in touch with simple pleasures like crayons and paper, a deck of cards, story-telling, etc.

I found an interesting story in the news several weeks after that huge tsunami hit the islands a few years ago. While those in ‘civilized’ areas were struck immobile by the immensity of the destruction, those on primitive islands handled the same situation differently. When search and rescue helicopters reached them, rescue teams found people burning their dead, boiling water, and rebuilding with materials blown in on the tide. They didn’t wait for a handout like those who were used to ‘government subsidies’ and Red Cross. They knew what to do for their own survival.

In 1983, I was made to memorized a list prepared by Hopi Elders which alerted me to my need to be prepared. These ten items have since been written, and the list gets passed around the Internet frequently. It just surfaced again with the announcement, "We are the ones we’ve been waiting for." Every time I read this list, I rethink my responses to each item. The practice helps me stop taking things for granted.

(The Hopi Elders sent forth this message after a four day vigil.) "We have been telling you to tell the people that this is the Eleventh Hour. Now you must go back and tell the people that this is the Hour, and there are things to be considered:
Where are you living?
What are you doing?
What are your relationships?
Are you in right relations?
Where is your water?
Know your garden.
It is time to speak your Truth.
Create your community.Be good to each other.
And do not look outside yourself for the leader.

"The Elder then clasped his hands together and said, “This could be a good time!"

A Dog Blessing

Dogs are not one of my favorite creatures. They pant and drool and chase the deer from the mountain meadow behind our house and scare the wild turkeys away from the seed offerings I place on the hillside. For those reasons, we prefer to live in our cabin without one.

But, on the morning of the memorial for our oldest daughter, a mixed-breed bitch, who was predominately pit bull and belonged to a neighbor, decided to protect us. She chased something around the edge of our eight-sided home at 3 AM. Her bark could be heard bouncing between the boulders of the ravine in which we live. We hollered. We pitched stones. We cussed. She would slink away, then return to warn off invisible attackers.

During the following weeks, for some reason known only to her, she wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t release her sudden protective hold on our property. We called her owner who dragged her away, but, every day, she arrived and begged for some kind of understanding, it seemed, with her eyes. She reminded me of our oldest daughter, who had left and returned so many times in the course of her life. For this reason and more, the dog broke my heart as she whimpered when we told her to leave, only to return the next day for whatever attention we would give.

I couldn’t get over the feeling that this white and scarred dog had a purpose; one I didn’t know anything about. I wondered, because of the timing, if she might have a message for us from our daughter, one last word to pass on before her spirit loosened from this world after making sure we would be OK without her.

After two months of her staring at us through the sliding glass window and loudly chasing anything that moved near the house, I decided, one night, not to make her leave. I found comfort in her even snoring that rose from under the house. I drew around me the energy blanket of her presence and sent a grateful prayer for her existence.

In the morning, she was gone and hasn’t returned

Personal Reflection

Maybe I could have been a better step-mom. Well, maybe I could have been a better mom too. I intended to be, better, that is, than my own mother and her mother. When my husband and I came together for our second marriages, we fully believed we could blend his son and daughter with son and daughter. I had the vision that I could be like Maria in ‘The Sound of Music’ and sing us into togetherness. I tried my darndest to do just that, offering up games and cute ideas and family projects as the way to fill everyone’s hearts and make us into a cohesive family unit.

What I never expected to find were kids who didn’t want to play my games or dance or sing or do projects.
I was dealing with instant teenagers and didn’t have a clue what that was like in the late 70s in Concord, CA. I had no idea of what had gone on before in their lives, what pressures and stresses had occurred between them, their father and mother. I also realize now I had no clue what had happened to my own children in my divorce and my all-consuming steps towards independence.

I had believed it could be as simple as the ex-nun’s story of feeling the grandeur of life and loving it all. I never considered that any of our children might be damaged by babysitters or step-fathers or that they might run away with their friends to drink and party under the BART station tracks for a lark.

I knew what I’d done as a teenager. I never dreamed it could be worse.

So in hindsight, I admit I was a dreamer. I was a full-fledged practitioner of denial and built mountainous barriers to keep me from facing the reality of their experiences.

I was finally able to get real at a family counseling week in Southern California for my husband’s daughter, Linda. Without a doubt, I got the message to leave myself out of the relationship between my step-kids and their dad. They didn’t need another mother. At that time, they weren’t interested in having me as a friendly aunt or a friend, period. I learned I needed to step away from my own children’s lives too. With two years of counseling and grief, I came to learn boundaries because without them, I was out of balance with my own world, too much in theirs, and not enough in the place where I needed to live.

I needed to love myself enough to accept the things I couldn’t change.

Reflecting on the past now, maybe I wasn’t quite so bad as a mom and a step-mom. The only thing I know, for sure, is that I tried, and I took to heart the lessons I learned along the way.

Emoting and Emotions

When I was six years old, we got our first television. Neighbors came and returned to watch movies and programs with us, or so I thought. The story goes that my facial expressions and involvement in the moving scenes were as much a part of the entertainment as the actual programs. I would laugh or cry or thrill with the story line. I became the characters and lived their lives with them. According to my husband, I haven’t changed one bit. In fact, when I write my own stories, I’ve been told I’m inclined to be grinning stupidly as I madly type across the computer keys or sobbing hysterically as I’m finishing some devastating encounter.

I realized this fact for myself and noticed I emote, not just the first time I write a story line, but on every rewrite. In “The Spirit Bundle” I have a scene with a husband dying. I still cry every time I read it, but at least I’m no longer keening.

To determine the best way to describe all kinds of emotions, I tried to become clinical. I analyzed sections of best-selling novels by counting words in paragraphs and whether they were short words or long, and what kind of verbs were used. With the classic authors I like, I mix-matched adjectives to test shades of feelings and meanings and diagramed sentences to determine how tension was paced in a chapter. In my own work, I made a particular scene into a poem then returned it to prose. One short story was revised twenty-seven times.

What I’ve learned is that I can copy what others have used to create tensions, pathos, fear, anxiety, jealousy or shame, but the best way to illustrate these emotions is for me to be willing to dig deep into the well of my own experiences.

Living other people lives through movies and books as a kid and teenage was a basis for understanding what emotions are. Being honest about my own feelings and learning to describe how different parts of my body react to such feelings as fear and love, hate and passion, and all the rest have come back to me as a two-fold gift. When I develop scenes and characters for my readers, I’m getting more in touch with my own reactions and feelings. Hopefully whoever picks up my stories will be touched as well.

The Other Side

Green leaves of a manzanita bush caught the twinkle of the sun’s last rays as it slid down the other side of the coastal mountains. I hurried to bask my face in the evening glow and say “Good by” to the bright sliver. I felt dizzy when I realized the sun wasn’t slipping away. I was standing on this Earth while it rotates away from the sun. My imagination increased the rotation to a state of careening and spinning. I fell backward at the thought.

When the mountains stood in silhouette against the fading blue sky, I turned away, closed my eyes, and saw a replica of the light and shadow, the design of the sunlight on top and the dark mountains below. When I opened my eyes, it reversed, just for a second. The top was shaded and the bottom was light, until my eyes adjusted, and I was able to see normally again.

Blinking and thinking, I remembered being told about this opposite experience. In the millisecond that I saw the shadow on top and the light on the bottom, I was glimpsing the spirit world. That place which is trying to keep the balance with the world in which we walk. I’ve been told that in that space, inhaling becomes coughing. Reaching is tossing backwards. Everything is a mirror opposite, even emotions and intentions. When we laugh, the spirits cry. When we anger, the spirits become calm. This world is constructed to balance our own.

If this is true, they have a challenging job. They have to make allowances and adjustments for our technologically spinning world. How do they do it? Walk so slowly they never get to where they want to go? While we speed toward our destinations? Wherever that is?

What do they do to counteract greed, anger, jealousy, fear? Do they give their belongings away, remain peaceful, nonjudgmental, and stay positive. Well, that does sound like what a spirit being might do.
But what about wars and disease? Could they negotiate instead of fight, share instead of steal? Perhaps they know how to stay in harmony with themselves so they can stay well.

If any of this is so, they must be working overtime to keep our world on track.

Oooops

My mask slipped. You know, the one that has ‘dependable’ and ‘calm’ and ‘controlled’ written on a placard, dangling from chains, underneath it?

I looked in the mirror of self-revelation and saw behind it another face, creased with rage. Eyes glared red, and, if steam could have come through my nose, it would have joined the spitting words spewing from my mouth like dragon’s fire. All because of a $19 tube of prescription-strength fluoride toothpaste that the skinny little hygienist, who I will name Carol, handed my 91 year old mother with the additional words, “Now just do like I told you, and I’ll see you in six months.”

Of course, the toothpaste was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. That stupid tube was part of the whole scene about a very young woman not taking the time to gauge my mother’s mental capacity. This whipper snapper, if she had bothered to assess my mother, would have known that Mom had no memory of what it was she was now supposed to do differently than she had been doing. Carol would have realized that these instructions needed to be given to a care giver who would reinforce the changes in tooth brushing.
The charge for the 45 minute fiasco (well, my mom at least got her teeth cleaned) was $212. I get more done for $55 at my local dental clinic. I was horrified, and the sight of the charge for the toothpaste took me over the edge. So far, in fact, that I don’t know what I said to the hygienist after I’d dragged her into a private office. It must have been a piece of my mind, because I can’t quite find it now. I know I was out of balance. I have no excuse.

Huffing and puffing, I helped my mom into the car and drove back to her nest in Assisted Living at the Retirement Home. When she was settled, with no memory of having been embarrassed by her daughter’s tirade, I excused myself into her wheelchair accessible bathroom.

The mask of rage I had worn washed away with silent tears of anguish at having the very capable woman, who was once my mother, replaced by this shy and endearing female of 91, who needed protection from inconsiderate and unknowing providers of health care. My mother is now my daughter, and I am being called upon to care for her with the same awareness as she cared for me. I can only hope I am up for the task, no matter what mask I am wearing.

White Can Be No Color At All

In the darkness of a low-ceilinged hut, I sat with others, men and women, waiting for the inipi ceremony to begin. The man at the door whispered to himself in a language unfamiliar to my ears. The pit in the center of the circle of people was empty. Shivers ascended my back. With only a thin, cotton dress covering my nakedness, chills scattered across my white body. I was the only non-native in the lodge, and I felt that everyone knew it by the ambient light that reflected off my alabaster skin. I didn’t feel like I was glowing, but that I was marked as different than the norm.

It was 1980. My husband and children and I were visiting a multi-tribal encampment in Southern California headed by Grandfather Semu Huaute, a Chumash medicine man. My path into this lodge had been beside my husband who held the belief that we are all a part of nature, not above it. Our responsibility, he believed, was to live with the other beings on this earth, whether it be a plant, an animal, a tree, etc. We were not to rearrange the Earth to meet our needs but to come into balance with what was and is. I had come to believe as he did.

He wasn’t with me this night. I was alone in the sweat lodge, a slang term, to pray for the healing of my heart from the pain of rejection by my birth family. I wanted to learn how I could be more open to the needs of the Earth.

“I am Quilt Man,” the leader said. “I didn’t want to be here tonight. When you all first asked me to pour water for your prayers, I said no and went on down the road until the truck started sputtering.” He chuckled.
“Can’t do anything anymore without the Spirits interfering. So, I came back because they brought me back. Truck’s working fine now.” He grunted.

After a sigh, he continued, “Just got out of a white man’s jail. They said I was stealing. Chopping wood for a fire for my family didn’t seem like I was doing anything wrong. But the white policeman must’ve seen my red skin and decided I was somewhere I shouldn’t be.”

“Now, I’m here. I feel good ‘cause I’m free. Might not mean much to you but free means I can get a drink of water when I want. I can open the door to the frig and take a bite of everything in there. That’s being free.”
With the small arched door uncovered, firelight fluttered into the lodge. I saw his hand lift the dipper out of a bucket of water then splatter the clear liquid back into the plastic container. Water cascaded over itself, tumbling, sputtering, splashing. He did it over and over again.

“One of these days,” he said, “Not too far into the future . . . that sound’s gonna be the only kind of music you’re gonna want to hear.” He sighed deeply. “Times are gonna get rough. Water, food, shelter . . . are gonna be in short supply.” He shifted his weight from one hip to the other. “Don’t want to, but I’m gonna have to learn how to pray for the white people.”

His head seemed to turn in my direction. “Have to learn to pray with those whites who truly want to learn how to pray.” He sighed again. “Can’t say I’m gonna like it.”

My heart shrank inside my chest. No matter that I was holding my best intent to do this ceremony correctly or that my love for our Earth was pushing me to put myself in this demeaning position. I was being judged because I had white skin. Just as Quilt Man had been accused of stealing because his skin was red.

“Let’s do this, then,” he interrupted my thoughts before I could cop an attitude and crawl haughtily out of the lodge.

The stones were brought in one by one from the outside fire and deposited in a clockwise pattern in the pit. Sage and cedar smoke lifted off the red-hot lava rocks. My skin gasped at the searing heat. I wondered if I would survive and begged in my mind that I not embarrass myself or my race.

The door closed quickly. Glowing stones threw shadows around us until Quilt Man drenched them with Mini Wakan, the sacred water. Steam filled the empty spaces around me and the others.

In the darkness, I heard the water and the stones talking, sizzling, sputtering, until they too became dark. While he prayed and while we sang, I became more than my body-self. I entered the moist air, let it soak between my cells, until I wasn’t white anymore. I had no color, neither did the others. We were, in fact, for that little time of sharing, all one.

Out of My Hands

My third novel in the Sacred Bundle Series is about women and called, “The Women’s Bundle.” I’ve had a bit of writer’s block about the writing for the past eight months. I’ve told myself it’s because of experiencing so much loss and trauma in our family during that time.

Grief has a way of getting in the way of many activities. I suppose what I could have done was write about it all, and I did take pen in hand and put some thoughts on paper. But scribbling black lines on white pages about the passing of my Reiki Master, our oldest daughter, or about my mother’s dementia, my dying agent, my oldest friend moving away, and my dearest friend battling breast cancer involved more words than I could muster.

I’ve been reading instead. I call it doing research. I’ve got books on survival skills and the history of wood stoves. The writing of women who are currently living as modern day pioneers is insightful as is “Chasing the Dragon” about women with breast cancer. I’ve devoured autobiographies and fiction on life in gold and coal mining towns and reviewed history books about this same era in America. I have pamphlets on dental implants and symptoms of infections.

I think I’ve got enough information now. I’ve developed the story arch and planned the chapters. I’m organized and ready.

The biggest surprise, however, is that what I thought was to be the first chapter, just plain isn’t. How I thought I was going to move through this novel, might be a good plan, but it’s not what’s going to happen. This novel is plainly out of my hands. Every time I logically start the scenes flowing, according to the outline, nothing works right. Pictures, instead, of an entirely different set of scenes are playing like a movie in my brain.

My plans were to write this third book in the same vein as the first two. This one’s so different that I’m going to have to hang on to my keyboard because these women I’ve formulated have minds of their own. I could be in for a wild ride.

The Impact of Reading

Whatever I’m reading has an unmistakable impact on my thinking and feelings while I’m reading it. If it’s a romance, all I can say is that it’s a good thing I’m married. If it’s a gothic mystery, I find myself jumping at every moving shadow or restless after the sun goes down, because everyone knows ‘something’ always happens after dark. A thriller has my heart thumping whenever I wake in the middle of the night. I had to stop reading murder mysteries while we traveled in our RV because I was sure someone was watching us and planning an attack. My husband couldn’t live with the paranoia.

Nonfiction affects me too. Whether it’s a controversial diatribe on politics, feminism, medical care, or genocide, or a simple autobiography, historical account, etc., I’m on a soap box for months afterwards.

If it’s a self-help book, I become a radical about working on the particular issue of its focus. I work myself silly trying to uncover my hidden agendas, personal archetypes, or my shadow self. I can wring myself inside out by the time I’m done.

In some ways, this could all be a good thing. I’m forever entertained by simply reading and I feel that working on myself is a win-win situation. The moments I get into trouble are (1) when I think I need to describe or read the details of a scene to my husband, (2) I think everyone will be interested in certain quotes which I never quite repeat exactly so they mean less than nothing, (3) I try to help someone through a process I’ve read about but they really aren’t interested in changing a behavior, or (4) I get preachy.

I realized this last problem when I overheard my daughter warn her brother, “Look out! Mom’s read another book!”

The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn is that whatever I read and however it landed in my hands are the exact, synchronistic events which needed to happen to me at that time.

The works of fiction are for my entertainment. The nonfiction is for my education. The ‘how-to’ books are for my self-development. This attitude has taken a lot of pressure off family and friends.

Getting into the Spirit of Things

Washing clothes might not seem like a spiritual experience. I never thought of it as such either, until I had what can be described as an epiphany one day.

My husband and I had altered the course of our lives quite drastically in 1981 by selling most of our household goods, a three-bedroom, ranch-style house in the San Francisco Bay Area, and moving into an 8X40 25-year old trailer in Northern California. Our challenges included no running water, no electricity, a propane cooking stove with an oven that didn’t work, and a wood burning stove for heat. We had a thunder bucket for night use and a shovel with a roll of toilet paper on it for the daytime. Our son, in his red wagon, hauled seven gallons of spring water up a steep incline every morning. That's how he got his name, "Running Water".

We had wanted to get out of the rat race of city living. We’d hoped to experience our lives closer to Mother Earth and learn to integrate the philosophies of Native American culture and spirituality. I hadn’t realized what we’d done to ourselves until I approached the washing.

Steven had tugged an extra allotment of water up the hill. My husband had bought me a scrub board and two wash tubs. I’d purchased Fels Naphtha soap and a finger nail scrub brush.

Sitting on a milk crate after boiling half the water, I started to rub and slosh the white clothes across the glass ripples of the scrub board. My back screamed after a half hour. My arm muscles whimpered. I started to sob, “What have we done to ourselves? What have I done to me? My career? My independence?”

Self-pity turned to rage. My hands wrung the wash water out of the clothes with such force, they felt dry. Then I cried some more as I rinsed them.

Midway through the all day process, I poured the filthy wash water onto struggling tomato plants. The rinse water then became the wash water. Mentally thanking Steven for the extra haul, I squinted at the clear, crisp glints of reflected light as I poured the last gallons into the tub. It was like seeing stars in the daytime.

Resting my shoulders, I thanked the sun for keeping my muscles warm and easing their stress. Scrubbing away one stubborn T-shirt stain, I thanked the soap and the brush for helping.

A yellow finch flew so close overhead, I had to duck. Then, I opened my ears to the sounds around me and realized I was sitting in a very noisy clearing. I differentiated five kinds of birds and marveled at a vulture who swooped across the sky. The natural perfume of blossoms and needles intensified as the sun peaked in the sky.

Hanging clothes on the make-shift line that my husband had dubbed my solar dryer, I saw shirts and underwear as white as when I’d purchased them. Colored clothes were vibrant.

Instead of worrying if we were going to have the money to buy more when the kids outgrew these, I offered thanks that we had any at all. My judgment of the filthy water turned into an understanding of how much Earth we’d gathered in our clothes. I chuckled at that circular thought as I returned the last of it to the base of the zucchini plant.

That was almost 30 years ago. I don’t wash clothes by hand anymore, thank God. I still use a solar dryer in summer and give thanks for the abundance of a gas generator, electric washer, and all the clothes I hang on the line.

Morning Rituals

I’m a sleepyhead. I’ve been one since I was born. (My parents often said they were grateful for this habit, as they were ones too. Guess that makes it genetic.)

I love coming awake slowly, stretching and curling in the bed, tensing and relaxing muscles. Gradually becoming aware of how the sheets and blankets feel against my skin, how I’m wrapped around my pillows and my husband. All this is done before I open my eyes so I can test my sense of hearing next, then my sense of smell. The last things I do is open my eyes, especially if I’m trying to hold on to the remnants of a dream. Before my lids lift, I let myself float, allowing whatever loose thread there is to draw me into the fabric of my subconscious life.

When I can hold the full pattern, I scan for its meaning or application in my ‘awake’ life. I know something is there for me to see and ponder.

Then I’m ready to open my eyes.

Not all mornings, of course, are like this. I’m just describing my druthers.

My second best thing to do is wake up before the sun. There’s something about waking up in the hush of the morning, when the birds aren’t awake and no breeze disturbs the oaks and madrones and firs. This is the time when I think even Mother Earth is holding her breath.

Being awake and alone in this stillness creates for me a bond with all women, those from all cultures and eras, who made their way into the day before their families. I can envision us ripening the atmosphere of consciousness with prayer, perhaps a whiff of incense or sage.

This is the kind of morning where I want to wear a shawl across my shoulders as I walk outside. Just as I do on sleepyhead mornings, I keep my eyes closed as I stand in the early freshness. I use my senses to smell the air, listen for sounds, feel for a breeze, then open my eyes to an eastern sky beginning to brighten on the horizon. I wait for the shadows to explode across the landscape.

However I choose to begin my day, I remind myself, “It’s a new day” and try to hold that thought in my heart.

The Problem with Sudoku

Admitting that I have a problem, I’ve been told, is the first step toward a solution. OK, well, I’ve a problem . . . with Sudoku.
Whenever I don’t know what to do with myself, I play Sudoku. Whenever there is something I don’t really want to do, yup, I play Sudoku. If I want to be honest, playing this numbers game is a method of occupying my mind to make me think I’m doing something.
I’ve managed, on occasion, to convince myself that I’m exercising my brain cells. I can get myself all excited around competing with myself too. The goal used to be to complete one. That’s not enough any more. Now, it’s about how fast I can get it done correctly.
I used to have a firm handle on this pastime. I only played those games that arrived once a week in the sales papers. If I couldn’t solve it the first time around, I had blank forms on which I could reconstruct the primary clues and circle them. Then I was limited to one puzzle a week unless an AARP or VIA magazine crossed the threshold. I was happy and content with this process. Sudoku was a treat.
Then some helpful soul presented me with a desk calendar so I could have one a day. Then two someones gifted me with books of these puzzles. The final breakdown of my will-power and control of this time-guzzling activity was caused by the gift of a hand-held, battery-operated Sudoku game. I was sunk. I now had the tools to play everyday and every hour of every day.
I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if I could play with other people, then I could consider this a social activity. Instead I sit in the doctor’s office or stand in lines and play these games instead of participating in the world around me. They are interfering with my relationships and my ability to get things done. I remind myself of those who commute to work or jog with I-pods in their ears or kids playing video games.
I mean it took every ounce of my resolve to put down one of the game books today and write this piece. I’m definitely out of balance here.
What am I going to do?
Do I have to treat my gluttonous need of Sudoku as if I was overweight with this number game and put myself on a diet? Do I have to hide all the books and calendar pages on myself? Or make corresponding points for each level of game and limit the number I can play in a day? Is there such a thing as a Sudoku watcher?
Maybe I need to treat it like a tobacco addiction and provide other distractions for myself so I can become Sudoku-free? Deep breathing through the cravings for playing the game? Or force myself to do one Sudoku game after the other, until I get sick of them?
Do I become my own mother and only allow myself to play one game when I’ve accomplished one blog or edited one chapter or finished the washing?
Hmmm, that’s not a bad idea.

Helping or Hindering?

A friend recently lamented about a project that was taking forever and had so many challenges and pitfalls, it seemed like it was never going to get done. My usual method of cheerful encouragement and suggestions was met with more descriptions of barriers or detours to accomplishing this task. I felt defeated in my attempt to be helpful and had to say, “Good luck!”, then I backed away.

Later in the day, I joined my husband for a second afternoon of eating watermelon and spitting seeds outside our RV while sitting in the Arizona desert. (Where else can you get ripe watermelon in January?) He remarked that our seeds from the previous day’s session were gone. I wondered if the birds had gotten them.

As we watched, first one, then another black ant headed toward our freshly deposited seeds. We tracked their burrow to a spot about 12 feet away. Now these were tiny ants! One watermelon seed was at least 10 time their weight!

“Can’t be the ants who took all the seeds,” I said.

“Must be,” he said.

As we kept track of their activities, we found individual ants tackling their chosen seed with such complete attention and vigor, I was tired. One ant got its seed stuck between two small rocks that must’ve seemed like boulders. After tugging and pulling and pushing, it stopped to climb to a higher elevation, then investigated the surrounding area in a circular path. Sure enough. In about five minutes, the ant had changed course and freed the seed so it could take off on a different angle toward home.

I saw another one with a similar problem, and I tried to help by removing the stones it was pushing its seed against. I scared the ant away. It must’ve seen my finger as some giant bolt from the sky. A threatening hand, rather than a benevolent one. That seed didn’t get moved again while I was watching. It and the rest of the seeds, however, were gone the next day.

There’s no way to know their feelings about the matter. I hypothesized they might’ve begun groaning by the third day of our eating ritual. I thought they might be saying, “Oh, no! Here come some more of those dratted seeds. Won’t we ever get a break? How can we get anymore down our hole?”

My husband wondered if they might just be grateful instead. We’ll never know, of course, but it did lead me to re-evaluate my conversation with my friend and the project that was taking forever.

My best conclusion came in the form of a better response than offering every helpful Hannah hint I could think of. These suggestions might just have been as overwhelming as the scare my fickle finger of fate gave to the black ant when I removed the tiny stones. So I called my friend back and said, “I know this project seems never-ending, but I believe, if you keep on trying everything you can think of and don’t give up, it will eventually get done. I know you can do it!”

The Most Important Resolution of All, To Me

Of all the promises I can make to myself, there is one that casts its powers over all the others.
In the past, I’ve resolved to lose weight, stop smoking, be more positive. I’ve stepped forward into the New Year with thoughts to learn Spanish, better food habits, or incorporate more exercise into my life. I’ve promised to stop making lists.
I’ve tried the images of releasing fear, embracing compassion, and halting my co-dependent tendencies.
I’ve vowed to finish the four novels of my Sacred Bundle Series, visit sick friends, be a better wife, mother, daughter, and grandmother.
I’ve hung prayer arrows to release bad habits or bad thoughts and fashioned ones to point me toward brighter days.
I’ve written pages of explanations to myself and others trying to make amends for hurts I’ve caused, confidences I’ve betrayed. Then I’ve burned them in the New Year’s Eve fire to let go of the guilt that held me immobile for years.
I’ve made the intention to re-establish relationships with my husband, children, and grandchildren, my mother and my sister friends. Our coming back together is important to me. What I’ve discovered is that the relationships and communications have to be important to both of us, or it doesn’t move any closer.
I’ve also discovered that all the promises I’ve made to improve myself, to be healthier, to be a better listener, doer, and person won’t work unless I believe in and accept the individual I am right here, right now.
I am incapable of changing any part of myself until I sink into the beingness who is me on this Earth plane, at this time, in this moment.
Here is where it begins.
So, in 2010, in my 65th year, I officially resolve to love myself, all of me, every attitude and habit, every grey hair and bald spot, each wrinkle, all my aches and pains, and my very complicated world view. It means I love my skills, my integrity, my honesty, my passions, my forgetfulness, my intentions and desires. I love me, and from that, all else is free to flow.

What I believe.

I firmly believe that the more each of us can find balance within ourselves and our lives, the better we will be at holding a point of calm on our particular place on the web of life. Balance isn’t just about being able to stand on one or both feet without falling down. Although after an introductory study of Aikido, I realized how many elements are involved in doing just that.
When my mind is scattered or problem-oriented, I’m not in my body enough to be able to stand in one place without falling over or being pushed over by a stiff wind or someone breezing past. When my heart is squeezed tight or overflowing in someone else’s direction, I don’t have enough juice for myself to convert into personal stability. This is also true for my emotional state, my level of ‘busyness, acceptance/rejection of love, attention, compassion, etc. For many events, fears, plus angers and frustrations pull me away from being in the moment and being able to stand in relaxed readiness for my own life.
Of all my relationships, I have a choice, each time I approach them, to be in awareness of them and myself so as to be open in that moment to the joy of being alive.
This time of reflection I spend has become important for me to find balance within all the myriad influences of this one life of mine.
As I’ve reflected and written over the past 20 years, a story has emerged that has become a series of four books, now named, The Sacred Bundle Series. Where the intertwining stories will be completed with the fourth book, my reflections on seeking balance will never be done until I pass away. This is the theme, it seems, of my life: finding balance in all my relationships.
So the imprinting of thoughts here in this blog are offered as my work in trying to step every day and in every moment into that place of balance where I can do no harm. Join me in seeking to center ourselves so we may strongly maintain our point of contact on the web of life no matter what’s happening to fray its connectivity on another part of our Earth.