MOM'S HAND

Last weekend I went to Salem to hang out with my mother. It was a quick visit, just one night...and the time flew by. She has started at a daycare program which she refers to as camp. I asked her how she was enjoying the program and wondered what kinds of things she does and if she is enjoying any of the other folks who participate. She laughed and told me they do everything she used to do in girl scouts but true to her nature, she is not a joiner and she claims she enjoys it but does not participate. It's been a year since her fall. Truly, I had assumed she'd be long gone after seeing her face just after the fall. It was horrifying really...because she took the fall first with her cheek bone and gave new meaning to my visual of "face plant". I hear people refer to life as something fragile. Personally, I believe life is strong and tenacious and works tirelessly toward healing itself. Mom seemed more vital to me. Her movements were stronger and she even did the stairs with more confidence, one foot after another rather than one step at a time. She is getting up and out of the house every day so Susie can go to work and I sensed a more vital mother than I had one month ago. I'm amazed. Then I think of my sister Beth...she spent 41/2 years in a hospital bed after she coded at Brigham Women's Hospital and the team brought her back to life with the help of a respirator. There were at least 5 or 6 times where we were prepared to let her go because of respiratory issues that developed with various passing viruses. She seemed so frail for the second two years and had lost her ability to communicate verbally with us. But the heart beat on and what finally took her was a form of pneumonia. Again...the notion of life as something frail and delicate was a possible way of looking at the situation but more obvious to me was the message to the opposite...life was being hardy, tenacious, strong...a fire that didn't want to go out. For some reason, I was moved to take a photo of Mom's hand as we sat in the yard where Stephen and I exchanged our marriage vows. I spent most of the afternoon outside enjoying the sunny blue sky day, watching the squirrels and the birds and holding my mother's hand. Such a familiar hand...and it reminded me of dad's hand as well. Dad's hand was the color of cold roast beef on his palms and they were often warm. Mom's hand is mostly cold. I hold it in my warm hand feeling the exchange of energy pass between us. The love. Here is this woman who has taken me through the gamut of emotions...fierce love, admiration, fear, during the early childhood years and into the anger, hate, rebellion of adolescence. As I became a parent and worked to outmother my mother...to become a person "not like" her, I found I became more and more like her. Now in her elder years, I look at her hand. The veins are raised and blue...they remind me of a road map...the map of our shared lives...mother...daughter...mother to mother...even daughter to daughter. We chat about the people who were central to our family's life. We spur each other's memories. Hand in hand...we are two on the road
of life. I feel the miracle of her being still alive and I am so deeply grateful to my sister for stepping up to the plate to live with her during these tender last years. She has become a force of love. She weeps easily and laughs deeply. We laugh so hard together that we nearly pee our pants...that's a sure indication of friendship...something I used to do with my friends at camp...something Mom did too. I hold Mom's hand in both of my hands. All the intensity of adolescence is gone...the parental fear is gone...we've been through births and deaths...mournings and celebrations...this hand I hold is the first hand that reached out to touch me as I emerged to greet life on this planet. It is cold but it is still strong and can still bring tears to my eyes when she reaches up to brush the hair from my eyes. I don't know how to tell her how grateful I feel for the miracle of her continued life over the past year because we've journeyed together from the frail sick days when she felt "weak and puny" to the now...when we are roaring with laughter and fearful of the dribble. So I take a picture of her hand...so I can remember what it looks like and how it feels to hold it for a sunny September day in the garden while we ponder the wonder of LIFE...how it lives and breathes and wants very much to keep breathing...how it holds on for dear life. I thank God I can still give my mother a hand. And she can give me hers.

CHANGING RAYS

September's light changes the look of everything...the rays slant from a lower perspective and cast longer shadows with brighter hues of yellow and orange right at the time when the colors of the leaves begin to move through their changes in preparation for winter. I'm noticing, as the light changes, perspective changes...as it does for one individual standing on the threshold of the winter of her life. But just now...I feel lit up. There has been a male hummingbird feeding at our feeder...and I thought they had all left. It's September 12th. One year ago today, as my mother crossed the street on her way home from Steve's Market, she fell flat on her face. She had been working right up until her fall...two days a week at the Witch House in Salem. She managed to pull through a brain bleed that left her with some significant brain damage and has changed her life...she now needs 24/7 supervision. I am deeply grateful to my sister who moved in with her and has risen to the need with grace and humor...though I have moments of fear that she has given up too much to support my mother. But the heart will do what it must...and timing is not something I can control. For some reason, the hummers are enjoying a longer stay here in the North...and there is still growth in the garden despite the recent frost advisories. Today I celebrate the womanly strength of my mother and my sister. They amaze me and I feel proud to be one of them. It is the girls...the female hummingbirds who stay behind with the children to feed themselves and strengthen themselves for the long journey back to Central and South America. They males leave first. They don't have a choice. It's written in their crystals...the tiny navigating crystal that is in their brain, that is programmed with their journey map and their deepest instincts that preside over the choices that they make.

On Labor Day, Stephen and I took a motorcycle ride to "Wrinkle In Thyme Farm" to explore the possibility of raising our own lamb for food and fiber. For me, the motorcycle is a challenge to drop my fear and allow the wild and free wind to blow my hair, to ride under the open sky...to be brave and trust
that what will be...will be. I choose to take this risk...this day and I choose to accept the consequences whatever they may be. It is a form of meditation...to let go...to trust Stephen...to love the wild ride. At 4:30 pm we were riding home. So was our friend Raymond.

The wild can be anything I guess. It doesn't have to be out of the forests or the skys. I think anything that happens out of the blue is a manifestation of the wild in my life...like the sudden spotting of an eagle riding the air currents above the lake. You never expect an encounter with the wild...it stalks you.
At 4:30 on Labor Day, Raymond crashed his brand new motorcycle as he headed home from a ride to Erroll. We learned of the details from John, who was riding just ahead of him and saw the event unfold in his rearview mirror. The crash was treated as a fatal accident. Meanwhile, Raymond had sustained some significant head injuries after being thrown 100 feet or more...and his leg was broken and a shoulder was dislocated. Ray was still on lifesupport last Weds. evening when we talked to John....and medical procedures for his other injuries were on hold until he could breathe on his own. We learned last night that the family had met around the life support issue and a decision had been made to take Ray off lifesupport. In other words...the family put their trust in Raymond to make his own decision. If it is his time to go...let it be. If it is his time to seize the day and face the long journey to recovery...well so be it. Today...in my wild heart, I ran on my treadmill for Raymond. I find when I dedicate my workout to something greater than myself...I am better at fulfilling my promise. Running with Raymond...today, he and his family and all of us who love him...all are in my prayers. I usually put rock and roll on my Pandora Radio for my workout. The music...the beat...the rhythm lightens my feet and I run with a lighter heart. As I hit my 25 minute threshold, my old friend Brad Delp and his band Boston are singing..".I understand about indecision..."and tears spring to my eyes as I experience a sense of Raymond's indecision at this moment of his life...suspended with a life/death decision on his plate. I don't know what is acually happening, but in my heart I am with him and I am for him...what ever his decision may be. And as I slow down my pace for the last 5 minutes, I am listening to "Knocking On Heaven's Door". Why that song? Why now? A bubble of grief passes through my entire being as I let go. The tears flow. The ache in my heart is speaking to me. What is my story of Raymond?

I met Raymond at The Grizzley when we first moved to Bethel. He is warm and easy to talk to. His short stature made hugging an adventure and we became hugging buddies. I think every time I saw Raymond, I got a big bear hug, or gave one. He told me the story of how an eagle tried to grab his pony tail as he rode his motorcycle in Canada. The image of Raymond riding the motorcycle with an eagle on his back never once left my imagination and it was there when Stephen told me of the Great Blue touching his head with a flap of one wing as he rode his motorcycle just after his heart surgery..this is the magic of the wild...the wild medicine that touches a soul and brings life in...wild free life. Raymond had that kind of life and he had a joy that he shared wherever he went. Raymond made our floors shine and laid our magic carpet in our new bedroom. His presence is part of my home. He loved to ski and he sought out the Western Mountain on many occasions and he was part of our Locals Challenge ski race group. He was a friend and a comfort when Stephen and I had a rough patch in 2003. He was a person I never felt awkward with. I can't say I knew him that well. But I knew him like the fox that shows up every winter at the outskirts of the meadow. I knew him like the hummingbirds that feed from my nectar feeder. I knew him like the eagle that flys the river at 5:30 daily during the summer. Today I honor Raymond who lives in my heart whatever his decision will be. So be it. That is all out of my control. But what can I control? My own heart. I get it beating good and strong...send my love to the whole situation and pray he does as he sees fit. I love Raymond. Blueberry...as he was fondly called by some of the locals. Whichever you choose, Ray...Welcome Home.

This morning we were awakened by the beep, beep, beep of the school bus backing into our neighbor's driveway. Labor Day has come and gone and the young world is returning to the fall ritual of school schedules, new starts and fall sports. I haven't even looked at my blog since June 14th, so I've had a nice long break. I find it difficult to sit at the computer when the weather is gorgeous and a body just wants to move, so rather than force myself to blog, I let it go. I've missed it. I enjoy the connection it gives me to folks who say they enjoy reading what I write. It somehow completes the whole purpose of writing to have an audience and when I consider all the spiral notebooks sitting in a closet full of my daily rants and ponder the purpose of writing it all, I can only imagine that it took that much writing to develope my confidence to come out as a blogger. I am back. Resuming my blog is my return to school or my fall sport...my ritual walk into fall. I've decided to start a whole new blog to celebrate my 60th year and the beginning of the rest of my life. My focus is clear. Although I can become easily sidetracked by pop culture, the November election and several pet causes...like the Tar Sands issue and the melting of the Arctic icecap...I see my purpose. As I set out to seek my bliss, or redefine it for my new decade in life, I keep coming up with the same answer...The Wild. Where do I look to restore my soul? The wild. Where do I seek adventure and explore the unknown? In the wild. Where do my mentors live? In the wild. Where does my inspiration to keep on keeping on come from? The wild. Where do I find my favorite foods? Foraging in the wild. What stirs my deepest anger? The useless desecration of our wild lands for the continued use of fossil fuels that WILL run out and the abuse of aboriginal peoples who know how to live in a peaceful harmony with all of nature. I have no faith in the American political system. In fact I have lost faith in nearly every American system. It's unfortunate, but perhaps the first step in getting down to the truth. The truth is not very pretty either but I prefer basing my life on what is rather than on myths that are a source of brainwashing...so I am staying out of politics. I've had my fill of commitees and meetings where people talk one thing and do another. They are boring and hardly ever achieve any kind of forward motion. The bottom line is money, greed and profit...these are the things that drive politics and government. Nope. Not for me. And you won't find me putting my trust in the rich male ego either. Thanks but no thanks to the priests, politicians and government officials with shady values and questionable motives. When I decide to get involved in a cause, it will be something I feel deep in my soul...something close to home. In the meantime, I offer myself up to the trees, the birds, the chanterelles and black trumpet mushrooms...the moose and bear and deer...the garter snakes and toads...the weeds and the wildflowers...and the shy inhabitants of the edges of things. I want to live with the brave heart of an individual who listens to the silence and hears of realities beyond the human perception...how is it for you, old stump in the brook covered with moss and alive with mushrooms? How about you Mr. Pileated Woodpecker? What would you say to "legitimate" rape? Mrs. Squirrel? If I sound mad...perhaps I am. Perhaps I have finally realized that the human world is full of betrayal and ruthless intent and for the most part...I dislike humans. And I certainly don't trust them. But the wild? Well...there is something you can trust. The Hummers will be gone soon...the males have already headed toward South America, leaving the females and the kids to grow stronger for another week or two before they too head south. Like clockwork...they arrive in May and leave in September. I can trust that. I can trust the September rains to nourish the blossoming fall mushrooms and the changing colors of the deciduous trees. Winter will come. The ways of Mother Earth and her creatures are trustworthy even in their whimsy and unpredictablility...you can trust Mother Earth to be full of surprises.

So...I'm dedicating this blog to celebrating the wisdom of the wild...whispers though they are, the music I hear in the woods, from the weeds, and the trees...this will be my focus. My discipline will be to write weekly of the wild messages that come into my life and to celebrate the mystery and magic of the wild. I am that wild woman on the edge of the world and I want the heat of the Earth's core to fuel my words and inspire my life with meaning and purpose. And I can express what I hear without fear or paralyzing self doubt because I know who I am. I am that wild girl slipping her kayak into the still waters of indian summer...sliding noiselessly along like a turtle...moving slowly, quietly...listening to the birds, the fish and the pond lilies...happy to be part of this neverending stream of life and not willing anymore to be fully engaged in the ways of the world. Lucky me. At 60, I can be that tomboy child foraging for wild mushrooms...because at 60...I am wild and I am free.