Into the Wilderness and to Heartbreak

Do you remember the excitement of getting ready for a vacation or a long looked forward trip going home to see family to share bits and pieces of your life, their lives and looking forward to the future.  Sometimes heading home or on a vacation is a bit like heading into the wilderness, we just don’t know what we might find when we get there. An unexplored trail up a hillside like the ones that I enjoyed going on to the top of a ridge where the river could be seen winding out of sight in its banks.  The wading in pools of water when the young minnows of trout gathered to gain strength before heading out into the world of cold rushing water on a hurry to the ocean. The endless tipping over of river rocks to see what was there. The wilderness sang and I listened. I listened to the river birds calling, the river rushing by and then slowing to lap against the rocky shore. My skin was dark brown from the warmth of countless days wandering and playing in our bit of wilderness.

There were some trails that I did not take, like the one that my little silver tabby cat and I started on in the early evening of summer. Along the trail on the side of the mountain ridge was the brown pellet droppings of deer, small rabbit brush and the hidden grass on the north side of the bigger plants. Lichen rested on the tops and sides of large boulders. The sky was turning the blue-violet of approaching evening with two hours of sunlight left, plenty of time to make it to the top for a quick peek down to the dry valley below to sit and watch the shadows lengthen and swallow up the trees growing on the sides of the creek flowing to the bigger dark silver ribbon of river.  Until my pint sized tabby cat started to step in front of my feet, crying at me, looking up at me then starting to head back down the trail to where the old log cabin we called home was. Whenever I started back walking up the trail, my cat would run and leap in front of my feet and with repeated crying insistently impeding my progress up the trail. I tried to pick up my cat but the animal squirmed right out of my arms, crying and looking up at me until I gave up and turned around and started walking back down the trail. My tabby being satisfied that I was going in the right direction decided to guard the rear in order to keep his person going home.  I looked back occasionally to see my cat turning its little head upward gazing back along the dirt trail with his ears alert as he actively listened as we walked and ran on the narrow twisting deer trail on the side of the slope of the mountain.  We continued home trailing through the grassy pasture and into the yard of the house where the cat left to race into the house turning around at the worn wooden doorstep to gaze thoughtfully up the mountain.

It was not until the next evening that my father told me that he had found fresh cougar tracks on the trail that we had been walking on the previous night. He had been curious about the cat’s behavior and believing that the little creature had a lot of common sense he had wanted to satisfy his own thoughts about why the silver tabby was reluctant to travel further on the trail.  Going into the wilderness is great unless there is a bigger cat than you that might just eat you.

I am heading into the wilderness without the benefit of someone looking out for the bigger cat upon the trail or obstacles that might hinder my path or tear at my piece of mind.  Generally, I don’t mind traveling when I have a plan in mind of what to expect when I reach my destination.  Now I am clueless, I have no extensive or philosophical expectations of whatever lies at the end of the trail which involves driving, flying and more driving.  You see, my younger sister has been diagnosed with ALS and I am traveling to see her.

 Oh, I have memories of our mom when she had it before she died but those are memories colored by child’s mind which could only think that there would be no more birthdays, Thanksgivings or Christmases. Somehow when you are a child those days hold all the importance of the world. My sister's journey will be different as she fights to maintain something of herself to share with her family.  Her children are older than the ones that our mother left behind but it doesn't make a difference except they understand the importance of quality time and being there now more than we did as we played around her hospital bed.   

            I know that there will be tears so many that probably the river that we had lived by could easily become salty by the flow of water from my eyes.  My mom never heard the story of the wise cat that probably saved the life of her oldest daughter. She never got to see the days of summer shortening on that particular mountain so when I travel into a wilderness of lives that are now facing a wilderness of their and my unknown sorrow, it will be the heartbreak that I feel the most.

Laundry in the Wind

Laundry in the Wind

            Sometimes we need to air our dirty laundry out in the fresh clear air assuming that we have attempted to wash it beforehand.  Today was a day for washing various items of clothing as I prepared for a trip home.  Some of which I will not take with me but never-the-less it would be nice to have clean things to wear when I return.  Having said that I have been avoiding the issue of going home while going about my daily tasks particularly after the shock that was delivered to my attention the previous week? Has it been a week?

            Old memories flooded my mind, my heart and body when I found out that my younger sister was diagnosed with ALS.  She has had strange various things attacking her system for many years and looking back perhaps her body was trying to get her attention with its stop and go attitude.  Well, back to the laundry, after all, the title of this is Laundry in the Wind.

            I remember our mother washing and rinsing the laundry in the galvanized metal tub and electric tub washing machine with its rollers to squeeze out the water.   Our father had worked on carrying out the hot water from the house, water that had been heated on the stove to fill up the washing machine while our mother worked on sorting clothes and  lining up wooden clothes pin in a tin coffee can.   It was a very labor intensive job but when you have three children and a husband who works in a gas station which doubles as a garage for whatever isn’t working to come for a visit to be repaired then you have a lot of laundry.  Oh and there was ironing, lots and lots of ironing for back in the late 50’s and early 60’s, you ironed practically everything.  We helped by putting clothes on the lines and opening clothes pin to secure the clothes, sheets, towels and many other things that go into the laundry.   Air drying was at its best with the laundry flapping in the wind.  I enjoyed the flapping, the shadows casted on the ground and upon the other pieces of the clothes, linens and our father’s work overalls on the lines. Bugs, small flies and the fluff of dandelions would land on the drying pieces of our lives in the sunshine. Once dry, we would help shake the laundry to make it softer folding the small stuff. It was our part of helping. More often than not it was just laying on the grass with stomachs pressed on the ground making it a piece of heaven. 

            I wish I remembered more of those days and not just the laundry days but the hours that our mother spend in the kitchen cooking, canning and freezing food for her hungry children.  It seems to me that we were always hungry from running in the fields of alfalfa, tearing around on our bicycles, climbing trees, riding on the backs of black faced sheep in the pasture.  Why would we hang in the kitchen where our mother was working? She was forever.

So we would run in the house to grab something to eat and something to drink before we were back out the door with so many things to do.  Did we stop for a hug or a kiss?  Probably not, we knew where our mother was. Just like our dad, she was forever and always there until she was not.

Both of my young siblings and I had no understanding about what was beginning to happen to our mother when she started not to do things.  I was the oldest, I learned to bake, and cook from my mother.  I don’t remember much of it except the running back and forth from the hospital bed that lived in the front room with her in it.  The running back and forth was in order to learn what step to do next in the baking or cooking of something for supper.   

A current memory comes to mind of a young mother that I know that has cancer and is trying to do everything she can with her children while trying to remain optimistic about her next surgery.  Our mom was like that before the hospital bed. She drove her three children up a lonely dirt road at the head of the valley to a small natural warm springs and a small creek that she knew had been stocked with trout. We fished, she cooked and we slept in the Volkswagen van on a mattress that our father had placed on the floor.  In the night, a thunderstorm rolled in and I helped my mother pull in the edges of the mattress so we could close the doors of the van on the rain trying to come in. I don’t remember but I think that my brother and sister slept on. I fell back to sleep with the pattering of rain on the metal roof of our white Volkswagen.

 Funny, how memory fades, I don’t remember the name of the creek just the fishing with our wooden poles that our father had made us with fishing line tied to the ends. No reeling in of yards of line, you could just dip your line into the creek, let it float until a hungry fish grabbed at the ball of wriggling worm that had a fish hook threaded through its body. 

Guppies, we took jars with us to capture guppies to take home from the natural warm springs.  Easy to do as we played in the water with the little brown and sometimes rainbow colored fish nibbling gently at arms and legs, I have dreams about that place but it is very changed in the dreams with zillions of guppies everywhere just waiting for their capture.  

I drove home, twelve years old and I drove home with my mother helping me to change gears as she was able.  Exhaustion had set in and she was barely able to climb into the van.  She loved us and was squeezing all the life she could into whatever moments she had left. 

My younger sister told me this summer when she surprised me by coming to visit on the coast with her daughter, my niece, that our mother had ALS and not MS as we had thought.  My fleeting thought was, at least you are safe, no signs and you are older than she was when it struck her down. 

It seems we were wrong about you. That you, my younger sister might have escaped this disease and so I work on the laundry getting ready to come and see you with our mother’s face in mind.

The Heart of the Matter

                Do any of us really remember the freedom we had before we had starting wearing shoes?  Feeling the cool and dampness of freshly watered grass between the brown toes of our feet, I remember.  I remember the mud remaining caked on the tops of my feet after we played in the pond where tadpoles fought for a breathing space on the edge.  Somehow in the act of growing up we lose the laughter of joy in the simple placing of one foot in front of the other on a hot summer day as we run through the sprinklers on the green grass that is dotted with small white clovers.  Until we are taken down, wrestled to the ground while the sound of our heart breaks out in pain then we remember in a fleeting thought that still won’t be there as the pain gathers strength. 

            We pretend that it is not happening while we sit on the stairs waiting to catch our breath.  We walk down a hallway while working looking for aspirin and joke that, “I am having a heart attack.”  That is when walking becomes important again, putting one foot in front of the other, waving off voices of concern.  We tune out the voices telling us to go see your doctor, do you need to go to the hospital?  Somehow if we concentrate on our shoes, the movement down the hallway and back to our office is easier.    

            The day is over, home on a Friday but to insure that we are still alive, more aspirin until Sunday sees us in the hospital, still alive, despite our foolish heart kicking out in anguish.

            So I asked:

What was your greatest concern?

            “Dying, I attended a lot of funerals when I was a kid.  I can’t think about it.  I am better than I was.  I can’t talk about it anymore or I will have nightmares tonight.”

            Nightmares begin for us when we find out that death is real, the kitten in our hand in the morning is gone from its mother’s side and we weep in the comfort of our mother’s or father’s  arms hating whatever took the kitten away. Because we will really never know, will we?  Faith gives us hope if we are lucky enough to have it. But we will always question what nightmares are waiting for us.

Song of Sorrow Not Yet Come

Song of Sorrow not yet Come

August 9, 2014   

The old black cat walking laboriously

To the food – then back to the sun

With his left back leg dragging more.

I watch him glistening in the sun

And wait to watch his ribs move with his breathing.

He is still here.

I sit, I write

A soft snort comes from the corner where he sleeps

He is still here.

A Blog Hop

Here is something new and exciting.  I was asked by my author friend, Kim Curley, to be included in a blog hop, what is it?  Well, check the questions that Kim responded to on her blog:

Kim Curley

Now, I have to tag two (2) people to join me in this blog hop and answer the same questions.  I have chosen:

Lauren Bailey

Seann Branchfield

Here are my four questions and my four answers.

1)  What are you currently working on?  A series of impressions presented in a blog with the blog being my focus for writing and developing various themes.  I am writing about people I know who are facing difficult situations and it is a way to honor those trials.

2)  How does my work differ from others of its genre?  I don't really know at this point that would be my honest answer.  It would be hard for me to pin a genre on this current work.  Generally , I write poetry which is more about what I see and hear about me.  Also, I enjoy writing fantasy with lots of lovely dragons, magic, strong women characters and strong friendships and a very evil bad individual of some sort.  

3)  Why do I write what I write?  The words keep coming into my mind, various ideas, impressions, poems and essays. I have in the past tried to ignore them particularly at night when I am working on getting to sleep.  Lately, I have been grumbling, turning on the lights and writing.

4)  How does my individual writing process work?  Often I will jot down impressions or descriptions of what I am seeing or hearing for when I am writing poetry.  I do the same for the blog that I am currently writing about people who are experiencing different life experiences.  I ask questions and try to be true to how they are feeling, what they are experiencing and how I feel if it affects me as well.  I have a drawer filled with torn envelopes, half sheets of paper, sticky notes and notebooks filled with partially written ideas, dreams and the hard attitudes of some characters that are waiting to speak.  It seems that in every moment, something else pops into my mind and the writing begins.  

Having said all that please remember to check out the blogs by Kim Curley, Lauren Bailey and Seann Branchfield. 

Random Acts of Kindness

                Do you ever wonder if the weather affects the moods and events of a day?  We watched a thunderstorm east of us rumbling away on a Thursday and well, it just seemed that Friday was a shambles. With the screams and wailing of sirens throughout the day hinting at what might happen, we should have been warned but even as we passed by an accident on the way to the bank at noon we thought nothing about the day.  When I returned to our clinic, the crisis worker had four more calls in addition to the three in the morning.  The ambulances came twice to the clinic.  They came for the crisis in the office and for a non-responsive woman in a car outside our door.  Other than writing out an incident report none of these events were personal except that I had called 911.

    

            It was not until nearly going home that the day got up close, painful and personal.  A young co-worker received the expected call from her doctor regarding her cancer. She needed to have another surgery. She cried, I cried.  After she left, we, her co-workers sat or stood in the quiet office feeling glum. 

                Glum goes a long way.  It hangs in the heart, the mind and the cells of your soul until your breath stops.   I shared this information about yet another surgery while in tears with my husband as we sat in our car preparing to drive home, he was silent and placed his hand on my leg letting me know that he was there and shared my grief. 

                It is surprising how quickly my tears dried and my thoughts traveled to other things as we drove home but I remained glum. I made my tea, sat down to watch more glum things on the television nightly news until I saw my husband coming out of the bathroom with a pan of water.  He motioned me to the recliner as he walked across the room. After setting the pan with suds down on the floor, he gently removed my shoes and socks placing both of my feet in the comforting warm water.  He took each foot cradling it in his hands, placing the foot to soak in the basin. A gentle massage followed for each of my feet while in the warm water.  Without saying a word, he returned to the bathroom where I could hear water running and stopping.  My eyes opened at his footsteps as he returned to me.  Carefully, he removed a foot and rinsed it off carefully with a washrag until he was satisfied.  Placing my foot on the towel next to the pan of water, he turned a part of the towel to cover my foot.  He returned to the bathroom where I heard the water running, being turned off. The second foot was rinsed off and placed by the other.

                With this simple random act of kindness, my heart’s pain lifted as my mind filled up with the joy and love of this simple act.  When I shared this story with a friend the next day at the Farmers’ Market, she remarked that “now I have a nice memory.”  

                I have held onto this memory since then, letting it take the place of the other thoughts of my little friend and what she has to face.  Sometimes, good memories are all we have to hang on to.

               

Cancer and walking through the days

             

               There is little doubt in my mind that I would not care to walk in someone else’s shoes.  Some shoes are too tight, therefore not for me.  I don’t care to have bunions, thank you very much.  Too high, at my age everything is too high as I sometimes struggle with my sense of balance which seems at times to have gone on vacation.   After her latest injury, my cousin posted on Facebook that she felt that she should never leave the house without a helmet and bubble wrap.  I think that sometimes we all feel as though we should live in a bubble complete with lots of  bubble wrap. It would keep us from sharing what happens around us so that someone's shoes don't become ours.

                Take the young mother with a brand new baby and a young child. She was diagnosed with cervical cancer. She stated one day that she was tired of being strong all the time but that she was also tired of crying as well.

Act I. Scene I:

They almost lost her on a Monday morning after surgery number one with four liters of life leaving her veins before she was taken into surgery again to stop the flow of her life drifting out.

After in a conversation to me, she said.”I thought I was going to die.” 

Act II, Scene I:

She joked about not having to shave her legs if she has chemo as we were talking about why she was wearing dresses every day to work.  It hurts too much for her to wear anything else due to her incision.  Her laugh was short, “Of course, all of my hair will fall out as well.” There was a moment of silence broken by the showing of my hairless legs due to my genetics. I don’t shave I pluck the seven or so hairs yearly. I wish I could say the same about my chin.

                Shoes can hide a lot of faults under the pretty, the comfortable, the cheap or expensive but they can’t hide a broken heart when you find out that the demon is still there.  So what remains? There is hope, prayers and dreams of a future.  It is all I have left for this friend who has captured our hearts while we weep with her cradling our hope, sharing our love.