I don't know why it is that there are times when all the things I have to say just seem to pleasantly flow with ease and then there are times, such as has been for the past two weeks, when, with all the things I have to say, absolutely none of it seems to find a voice. There is much in my head to write about, much to discuss with those of you who find your way here, much which causes me to be curiouser and curiouser, much, so very much and yet, when I sit to write, nothing comes out, no flow, no cause, no voice.
Today, however, requires something, some reflection, some stammering, some voice must be released even if it is not sure how to articulate itself. For today, Memorial Day, gives us all pause to think of those who serve, have served, have returned from active duty missing limbs, suffer other severe injuries, and those who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our country and freedoms. I have lifted in thought my brother-in-law, Ross; Dr. Martinez, one of my surgeons; Travis, my hand-cycle trainer/coach/friend, and so many others who I have the honor of knowing and who all have military service.
There is another whom I thought of several times today; he is someone I only met once when I was a young girl. He is a Vietnam Vet, I don't even know his name and yet I am very grateful for this one time meeting, a meeting I didn't even reflect upon until 14 years ago. This meeting is one of the many stories I have waiting to come out of my head, awaiting a voice. It is a story worth telling, preserving, memorializing; it needs a voice.
There is one more thing which I will forever reflect upon on Memorial Day. It was 14 years ago today when I had my accident. Fourteen years ago today was the last time I stood on my own two feet...oh so many things those feet, ankles, knees, legs had done for me, so many wonderful, taken for granted things. I never thought I would be separated from them, never thought they'd preceed me in death; and yet they have, 14 years ago today.
So, for now, I will think, reflect, remember...and trust the writing flow will commence soon for this and all the other stories, thoughts, curiosities, all which have made up my 49th year journey, all which are longing for their voice, for their Memorial Day.
The flag, posted on an old stubborn stump, waving proudly outside my old barn.
All three, the stump, barn, and flag have seen much, have much to say, and so much more to teach me.
I once heard about a little boy’s evening ritual. Every night, at bed time, his daddy would read him a story then the little boy would sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” After he finished his sweet song he would kneel beside his bed and pray the “now I lay me down to sleep…” prayer.
One night after hearing his most favorite bed time story and wonderfully singing “Twinkle Twinkle” he began his prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should wake before I die…” He stopped suddenly realizing his error. With widened eyes he said, “Oh daddy, I’m so sorry! I messed up. Should I start over?”
With tears in his eyes the dad replied, “No son, you didn’t mess up. I think you said it perfect.”
A few weeks ago at yoga our instructor, Melanie, had us repeat the following affirmation. It was quite moving for me then and it remains so now. I so like its words and energy, I wrote it on the chalkboard by my front door. I recite it each time I pass by, which is several times a day. It's not meant to boost ego but to affirm the strengths and possibilities of self. A letting go of temporal and holding the hand of eternal...
Me within me is the purity
Me within me is the reality
Me within me is the grace
I am the one who controls this space
The author is unknown but I hope with each affirmation this author knows the gratitude which flows from my heart of.
The last few days of rain did wonders for the lawn, the plants, and the weeds. Today, in most areas, things dried out enough that I wouldn’t get my wheelchair stuck in the mud. Taking advantage of the accessibility and the earth remaining moist, I decided to go out to pull some weeds; oh my goodness there’s a lot of them too.
Not only are there a lot of weeds but I noticed there have been a lot of critters walking about. Well, maybe not a lot of critters, but, there are a lot of critter prints. I could see where the deer stood as they trimmed the little lilac bush and nibbled on the tulips. Mingled with Cadbury and BabyCat prints are raccoon or skunk or fox prints, I’m not really sure. I felt like a great tracker as I attempted to identify the prints and where they entered and exited the property.
Along with being a lot of weeds and a lot of critter prints, I also noticed a lot of critter pooh. It became increasingly difficult to avoid the pooh while pulling the weeds as the weeds seemed to growing up from under the pooh. While tossing the pooh and pulling the weeds I began to think about a blog I visited earlier this morning at www.dirtyfootprints-studio.com. It was three photos and a short read all relating to circles. Now, don’t misunderstand me, there is nothing about Connie or Dirty Footprints Studio which remind me of pooh. It was seeing the critter footprints then thinking of her studio name dirty footprints then her post and, well, the thought process took off from there.
It seems the critters eat what’s growing in my planters, then pooh in my planters, followed by new things growing in my planters. It appears to be a cycle; a circle. I looked up at the trees and plants growing in the planters and the yard. Not only do they grow upward towards the heavens but they grow around, circular. I looked next to me at the busy ant hill which too is formed in a circle.
A gust of wind blew past me and I thought of a dust devil and a tornado. Both are funnel shaped, swirling, and circular; a hurricane too. And yet, found within the center of even in the most violent of storms there is calm; at the eye of the storm. An eye; the center of which is circular.
I saw the sacred circle of rocks which I like to place around the trees. I even wrote about placing these rocks in a blog post in March entitled “Bouncing In Psalms”. This sacred circle reminded me of other sacred circles such as circling an alter, or casting a circle. There’s the circle of life, again I wrote of something similar back in February entitled “The Wheel of Life”.
Even being new to yoga, I realize, there are a lot of ‘circle’ things going on with it. Before starting a series of exercises or a meditation I do the Adi Mantra which, when finishing, I visually sweep the space around me and envision myself being surrounded by white light. One of the meditations I enjoy doing is the Kirtan Kriya. “By practicing Kirtan Kriya, we begin to understand the cycle of creation…everything comes from God and everything goes to God.” (from http://www.spiritvoyage.com/meditation/Kirtan-Kriya/MED-000035.aspx )
I looked up at my house, which isn’t circular at all except for the window above the front door, and thought of Native American dwellings. Why I thought of them I’m not sure; maybe because the third photo on the Dirty Footprint’s blog is a Native American image or perhaps because I felt like a great Native American tracker while identifying the prints in my yard; either way, I did think of these dwellings, such as the Tepee, Wigwam, Hogan, even an Igloo all of which are constructed in a circular style.
All of this Native American thought reminded me of a quote I had read by Black Elk. I knew it had to do with circles but couldn’t quite remember the heart of it to do it any justice. I had to go find the quote, so I climbed back into my wheelchair and entered my square dwelling. Before logging into my laptop to begin the search, I lit a few candles. The shape of the flame was like a Tepee, circular, and the puddle mark from the melted wax, it left a circle.
Black Elk’s quote is beautiful –
"You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the power of the world always works in circles, and everything tries to be round. The sky is round, and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars. The wind, in its greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nests in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours. The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle. The moon does the same and both are round. Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves."
Over and over again on this my 49th year journey I find I have so much to learn. I’m not sure ‘to learn’ is the appropriate phrase; I have so much from within needing to be discovered, revealed, so much intuitiveness waiting to emerge. I think it’s stuff I already know, I just don’t know I know it yet and it longs to be known at deeper and deeper depths.
In BIG, Connie provides tools and instruction on how to open the door to intuitiveness. BIG is BIGger than FEARLESS painting; through my BIG experience I have become braver, more courageous in opening myself up for discovery and sharing these treasures with others. BIG reveals the sacred in all things. It has guided me to a keener sense of my spirituality, of Mother Earth, and the connectedness of others seeking the same.
All great teachers continue to teach; today is a prime example of this. From Connie’s short blog, Mother Earth’s whisperings, and Black Elk’s infinite wisdom I gained a greater insight to human existence, to my own existence, and how all things exist together; all stemming from a simple circle.
This quote speaks to the numerous depths of self. I hope you find it thought provoking, inspiring, comforting, confirming...even if you don't call yourself an artist, you are, everyone is, a creative being, thus, I believe, it applies to all of us. We so often close ourselves in, set up bars, barriers, boarders...never be a prisioner to self. May you find it simply wondrous to set yourself free today...
"A picture must possess a real power to generate light and for a long time now I’ve been conscious of expressing myself through light or rather in light.
I have always tried to hide my efforts and wished my works to have a light joyousness of springtime which never lets anyone suspect the labors it has cost me.
An artist must never be a prisoner. Prisoner? An artist should never be a prisoner of himself, prisoner of style, prisoner of reputation, prisoner of success, etc.
There is nothing more difficult for a truly creative painter than to paint a rose, because before he can do so he has first to forget all the roses that were ever painted.
I do not literally paint that table, but the emotion it produces upon me. I don’t paint things. I only paint the difference between things.
He who loves, flies, runs, and rejoices; he is free and nothing holds him back.
Work cures everything." by Henri Matisse (1869 – 1954 )
“Come on Lord, let him hit a home run. Come on Lord, let him tag him out. Come on Lord, let him catch it…yes, thank you, about time Lord.” Whew, “Good job Chris, way to play ball!”
This was me, game after game while Chris was playing Little League. He was mostly always ‘almost’; mostly always ‘gosh darn close’. Chris wasn’t a bad player, he wasn’t a great player, but he played his little league heart out. It was so frustrating for him to catch the fly ball only to have it pop out of his mitt, as if someone bopped his hand making it do so. Or, he’d hit an awesome line drive, with 2 outs and the opposing team’s outfielder totally on it, fast throw to first base, and Chris is O – U – T out. “Lord come on, give him a break; it’d be so good for him; send his angels to the outfield with him.”
Then one day, while sitting off by myself on the bleachers, having another game day conversation with God, I got an answer. It was one of those very audible, real life answers; so much so, I turned to see the face of the one who spoke it. “I have to keep Chris humble,” said the faceless voice.
“Humble? Really? Come on Lord, he’s only eight.” was my discussed mommie response.
On the way home from one of those ball games or one of those ball practices, Chris said to me, “Mom, I just wanna live until I die.”
I’ll never forget that moment. Could he have heard the song?Probably; but when I looked into his eyes there was an intense maturity, a profound depth, as if he truly knew what he was saying, and meant it, meant it from an intuitive, insightful place within his little boy heart. I was moved beyond words. “I hope so son, I really hope you do,” was all I could manage to say.
It was ball season when I had my accident. Yet, thankfully since I had four kids playing ball, there were plenty of Mommies who stepped up to the plate (pun fully intended). How grateful I am, still, after 14 years, for all the things these cherished women did for my family.
Being in trauma then in isolation, I wasn’t able to see my children; I’m sure I had a few short conversations with them on the phone, but I wasn’t able to see them, hug them, sit with them, read to them, take them to ball practice, or any of the other many things a mommie does with them. As I write this I wonder what must have gone through their minds when they heard, “your mom has lost both of her legs.”
My nurses couldn’t take it any longer. I don’t know how they did it but they all worked together to make arrangements to sneak my fabulous five up to see me. Now, I was just with this fabulous five over the weekend and they haven’t changed. They are loud, mischievous, and plain silly, they are all but a ‘sneak up to a hospital room’ group, especially back then. Yet it was accomplished. Our visit was short. I held back tears and attempted to be light hearted; I was overjoyed to see them all. Still, I wonder what must have gone through their minds, seeing me hooked up to so many IV’s and machines, not to mention, their wonderment as to what my legs must look like and the oddity that they really were missing.
Jeff shuttled them out the door but Chris lingered making his way back to the foot of my hospital bed. He stood there looking at me though over sized dark sunglasses which he had been wearing since he’d arrived. I knew why he wore them and never questioned him about them. Here now, he was looking for something, anything to say and he just began to talk, to ramble on. I forced a smile as I manically pushed my morphine pump hoping the wonderful drug would numb the pain in my heart. My sweet brave 10 year old son, hiding his tear stained eyes behind those sunglasses, he had no morphine, no drug, to deaden his heart ache, just his funny, silly rambling.
Maybe it was at that moment he first began to know his calling in life would be physical therapy. Now, after last weekend’s graduation, he will start a new chapter in his life as he begins his doctorate of physical therapy. A profession he will be so very, very good in.
This morning he stopped by to drop off a few of his things, make a few arrangements, do a few chores for me, all before he sets out for graduate school at the end of this week. He asked me to help him move a broken down 4-wheeler, I needed to steer as he pushed. As I went to climb on he said, “Here, mom, I can just lift you.” So he picked me up from my wheelchair and set me on the seat but not before he brushed off the dust.
As he pushed and I steered, I thought back to all the times he has lifted me, carried me. One time in particular was when we were on a family vacation in Cancun, January 2010. Here is a handsome young man on a beautiful Caribbean beach scattered with gorgeous young women in bikinis. He could be out doing what most young men would enjoy doing in such a setting, but he carried me, his mom, out to the water. He took me catamaraning, he then carried me down along the shore line to where schools of fish were swimming though, running back and forth from our beach location to the equipment shack to make sure I had the right size life vest before swimming out with me, watching over me, making sure I was okay while never intruding on my independence, always encouraging me to swim out to the reef, to snorkel around, to explore, to be ‘able’.
Yeah, I was reminded of all the times, and there are many. As I’m sure there will be many others. He is tender with me, watchful, always seeking ways for adapting things so I can do ‘something’ more. He is going to be a fine physical therapist, a choice physical therapist.
As I continued to watch him this morning I noticed and commented on how many things he does like his dad, as well as how many of those things scare the heck out of me, like his dad. “Yeah, dad taught me a lot and there are a lot of things dad did that I know not to do.” I had to smile when he said this because I knew he learned from his dad’s mistakes.
We sat and had a little breakfast together this morning. It was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing really special and yet I am so grateful for the time we spent. I reminded myself he is only going a few hundred miles up Interstate 15, it’s not like he’s headed across the pond to Scotland for 2years again as he did in 2006. I wasn’t feeling really sad nor was I teary. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him any more or any less then I have over the past few years while he was living only 30 miles up Interstate 15.
So what was I feeling? Maybe, as I watched him this morning and as we sat and had breakfast together, just maybe, I saw my 24 year old son who plays life with the same little leaguer heart. Maybe, it is knowing all the things he has been through, all the things which have kept him humble. Maybe, it’s knowing how much he misses his dad. Or, maybe, it’s seeing him do just what Jeff and I raised him to do, doing what he commented he wanted to do, “I just want to live until I die.”
While he did grow up on blacktop streets, this song does remind me of my 8 year old little leaguer, my brave 10 year old boy, my 19 year old missionary, my 24 year old graduate who continues to hold on to his dreams. And tonight I will thank the Lord above for allowing me to be Christopher's mom. I will thank Him for knowing best and keeping my, His, our son humble.
This weekend I was blessed to spend time with each of my children as they all had gathered here in our little country town.
Morgan introduced me to her sweet new baby girl.
Christopher graduated from college receiving his Bachelor's in Science Human Nutrition.
Heather told me all about her classroom of students and butterflies.
Dillon totally took care of the Bar B Que.
Garth, tho he was busy all weekend, made a chocolate moment.
Oh yes, there is much more to each of these thoughts, much more from this weekend, but for now, for me, on this Mother's Day of my 49th year journey, I want to keep it so simple. These snipets of each of my children, of each of these amazing individuals, really speaks volumes to me. As the day closed, I was drawn to a timeless children's book, one tucked in the book shelf. I sought it out. I read it. I smiled. I cried.
