A Minor Incident But Big Thoughts

I unwrapped the ace bandage and took a morning look at the progress. Swelling down. Tenderness at the wrist still sharp. Hmm. My PT mind wondered if I cracked the scaphoid bone or the distal radius. But I’d wait to get an X-ray. Those things don’t show up for a week or two. The black and blue was now turning into a river of sick yellow trailing down my forearm. Range of motion was better, but it hurt a lot. Maybe a 6 or 7 on the pain scale especially in the morning. Don’t push it. Put the support back on. It’s only been a few days. Probably strained the ligament. Might be six weeks. 

There is so much you do with a wrist. How awkward to wash your hair with one hand, or even turn a page in a book with the left hand. Or tear open a package, let alone velcro or a sealed plastic bag. Forget twisting the lid on a jar. Or hanging up clothes. Most of mine are on the floor right now. And typing! I’m correcting more mistakes than I’m hitting right with my left hand hunt and peck for this post. I think of my brother who has lived with one arm since age 2. How much more energy he has had to use in this life to negotiate all of this. 

But the worst pain is questioning my aging process. I had just gotten my new ebike. Even this was humbling–to admit I needed a little boost up the hill or I would strain my back as I did last summer. It was only my second time on it and I already loved how it rode so smoothly even with the battery boost off. The winding bike trails in the nearby subdivision were perfect, newly paved and with just a few other bikers. But as I sped up going down a hill and hit a turn with an abrupt edge, I was suddenly falling to the right, landing on my wrist, my shin, and then somersaulting into a tuck and roll. When I sat up, I knew my wrist had taken the worst of it, but although shaken, I was pretty happy that nothing else seemed injured. I told my husband I just needed to sit still a minute and assess. That’s when all the doubt began.

Should I be biking on an ebike knowing I have osteoporosis? Why had I lost control? I’ve never had a bike accident as an adult. Was it because the weight on the back of this bike from the battery threw off my sense of balance? I so wanted this explanation. Yet I had to consider–was I losing my sense of balance in general? 

There is such a disparity of feeling so young and vibrant flying down the trail and the paradox of knowing your body is not so young, not so vibrant. Should I accept my age or fight it? Should I be safer or just go for it. I can’t help remembering that quote by Hunter S. Thompson–

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”

I tend to side with Thompson on the whole. But when I’m in pain, I consider some sort of compromise.

It’s just a wrist. It’s getting better. I know I’ll get back on that bike and go slower until I get used to it. But who am I now? Is being 70 years old a concept that limits or frees me? 

Dying Time

It was the last thing I wanted to do. Yet my two grandchildren were literally dragging me into the old Palmer Pioneer Cemetery. I had taken them to play in the park that adjoins the cemetery on this bright sunny day, but they had other plans. Each pulling on one of my hands, they said, “Come on, Mema. We want to see the graves.”

I was a little weary of graves and of being with the dying. Just back from a trip to Iowa where I led a service to bury my mother, I had stayed a week longer to bury my oldest sister’s husband as well, who had died not totally unexpectedly, but sooner than we thought, just the day before my mother’s funeral. “I’ve had enough,” I thought.

It dawned on me that my 7 year old grandson and 4 year old granddaughter were so interested because they had taken part in my mother’s graveside service, helping to lead the procession to the open grave where her ashes would be buried. When it was over, and they had thrown their share of the rich Iowa soil into the small hole, they and the other children gathered around it, talking to themselves and looking with great curiosity at the urn and the mysterious sense of this final resting place. “Where was Nana?” now, they seemed to ask. How did this blue jar in the earth now explain where the woman who had snuggled them to herself and read them books had gone?

So reluctantly, I walked the graves with my grandchildren that day, one by one, very carefully, reading the names, the dates, the writing that was on each marker. They asked questions about the different kinds of crosses and what did it mean to put a cross at the head of grave? Some had pictures within the headstones, often of children and teens and at the base, faded moments of their lives, like a small teddy bear or a toy. They wanted to know what age they were when they died and then would stand quietly thinking about this. They asked about the angel sculptures and what did that mean? Why were some headstones so tall and some just flat on the ground? Why were some surrounded by flowers and others nearly overgrown with weeds? Why was there a bench in front of this one? Why was there a fisherman engraved on this one? Why a picture of a plane on the other? Why, why, why.

But I silently asked other questions Why do we die? Die too young? Too violently or too painfully? Why does it hurt so much for those left behind?

The ground was uneven, which matched the unsteadiness of my soul; it had been just 8 months since losing my best friend as well; and two other close friends were facing life-threatening cancer. Again, I’d had enough of dying. But as we wandered from grave to grave, giving each one such careful attention, I began to feel some inner warmth, some consolation. Rather than increasing my tired grief, it surprisingly assuaged the lingering exhaustion and my own unanswered questions.

We had a rich time in that graveyard, facing death over and over. And I remembered how my mother had often taken me to the cemetery where she now lay to look at gravestones. And how I too, was glad to go and just wander from one to another, hearing her tell the stories of relatives and friends who laid there. The headstones marked the story of a life, whatever that life might have been and however that life might have loved. It simply ‘was what it was” as my mother would often say.

At some point near the end of our time there with my grandchildren, I thought, “We all die.” And in that moment, knowing every human being will leave the physical body behind and travel on, I felt a kind of community with others that was consoling and healing. I felt lighter than when I entered.

It’s a difficult and painful step to take–to simply accept the death of our physical body or of those we love–but at the same time, it is so natural and inevitable to die. As we walked back to the gate to the cemetery, I still grieved, still walked with my questions, but I could live with them, be curious about them, rather than rejecting them. It took the innocence of children to lead me in and within.

Go Lightly

Between a two week hiking trip in Utah and steadily editing the first draft of my Camino memoir, my blog has been neglected. Funny how I often write posts in my head, but they don’t get translated to this page. But here is one of the posts that has been rambling around in there.

Walking in the bowels of the earth in southern Utah was good for my tired soul. I went there still wet with grief from losing one of my best friends last fall and losing my mother in January. I went there still composing mom’s eulogy and sermon for May 22nd. And while there, I listened to my sister on the phone making funeral plans for her husband who is failing rapidly.

I have been a grief counselor and been through this grief cycle personally a number of times, losing my father, my sister and a close friend who was like a brother. But even though I KNOW that grief takes its own time and its own meandering course, I went on this trip just wanting it to be over. I grieve in two distinct ways: my stomach goes into a knot and I am excessively tired. The stomach knot is gone but the exhaustion lingers. Soul exhaustion that my body translates for me. A lot of exhaustion comes from my personality that wants to be strong and resilient and able to take what comes. There’s been a lot of pride in me for that in my history. But not this time. I’m practicing vulnerability, trying to live into what Paul the apostle wrote, “in my weakness I am strong.”

I said to a friend while on the trip that I feel small in this country–in a good way. I see my place in evolution and I can see my grief in literally the “sands of time.” I saw this sign in a little mercantile in Escalante and felt the truth of its message. This grief opens me to kindness. A kindness that opens me to seeing all of us carry grief just a slight fingernail scratch beneath the surface. I don’t say that to diminish my own. Only to sense our humanity together.

Walking in the Grand Escalante Staircase formed over 100-500 million years, you can see layer after layer of time in the rocks. You can imagine the tremendous forces that shaped the stone through eruptions and uplifts and changes in climate. And most significantly you can see how water running over sandstone for centuries created the beauty of the slot canyons that are my favorite kind of canyon. They feel womb-like to me–very much as if I am being held. And at the same time, signs warn of flash floods that could fill this narrow passageway at any moment without warning. Beauty and loss. They abide together. I’m letting my soul have its share of both these days and lace them together with grace. This healing will come.

Hiking in Buckskin Gulch
I call this one, The Pregnant Ladies; deeper in Buckskin Gulch.

Sincerely yours,

I’m always interested in words and was delighted to learn something entirely new about a word I’ve used often.  I’m assuming that if you are reading my blog, you are a word-lover too. 

On a recent eight-day retreat I attended (on Zoom), the first teaching focused on the word “sincere”. If asked prior to this, I suppose my meaning of the word was something like “I really mean it” or  “what I’m saying is true” or even “from the heart.” But I learned on retreat that the older meaning is “unbroken”. And that meaning has a story. 

In Roman times, potters were so good at fixing broken pots with wax that from the outside one couldn’t tell there had been cracks in them. But if one looked inside the pot, the wax was apparent and one knew it had been broken before. In those times, sincere meant literally, “unwaxed” and thus literally “unbroken.” Such an unexpected etymology of this word!

When I apply that meaning to the spiritual journey, being sincere means that the way I present myself on the outside is no different from what is true on the inside. Sincerity then is being authentic. No brokenness of saying one thing but meaning another. No false flattery.  No trying to be other than that which you really are. Some would add “Warts and all.” But I could also say that it’s harder sometimes to tell the truth about yourself “no matter how beautiful it is.” (A quote from spiritual writer, Macrina Wiedeker.) It is another way of saying that when I’m sincere I’m truthful. Yet that is only half the meaning— it is truth with kindness. As one teacher said, “It’s soft honesty.”  

I am taking this meaning of the word, “sincere” now as almost a divining rod that guides my words and actions when I am aware.  Am I really being sincere when I say that? When I choose that? When I think that?

That inquiry brings me home to myself. A long journey for the soul, but one I’m sincerely willing to take.  

A Darling That Survived

In the last post I knew I was going to “shoot some darlings” from my first draft of my memoir. It turns out a huge chunk of what I consider my first pilgrimage will have to go. The excerpt below is a memory I love so much but just doesn’t fit into the next draft. But I always promise my “darlings” I won’t thrown them away, but use them in another way. So this is that venue. As a little backstory, I traveled with my college friend, Julie after we both finished our graduate school programs but just before we took our first jobs. We depended on the famous book in 1974, Europe on $10 a Day (and we did it). The last month of our three month trip was spent in Italy; our favorite city of the whole trip was Florence or Firenze as it is called in Italy. (Why is it different? Paris is Paris?) We were having lunch with some new Italian friends who were excited to tell us about their city. 

“Have you seen the David,” one asked. 

“No, but we will tomorrow,” we replied.

There was a pause and incredulous look. “Not seen the David yet,” he said. “Oh then you have not been to Firenze. The David, he is alive! You can look at him from one side and believe you see him. But then, you look again and he sees you. You look from another side, and he is different again. And yet his eyes will follow you, will draw you in, will ask you why, will hold all sorrow, all joy. He wants to speak to you and you will want to answer. It is magnifico.” 

I remember thinking that not only he, but everyone at the table spoke of this marble statue as a living person, not a sculpture that was 500 years old. It only heightened our anticipation of seeing one of the most famous sculptures of Michelangelo Burranoti. 

We went the very next day to the Accademia Gallery. But before we even reached the door, I had a profound moment.  A small slit in the shade into the museum radiated a white light. Stopping, I saw the white light was emanating from my first glimpse of The David. It captured me from the corner of my eye, just a moment’s glance—and yet it stopped me in my tracks and held my breath. I was no longer aware of my body; I was completely taken by this striking white figure in marble that exuded light. They were right. He was alive. I hurried to see him more fully once inside the museum. As instructed by our new Italian friends,  I spent a long time gazing at him from all sides. It was as if he knew all the stories of all time, and all the ways one could fail, falter and yet rise again, could love and trust God and then fall back, depending only on one’s own reason and strength. The David could look at each of us and commiserate with our human condition—and yet in all of it, so much beauty. 

There were four other statues by Michelangelo in the Accademia; four figures writhing as if trying to free themselves from blocks of rough cut stone, yet still bound. They were called by some, “the Slaves “or by some “the Prisoners.” The brochure from the Accademia says, “It is claimed that the artist deliberately left them incomplete to represent their eternal struggle of human beings to free themselves from their material trappings.”

These rough and incomplete sculptures came from large cubes of marble maybe 4’ by 4’. Unlike the mesmerizing  influence of the perfect and polished David, they were still compelling. I could almost feel their pain, their struggle, their desperate need to break free. The accademia guidebook writes of them being the “non-finito” or uncompleted statues of Michelangelo. 

I felt a little unsteady after leaving the Accademia. No art work had ever affected me so deeply. Art was not something that was of value in a hard-working farming community. And I hadn’t pursued an interest in it while taking classes that would lead to a job that would make me money. Without knowing it, I held a belief that art was for the dreamy and uncommitted. And perhaps for anyone who chose to live without financial resources. Certainly Michelangelo was not well paid. Yet I began to open to what it meant to be an artist—the passion, the commitment. A commitment to create beauty. To see beyond the familiar self to what potential lies beneath. 


Shooting the Darlings

I’ve been a writer long enough to know that although it feels even violent at times, a piece of writing is usually helped by letting go of some parts of it that you love the best. Even if it’s just a word or phrase that seems perfect, there comes the humble moment when you know you have to let it go. There’s a term for it in the writers’ circles I’ve been part of over the years–“shooting the darlings.” It actually hurts to do it. That’s why the word “shooting” feels authentic.

I received the summary letter and line-by-line notations of my draft memoir back from the developmental editor last week. She was very affirming, insightful and at times even gushy about the writing. She seemed to understand the arc of the story and what I was hoping to convey about the art of pilgrimage and also the questions I took along on the journey. She feels like a good fit for this project. I was buoyed by her comments and questions.

And then she finished by recommending two options, both of which made me gulp a little. They both involve lopping off the last 20,% of the writing and perhaps working on that portion as another book on women’s friendships. Then filling in parts of the story with other writing to clarify and expand what is there. But option two was a bigger gulp; it felt I would be taking a shotgun to my manuscript. It would mean a big restructuring of the story by centering on the Camino pilgrimage and weaving in the other pilgrimages rather than keeping them in chronological order. As she summarized in her letter about this latter option,”Or, conversely, you might be open to a much bigger revision that makes this more fully realized, in terms of its literary and storytelling value, and probably more sellable/shareable as well. I am going to lean strongly toward the second option—the one that will stretch you.”

As I read her words, I immediately felt the weight of the second option; it would mean so much more time, work and decision-making. How would I ever be able to transition back and forth? How could I take a 5000 word section and make it flow into the story? It seemed I would need to rewrite the other pilgrimage stories as well. I could almost feel the bullets hitting the pages. But I also heard her advice that it would make this a better book, “more fully realized.”

I took option 3 of going “bravely to bed” to see how I would feel about it the next day. Then, as help from the universe usually comes to me, a friend called and he mentioned using The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz to help him sort out a dilemma in his current life. It’s a book I have sitting on my shelf. Would it help me make this choice? I pulled it off the shelf as I could only remember the first three agreements: 1) Be Impeccable With Your Word: 2) Don’t Take Anything Personally; 3) Don’t Make Assumptions. All not only good, but true statements of wisdom and guidance. But I had to open the book to remember the last one;

4) Always Do Your Best.

And there it was. that was it. I knew I wanted to always do my best; option 2 seemed an obvious choice in doing my best for this story. There really was no other choice.

I also knew I wanted to be impeccable with my word(s). And I saw I was making assumptions that it would be a lot of hard work and trouble to make the revision. Perhaps it would be enjoyable to take the challenge. The other agreement to not take things personally I felt I did know. I knew that needing to seriously revise this draft didn’t mean I wasn’t a good writer. I don’t think I took it personally. Yet even that agreement is one for me “to have and to hold” as I take the vulnerable step of thinking of publishing and marketing this book– not my original plan.

If you hear small gunshots in the night, it could be me, shooting my darlings.

That Was I

A friend who knows my heart for poetry and that I was first a woman of the Plains, sent me this poem by Ted Kooser, Pulitzer Prize Winner in 2005 who lives in Nebraska and graduated from Iowa State, my alma mater. This poem is from the book Delights and Shadows, Copper Canyon Press, 2004. I’m glad this poem arrived for me now, as I turn 70 in a few days. I like its particularity of place and appreciation of how far we can travel in a very small distance. And I too can notice “the rows of sunken horseshoe pits” yet see the grapevine that “I can hold onto.”

by Ted Kooser

Using this poem as a prompt for my own, and here is my take on “That Was I”.

That Was I 

I was that woman you saw walking down Lowland Street, 

in Eagle River, Alaska

slightly hunched in the cold, 

a blue mask 

on her face, it slightly wet with forced breath, 

looking at her feet as even the low sun seemed cold 

through the pines

and the shadows on the road more blue.

I had noticed I was shuffling a little, 

weighed down with listless thoughts, 

the sound of snow creaking ominously, old and stiff. 

And that was I, who turned a corner 

and, now out of the trees, hit with the full force of winter sun,

a warmth, weak but steady.

 That was I who now saw how clearly the frosted branch 

of the mountain ash

 was exquisite against the blue sky and 

stopped to be curious if three dimensions can take on four dimensions— 

noticing that the tree in front of me was moving with brown wings, 

not leaves, but Bohemian waxwings, in a mad competition 

to chortle down bright red berries,

 so intent they did not notice me standing 

3 feet away in quiet, still delight, 

inwardly turning to light. 

 Yes, that was I. 

An Axe for the Frozen Sea

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. Franz Kafka

These are arresting words for me just now, the one who is writing a book. After two long, determined and failed efforts to write my memoir, this version decided to be written. At least that’s what it feels like this time–easy, even though putting in the time on it is the same. It seems this will be my long life lesson: when you stop trying, when you surrender control, when you give up, there is space for what is authentic to arise and to start this slow and intricate dance of creation.

The hardest thing for me was finding the structure of the book; I didn’t want it to be a linear “first I did this and then I did that.” What suddenly came together was: A Long Walk Home: One Woman’s Life as Pilgrimage. Or at least that is the working title. I wrote about 70,000 words and then sent it off to a developmental editor, much like leaving your toddler at preschool for the first time. It’s been with her for a few weeks now, while I take a rest from re-reading it and having second doubts.

While I wait and wonder what her editorial comments will be, I know at the same time the guts of this book is my truth. I am content with this book, even knowing there is much to edit in the coming months. But while I wait, this quote makes me reconsider my writing in light of Kafka’s assertion. Is it an axe for the frozen sea inside me? Would it be that for others? Have I identified the frozen sea in its totality yet?

It’s a vulnerable book already. I look at the many ways I have defended my heart and used my strong will to bulldoze my way through life–with mostly good intentions, but not always with a slowing to hear what guidance might come from a deeper place. That’s what pilgrimage has done for me–worn down the defenses. After the long walk with all its challenges, pain, anxiety, not-knowing, and sheer fatigue–yes, like an axe at times, I have been left with a compassionate and slightly amusing view of all my efforts at getting life right. A sweet humility come smiling at me and a tender love that understands.

I feel connected to the vast frozen sea in all my human community today; some of us yearning for melting, some of us considering it and some of us who will never trust that thawing will be safe or survivable. We all have that unique memoir that is difficult to write, to offer. I don’t feel like taking an axe to it today.. just letting the rays of lengthening sun do what they do.

What Does She Listen to Now

I hesitate to write this as it seems this whole past year has been me writing about loss, death and grief. Yet that was a significant undeniable truth of the past 12 months. Not only the physical death of my friend, but also the deaths of so many to COVID 19, many who died alone, many unable to be buried. And the real grief I feel for the steady loss of trust in this country–with the government, with the police, with the justice system, with the media, and most significantly with each other as human beings. All this.

I hesitate to write because I don’t want to write about another death, another significant death, another loss. This one happened on January 8th and one that I knew was coming. This one came as the new year began and only two days after the violent attack on the Capitol. This one happened on the day of my father’s birthday, now gone 36 years past. It as a death that I received with grief and great relief. It marks a great shift in my life, it names a new void, it opens me to gratitude and challenges me to know myself in a new way.

My mother has died.

I have written an homage to her on Facebook and written an obituary for her local paper. But I want to record her life here as well on this blog called a Listening Life, for my mother was a great listener. And she passed on that value to me.

Listening was her way of making peace. And this is how.

She taught me to listen to my elders, even the elders that held opinions not her own. Still, she felt respect for the individual, especially an elder, came first, not her opinions. She held her views, even her convictions lightly, placing more value on relationship than being right.

She taught me to listen to what Jesus called, “the least of these.” She was careful to stop and hear the words of the mentally handicapped, the sick, the misunderstood, the judged. I can look back now and see that I didn’t even know what she was doing, just that it was her way–from her Down’s syndrome nephew to her friend in adultery to a small crying child. “Try to see it from their side,” she would say.

At age 8, she listened to her dying father tell her to be a good girl and go to church and “then you will be all right.” She listened to a Mayo Clinic doctor tell her that her 2 year old son had no chance of surviving the cancer in his arm. She held that burden as the arm was amputated and she waited. But he never died. She listened to another Mayo Clinic doctor tell her that her 15 year old daughter had a 12% chance of surviving the osteogenic sarcoma in her leg. She waited for her death as the leg was amputated. The cancer returned 16 years later and she listened to the last breath of her daughter as she slept beside her the final night. She listened as the doctors gave her husband a year to live and this time they were right. She listened as another daughter told her she had breast cancer. When I collapsed in grief each time, she would only say, “These things happen. We have to learn how to accept what life brings.”

She had to listen to both sides of ongoing conflict between a demanding father who required relentless hard work of his children and the children who felt abused and punished by his workaholism. She would tell us the story of why he was the way he was, and then in turn she would bring our plight to him. Always the anxious frustrated mediator, that rarely could bring peace between a father and his 7 teenagers but she never stopped trying to get us to listen to each other.

It is ironic that her primary physical loss in her life was her hearing. She had hearing aids by the age of 50 and by the age of 96 when she died, it was a supreme effort to understand what was said to her.

I hope that she listened to herself inside. That she recognized her goodness, her kindness, her unfailing love for everyone no matter what. I hope she realized her deep connection to all that is Holy and that she was part of that shining holiness.

I fully trust she is in that Light now. I know she must feel so free, to hear again and walk again and have her memory back in some new form of consciousness. I wonder if her return to the Source means she has reunited with her husband, daughter, sisters, friends. It seems her love would do that.

I wonder what she is listening to now.

A friend wrote to me that when he saw this picture, he suddenly felt so relaxed. She would have liked that.

A Sweet Gift

Each Christmas time there comes a card or a letter or a gift that deepens the meaning of this set-apart time (one definition of “Holy”). This year it is a book by Charlie Mackery called The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse.(Harper One, 2019) You can read it front to back or back to front or just open it in the middle. It is a book of the wisdom of these four creatures who become friends.

The book comes as a balm to my soul. The grief of the last year had settled down to sleep for a while but two days ago, I saw a video of my friend who passed , and it rose up on one elbow and howled again. And just as all the grief books predict, it brought with it the losses of my father and sister who both died in the 80’s, the grief that my 96 year-old mother has COVID now and the collective grief of so many in the time of uncertainty and loss. My heart aches for our human community.

So the book comes telling what I hold as the great Truths of living, especially in these times. I wish I could send it to everyone. I know I will be ordering some soon.

“Tears fall for a reason and they are your strength, not weakness,” says the Horse.

“When the big things feel out of control….focus on what you love right under your nose.”

So I wrapped my heart in friendship on the night of Winter Solstice, singing and drumming and throwing what I need to release written on a piece of paper into the fire. In this way, I keep walking toward light, even if it feels hidden, like the “stars” of Jupiter and Saturn in the Great Conjunction were hidden beneath a cloud that night. But the light is there. Blessings to all who read this and are suffering. May we hold on together.