A Note from Down Under

A cloudy, uncharacteristically warm January Sunday, already in the 40’s, or so I imagine because the bird bath isn’t frozen, as I look from the kitchen window, and there is no discernible frost on the ground.  It is much later than I am usually here, 8:45, but this cold has me on its own schedule, as it bears down with its burden of mucus and lethargy. 
This affliction and I are on our fourth day, the third of confinement.  It has been awhile since I’ve been felled by an upper respiratory revolt, and I’m trying to succumb gracefully.  But even though I have had a witness (John is home this weekend) I have found myself only belatedly realizing, “oh, it’s 3 p.m. and I haven’t showered”, or “this is the same sweatshirt I had on yesterday and its none too clean.”  There’s something about being ill that cancels the good grooming part of my brain.
In fact, it cancels the time-keeping part of my brain as well.  Yesterday, as I lay on the couch under a blanket drifting in and out of cooking shows  (I slept almost entirely through Todd English’s trip to the Andes), I had the growing sense that this was now my life, that I had never been/done anything else, and would never be/do anything else, and once a sharp panic dissipated, a sneezing fit took over, and I just fell back into that stream.  It was fine.  Nothing else was possible. Such is the power of snot.
Such is the power of the body, the dense weightiness of it, with its waves of urgencies, advancing and receding.  We are its servants, in many ways, as it must be fed, emptied, bandaged, washed, soothed with caresses. Sometimes it must be medicated, and for me, that is always confusing, as I was raised by a mother now on 17 prescriptions who, in my formative years, drank raw egg and wheat germ milkshakes, a la’ Adelle Davis. 
Plus, as an eldest child with Leo rising, I would rather do “it” myself.  I have this innate sense that the body, not just my body, but the body can and wants to heal itself, if furnished with the proper pile of ingredients, that the body is in fact already hard wired with all manner of self-correcting mechanisms.  That the job of my thinking/mental self is to listen to all these symptoms and discern what needs to be added:  orange juice?  warm humidity?  sleep?
But it turns out that sometimes what needs to be added is the voice of somebody who has access to a prescription pad.  I’m not there yet, not this time, but I’m just saying. . .if these ears don’t clear up. . .well maybe. . .

It's January 27th. . .

. . .my late father’s birthday.  At 4 a.m.,  the Greeneville Tennessee LifeLine called to tell me that my 87-year-old mother had fallen. She is all right, they said.

All right, except that eight years ago, my then 80-year-old father had the gall to pre-decease her, leaving her in that bedroom alone, that bedroom where she fell, in the dark, last night.

My father was meticulous about his diet, exercised religiously at the YMCA, and played golf with his other semi-retired buddies whenever his work, church and community service allowed.  Reaching for the telephone, he fell - just the once - and broke a hip, went to the hospital and two agonizing months later, died of pneumonia.

My dear mother eats whatever she pleases, although she knows she shouldn’t; does not exercise, although she knows she should, and will quickly admit to both, to keep you from bringing it up. She has fallen countless times.  Her bones have been described as “paper thin”.  Her much thinner sister is recovering from her second hip fracture in as many years, having fallen, to my knowledge, just those two times.

Is there a moral to this story?  Should one eat fig newtons for breakfast and then stay in one’s chair? Was the relentless discipline worth it, to my father, who may still be astonished that his congenitally more indulgent wife lives on and on. Perhaps the moral, if there is one, is that try as we might to draw straight lines on top of this unruly life, the terrain is too bumpy. The rather pitiful results will not offer the ultimate reassurance we seek. We cannot get from here to there via a straight line.  That second point, the one required at the other end of our inflexible ruler, is always fuzzy.  Even if you are sitting right now with the bottle of pills and a giant glass of water, or the loaded pistol, or are reading this standing on bridge railing, that second point is a crap shoot.  The capsules are not strong enough, the pistol just misses the critical spot, a giant bird catches you by your shirt collar. . .its never a sure thing.  Miracles happen.  And on the other side of the scale, so do accidents. This is one of the issues I have with dogged insistence on "the bright side."

Life ain’t logical, despite our desperate efforts to make it so.  And it seems to me too enormously creative to be predictable.  It is my experience that a grateful attitude will get you much further in this life and I would far rather spend time with someone who sees the glass as half full.  And I am quickly exhausted in the company of Debbie Downer, especially when I am the one in the role.  But to claim that “its simply a flesh wound” when the stumps of all your limbs are bleeding makes sense only on Monty Python. 

If you have bleeding stumps, either physically or emotionally, (and who hasn’t been there?) it does no good, it seems to me, to ignore the growing red stain on your white carpet, while from some spiritual altitude, you point out the same color on the fragrant roses in the front yard.  Yes, it is true that it is the same color, and yes, they smell fabulous, but what in the sam hill are you going to do to stop the bleeding? Why don't we start with a quick round of antiseptic and bandages and then we’ll think about composing a psalm to the roses?

Life is both wounds and roses, treadmills and cookies, or mine is, and it is too short and too precious to ignore its fullness and its complexity.  It seems to me that we lose half the juice if we are not willing to admit that there are pieces of it that we don't understand, that don't make sense, that hurt like hell. 

Its not fair that my father should take such good care of his physical body and then - like that - be gone. We all miss him terribly, especially on birthdays and holidays when he would have had a new joke to tell us, laughing more than any of his listeners.

Its probably equally unfair that my dear sweet mother should still bless this planet with her generous and kind spirit, although I'm so grateful that she does.  And my heart hurts for her terror at her helplessness and for the ongoing dilemma around her living situation and her safety. If only her husband were still here. . .

My tiny speck of a mind cannot begin to fathom all the pieces and how they fit together.  Remind me of that when it sounds like I know what I’m talking about, perhaps even now. . .

Meanwhile. . .Happy Birthday Dad. 

Finding the clutch

I'm having one of those scratchy, sticky mornings.  It started yesterday when I began to discover all that I had set aside to have Christmas at my house, travel for New Year's, travel again with family, and then to come home and have a delightful play date with friends.  In order to focus on Christmas and houseguests and travel and more houseguests, I kept tucking away this pile and that, this errand and that one that could wait, temporarily.
Yesterday, as I checked in on check registers and bills, on the supply of dog food and groceries, a giant coffee and baking order also came in, with its own quick deadline.  That order got bigger with a supplemental email a couple of hours ago. At the same time, today and tomorrow hold appointments that were put on hold because of the snow and ice storm (remember that?) and all the travel and the houseguests. This was the week that could hold them, because from way back there, it was empty, unaware of the impending spill.
In the old days, all this would be fine, because it would serve to make me feel more important, busier.  I would wear the stress like a badge.  As I went through my day, I could tell everyone of my schedule.  I could hurry, make several lists.  In the old days, when I really got into it, I would have multiple lists.  And I could both check off and mark a line through each accomplishment, (that's embarrassing to admit!) emerging at the end of the day with a giant feeling of. . .what?  Having made it through, certainly.  Having survived it.  There was an inflated feeling, which is necessarily distant, but I didn't know that.  I mistook it for satisfaction, for happiness even.
Now, the challenge is different.  The challenge is not how much can I get done? It is how present am I to my life, to life itself? The tasks on the list(s) start out the same, although they may shift in priority, and as they do, they may fall off entirely.  But I still need to pay those bills that I put aside, make a bank deposit with checks people wrote for Christmas morning cinnamon rolls, pick up dog food at the vet's, go to the gym for a workout appointment.  Etcetera, and more etcetera.
This is where it gets crunchy, where I need deep breaths and more deep breaths, and just plain time outs.  The good and the bad news is that when I give up, and am willing to just be wherever I am, with whatever I'm doing, whatever it is goes more smoothly, and when I am finished, I have a sense of fulfillment that is far greater than simply crossing it off a list. It is kind of like I breathe into it, maybe even breathe with it. Maybe whatever it is - driving, searching the drug store for Plackers, roasting Costa Rican coffee - has its own rhythm.  Maybe it is about "synching" up - not sure that is the right word, or how to spell it - but it has to do with synchronizing my internal rhythm and the rhythm of the task, working together, breathing together, being present to it.
I don't know.  This is a lifelong re-education, I'm guessing.  Not letting the tasks, or the looming lists of tasks be in charge, not letting the self-created anxiety build and rob me of life itself, the awareness of it, the preciousness of it, of the gift that it is, right now.
Right here. . .right now. . .I'm breathing. . .life is breathing me. . .how remarkable. . .now, to allow this to stay open. . .

Waiting

There are women in several cities who will soon be on the last leg to my house: Davidson, Charlotte, Pinnacle, Concord. I've been looking forward to this for weeks, these women, these friends coming to my house for Art Camp, we are calling it.  None of us are artists, in fact, if you ask us, one by one, in a secluded room, we might each admit that we are a little afraid of "art", of the title, of the doing of it, of getting very close to "it."
That's the point, precisely.  Everybody is bringing food, with which they are comfortable, and wine, with which they are comfortable.  Chocolate is being imported, and multiple cheeses, and soup and salad and homemade breads and decadent cookies.  They are bringing their pillows, for gosh sakes, because they are all spending the night.  Oh, and popcorn, and a special popcorn pot that has served a dear friend's family for decades and has traveled multiple times to the beach when a permutation of this group goes, once or twice a year.
The house is about ready.  Beds are made with clean sheets, toilets are scrubbed.  There is a tablecloth on the kitchen table.  It is in the kitchen that we will spend most of our time, if it turns out like other gatherings.  There are Christmas decorations because it is only close to the end of January, not the actual end of January, and it is only when it gets to be a month late that I start to realize no one else still has Santa propped up in the living room. 
Its hard to be out of town, even overnight.  We've already had three people who couldn't come at the last minute.  One, who has just had surgery, and that on top of the recent promotion has her napping this weekend.  Another's mother was rushed to the hospital last night with shortness of breath, this, the woman into whom a heart stint was installed mere months ago.  And then there is my former Wake Forest neighbor, known for her huge heart, who is home instead of here, helping an abandoned Mama dog and all her many puppies, dumped only yesterday, precipitously, and heartlessly into this woman's front yard.
Life for the other four allows them this visit. For them, it isn't this weekend that the world opens one of its more jagged edges.  It happened to me the first time this playtime was scheduled.  All was arranged.  The menu was collectively derived, clothes were being washed to go into suitcases.  Then we got the call.  A dear dear man, friend and relative, had succumbed to esophageal cancer, after fighting year after year.  The services were the following weekend, the weekend of Art Camp.
So we collect this weekend.  And as I put candles in candle holders, and make sure that all the work spaces in the big room have enough light, as I wait for this glorious group of women to come in the door, one by one, with olives and cheeses and pillows and soup, floorcloths and cardstock and fabric and paint, I am so so grateful that life has opened up this space for us.
It is a space to color outside the lines, because it is too precious not to.  Life is outside the lines, in those spaces where we play when we can, and when it is time to tend to mothers and puppies and tired bodies, that we do that too, hopefully, out of this searing fullness.  And when we have it, we share it.  And when we don't have it, if we are lucky, we have a friend that does.
I didn't used to know this, either how to play, or how vital it is.  I used to think that work was the only holder of merit, that the more difficult something was, the more points it bestowed.  Needless to say, that attitude didn't leave much room for floorcloths and paint and pillows and friends making the time to come and take a risk. . .

Tahoe in the morning. . .

Tahoe in the evening. . .

Tahoe at suppertime. . .

Snow and Vice

There is a wonderland out there, encased in ice.  It seems that for awhile, everything stilled, waiting. We were a bit surprised, we in the South, with our girly man anti-winter equipment: a few snowplows, salt trucks, airplane de-icers, all purchased at Lowe's, on sale.   Atlanta skidded off the road.  There were numerous exclamatory reports of frozen this and closed that.  Concord, closer to Briarpatch, didn't move much either.  USAir, the airline that has logged most of our miles lately, did not fly from Charlotte.
Husband John, raised in snowbooties in the Western North Carolina mountains, simply put on jeans and got in the car.  Rumor has it he was one of the few people in the Southeastern U. S. at work Monday and Tuesday.  But he talks with people in warmer climes anyway:  Portugal, Mexico, South America.  And the ones in Russia and Canada are not very sympathetic. 
The dogs were a bit confused, but then, from our perspective, they remain that way.  Not sure it isn't the other way around and they are the ones who have it figured out.  No matter the weather, they sleep on the bed, get breakfast before dawn and dinner in the middle of the afternoon.  After John gets home, it is out for ball-playing then in to wait at the pantry door for Doggie Crack, a disgusting something rolled around ersatz liver.  Makes them deliriously happy.  All day long, there is the couch, (Huey has his own chair),  random barking just to stay in voice, coming up for ear rubbing, and periodically, out to make rounds.  Rounds for Huey The Younger (the one on the right) includes the neighbor's.  They have friends over once a week to play games and Huey is a regular.
You need to understand that Huey logged in just under "obese" at his last vet visit so since then we have had him on what is known in our house as Jenny Craig for Dogs.  This translates to special food which can cost more per pound than ours.

It took Huey one and a half of these new dinners to discover supplementation, the equivalent of stopping at Dunkin' Donuts on the way home from your Weight Watchers meeting:  the compost pile.  Then, lo and behold, if you go next door while this whole group of people is occupied playing games while they eat their sandwiches, and do your one trick (sitting) and give them the brown eye treatment, well, chances are they can't resist and will give you a bite here and there.  It didn't take long for that to escalate.  Well, it took his dragging home a whole roll of bologna and getting caught.  Then the authorities were notified.  Neighbor Jennifer now keeps an eye on the whole situation, and he's been (at least partially) cut off.  You can't blame them.  He gets more treats than he ought to at home too. 
I have been  under the impression that if my chocolate after dinner doesn't count, because it is after dinner, then maybe those biscuits he gets because we feel so sorry for him being on a diet shouldn't count either.
Well the math isn't working for either one of us. . .
Wait a minute, this started out being a story about ice and snow.  How did we get to poundage? Clearly I need more coffee. . .with cream. . .and chocolate protein drink. . .well, its cold!

January. . .

It seems I have already begun to sink into this January.  Despite the fact that there are events requiring a lot from me until January 24th, the pull has already begun to exert itself. 
January is a poet’s month, all sparseness and concentrated, concealed power. It seems a little astonishing that our response is to lose interest, to look away, to put on more clothes and move indoors, our eyes away from the windows.  What is there to see?  All bleakness, gray, no brilliant color.  Only when it is all covered, in blankets of comfortable looking snow do we pronounce it beautiful.  Only then, when hidden.  This is the child’s view of the world: I must be entertained; I deserve to be constantly courted, by bright greens!  Luscious flowers! Butterflies, bees, deeply colored birds and birdsong! The youth of the year we pronounced beautiful.
But it is now, with its bones revealed, it is now that the unflinching truth is told.  This is what is underneath it all. Here is the support, the source, the life-energy, the sap, concentrating.  This is wisdom, not knowledge.  This is true power, not just strength. This is what I want to absorb, through osmosis, through paying attention.  This is January, my January, roots deeply sunk into this Earth.

On our way. . .

It is already the 7th of January.  Next Friday at this time, we will be (almost) on a plane to Lake Tahoe.  We will have gotten up in the thick darkness, and loaded our protesting selves into the car.  We will have joined other lemmings traveling I-85 South, all of whom will know it would be better to be in bed, asleep, rather than whatever poor excuse finds them more or less in control of  a several thousand pound machine, in the dark.  No one’s biorhythms cooperate with such a schedule.  The body simply knows better.
Nonetheless, there will be a brief exhilaration at the earlier than usual action; a public destination requiring clothes, a clear goal powered by earlier than usual caffeine.  We will suddenly realize ourselves among the blessed, these other creatures who also know how to take advantage of these hidden resources, these hours when we are usually in bed.  What have we been thinking?  What a gold mine!  This will last several hours actually, kept aloft by the novelty of security screening, then sitting next to strangers, rising into the sky at dawn, having more strangers bring us bad coffee.  But before we fall from the sky, it will begin to dissipate.  These artisanal selves, these specially-prepared selves will begin to deflate into the real thing. The self that didn’t really want to get up so early, that didn’t get enough sleep, that doesn’t like being dragged out of a warm kitchen and onto a dark bleak Interstate to smile at equally sleep-deprived strangers in the middle of the night, that now overly fatigued, overly caffeinated, low blood-sugared, cranky self will take its place.  By the time the plane lands in Reno, Nevada, that self will be the one negotiating the rental car, dealing with whether the other two flights we are meeting are on time, the ones carrying the skiing nephews.  It will be that self that chats with them on the final leg of the trip to Lake Tahoe, to try to find the house, to meet more strangers, to allocate bedrooms and think groceries for dinner and is there going to be an effort at night skiing on Friday.  Already not good.  Already requiring more than is available.  Better take extra naps every day until then.  All in the name of peace on Earth, good will toward. . . well, everything. . .

Renewal. . .

It is time to feel my way down to the root hairs. Last year, last January, I took myself to the beach:  cases of books, a tiny stovetop espresso maker, some good knives, soft clothes and a big bag of greens from the garden.  The first week was full of repairmen.  I learned my lesson on another beach retreat, when the checker outer at the rental agency was much more attentive than the checker inner.  I watched my damage deposit evaporate.  This time, my inventory was thorough: slip covers were cleaned, torn blankets replaced, the light over the stove and cable repaired.  It wasn't the foyer to quiet that I anticipated, but it gave me time to sign up at the gym, find the year-round farmer's market and the local coffee shop with wifi and the stoned barefoot barista. 
My only commitment was to get up in the dark and watch the sunrise each morning.  The third-floor beachfront condo faced due East.  I couldn't have missed the sunrise had I wanted to, and each day, even when overcast, I was there.  There were spectacles beyond description, where I ran out of ways to describe pinks and oranges and golds.  There were days when the water seemed laden with smoke; if you were unable to hear the waves, you wouldn't have known you were beachside.  The chill was record-breaking, I heard the comparisons in the check-out lane at the Piggley-Wiggley.  I tried walking, but gave up after inducing repeated earaches, even with a snug headband.  The gym treadmill was a very poor second, but with someone next to me on the elliptical, I had as much social life as I wanted. . .
It took awhile to quiet the voices, the ones that demanded production!  Accountability!  Service to others, you lapsed Presbyterian!  I gave them a chair across the room from my writing table, handed them a coloring book and that seemed to help.   Ever ever so slowly, I began to detect whispers at the bottom of the barrel, in the dark, in the swollen quiet.  Ever ever so slowly, a deeper layer of myself emerged, risked exposure, shyly showed herself in barely discernible outline.  Fragile, newly born.  It took Big Quiet to hold her, to not frighten her away.  Big Quiet, Expansive Time for her to strengthen.
This year, more aware of what it costs those left behind for me to be completely relocated for a month, I am attempting an at-home retreat.  I'll admit skepticism, but am optimistic.  I have about three weeks until I can begin, and then my plan is to re-engage the third week in February. 
I feel starved for this nourishment, after a particularly busy Fall and Early Winter.  I shall report here as I come up with the design, and report out during my "confinement."