a matter of months

...i've been 'occupied'. ;)

and, surprise, surprise.

by september, i could walk a little further. and my little family & i followed a promising lead, and once there found ourselves in a strange and delightful garden among pines. i made such friends with this place-- and my boys did, too-- that we all decided to stay.

i began my walking with precision and care, being faithful with my meds, leaning on friends and especially my husband... (there's a strength, you know, that has nothing to do with muscles, or decisions. you let go, and it just happens.)

there was a shift in me, a profound one, one i could not move to catch; a shift of old, uncooperative bones that for an amazing (to me) 4 months refused whatsoever to move, and a slowed mind, unable to breathe that precious air of certainty. it took its own time, took me along with it, for once not kicking-and-screaming. because, i couldn't.

all the months before? they are foggy, but gorgeous, and rich.

the boys returned from vermont with the harvest that i could not pick, but indeed i could cook, and that's what i did-- slowly, carefully, and with pleasure. nourishment was measured, and appreciation, abundant.


and as it turns out? after all those months of non-movement, unsteady movement, crippled movement, ironically, we did move! a leap into happiness, long-missed.

and now i move as my spirit moves: with the breath of trees, the fire of the moon, and the ever-present sky.

determined

blooming

It's my favorite part of the summer season, as mounds of hydrangea blooms soften searing sun with their cool periwinkle frost of color, and their puffball sense of humor. These little clusters of joy are abundant through our neighborhood now, punctuating the more rigid corners and claustrophobic lines of our Victorian-era brickmakers' ward with a welcome reminiscent of ice cream and sprinklers.

They welcome my eye and draw my hand to them to cup them so very gently, in a communion between petals and skin. I can feel both of us smile when I do.

I'm accepting many such invitations these days-- the slow and forgotten kind, of attentions both unusual and subtly exotic-- as I explore ways to entertain my "new" body, my fibromyalgia body. Hot days are spent as quietly as possible, with as little movement as possible, for I've not yet learned the limits of my "new" body, my fibromyalgia body.

Pain speaks to me constantly; a burning flame in my ankles, a sudden jolt in my rib, a "Voodoo-doll jab" (as one facebook friend put it) of a hot spike into my heel, a raking of nerve endings in my elbows, a vice of iron around my knees...

I've had to bow humbly to Big Pharma, accepting the blessings bestowed by Cymbalta, Tramadol, Gabapentin, Hydrocodone. This is a sad irony for one who has been so careful with diet and entertainments (go local! go organic! go natural!); and a bit of a slap in the face for an herbal fanatic and homeopathic enthusiast.

Somehow, though, I do not feel overwhelmed with anger; at least, I am as angry as my antidepressant pain relievers will allow me to be. And though most of my days are spend lying on the couch, mostly I'm just watching my pain, getting used to the idea that it's not going away.

There's an estimated 140 million people in the US suffering from chronic pain with an assumed growth of about 1% a year. Many of these conditions are of unknown origins, and many who suffer them must do so in silence, as chronic pain is not well understood (or accepted) in our pull-up-your-bootstraps society.

Hardest of all for me is not being able to apply myself fully to the work of raising my (very energetic!) son, who also has a central nervous system disorder (Sensory Processing Disorder); and also not being able to enjoy the process of writing and creating. How odd it is, when something as simple as touching a key on a keypad becomes an exercise in forbearance.

And so more often than that, I accept offers from random, puffy flowers and velvety leaves, and touch them, instead. I rest in the quiet of my mind, the gift of my zen practice that I can (at this point!) no longer rest within, and I blossom now as a foreign flower, altogether new again.

BeautyWay

Because the nature of anguish is so ugly, I have resolved myself to find some measure of beauty in each day, every day.

And I must admit to my shock, as I find even the seemingly smallest thing of beauty carries more largess than the ugliest thing I experience.

Climate change unheeded. Human greed and corruption. The suffering of many, for the comfort of a very few. Injustice: inner, outer, and secret. And the more personal notes of this warbled tune of unhappiness, which include the challenges of caring for a "special needs" child, caring for the grief of the loss of my father much too young, and now caring for the very new, very humbling diagnosis of fibromyalgia within myself...

All of which tips away carelessly, effortlessly with the weight of dew on the edge of a supple leaf.

Reflecting on my Father's Death

It's been nearly a year with My Tree.

May

June

October

December

January

March

April

When you watch the way the seasons turn, the glorious in-and-out-and in-again of leaves and birds, clouds and sun, you understand even your own life is nothing more than the Earth breathing.

Rest in Peace, Daddy.

Waiting

How does one write about waiting for news of the death of one's father?

Waiting on the couch for that phone call, knitting all the while waiting for my own new medications to make their mark on this strange new body-predicament... It strikes me that this is a season of waiting in the Christian world, too, as the faithful explore the darkness of a world devoid of their divine Light; and as the Christians, so too the more Earth-worshipping wait for the light and warmth of the Sun and the promise of full-on Springtime Sowing Season. Jews wait out the Pass-Over; Muslims celebrate Al-Hijra, their New Year, awaiting the seasonal arrival of Mohammed home from Mecca to begin the community of Islam.

All the earth is a waiting room these days, it seems...

This glorious wind of balled mossy-green yarn accompanied me on my wait to board the plane, and subsequent longer wait to de-board the plane once in Utah, and the long wait afterward to help my father home from the hospital to hospice. The mountains gave good steady company too, reminding me of first hiking treks (and my first attempt at skiing) with my dear old dad all those years ago. The mountains were their typical staid selves in wearing the a-typical weather of Rocky Mountain April, changing cloud-skirts from gray to snow to warming sun in a matter of hours without complaint. I knitted and admired the mountains and did my best to weather the changing conditions in my dad's body, in my own body, in my family's collective body.

Today I am home again and still waiting, haunted by every ring of the phone, buoyed by the support of dear friends, and my tireless husband. Today a chilly rain falls on the other side of the continent while I can only guess at the weather of the bedroom, body and family lodged by the mountains west. Today I feel echoes of a warm cheek against my lips, the struggle for breath in and out of an ever-open mouth, the string of emotions that inevitably accompany these things on all sides. The quiet drill of rainfall feeds this silent, internal thunder. And I wait.

Gifts

Mother Nature, she pulled through- as promised.
And miracle of miracles, just like that, we are staying in our home after all... the relative has decided to remain in her own home, and our landlords invited us to keep on. Relief is an understatement; settled is the blessing.


I wish the same could be said for my desk, alas. But as one diagnosis goes, so goes another, as just a few weeks ago I was given my own: fibromyalgia. Once my sweet, yellow girl was given a slot among some incredible artistic company; now she is a catch-all, as medications are titrated and my mind finds a new place in this very new body of mine.


But Mother Nature? Her ways are mysterious; the promise of green pops here and there, in what I consider a springtime equivalent of sweet laughter... Not at the expense of a winter hard won, but of something more tender, like altogether giggling at the gift of this mad, indefinable allofit.