9.27.14 And Then, We All Smiled; Stories of Lives

Years ago, I would go to the home of a client someone in the Body-Mind Centering community had referred to me. The client was a lovely thoughtful woman, slender , bright , light haired. She was living in her extended kitchen, her hospital bed and other necessities having replaced kitchen table, and sitting area. 

The whole south wall held double door of panes of glass, and large expansive windows. Looking down over her tree-enclosed garden and yard, quite close to the middle of Northhampton. A small but surprising oasis.

I would come by, lugging my bodywork table, set up there, and then palpate her organs and systems, evaluate, and address. 

There are ways in which Integrative Acupressure, as well as many other modalities, can perform in a manner similar to dialysis. 

So that while someone's systems are slowly shutting down, you come by and nourish and prime and move and support eliminative waste removal as well as some degree of regeneration.
This markedly slows what at times is an inevitable and powerful degeneration, and often reduces or removes significant pain for several hours, often a welcome respite. 

When I met her, she could sit up and speak , and use her computer. I got to know her for several weeks, and her body. What her organs and systems needed, and how. 

The aide that she had during weekdays was a wonderful, no nonsense, solid and compassionate woman.
Over the weeks, it became more and more our strength that lifted her up, and somehow got her face down on the table, and then turned on her back later on, so that I could align her spine, tend to cranial and sacral bones , and work on organs and systems.

Soon enough, late winter ventured into tentative spring, and the deep snow of her yard vanished , as she began to lose her ability to speak. To write on her computer. 

And so she began saying goodbyes. She began thinking about expressing what she needed to have said, before she was no longer able to do so. And she went about doing just that.

Her son, an older teen, would come through each day , on his way from here to there, stopping to talk with her, to give her a hug and kiss. And her daughter, a young adult, would come for a few days, for them to spend time together.

All of her friends came by, over and over, their flowers and gifts and the feel of their history with her , and their closeness littering about the bright kitchen , side by side with the supplement , medication, and device-laden counters. 

While she still could , between her and the aide, they would share the moments she had had that week, with dear ones coming from afar or close by, all bundling her up with love.and while I worked, the three of us would sit and smile with the pleasure borne of such precious things.

In time, she was unable to speak. Or type. Or move. 

I would come by on bright spring mornings, and the woman who was her 

gifted constant companion ,and I , would speak altogether, as we lifted her to now simply sit upon the table, how you work on people as they grow older or more ill.
It's an interesting art that we learn, to connect deeply with someone that we have known, at least some, and participate in conversations the way you would follow a beautiful stream, when they can no longer speak .

Watching further responses in their eyes, and anything else you can detect, as you ask how they are, never speaking about them to the other person, but always interacting altogether.

I knew she was missing her walks in the woods, and then also I had two dogs who needed to be walked daily, down Mill-river, from the high school, following the deep green wooded path and stream, to the pond at Smith College, and back.

In addition to my three kids, i had an 18 year old girlfriend of my son's living with us, as well as a nephew, 14, my daughter's age, who did not participate in sports, and so needed walks. And time together. Laughing and talking and then focusing on his life and goals.

So when I went to visit her, I would describe the seasonal changes in the woods. In the waters. And the growth of things, the floodings. The flock of Hooded Mergansers, who would do synchronized swimming beneath chilled spring waters.
The woman with the red leather gloves, who , in passing, my rescue mini husky jumped up upon, who then screamed and yelled at me. Until I admonished her about how we need to behave in such a way that we create the world we want to live in. 

Causing her break to out in sobs, telling me "Yes! Yes! I'm so sorry. That's what I want." Me taken aback, so surprised ; then soothing her, sending her on her way. Given pause, once again, at the intensity of the big sister in me.

Later, I went by this client's home for a session, walked up the steps of the porch, looking out upon the front yard, sheltered by the thick canopy of her trees , from the busy street so close by, and noticed the slow awakening of all of her beloved perennials and , bushes gradually coming to life, as her own ebbed.
I knocked and was bid come inside with my table, and after getting her up upon it, did regale her with this story of my admonishment , and the the red leather gloves. 

Which almost made her choke with laughter, her eyes bright, grinning at me. 

You see, eyes are capable of all sorts of things we never dream of, until there comes a time when one must learn. 

Then I described to her the flock of ducks, their funny puffy feathers atop their heads, suddenly altogether diving into the water, and doing their magnificent dance. Something I had never seen before, and never have again.

And then we all smiled. The three of us. As I worked, and the woman who cared for her lay back in a reclining chair - feet up , eyes closed, all of us for a moment, in some deep peace , together.

9.27.14 Because What You Are Sharing Is Of Interest; and At Times? Spellbinding.

What really interests me about contemporary writers, or artists, or anyone else creating, is to watch their FB page or their blog, and see snippets of their creativity. 

Those descriptions of their day that just pull you in. 

Photos of a portion of the painting, enabling you to focus, up close, and get to see what was involved in creating that depth and that feel.
A close-up of a ceramic handle, where the glaze resonates some deep blue spattering of color. 

I think it's true, in business these days. That people who create need to grow their own vibrant following in this way. 

As if they're caring for a separate garden altogether. The one surrounds and supports the main garden, which produces their painting, that remarkable piece of weaving, or that novel. 

I wonder if it's expecting too much; the galleries and publishing houses put it right out there. If you want us interested, you need to have your own following.

On the one hand, who can manage life, especially if they are the parents of young ones, and find the joy and lusciousness in creating snippets to enthrall the public. 

I've read many a writers blog, where they are wringing their hands over what they know to be their duty; to continually create things of interest that are bite-sized, interesting- , but related to their craft. So that people will know their name, have a taste of them, and their interest piqued. 

That seems the key right there. To develop a hobby of creating pieces of what has already been made, or what was thought today, and sharing them in a delectable manner, for people to peruse briefly, and be left, nourished.

It's not the authors or other creative people who simply report booksignings or awards or other events that interest me. That's nice for them. But I want to know if their book or creation is something I may be interested in purchasing. And for that to happen, I guess I love to be enthralled. 

By what it was like to write that small passage. What they were thinking, or remembering. What the process was like to experiment with this glaze, that turned out this way with these photos. 

The gradual sharing of photographs of different sections of a painting in process. 

I'm uncertain, in this modern fast paced life, whether this is untenable or not. But so many people talk about how difficult it is to make a living, creating. This is one path to generating knowledge of what you are creating. Interest in seeing or reading or having more. A captive audience who is moved to track your gestation and changes, simply because what you are sharing is of interest; and at times? Spellbinding.

In response to that, I guess these are the things that pull us in. Into the lives of people who create. Wanting more.

9.26.14 The Kids Are Alright: Giving Thanks

It's an amazing thing. To yearn to be a parent, and get to be one. I surely would have begged, borrowed or stolen. I would have helped someone else or fostered or adopted or mentored. I would have done anything and everything to parent. I remember being 16, 17, and feeling the deep maternal sense welling up within me. When I worked for so many years in Social Services, I never worked with small kids, knowing I had to save myself. 

      When I had one, youngish, and it was tough for us, the doctors saying it would not be possible, I imagined getting my beloved to give me another, if he were to burn out of the whole thing, so that the two would have each other. I raised my brothers and got up in the night to change them and get their bottles and dress them and protect them and help them with homework and protected them from bad things.

       I worked for years running groups for adolescents and  for drug treatment and parents and felt that welling up inside of me, that deep deep desire for my own, birthed or not, who cared. 

     I imagined even with my three that I could somehow foster, or have more, for which I thank God and my thyroid, and a rental house, limiting my nuttiness and obsession. 

     And now. And now they are all okay. Fine. And I am too depleted to even worry a bit about the small things. I am unable. It is fascinating dharma that I accept with my whole heart. I spent myself and got them out of swamps and bad situations and with my beloved, we did it and delivered them unto alright situations and they have grown and progressed and managed, which we hope all young ones growing older shall. That is our prayer and our mantra. Able, gifted, and making their way.

     And if that is managed, any which way, well then huzzah. It's only with age that we realize the numbers of people who may have wrung their hands and stayed up nights with our own nuttiness. Oblivious at the time, we grow older, and slowly in wanders insight. Hand in hand with hindsight, making their way . Into our living room, as we fall against the sofa, leaning on our beloved, giving thanks for the live we are able to lead. And the two of them rise up, illuminating what could have been. 

     And , conversely, what is. The gift of it all. No swamps. No desperation. If this happens to you, with your beloved neighbor child or your client, your sibling who took quite a lot out of you to get ok. Your nephew or your adopted child or your adopted out kid whom you love like heaven itself. Or your kid that stayed with you and you grew up?

     Then now it is time to give thanks. I do. I give such profound, heartfelt thanks. To God. To the Divine. To All That Is. 

      I say "Oh All That Is, thank you for the blessings bountiful upon my lap this day. Thank you for all that could have been the undoing, and yet was, in the end, not. Thank you for their deliverance from horrible circumstance and possibility. 

     Thank you, please, for them all somehow being okay." And I pray hard and sweet and long, in my deep deep gratitude. Because I know that, sometimes, it is not so; no matter your efforts or theirs. Sometimes it is a crap shoot and it all goes bad. And you struggle to love them while they fall fall further. 

     And you struggle to love your own life and your own efforts in this tough thing called life, and love and care for them and not withdraw , even when it hurts to see them so.

     Faith is a powerful substantive thing. It holds us in good times and bad. It restores us to our clarity and vision. And sometimes. Sometimes, along with faith, comes the kids. Being alright. 

9.26.14 Now Here She Was, Struggling to Find the Path We All Must, If We Live Longer; Stories Of Lives

 

     Last night, I drove by the neighborhood of a woman I knew 27 years ago, as her Case Worker, for a Home Care. I had been hired to go visiting about the hill towns,to assess those with incomes less than $12,000- and their needs for help. In those days, when there was funding, one could assign the outside help someone needed. To stay at home. Which is far less expensive than a facility, certainly.
     She lived in a beautiful, worn small cape, perched on the hill just as you turn the sharp bend to go up into Shutesbury, with a small steep driveway, and a small welcoming porch that led into her downstairs. Always she greeted me with tea and warmth, her wood stove chugging away in the winter: her windows thrown open wide in summer, as her old butterscotch cat sat happily....cozy by the stove, or perched in the windows, watching the bird feeder.
     Each time I would come, she would take a photo of me. I happened to discover at the time that I was pregnant- so the photos changed a great deal each month I made my way round the various homes of people who qualified for help. And each time, she would give me a photograph of me- a gift, thoughtfully budgeted, a meaningful past-time for her.
     She explained the first visit that Riley, the previous Case Manager, had always stayed quite awhile, talking and listening. My job, unfortunately, entailed the big mess of way behind files left behind, and the new strictures for the job- new, complex paperwork, that necessitated, as you would guess, the need for shorter time with clients. And I was poised at the fulcrum, between nice Case Worker who has tea and listens and visits- and nice Case Worker who must get all that information down, and then race back to the office to file the paperwork on time.
     Still, in the beginning I knew the importance of visiting and getting to know people, simply so that I truly understood, with the withering funds, what help they truly needed. So that I could fight for the ones who were struggling to stay in their homes.
     She told me that first day, a warm August day, that her husband and she had lived in this home for so many years. And then, he had taken ill. Eventually, he had to move to the Amherst Nursing Home, and because of this, she asked a neighbor to teach her how to drive. I believe she was in her late 70's at the time.
     And so she did. Learn how to drive. And before she knew it, she shared, with delight in her eyes and triumph in her tone, she was able to stop asking neighbors for rides to see her dearest one. And instead, she could go visit him. Every single day.
     She became close with the staff, and felt so supported as he slowly worsened, and then finally, passed away, as they used to say.
     Now here she was, struggling to find the path that so many had before her, she knew, to learn to live a quiet older life alone. So alone. She had her meals on wheels person, which also provides a way in which someone checks in on those with no family, or no family near by. She took the Senior Shuttle to the library once a week, to store up on piles and piles of books, her solace. She drew small pencil and colored pencil drawings, from her kitchen table by the window that looked out upon what once was her garden, until she had been unable to tend it any longer. And showed me photographs, of the glory of it all , in it's hey day, and her's.
     And asked about my 6 year old, and my husband the mechanic at that cooperative garage everyone knew about, over there in Pelham. She told me of her life, of the quiet simplicity of her years. And when it was time to leave, she would hold my two hands in hers, and smile into my eyes. And I would bid her to take good care of herself, and give me a call if she needed additional help, in the meantime.
     When I was a week out from my second child's arrival, I stopped, with a plan to return in five months. And so, made my goodbyes to so many dear people, and a few cranky reticent ones.
At five months, after a week where I returned to work, zooming home at noontime to nurse her, my daughter became ill, necessitating a hospitalization and procedures and all...and I realized I would be unable to return to work. A grave disappointment, if you can be that understated, to them, and the onset of us moving in with my father-in-law, to care for him, and afford to stay home with my kids, in the process.
     I never got to truly say goodbye to so many I had met. But I hold their stories close to me; closer still, as I move from my 50's to 62 now, my own arc of the gift of this much lifetime creeping along.
I can still see her smile and her glinting eyes, as she looked up at the door when I knocked; as she struggled mightily, alone, to find solace and meaning and substance in her days, as she grew old.

9.25.14 We Experience Majesty

We experience majesty.

In storms and sonatas and dreams and small triumphs; 

in small creature's lives, and large.

In bits of exquisite writing that moves us into ourselves- 

and irreplaceable dance, or song, or woodworking, or kindnesses or hope.

All of these cause us to veer outwards with the celebration of wonder.

With the profound experience of the divine.

And possibly most often, we experience majesty in our skies overhead, day after day after day.

9.25.14 One must wonder how it looks- and feels-to birds and dragonflies and bats and those on high.

9.25.14 Falling Asleep In Our Lives

Sometimes we turn, in a moment, and we look - we really see. This moment. And it's as if we have been dreaming, and in that dream, we had forgotten all about actual real life. Instead, simply going through the motions.

And suddenly , there we are, fully awake- maybe in the midst of getting out of a car or doing a task or even during a conversation - with someone who really matters. 

We come to. And realize we've been fast asleep. 

It's such a shock- the coming to.

And then , there's this feeling of loss. Of sadness. That we could ever have missed a moment of our own precious life. 

And yeah, we know. We remember it all, but it's like a faded photo, compared to real live breathing sweating noisy messy here-and-now life . 

Full awareness. Consciousness. Being the one watching the one who speaks and moves and tenders the events of this present world. 

Because when we are infused with conscious awareness, everything - easy or hard or challenging or of great beauty- feels so solid. Indefatigable. 

Made up of faith. Clarity. 

And myself, when I fall asleep in my life-for a moment, or when things are tough, a week or so , I am endlessly grateful when I come to again ; full blooded. Fully infused. Like being truly in love. No matter, thick or thin. 

It's simply a gift to be in the present moment.

9.25.14 The solution to dog hair in the new car

Driveby Holyoke, early this morning. Colors and Shapes Sung Like a Hopper Painting.

9.25.14 Forever Changing; Our Favorite Places

Forever changing; our favorite places.

 Keeping us connected to the seasons,

 to the cycles 

and changes of our own lives.

9.25.14 Parenting: Ours and Ours Alone

     Someone I know and love got in touch with me the other day. They asked me to connect up w. their kid, a young adult .like my two younger ones.
     They said they loved them, but they couldn't be of help.
   
     Parenting. Our own or others. It involves complications. Consequences. Of theirs, and of our own. It involves loving.  Tackling problems and researching and making plans and connecting and getting help.
      Now, years ago, I see that this was one more choice I made that eventually contributed to where I am now, unable to work. Hindsight, eh? Loving and caring, but urging and pushing and showing others how to take care of their own lives and kids.
     So I said to this person I know and love, the other day, that when we have kids, it is hard.
     We often need to find a way to provide that which we were never given, and at the moment, have no idea how to find or grow or provide.
     We need to be there for them waaayyy into young adulthood,and sometimes, later.
      We need to find our own way to do this, or there will often be a bigger mess. Tragedy. All kinds of crap.
     I told them working hard to be as good a parent as you can be is often not altruism, either. It has a bit of not wanting to suffer..MORE. Which is what you circumvent, if you work hard as a parent and love truly and step right up.A whole lot of times, if you don't, you will end up suffering more...with the tragic mess that may come on down the road. And move into your neighborhood.
      Once I was in a lawyer's office, for someone I love, for a serious crime.
      That first day in the attorney's office, he said " We never see parents. They never show up. They're always so angry. There is always - always - a better future for the kid, if the parents show up."
      Because younger people need help and love and support. Limits too, and listening, and then consequences. Encouragement. Your own faith, covering them like a blanket, until the time they manage to slowly grow their own.
     Yeah, lots of us managed on our own, with our friends and partners, and no help from parents with any sanity whatsoever. Sure.
     But normally? Its a dangerous swamp out there, coming up. And today? Has it's own newbie unique horrible complications. A shade different than the past.
     Plus wages? You used to be able to work 20 hours a week at any old crappy job, and go to college. On a Pell Grant. That PAID for the tuition and your book. And then some. Noone had nice cars, or cell phones or nice clothes. But you all were starving students, having a good time, studying hard, going to work, sleeping late, burning out at midterms and finals.
     Or you found a trade. In the family. Or some neighbor. Or lucked into something. That wasn't the best or easiest or best  paying, but was fine. Fine.
     Now? Hard to survive on two people sharing rent or mortgage or food or gasoline or a car. Never mind trying to have kids or go anywhere. At all.
     So I told this person I know and love that  I had retired from overreaching what I could pull off. I was done. I said they had to find their own way, no matter their pain or distress, to show up. Step up. And be there with that kid. Love that kid. Problem solve with the kid.  I said it really had no bearing, whether the kid had 'found themselves' or not.
      What is life, anyway? We find and lose and find and lose and find ourselves again and again and again. And truly, we all need a whole lot of help.
     Then, there's the big secret. Right? The more well meaning and generous (but, try wise and judicious) and thoughtful you learn to be, the more well meaning and generous and thoughtful others will eventually be to you. Even when you need it most of all.
     I said it wouldn't be fun. They wouldn't get any old thank you notes later.
     But it is important to follow through..on the commitment we make when we have a kid.
     In all sorts of ways. We can situate them with someone else, and know them peripherally, an important, loving and brave  thing to do.  
      We can work as hard as we can on our own messed up crap before and during and after raising them, so we can show up as healthy and self-accepting and present as possible.
      But we need to take the responsibility to do it. Because it's ours. And ours alone.

9.24.14 A disconsolate morning, unerringly spent upon Kestrel Lane, watching what becomes of silence.

9.24.14 At Sixteen - Memoir

     Yeah, I used to. Wait and wait til all were asleep, eyes out for the night watchman, laggard, who wandered by a few times a night, for what I'm not certain, really. I requested a dorm room on the earth side of the hill, window flush with the lawn, on the back of the building, in the shade of the street lights. And after he'd wandered by, while it seemed everyone was sleep, I'd pull on my coat and boots, remove the screen, smile at my wakened roommate, who glanced at me, then fell back asleep, and crawled out the narrow window, reaching in to crank it back closed as much as I could; or she'd jump up and do it for me, waving me on.

     Up the snow covered hill I'd climb, through the sparse trees, up through the deep snow of the field to the small country road, waiting there, darkness all around. And I'd wait, like some Russian novel's protagonist, not caring. About the cold, or the night or the darkness or alone out there. Because after awhile, he would have made it home, grabbed his old VW, raced through New York to Connecticut, and sped round the curved wooded roads, approaching the top of the hill, where he'd kill the lights, drifting quietly down the hill.

     Maybe I'd have fallen sleep, in the deep snow; or maybe I'd be lying on my back, watching the stars and the trees bowing over me in the winter wind. Cold cutting into me, feet numb, face reddened. No matter. He'd call out, if I didn't stand right up, knowing I may be in dream land, somewhere in the field, near the road. And I'd hear him, if I'd fallen asleep, or see him, If I'd been awake, creeping his black car slowly down the snow crusted road.

     And I'd rise up, brushing myself off some,and make my way around the car, him opening the door, anticipating my numb young fingers, and in I'd jump, both of us smiling, hard.

     And we'd kiss. Long long. Like young ones do. LIke rapturous ones do. Til I'd been thoroughly warmed; and then, why we'd drive right round the boarding school; sometimes for a lark, up one side of the long drive leading to the main building, laughing so hard! As the night watchman peered out, or came stumbling out, wondering who goes there, as we descended to the other end of the drive, the four large locked up dorm's lights blinking in the deep night after us.

     Holding hands, sometimes I'd fall asleep once again, opening my coat to the warmth of the car's heat, and he'd make our way back to New York, to his parent's house, where all were fast asleep. He'd stand at the refrigerator, open, eating, offering me this and that, I who ate little, and I'd tug tug on his arm, thick coat, to come come upstairs, to bed.

      Up the small stairs from the kitchen, designed for the 'help' years before, to his back bedroom, where we'd curl into each other, and spend the night, our own bath, doors locked up.

      Until quite early, but late enough that his parents would be in the kitchen, in their pjs and nightgown. And his mother would make some sort of frightful surprise sound, then go on and on in English and Yiddish and Spanish and perhaps a bit of German, to us, to her husband, to me, about my age, about being here. No control; they had no control over those 5 sons. And he'd smile, kiss his mother, grab some food for us from the frig, I'd give her a quick embrace, a smile to the dad, and off we'd go, the sky still new in the day.

       Same path back, same small hill, same snowly day after, same killing the engine. Same long long kisses. Same his hand pulling me back to him, as I readied to depart the car. Same me laughing and pushing him rough, climbing up on him- pushing him hard into the seat, a dominant dog perhaps , or lion- I'm not sure. My knee on his lap, my hands holding back his shoulders, my mouth on his. One more. Then enough of this, I'd laugh to myself, and out of the car I'd be, slinking into the field, waving without looking back. Knowing he was watching.

      Then watching far up by the Music Building, scoping things out...waiting for my moment, as I carefully brushed snow off, readying myself for a casual entry. To the dining room. Or back to the dorm. Not meeting anyone's eyes. Appearing sidetracked and unavailable. Younger ones walking by, watching quietly, it was all in the feeling you projected, was what I'd slowly learned.

      I knew of one other who was a chronic, such as myself; could not be penned in, and we'd each only gotten caught once, each of us making up dramatic-upset-home-things to cover, sitting in front of the Assistant Headmaster, at her desk, she younger than I am today.

      I could cry on command, and tell the best story, with not too many details or feeling, replicating real experiences, til I began to wonder what would become of me, doing this pretending in the world, when all I wanted was more sanity and wisdom than those I'd come from.

     But the next second, I knew I'd only do this as long as necessary, to get what I wanted, and no more. So I let it drop, as I watched her, behind her desk, telling me that when I was her age, I would hold the very same opinions and values as she held that very day. And could I try to just take it in, the rules and the way of thinking and the best for the future and all that.

      Yet I knew in my wise young mind, as I still know today, that she was wrong. Wrong.  She held nothing for me, then. Her frustration and her hard job and her own life and all those long stairs to the Headmaster's office. Her tweed and pretense and aspirations for social standing and shame of her husband and bustling opinions. None  would  ever be mine.

       As out I'd go, slipped by once again, just one  of us: so young.  Determined, when all came down to it,  to make your own way, always.