Popcorn and jellybeans

Popcorn and jellybeans

Originally published on November 6, 2014

One of the most lovely and haunting sights at the park this season is the bittersweet bursting with oranges, reds, and yellows as it finally has the opportunity to show off a little.  Autumnal weather has withered my garden and with it, my chores have changed.  No longer needing to weed and water, I've been pruning and purging and raking for the past several weeks. 

This season, I saved the biggest job for last, or rather, I waited for the bitter north winds to do half of the job for me, transforming the wild trumpet vine that grows along the backyard fence from a lush and vibrant privacy hedge into spindly twigs and woody stems.

Last year I was incredibly busy, so my neighbor, Dean, was kind enough to do the honors of taking the vine down to the studs.  This year, I repaid his kindness and did the job myself.  After two and a half days, the work is finally done, and I've said a sad good-night to my gardens which are ready to sleep the winter away until next spring.

Still, November has its charms as my favorite holiday is just around the corner.

At the grocery this past Friday I happened past an older woman who was perusing the Christmas displays.  "I'm all for getting my shopping done early," I admitted.  "But I sure do wish there was more attention paid to Thanksgiving."

"I do, too," the woman nodded.  "It seems like it's just getting swept more under the rug each year.  Too bad our culture can't take even one day to be truly thankful."

"I couldn't agree more," I smiled.

The woman patted my hand.  "It's good to see young people with that attitude," she said.  "It seems everyone nowadays is only interested in buying more of this or that instead of taking time to just enjoy what they already have."

The United States was the first country in the world to establish a national holiday to give thanks.  But it seems our country's great expectations for Thanksgiving have shifted from "Where's the turkey, stuffing, and yams?" to "How many stores are going to be opening early so I can get Black Friday deals that much earlier?"

Over the weekend I watched A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.  Curled up in bed with the electric blanket toasting my toes and a mug of hot tea on the bedside table, I had much to be thankful for already.  Yoga classes are going well.  The novel I started this fall is beginning to take shape.  My health is good.  I have a warm and comfortable home.  I'm content with who and where I am in life, so in watching this show from my past (I was only seven when it was first broadcast on CBS), it was effortless to see it from a different perspective and still enjoy the whimsical story of Charlie Brown sharing an unusual holiday dinner with his friends.              

Then and now, it's great fun to watch Snoopy commandeer the kitchen, joyfully toasting up bread and enthusiastically popping a mountain of popcorn.  When he proudly serves the non-traditional meal to a bewildered Peppermint Patty, I feel for him when she bitterly complains, "Look at this! Is this what you call a Thanksgiving day dinner?"

Of course, the message of the show is to be thankful for friends and for what we already have.  To know that our expectations of what a holiday is "supposed to look like" can't truly be met, particularly if we put no effort into the process.  And perhaps most importantly, to understand that while Norman Rockwell might have meant well, I doubt that even his family had the type of fictional holiday experiences he often painted on canvas. 

Like the wild and gnarly trumpet vine that needs a thorough pruning every autumn, my expectations of who I am and what I should be doing this time of year have had to be taken down to the studs...again and again and again.  There have been those who don't understand my choices.  Those who pity me or project how they might feel if they had to face the holiday season alone.  But I don't know any different, and over the years, I've redefined what this time of year means to me.

Last week, one of my friends asked, "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

I smiled.  "Well, I'll probably take a walk at the park and then sit in silence for a while.  I may write in my journal or do a little yoga.  Usually I think about the year gone by...and all of the things that have happened and not happened.  All of the things I have to be thankful for -- mostly the things you can't really see with your eyes."

"That's really what the day's all about, isn't it?" my friend said kindheartedly.

I don't eat a traditional Thanksgiving meal anyway...and haven't for years, so when friends invite me to their homes for dinner, I gently decline, saying I'm perfectly content to be alone.  However, I do remember a Thanksgiving meal I shared with my friend, Sandy, in the late nineties.  Colleagues at Greenwood, we had just finished the very long and tedious process of putting together the annual First Grade Feast.  The celebration went off without a hitch on Wednesday and we decided to spend a quiet day on Thanksgiving sipping tea and talking about anything but schoolwork.  Sitting in Sandy's kitchen, we watched the sunset through the darkening window.

"Do you want anything for dinner?" she asked.

The year before I had made a pot of vegetarian chili and this time it was her turn to cook, although we had been having so much fun doing nothing, the day slipped by.

"Sure...but don't bother to make anything," I said, grabbing my coat.  "Let's head over to Food Town and see what they've got left."

Fifteen minutes later we were back in her home.  Sandy enjoyed a warm and wonderful meal of turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing.  And what did I have?  A very memorable meal of baby carrots, hummus, and a little bag of chocolate-covered almonds.  It was the best Thanksgiving Feast imaginable.  At least for me.

"Spending time with good friends...and sharing a quiet day," I said, smiling at Sandy.  "This is what Thanksgiving is all about."

Sandy's since moved away, but sometimes my friend, Barb, comes over for Thanksgiving breakfast.  I'm not sure what I made the last time around, but while I'm writing this blog, a loaf of gluten-free banana bread is baking in the oven -- a test run for the big day in a couple of weeks.  I'm trying out a new brand of flour and pray the bread turns out a lot better than the hard-as-shoe-leather cookies I made a month ago that my friend ended up feeding to her dogs.  

But even if it's not perfect, I'm sure Barb won't mind.

I look forward to decorating the table with simple place settings.  Brewing a pot of tea.  Creating a light, delicious breakfast for a friend who has been a great support this past year.  We may not be sitting at a ping-pong table enjoying a plate of popcorn and jellybeans, but the sentiment will be the same.  For as Marcie said to Charlie Brown, "We should just be thankful for being together. I think that's what they mean by Thanksgiving."

So this year, I'm thankful for Dean who took the time last November to do an incredibly difficult job that made this year's fall clean-up that much easier.  I'm thankful for yoga students who grace my own house with love and light.  For my health and my pets and work that allows me to heal and become more whole.  For all the quiet, unseen aspects of my life that I no longer take for granted.

Mostly I'm thankful for my friends.  Near and far, they're all a part of my wonderfully eclectic extended family. 

Persephone

Persephone

Originally published on October 16, 2014

I love Autumn. 

Everything about it is enticing:  the brightly colored leaves, the crisp and cool air, the beautiful fall flowers that bloom in my garden.  I enjoy wearing a comfy sweater while hiking at the park and I'll often pull on a pair of handwarmers to hang around on the sun porch as the days I'll be able to enjoy it rapidly dwindle.  This is the time of year I bake cookies and apple dumplings and quick breads of all kinds.  My cats cuddle more and rekindle their friendships as they stroll around the house looking for a warm sunbeam.

Yes, there's much to revel in this time of year, but this time around, I find myself a bit melancholy.  Like many Midwesterners I know, I'm experiencing a bit of PTSD related to last winter's howling winds, sub-zero temperatures, and a record-breaking eighty-five inches of snow.  Yes, I love autumn, but this year...for the first time in my life...I'm not looking forward to what will follow.

This past spring, it took a long time before I put my snow boots and mittens and shovel away, before I knew for certain it was safe to really believe warmer weather was here to stay.  For weeks I worked in my garden, remembering daily the endless hours of shoveling, the kindness of neighbors who helped me dig the ice and drifts from my downspouts, and the horrifying nights I sat up worrying about my furnace when the temperatures dipped to -17 degrees. 

Finally, around Flag Day, I began to enjoy what has been a lovely, if not cooler-than-normal summer.  But I'll take that.  It's been a joy to create a darling fairy garden near my front porch.  To sit in the back yard and swing to my heart's content while I read books and research a new novel.  To ride my bike here, there, and everywhere around town.  But now, it doesn't seem like it was nearly long enough, and I long to stave off what's coming next, if only for another month or so.

When I was in eighth grade, my Language Arts teacher introduced me to the Iliad and the Odyssey, two books that opened my eyes to the cycles of life, death, war, peace, and everything in-between.  Mrs. Peterson graciously spent many a lunch hour in her classroom with me, eagerly answering my questions about the plot, the plethora of gods and goddesses and their roles and lessons in our modern life.

My favorite was the story of Persephone, the goddess often called "Kore" in her youth, who was stolen by Hades one afternoon as she frolicked in the flowers while her mother, Demeter, stood by helpless to save her.  Hades took Persephone as his intended wife to his land in the Underworld and Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, left her responsibilities to the earth behind while she frantically searched for her daughter.  Preoccupied with her grief, Demeter left the land to desiccate and die.

In the meantime, although Persephone was horrified to be separated from her mother, she eventually grew accustomed to her marriage and to the Underworld, finding that she was a benevolent greeter of those who entered death and darkness at the end of their lives.  Eventually her father sent a messenger to Hades and demanded the release of Persephone, and Hades agreed, but with a price to be paid.  Before setting his wife free, he gave her some pomegranate seeds to eat which magically bound Persephone to the Underworld for a portion of the year.  So Persephone returned to her mother who in turn rejoiced and the earth awakened and flourished.  Then six months later, when Demeter had to relinquish her daughter to fate, the harvest withered and winter came once again.

Persephone's story represents the cycle of birth and death and the ability to embrace and celebrate them both.  Each year, I'm reminded of the mystery of the little deaths in my own garden -- the wilting leaves, the yellowing stalks, the energy of the plants returning to the earth, to the underworld where their roots remain steadfast and strong.

And I know that some of the deepest transformations, the most powerful growth comes from what lies beneath the surface...beyond what our eyes can see or our hands can measure. 

A couple of weeks ago, a friend and neighbor gave me an exquisite clay flower pot in the shape of a Greek woman's head.  She's a delicate reminder of Persephone, who, in the summer will hang on my house near the side door I use the most, and in the winter will rest on a shelf in my basement near the treadmill where I will run to keep warm during the long, dark winter months.

Seeing her calmly waiting for spring will remind me that all things will change eventually.  The snow, the ice, the bitter winds.  My fear of death in any sense of the word.  The loneliness that can creep in when I struggle with cabin fever. 

In the end, all things must pass.

In the midst of winter, each day will be what it is meant to be, just as each day in the springtime and summer is destined for its own joy and beauty.  I can embrace both life and death, knowing that as the seasons change and bring new growth, so too does my own quiet life in the Heartland.

First memory

First Memory

from Open Road:  a life worth waiting for 

           

This is my first memory. 

It's the summer of my fourth year.  A huge truck rumbles in the driveway while I sit on the front lawn eating Oreos, twisting them apart and scraping my teeth along the white icing.  I watch my parents direct the movers who carry furniture and boxes into the truck.  Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, our next door neighbors, are nearby, watching over my sisters and me.   I'm vigilant as I observe the countless boxes that contain all of our things, wondering, "What does it mean to move away?"

It's not until we say our good-byes and I climb into my mother's car that I begin to understand.  We are leaving our little house on Richland Street in Maumee, Ohio -- forever.

"Say 'bye-bye' to the house, Katie," Mom chimes. 

I look over my shoulder and squint at its rapidly retreating silhouette.  "How come?"

"We won't live there anymore."

"Why?"

"Because we're moving to Virginia for Daddy's work."

"Why?"

"Because that's where he needs to be."

"Where's all our stuff?"

"In the van...I told you."

That night we stay in a motel and moments after being tucked into bed, the movers knock softly on our door so they can wish my sisters and me a good night.  They are kind and friendly.  I'm glad they will protect all of my toys, books, and dolls which are right there in the parking lot, tucked away in boxes we will soon open in our new house.

 Wherever we will live next, I feel more secure knowing that all of my safety nets are coming with me.

Transitions have been a part of my life since I was young.  It seems I was destined for perpetual movement since I was born in the heart of the Year of the Fire Horse.   September 9, 1966.  If my birth date is inverted, it's still the same: 9-9-66.  Either way, I'm destined to be a free spirit, uninhibited by the mores of society, by the constraints of that which my culture believes to be normal or desirable.  Like many Fire Horses, I'm independent, hardworking, and fierce enough to bounce back from all types of adversity.          

I can also be incredibly reclusive and often sensitive to over-stimulating environments, desperately needing to escape the deafening echo of senseless noise.  Having lived alone for more than twenty-five years, I know how to keep my own counsel -- particularly when surrounded by the safety nets of my books, gardens, and a variety of creative projects. 

Mine was once a life of contradictory energies, a consistent push and pull of simultaneously wanting two incongruous things, all the while recognizing that, in the end, neither is completely satisfying.  In midlife, I've come to understand the incredible power in finding the reality that is somewhere in-between.

I came to it naturally as I was born into a generation caught between the conflicting mores of the fifties and the revolution of the women's movement.  No wonder I sometimes find myself longing to have it both ways...the proverbial "having my cake and eating it, too."  Only this time, after decades of self-discovery, I now intentionally long for the decadence of a homemade vegan chocolate soufflé instead of a boxed Betty Crocker mix. 

I've learned that quality transcends quantity...every time.

My mother loved to tell a story about my sister's kindergarten woes.  An older boy waited for her at the bus stop and teased her mercilessly.  Sometimes she would come home crying; on other days, Patricia refused to ride the bus to school.  I gave her suggestions about how to get him to stop, but with no success.  One day, I asked Mom if I could go with Patricia to the bus stop and show her how to take care of the problem. 

"Don't worry, Mommy," I said.  "I'll make him stop."

When I came back home, I told my mother that the boy would never bother Patricia again. 

"What happened?" she asked.  "What did you do?"

"I told him to stop teasing my sister," I said bluntly.  "Then I kicked him in the shins."

Sure enough, from then on, Patricia could ride the bus, free from the taunts of the little boy who must have been terrified I would do worse than kick him if he ever dared to bother my sister again. 

Yes, I was sassy and I was naughty.  But I was also in need of the assertive protection I provided for my older sister.  Ironically enough, as the years went by, it was Patricia who would taunt and tease me.  And when kicking her in the shins merely earned me a spanking, I used other ways of protecting myself.

I became a master at disappearing.

Even now I love the shielding harbor of my home.  The silence of my yoga studio.  The peacefulness of an early morning spent in the garden.  When I am alone I am safe.  Safe to be all that I am...all that I've unearthed...all that still needs tilling. 

I can be more than a Fire Horse. 

More than my mother's strong-willed daughter. 

More than what this world can see.

I can be free.

Circa 1971, in the kitchen of the Richland Street house.

  

My mother's hands

I turned fifty-two a couple of weeks ago.  Like so many of my friends, I mentally feel like I'm still in my mid-thirties, but experientially, especially the past few years, my body is showing signs of aging.  My hair is streaked with more strands of white.  The lines on my face are deeper.  The weather is starting to forecast itself via old injuries.  And my hands are rapidly changing.

I've been a gardener for more than a quarter century, a knitter even longer than that.  I've spent tens of thousands of hours at the keyboard, first a typewriter, then a computer.  Now all that work is showing up as mild to moderate arthritis, especially in my right hand.  Long ago, I sat at my mother's side, massaging her sore knuckles and wrists, thinking about all the things she herself had knitted.  All the clothes she had made.  The meals she had cooked.  The flower beds she had weeded.  And I recall thinking that if I took good care of my body, if I ate well and practiced yoga, if I meditated and motivated myself to keep moving, I could avoid aging.

Now that mindset seems hilarious, if not incredibly naive.  

Five years ago I wrote an essay about my hands and included it a memoir which is no longer in print.  A nine year estrangement with my mother has ended, my life has been transformed, and I am seeing the whole of it more clearly.  Still, my hands are, now more than ever, another version of my mother's.  And that reality is still a blessing.

"My Mother’s Hands"

from Open Road: a life worth waiting for

My mother and I sit on the loveseat, watching television on a rainy Saturday afternoon.   “Wild Kingdom” is on and I love this show.  I love animals.  More than that, I love that I have nothing to do but sit with Mom…just her and me.  My sisters are running errands with Dad.  They need new shoes.  I don’t.  So I get to rest with Mom and watch a lioness give her little cubs a bath while they laze by the Tanzania River.

I’m seven now.  Too old to be held on her lap, so I lean against her side and feel her breath move with mine.  We breathe in together.  We breathe out together.

A commercial break comes on and Mom takes a deeper breath, then sighs.  I’m surprised…then astonished.  In a split second, my mother separates her breath from mine as if she’s untying my shoes.  The laces of our breathing patterns are undone.  Suddenly I realize that what I’ve always believed to be true is false.

My mother and I don't breathe at the same time.  

I thought that since I once lived inside of her, we would always inhale together…exhale together.  But we don't.  And we never did.  Not really.

I try to catch the rhythm of Mom’s breath…to match mine with hers, but I can’t.  I am now separate from her – completely.  And that scares me.  I don’t want to be separate.  I don’t want to breathe on my own.  I want to stay connected to my mother for the rest of my life. 

But, of course, I know I can’t.

Years later I’m working in the gardens at Esalen.  My hands sift the chickweed and thistle, freeing the chard from those invaders that will choke the life out of them.  I’ve lived in Big Sur for nearly a year and I’ve come to love the garden as if it were my own.  Instead of jeans and t-shirts, I often wear jumpers and flowing dresses to work.  I paint my fingernails.  I wear a bit of make-up and some pretty earrings.

Ken walks by and tells me it’s almost time for group process.  “I’ll gather the work-scholars,” he says.

I finish the bed I’m working, then carry the weed bin to the compost pile behind the rose garden.  Jhoti frolics at my heels, batting at the hem of my dress.  I bend down and scoop her up, rubbing my face against hers.  An image tumbles through my memory and I see a photograph of my mother holding her tiger cat, Andy, in front of the house where she grew up.  I see her smiling face.  Her impeccable manicure.  Her quaint hairstyle.  Her stylish sweater set.  

I wonder what she’s doing right now.  Is she out watering her own garden?  Is she having a cup of coffee and doing the crossword puzzle?  Is she chatting on the phone with my sister?  

As I head toward the sprout house, I see Ken in the distance talking to Margie and Eva.  Margie laughs out loud and I think of my mother’s laughter.  I think of her witty sense of humor.  Washing my hands at the sink, I marvel at the crevices in my skin that never quite seem to come clean.  The way the soil has imbedded itself into my fingerprints and stays there, no matter how long I soak in the baths.  The memory of my mother’s laughter is the same…embedded forever in my heart.

During check-in I study my hands while the rest of the garden crew talks about their day.  How they’re feeling.  What they want to work on in group process.  I listen to Carl talk about his plans to move north and start a farm of his own.  Then Margie talks about her twin daughters and how excited she is that they will soon visit Esalen.  

Next it’s my turn and I softly say, “I’m noticing that my hands look just like my mother’s.  My fingernails, my knuckles, the way my little fingers are slightly crooked…even the veins on the back of my hands…they’re hers.  I’m noticing that the older I am, the more I see her in me.  And I miss her.”

Now I sit here, watching my hands on the keyboard as they write these words.  Watching as the images form in my imagination, then drift to my fingertips and onto the screen in front of me.  I see my mother’s hands writing these sentences…writing these stories.            

But are they truly hers?  Or are they mine?

My mother and I are very much alike.  She’s taught me lessons I will never forget…lessons about love and mercy, betrayal and forgiveness.  Lessons that have taken me far from where I came.  Lessons that will move me well beyond where I am now.

And yet, we are also different.

As I make my way into the second half of my life, it’s my turn to undo the laces of my past.  Now I often walk barefoot into the joy my life has become these past few years.  My hands are unshackled from my fear and trepidation, ready to touch the world with whatever grace can be channeled though me.  

When I was in first grade, my mother taught me how to type letters on her old grey Olympia.  When I was seven, she taught me how to knit mittens with a simple gusset.  At eight, she taught me how to meticulously weed her garden.  When I was thirteen, Mom taught me how to apply mascara and lipstick.

All my life I have watched her hands cook meals, sign permission slips, do the crossword, and make the beds.  They held books and dolls and packages at Christmastime.  Throughout the seasons, they shoveled snow and planted flowers and raked leaves.  Mom’s hands rolled out cookie dough, then rolled my hair up in curlers.  They ironed our clothes and mended the holes in the knees of my jeans.  They angrily spanked me when I misbehaved, but also gently rubbed my back when I was anxious or sleepy. 

My memory is steeped in my mother’s hands.  More than her face.  More than her voice.  More than the things she’s told me.  More than the things she’s left unsaid.  I’m certain it’s one of the reasons I notice a person’s eyes first…and their hands second.  

When I was little, I loved to trace Mom’s brightly lacquered fingernails with the pad of my thumb.  As I constantly chewed my nails and cuticles until they were bloody, I figured my fingers would never look like Mom’s with their delicate curves, their shiny tips.  I marveled at the ease with which she painted them a different color every week.  Her collection of nail polish was amazing.  Fuchsia pinks and rose reds.  Purpley plums and soft tans.  

Clear polish (that I thought looked like spit when applied) was the only choice Mom gave me until I was in junior high.  But there was an episode when I was in third grade when I swiped a soft pink bottle from her stash and took it to school.  It was a rainy day, so I sat at my desk during indoor recess and sloppily polished my half-bitten nails.   The results were messy, but foreshadowed what my hands might look like if I took better care of them.

When I got home, I dashed to the bathroom and quickly removed the polish, leaving a residue of color around my cuticles.  Slipping the bottle back into my mother’s drawer, I thought I was so slick.  Then she saw my nails at the dinner table and chided me for blatantly disobeying her.  I learned the hard way how nail polish remover stings when it comes into contact with chewed-open skin.  Much like my mother’s spankings would sting whenever I defied her.

 Years later, I was able to grow my own set of lovely nails and polished them regularly.  French Tip was my favorite, although it took forever to accomplish.  Still, every Saturday afternoon, I would give myself a manicure and look in wonder at the beauty of my hands.  At that time, it was rare that I would think of any part of my body as beautiful.  But this was before yoga or Esalen.  Before all the real work I was about to embark upon in my quest for healing.

 In the early nineties when I taught first grade, my workaholism was full blown.  Arriving at school around seven-thirty, I worked most days until nearly 5:00.  I took papers home every evening and spent most of my Sunday nights planning lessons or preparing materials for the week ahead.  Since I was constantly shuffling paper and school supplies, my hands took a real beating.  My skin soon became chapped and bloody, as I was also constantly washing them to avoid getting sick.

On a cold winter day, one of my students' mothers visited the classroom with a small bag.  “This is for you, Miss Ingersoll,” Mrs. Ellis said to me.  “I noticed how sad your hands look…and I thought you might want to use this.”

Inside the bag was a jar of super-emollient hand cream.

Mrs. Ellis nodded to her son.  “Can you remind Miss Ingersoll if she forgets to put it on?”

Jonathon nodded.  

I smiled at both of them.  “Thank you so much,” I said, giving Mrs. Ellis a hug.  “I know I need to take better care of my hands.”

And so it was that every morning and every afternoon when recess was over, Jonathon or one of the other students would remind me, “Miss I…use your hand lotion!”

I did and soon my hands were healed.  It was a memorable seed, a first step in being mindful of my own self-care that would one day bloom into a life-changing path of yoga, Rolfing, and massage.  

To this day, I still take good care of my hands, for they are the vehicles through which I create my novels.  They knit toys for my friends' children.  They tend my magical gardens.  My hands demonstrate yoga poses for my students and gently assist them when needed.  They provide steadiness as I ride my bike all over the city.  They turn pages in books and gently stroke whichever cat is purring on my lap while I read.  My hands cradle the faces of the children I love and applaud for them when I’m present at a recital or a ball game.   

Now my hands are ready to gently harvest the seeds of all that has bloomed in the wake of the trials and misfortunes I have endured.  Ready to glean that which can be planted in the future to yield even more awakening and abundance.

They are a catalyst for all that is yet to be seen...

A channel for the mysteries of my life unfolding. 

Lady Lazarus

Trama creates change you don't choose.

Healing creates change you do choose.

Michele Rosenthal

Twenty-seven years ago I moved into my home in west Toledo.  Labor Day weekend was a flurry of cleaning, unpacking, hanging pictures, and settling into a little A-frame I could finally call my own.  There were years when I was the only person who crossed the threshold.  Years when friends stopped by week after week.  Since 1999, a host of yoga students have retreated to the studio upstairs into what my friend, Barb, calls “the womb room” to find a moment’s peace in the midst of their very busy lives.  And for the past twelve months, I’ve mostly been a homebody, cocooning after an unexpected illness.

Since May I’ve been doing much better.  My energy is more consistent, and it’s not as challenging to think about plans for the future because I’m  healthy enough to follow through.  Still, for the past week, I've been weepy and tired, reliving moments from a year ago with such clarity it disturbs me, and I've had trouble sleeping or thinking clearly.

The reason didn’t really dawn on me until a few days ago when Steve and I were talking about our plans for the holiday weekend.  “What did we do last Labor Day?” I asked him.  Then I remembered.  “Oh yeah…I nearly died of sepsis.”

Back then, I thought that since I was healthy before I got sick, I’d be well in a few weeks.  But that didn’t happen.  I thought that after a follow-up outpatient surgery in October, I’d bounce back quickly.  That didn’t happen either.  What did set in was a lingering depression that surfaced whenever I was too tired to do anything but get up for an hour only to lie down on the couch and watch TV for the rest of the day.  On one particularly dark Sunday, I cried to Steve, “I should have died when I was in the hospital.  There’s nothing in my life to look forward to.  Nothing I do matters because nothing ever changes.”  

Steve supported me through that horrible moment, and several more, but there were many times I didn’t tell anyone how miserable I was.  How exhausted I felt.  How overwhelmed I was with the time it took to heal.  During the long winter, I holed up in the house and slept.  Read books.  Watched old movies.  Tried to meditate.  In February, when I finally accepted the fact that my healing journey would take as long as it needed to take, I realized that it was a blessing that nothing I had wanted to create had come to pass.  I didn’t have the time or energy to start a new job.  I didn’t have the money to make plans to move.  And I didn’t have the ability or desire to write anything.  All I could do was take things moment by moment, and over time, with patience and persistence, I got better.  

For the most part.

Anniversaries aren’t only about remembering special dates and celebrations.  We all have traumatic experiences which can get triggered by the change of seasons.  By a scent or a sound.  By a conversation or a coincidence.   Healing takes time and it’s often at the one year mark that a sea of emotions can rise up, startling us with its intensity.

Lately I’ve been viscerally reminded of my time in the emergency room by watching reruns of “E.R.”.  The other day Steve’s daughter was cutting  my grass and I remembered the trees outside my window on the sixth floor of the hospital and how magically the early autumn light shimmered on their leaves.  Last week I was talking to a friend who is the executor of my will and thought about one of the ICU nurses who asked if I wanted her to come to the hospital when the doctors weren’t sure I would survive the next twenty-four hours.   Memories come flooding back when I least expect them:  the way the oxygen tubes felt in my nose, the taste of lemon ice, the kindness of a nurse who removed my central line and the empathy of another one who removed the large bore IV’s in my arms that were painful beyond measure.  

What I mostly experienced over Labor Day weekend was the helplessness and unresolved despair I had buried last September in order to get well.   A year later it resurrected itself and wouldn’t be ignored.  This time, I willingly embraced the fear and sadness along with the gratitude I also felt for the E.R. doctor who diagnosed me.  The surgeon who saved my life.  The countless nurses who cared for me.  Steve's love and my friends' support which has buoyed me more than I can say.   

       Through my grief, through my tears, I continue healing.

   Just as a caterpillar reshapes itself into a butterfly without being witnessed, my transformation from near-death to new life has taken place within the peaceful solitude of my home.   This year, Labor Day weekend was a time to celebrate the journey of the young woman I was all those years ago who eagerly embraced her independence and the wiser woman I’m becoming who is finally ready to leave her chrysalis and embark on new adventures.

Click here for more information about healing through trauma anniversaries.

Man of the house

Nine years ago I adopted a wee little kitten and named him Forest.  He was the first male cat I had the pleasure of nurturing into adulthood and for nearly a decade, he was the sweetest companion, not only for me, but for a host of yoga students.  For the past two years, he's been in good company with my significant other, Steve.  With another man around the house, Forest's rascally boy emerged and he was often heard "roaring" with a toy mouse in tow.  Whenever Steve came over, Forest showed off by using the scratching post, chasing his sisters, and proudly perching on the back porch, eagerly keeping an eye on the back yard.

Three weeks ago we discovered Forest had advanced kidney disease.  Just last week, Steve and I made the difficult decision to say good-bye.  Of all the little ones I've let go of over the years, being with Forest at the end was particularly heartbreaking.  Perhaps it's because he was my only boy.  Or maybe because he meant so much to so many people.  Mostly, it's because for nine years, he was a consistently loving, incredibly peaceful presence in my home.

In 2015 I wrote this blog from Forest's point of view and thought I'd republish it this week....for everyone who loved my sweet boy as much as I did.  

Man of the house

Originally published on January 8, 2015

My mom has been really busy with all kinds of stuff today, so she asked me if I wanted to write her blog.  I figure if Aditi and Jhoti can post on Open Road, I can, too.  Plus I've perched on the desk and watched Mom use the computer enough to know what's what.  She said she'd come in later to proofread my work, but I think I'll be alright on my own.  After all, I'm the man of the house and should be able to handle this just fine.

It's not that I'm all that macho.  I was the runt of my litter and almost didn't make it a couple of times.  I've been hospitalized on a few occasions, and  my mom nearly went nuts the last time when I got sick from grooming Aditi before she was fully wormed.  Mom needn't have worried.  I recuperated quickly enough.  During the night I even figured out how to unlock my cage at the vet's, pull out my IV, and escape from the exam room so I could go exploring.  I had had enough of that sitting around business and knew there were better things to do with my time. 

Like bird watching.  

And (plastic) snake charming.  

And playing with my sisters. 

          

When I was a kitten, my littermates took good care of me.  They nudged me to the bottom of the scrum pile so I could stay warm while we napped near our mama's belly.  My sisters knew I tired easily and didn't jump on me when I sat down to watch them frolic and play.  And my brother often joined me, grooming my ears for good measure.  After my human mom adopted me, I soon learned I was the smallest kid in her trio of cats.  Jhoti and I bonded quickly, but I'm still working on Sophia...and it's been over five years, so you'd think she'd get a grip and realize I'm not going anywhere. 

I've been spoiled rotten, let me tell you, but I hear I'm also a cute little booger, so it all evens out in the end.  When I was a baby, Mom carried me inside her sweatshirt wrapped in fleece to keep me warm and gave me extra treats to help me gain weight.  As I grew, she nurtured my love of birds by hanging a suet cage outside the window near a sunny spot where I like to snooze.  Along with my Aunt Doris and a few other folks, my mom has bought me enough toy mice and snakes to last more than nine lifetimes.

But I'm not a Mama's Boy. 

Like I said, I'm the man of the house.

I didn't really understand what that meant until my kid sister, Aditi, came along.  She's a tough little squirt all right, and when Mom squirts her with the water gun when she's being bad, Aditi holds her ground.  I even saw her slap Mom once...or twice.  Well, okay, nearly every time. 

As the man of the house I've tried to set a good example.  I use good manners when I eat my meals and use the litterbox like a gentleman.  Grooming is one of my favorite hobbies and I keep myself neat and clean.  (Mom even calls me Dapper Dan, except my name is Forest, so I don't know who she's talking about.)  Best of all, if it's nighttime and I want to sleep on Mom's bed (she has a thing called an electric blanket, but I call it Paradise), I very gently jump up, slowly and carefully making my way to a cozy spot so I don't wake her...unlike two other black cats I know who don't give a hoot and step on Mom's head, her hair, even her face! 

I'm rewarded with lots of love.  With catnip and paper grocery bags.  With lots of kisses and chin rubs.  But that's not why I do all of those things.  It's in my nature to be a good boy.  Mom says I'm her pride and joy.  And why not?

I'm the man of the house.

         

But you know, I've been watching Mom a lot these days.  She has a lot of papers on her desk and I heard her say there's a lot to do running her yoga business and writing books and marketing them (whatever that means...I thought the market was where she got our food) and paying bills and making sure the house is in order.  She cuts the grass in the summer and takes the trash out year 'round.  I wish I could scoop our litterbox myself because that's a job no one likes...man or woman.

Mom does all of the work around here, but if she doesn't, who will?  I'd like to help, but I'm hobbled by being a quadruped.  I can't reach the sink to wash dishes.  I can't make business calls or drive a car.  I'd like to go to work and help earn my keep, but I figure keeping Aditi out of trouble most of the day is a full-time job.  At night I bring Mom my toy snakes and mice.  I drop them in her slippers, hoping she'll know how much I love her.  How much I appreciate living in this peaceful place full of windows and warm beds and wonderful women who come in for yoga classes. 

Maybe being the man of the house isn't what I've heard it's supposed to be.  Maybe being the only boy doesn't mean I have to be tough and courageous.  That's it's okay to run away from the sweeper and get startled every time the doorbell rings.  I don't have to be strong and steady when Mom's sad or not feeling well.  I can curl up on her shoulder and purr in her ear...and maybe even feel a little low myself just because she's feeling blue. 

Mom says she loves me just as I am, even though I'm not a big Tom cat or a Bossy Boots.  I'm not rough and rugged and ready to rumble.  She says that if she marries a man who's half as sweet as me, she'll be the luckiest woman in the world.  I guess it's a good thing I know how lucky I am to live with a bunch of lively ladies.

That's man enough for me...and for my sweet Mama, too.

Forest is man enough to chill on his sister's blanket.  

Call me crazy

Originally published in June, 2013

"The greatness of a nation and its moral progress

can be judged by the way its animals are treated. "

Ghandi

I am not a crazy cat lady, but I am crazy about my cats.  That said, with the exception of some very tasteful paintings in my office and a darling cross-stitch picture my mother made for me many Christmases ago, you won't find cat kitsch in my house.  I'm not that kind of cat lover.

Surprisingly, when I was a kid, I was terrified of them.  Growing up with Schnauzers there wasn't room for a furry feline in our house.  Once when I was ten, I wore a woolen skirt to a birthday party of a neighbor girl.  Sitting in the living room, I arched my own back as the family cat casually walked across my lap.  Hands on my shoulders, I refused to touch it and demanded my mother wash the skirt before I would wear it again.

"It's wool, Kate," she said, shaking her head.  "It needs to be dry cleaned and it's not dirty."

"It is," I insisted.

            "It is not," she replied.

            Mom won.  The skirt did not go to the cleaner's. 

            And yet, I won too, as it hung abandoned in my closet.  I never wore it again.

            It's still amazing to me that, thirty-odd years later, I'm like Snow White, but in place of the seven dwarves, I've had seven cats...but not all at the same time.  I recently adopted ten week old Aditi.  My little sprite has a lot of spunk and loves to play with Forest, her older cat sibling.  Aditi's boundless energy is amazing as she darts through the house, chasing toys and getting in mischief.  Forest has quickly become her surrogate father, protector, playmate and all around "go to guy."  There's no sleeping through the night with her nocturnal naughtiness.  Still, this will only last a few more months and we'll all settle into a "new normal." 

But last week was anything but normal.

            Forest caught something from our new little one and by Thursday was so sick, he had to be hospitalized.  Kady Flowers and the techs at Spring Meadows Animal Hospital were incredibly kind and careful as Forest had his blood tested, X-rays completed, and prepared for an overnight stay.  They couldn't get a reading on one of the tests and Kady thought he might have swallowed a toy or piece of string, but his illness felt all too familiar.

            When Forest was a baby, I had been a foster volunteer for abandoned kittens who passed around a parasitic virus that he eventually caught.  At only three months old, he had to be hospitalized and on IV fluids.  The vets couldn't decide if it was an infection or if he needed exploratory surgery.  I agonized over the decision to have them operate.  Not only would the expense be immense, I didn't want him to have an unnecessary procedure.

            Less than a week previous, I had to make the difficult choice to have Carley, my red tabby, euthanized due to kidney failure.  As the vet gave her the injection, I held her in my arms and thought about the other two cats I had been with at the time of their deaths.  I've learned it doesn't get easier...it just gets more familiar.

            I wasn't ready to let go of little Forest as well, so I gave the emergency vet the go ahead to do the surgery so I could be sure we did everything possible for him. 

            "He's schedule to go at 10:30," the vet told me.  "I'll call you when we're done and let you know how he did."

            I stayed awake with my cell phone nearby until midnight and then, exhausted and overwhelmed, tried to get some sleep.  An hour later, I woke up suddenly and checked the phone.  No one had called, so I dialed the vet's number with shaky fingers.

The vet tech answered and when I asked how Forest was doing, she replied, "We've been running late and he was up next, but seems to be doing better.  He's playing with his IV line and is walking around his cage."

            "That's great news!"

            She asked if I wanted them to continue with the surgery and I said, "No...let him stay on the fluids overnight and we'll see how he does in the morning."

            As it turned out, he was fine.  The infection was clearing and despite needing to be on antibiotics for a while, you'd never know little Forest had been sick.

            Last Friday when Kady was working toward a diagnosis and suggested he spend the night, I drove back to the hospital and sat with Forest for a while.  He smelled of urine and bile as he was nervous and had relieved himself outside of the litter pan and although the techs cleaned him up as best as they could, a bath was not imminent.  My sweet little stinky boy sat quietly in my arms while IV fluids slowly brought him back to life. 

            Except for a mystery kitten wrapped in a blanket next to Forest's cage, the convalescent area was empty.  Kady gently removed the kitten from the blanket and I was horrified by what I saw.  He was black and looked to be the same age as Aditi, with the same marking.  His jaw had been broken and was slightly bloody.  While Kady splinted one of his paws, he lay like a limp rag as one of the techs held him.

            "I'm sorry I didn't warn you about scary kitten," Kady said.  "He was hit by a car and whoever hit him used a dustpan to shovel him out of the road and fling him onto the grass.   But he came in growling and hissing...so he's got some spunk."

            My face registered the horror of wondering how anyone could do that to a small helpless animal.  "Who found him?"

            "A rep from Planned Pethood saw it happen and immediately called us."

"Thank God," I sighed, gently petting Forest's head.  "Do you think it will survive?

            "I'm not sure about the internal injuries, but we'll see how he does overnight."

            An hour later, I left Forest in the hopes that, just like before, the IV would work their magic.  And unlike before, I wouldn't have to say good-bye to a cat simultaneous to bringing home a new kitten. 

            The next morning Kady called and laughingly said that Forest was ready to come home.  She had visited him later in the evening to feed him and locked his cage.  By morning, Forest had knocked over his litter pan and water dish, escaped from his second tier digs, pulled out his IV and went exploring.  The tech said she found him hiding in a closet.

            "He must have gotten that from Naughty Jhoti," I replied.  "When can I get him?"

            Later that morning, Kady had gone home to rest and Dr. Brent was working.  He had been with me when Carley died and had taken care of Forest a couple of years previous when he had a fever.  I am so blessed to have such kindhearted people care of my pets.  We chatted about Forest's antics the night before and I apologized for any damage he might have done.

            "It was nothing...anything that was broken can be replaced," Brent smiled.  "Forest can't."

            As I waited for the techs to bring him out, I noticed the little black kitten was being taken home by someone.

            "Oh, that one is all vinegar," one of the techs smiled. 

            "He'll need it to survive what happened to him," I replied.

            Ghandi's words ring true to me, now more than ever.  No one needs permission to be compassionate, only the desire to do so.  It's an incredible responsibility to care for those who cannot speak with words, but whose language of love goes straight to the heart.  Call me crazy, but I believe that the way each of us treats any living thing is a direct reflection of the care and respect we have for ourselves.  And in caring for those who are the smallest creatures in our world, perhaps we reveal a bit more about how we have been treated...or had wanted to be.

Forest, bird-watching on a peaceful afternoon