The Child In Thee

"I God Am Thy Playmate
    and I will lead
the Child in Thee
    in
Wondrous Ways for
    I have
Chosen Thee!"


-heard by Mechtild of Magdenbourg, Germany


1314 -1400. A Free Spiritual Woman


Dad has this posted on his bulletin board, drawn in a mix of green, red, orange, yellow and blue magic marker. It immediately catches the eye when you enter his room (9E) at Mrs. Bush's Personal Care Home. It caught mine after a day that started at 7:30, driving to his neurologist in Allentown, then home for an hour, then to his eye doctor. We got back to Mrs. Bush's at 3:30. A long day.


In the car we talk about growing old, dying, doing good work in the world, how good life is, the benefits of oatmeal, all while passing Chevrolet billboards, people talking on phones while driving, wide open corn fields, a hawk on the telephone pole.


I vacillate between holding my breath and crying. 


And then laughing. 


At the doctor's office I'm whispering, 


Breathing in, my whole body is calm. 
Breathing out, my whole body is calm. 


My heart is full to bursting when we walk slowly to get his x-ray and see the woman in a wheelchair with the oxygen tank. 


Dad says, "There but for the grace of God go I."
I say, "I know, I know."


I keep thinking, this is a very weird joke because in my family, I win, hands down, as the most freaked out by hospitals and anything medical.  


But here I am, smack in the midst of it. With my Dad.


When Dad says, This is a good life, on the ride home, I about pull over by the bank of orange lilies and weep... with joy and grief and fear of loss and change and longing for change and wanting my Dad to be young again, hiking up the trail ahead of me, carrying my pack when it gets too heavy. 

Betty's Still Beautiful

This is Betty.


"She's gone around the track 92 times," Dad said.
"He's so nice," Betty said, leaning her head into his chest.
"Keep it coming," Dad said, laughing.


Claire and I followed her grandfather down the hall to see the drawing he'd done of a hummingbird in a recent art class. It hung, in a black frame on the wall, surrounded by other hummingbirds done by the residents of Mrs. Bush's Personal Care Home; an artist's gallery of hummingbirds.


On our stroll back, we saw Betty again.
"Come into my room for a minute, " she said, "I want to show you something."
We followed Betty into her room.
"Use your walker, Betty!" a woman said, passing by.
Betty left her walker at the door.


Betty picked up two pencil drawings of a shapely woman in a bathing suit.
"I did these when I was sixteen," she said.
"They're very good!" I said, "Claire's an artist, Betty. She'll have to bring her sketchbook next time to show you."
Claire blushed. She gets embarrassed whenever I say she's an artist.
"I like to draw, Mom." she says, "I just don't think I'm an artist yet."
"My hands shake too much now,"Betty said, laying her drawings back on the desk, "so I can't draw anymore."


Betty did not look sad. I felt a little sad.


"Here," Betty said, "This is what I used to look like."
She held up a photograph of an olive-skinned brunette, white teeth smiling at the camera.
"Stunning!" I said.
"I had so many boyfriends," she chuckled, "I finally had to kick them all to the curb. Too many."


In the car ride home, Claire and I chatted about our time.
"That Betty is really something," I said. "Gosh. She was so beautiful."
"Betty's still beautiful," Claire said.

That Laughing Thing

Dad said:


I am overwhelmed by the graciousness of life


Wow, was all I could say.


Then he started that laughing thing again.

Gloriousity

"Gosh, aren't the daffodils stunning, Dad?"


"Gloriousity," he said.


word for the day: gloriousity

Day Changer

Drove out through the foggy morning to take Dad to a cat-scan appointment for his neck. 

(The hope is that when we meet with the doctor in May, there will have been significant healing!)


"Hi hon," he said, arms wide open for a hug.
"Hey, Dad."
Then he hands me this card.


You know the drill. I just about wept.


Beaming Dad + small yellow card = day changer.


passing on the love ~

After Every Heart

The morning phone call went like this:


"Hi Dad! How are you?"
"I'm very happy," he said.


That stopped me. I'm very happy? I can't recall the last time I answered how are you with I'm very happy. 


"Wow, Dad."
"I was telling my physical therapist," he jumped in, "I think her name's Paula. I was telling her about when Snuggy and I were young boys and we'd sing these little songs, maybe at Wednesday evening Bible class, or some other...Do you remember this one?"


And he burst out singing:


I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart, down in my heart
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
Down in my heart to stay!


By the end I was singing along, inserting WHERE? after every HEART because I know this song too. Dad taught us when we were kids. My brothers and I shouting the WHERE with a fervor, mingled with laughter, seeing who could sing in the loudest voice.

Did That Okay

Everywhere I look; attachment. 


Fungi, like barnacles on a whale's back, cling to a tree trunk. Patches of mossy-green lichen stamped on wet rocks. Me to my old father who looks me in the eye and says, "I'm settling in here. I'm...", and for a moment pauses, then, "happy. And grateful," he adds.


Why does my heart race when Claire and I walk him to the dining room for the evening meal? We meet Dad's dinner mates; Ed, Jim, and Bob. Bob is curled over himself, but smiling. I shake each of their hands. Bob's are red, worn, crumpled. 


"I hate to go so soon, Dad."
"It's fine, all fine," he says, hugging us goodbye.


"You're awfully quiet," I whisper, leaning into a table of women. They smile, eyes wide, hands clasped on table.


Claire and I pass a rack outside the dining room. 
"Look Mom," she whispers, "like a bike rack, but walkers."
I want to run, but don't.


Pushing out the doors, the air is damp and cold.
"Well, we did that okay, Mom," Claire says.

You're Just Alive

Ever since Thursday, when Dad was moved to a personal care home to continue rehabbing his broken neck, I've been too restless and tired to sit down and write. This restlessness, I know, is born out of my need to figure things out, to make sense of what I'm judging to be a difficult situation. Ditto for the tiredness. 


let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go


Love yourself, hon! Take care of yourself, Dad said. 


That made me weep.


Dad is settling into his new surroundings.
"What's the alternative?" he said, "To be a whiner? Then they'll come and close my door and where will that get me?" 
He was smiling, leaning back in his chair while I sorted through some of his bills. Michael was hooking up the television. Claire was rummaging through his welcome basket for a snack. The sun was out!


I'm a bowl full of shiny, gold-flecked fishy emotions. One minute, mouth gaping, watching all the old ladies with walkers; 3 Bettys in a row! next, brave and grown-up; shape-shifting by the minute. 


This is why I haven't been writing much. Of course, it's these fishy times when writing is the best thing to do, even if you're gasping for air. Write anyway...


Neeny said, "You're not a mess. And you're not depressed. You're just alive. And so is your Dad. It's so good. Really."

Apes In Capes

After a week of head colds and snow storms, Claire and I finally got down to visit Dad today. In spite of the neck collar and over two weeks in a hospital setting, he is doing great. He ate lunch like a truck driver, these wild blueberry muffins aren't bad, while we caught him up on news from home. I was jotting down a list of things I could bring him...


"So Dad, would you like some books on tape?"
"Books on apes?" he said.
"BOOKS ON TAPES!"
"Apes in capes?"

We Hold Each Other Up

You know the world is a giant heart, in spite of all its weirdness, when your kid's teacher takes the time to send a box of chocolate-covered strawberries and green apples to your kid's Pop Pop with a note:


Heard you took a fall. Here's to a speedy recovery. Get well soon... ~ Tom Trauschke


I was still feeling *Star-Trekian when the chocolates arrived, bringing on a small, but much-needed weeping spell. Unexpected kindness does that to me. 


With Dad (aka Pop Pop) still in the hospital we are desperately trying not to eat them before bringing the box to him.


Dad said, "Go ahead, eat them, hon! I'm getting three meals a day in here...And you gotta give me Mr. Trauschke's address so I can write him a note!!"


The next day, Neeny, our long-time fairy god-mother, left a care package on our front porch containing: two sesame bagels, two spring scarves, two fancy forks stamped with joy and peace, a running jacket for Claire, and other assorted goodies. She also left a voice mail saying that our cat, Owen, had left us a fat mouse as well. Oh.


This time, instead of weeping, I toasted half a bagel, smothered it with cream cheese (included in the care package) with a pretty scarf wrapped around my head. Every bite, divine...


All this to say, my cup runneth over. 


I am deeply grateful to be reminded of the many ways 


we hold each other up.


xo b

*Read Not Dangerous/ March 22, 2011

Not Dangerous

Lately, I've felt like this snow person. 


Speechless?


I knew my attitude desperately needed to shift when I stepped out of the shower yesterday and blurted, "I've lost all faith," to our dog, Chewy, who was casually licking my wet feet. I knew I had to snap out of this bubble of hopelessness as I stood there, dripping wet, and watched the dog lick my feet. 


What the hell. I'm a mess. Maybe you're a healer with very big ears. Get the pinky toe while you're at it.


Ever since Dad fell out of bed and cracked his neck, like a skinny Humpty Dumpty, I've been putting the pieces back together, slowly.  


"Wait a minute. Of course, you're feeling low. You were just starting to sink into the fact that Dad lived with you, after a whole year, and now, he's not there! Give yourself a break," Neeny said.


In the midst of Humpty's fall and whole families being swept out to sea in Japan, I caught Michael's very bad cold and felt terrible for the past five days. 


Zero energy. 
Kaput.
Flat.  
Hopeless?


Things change. 


One day, flip-flops and a t-shirt, the next, it's snowing. I woke today more hopeful, not quite so fragmented; my fragile faith had a pulse.
"Does my face look like me again?" I asked Michael.
"What sweetie?"
"My face? I've been looking like one of those outer space people that Captain Kirk would meet on his adventures. Very large head, slits for eyes, scales. Not dangerous, just swollen and weird."
"Honey," Michael said, "That's so not true."


It was so true. Trust me.

I'd Do That

When my two brothers showed up to help with Dad,


I crashed... 


That's the way it goes.


Even with all my phobias; 


hospitals, elevators, ICU, neck collars, a *Dad with a broken neck, I was strong like bull the first days after his accident. 


I held up fine. 


Then I got sick and tired and had to cancel yoga today. 


That felt lousy, until I got this email: 


"Take care of yourself. That's what you'd tell us to do." 


That felt lovely.


So, I'm curious. How do you get to be a writer for Yogi tea bags? Do they have a human resource department? I'll stretch out in the window seat with a mug of Throat Coat and watch squirrels poke their paws around in the yard. I'll dream up simple sentences to lift spirits and drop heavy shoulders. I'd do that.


Here's one for you ~ You're fine. 

ps. Miracle of miracles, Dad's doing really fine too.

Especially Laughing

Dad broke his neck falling out of bed.


That sounds so odd, awful really.


But he is bearing up, as we say. He got up to walk to the bathroom today. Here's to baby steps. The doctors say no surgery, but three long months of wearing a neck collar. My throat constricts just thinking about it; my own fear of being held down, closed in, having things strapped on me, is so immense. 


Forget elevators, I always take the stairs.


Fortunately, Dad is not me. Yes, he's feeling the weight of this event, yet still making all the nurses laugh. I don't think they've ever met someone quite so joyful and charming in the ICU. Most of their patients are in very bad shape. 


Definitely not laughing.


Last night they moved Dad to a transitional trauma unit, and after that; we're not sure. He needs to rehab somewhere besides home; we are looking at our options, trusting that the right door will open.


"If we could untangle the mysteries of life and unravel the energies which run through the world; if we could evaluate correctly the significance of passing events; if we could measure the struggles, dilemmas, and aspirations of mankind, we could find that nothing is born out of time. Everything comes at its appointed time."


- Joseph R. Sizoo


Nonsense, you may be thinking. But I am leaning into this idea of right timing and the way things unfold. Looking back, I see how things have clicked into place and moved me forward. And others too. 


Trust the timing of things.


Grace moves in when we release the rope(s) of our life. The holding tight is born of fear. I get it. I've got more than one rope wrapped around my hands:


children
Dad
marriage
home
work/creative life
The dog?


Maybe if I loosen my grip a little, give myself some slack, I'll feel better, not so tired, softer, even laughing...


especially laughing.


*read Thin Ice

Thin Ice

I don't know what to write about...


everything feels too big to tackle. 


A tsunami slammed Japan while Dad fell out of bed, 4:30 yesterday morning and almost broke his neck. He is in the hospital as I write this. The good news, no surgery. The bad news, a neck brace for three months. 3? 


the earth shifted four inches on its axis, Michael said.


Some days it feels like we're skating on very thin ice. 


Still, I am buoyed up by love:


family and friends, a yoga studio full of arms-wide-open students, Tami, the laughing nurse, Dad's amazing spirit these past thirty-six uncertain hours, and the woman at the traffic light who directed me (and my empty gas tank) towards the Shell station off of Cedar Crest Boulevard.

Eat What You Want

Dad and I drove up the mountain to see his family doctor, Dr. Alice McCormick. It's the kind of country office where they say, bring your new puppy in! (he'd come along for the ride)...so I brought Chewy into the small waiting room for a quick visit. He barked a couple of times just to let them know he was there. I encouraged Dr. Alice, Jean, and Joyce to just ignore him. Chewy stopped his barking, sniffed the rug and licked Dr. Alice's black clogs. But that was after, when we were getting ready to leave. 


Earlier, Dr. Alice said, "Well, you are doing really well. You look great, Ellsworth! But you're still on the thin side. What are you eating these days?"
"Eggs and toast, soups, organic turkey, apples, peanut butter, bananas, kale!" Dad said, "And when my son-in-law cooks, oh my! That's good."
"You're coming up on a birthday this summer," she said, looking at his chart. (His 85th.)

"Coming up on it," Dad said, smiling.

"That means you can pretty much eat what you want," Dr. Alice said.

Wrapping Her Arms Around Him

This is Ellen, our mail carrier. She was delivering mail yesterday when she came upon Dad stuck in a snow bank near our house. 


"I'd decided to sit down and enjoy a bit of sun. But then I realized I couldn't get up. So, Ellen came along and came to my rescue!" Dad said, laughing. 


I witnessed the save when I glanced out the picture window in our living room; there was Dad sitting in a snow bank. And then, Ellen, wrapping her arms around him and pulling the old man up.

Krishna Blue Sky

Dad passes me in the kitchen, turns and says,


Just be

Be not this or that

Be like the white clouds

        in 

the Krishna Blue 

       sky

Just floating

Going nowhere

       and

in the floating - the flowing

       is

The blossoming!

All is right that seems most wrong to clever egos...


then carries on his way to the round table; jar of almond butter in one hand, bright orange clementine in the other, half-smile on face.


(Rumi? I will find out in the morning.)

Dad Does Windows

Dad said, "My name's Mabel. I'm from Bayside. Oh! And I do windows too." 

Some Day

We met Lewis (0n the left) at the Martz bus station @ 7:30 this morning. Lewis showed up for work @ 3:40 am because the first bus comes through @ 4 am. Lewis used to drive a bus but his days were sixteen hours long. Now he gets done with work around 11:00 am. For someone who has to get up so early, Lewis is a really sweet guy. I, on the other hand, would be quite cranky.

Dad took a bus to visit my brother, Dave, and his family in Northampton, MA. He had to ride the bus into NYC, then transfer. I gave him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple for his trip. I was a little worried about him getting lost in Port Authority because it's easy to get lost there. I'm happy to report that I did not pin my phone number (in case of emergencies) on Dad's coat. I did speak to Ralph Martinez, the bus driver (no photo) and whispered, Please look out for my Dad. Thanks, Ralph.

Back home, Claire and Elizabeth read in the back of the car while our resident turkeys took a walk through the yard.

Accomplishment

Dad has been hit with a bad chest cold, fever, exhaustion; he is weak in the knees. After trying home remedies all day yesterday, Claire and I bundled him up and took him to the doctor this afternoon.

Everything with Dad is turtle-paced. It took forty-five minutes to get him out the door and into the car. I drove slowly through the neighborhood, waiting for him to fasten his seat belt.

"Need some help with that, Dad?"

Silence.

Then, click.

"Accomplishment," he whispered.