Into the Jungle

It’s been about a month since I learned I was joining a new organization with difficult credentials for admittance—The Cancer Patient Club. It’s like walking into a world both familiar and foreboding, but at least there’s lots of others vacationing there. 

I suppose it’s strange to call it vacationing, but for me, like a vacation, it is a place I’ve gone that feels separated from the usual way of living life. It’s certainly not like going to Hawaii for sun and sand and little drinks with umbrellas, but like an adventurous vacation, it does interrupt the familiar, everyday routine of life. It’s an abrupt break from going about life in its more predictable patterns. And there is extreme value in that. 

Five days after my bilateral mastectomy, I felt well enough to join my online Writer’s Group where we were talking about how easy it is to not write—to keep slogging along accomplishing all the things we usually accomplish and play the roles where we already know the lines. And yet when we do that, we feel restless or guilty for betraying ourselves from the writing we really yearn to do. A member of the group said her therapist called this abdication of our soul like taking a familiar superhighway, that’s easy and fast, where you can drive on automatic, following the flow of traffic. But to take instead the unfamiliar or even the unknown path, is the path of the writer and for me, the path of being a cancer patient. I’m writing a new story and the new story is writing me. 

I see this new path as carving a way into the Jungle. It’s thick with vines, undergrowth, rotting tree trunks, murky water, strange bird calls, monkeys swinging on the overstory. Like entering the world of cancer patient, it causes pause. But it is interesting, intriguing and if one can get past the heavy laden specter of death that surrounds the Big C word, it can pull you into a world that opens your heart. 

I’ve had a few times in the jungle. Once in Belize a local guide was walking us past the high domed hills of termites, pointing out the long line of army ants carrying chiseled pieces of leaves back to their nest, and warning us of the dangerous bees in the tree overhead. As we dove further along the narrow trail, he perked his head up at a new sound and we went off trail to follow the cry of the howler monkey with its strange lion-like call. As the monkey surveyed us from overhead and swung closer for a look, I took a backstep to see it more clearly and a long thin frond from a waist high plant literally suctioned-cupped its way around my arm. I was aghast, thinking it was injecting poison in me or something and peeled it off my arm, leaving a line of red dots where it had attached itself like an octopus tentacle. I showed the guide, thinking that he would be appalled or at least worried, but he glanced down, shrugged and said oh yes that plant does that. It’s fine. And it was. We went on to float down a clear river on small inner tubes, drifting past delicate orchids and gigantic palms, banyans and vines thick as a strong woman’s arm. It’s a memory I hold tucked in a delicate place where I recall the white butterflies that flew up into the deep shiny green of wild jungle.

Like writing the true thing, like becoming a cancer patient, like entering a jungle, the best places for creating something new, for opening consciousness, for exploring what is not known, offer up their secrets with a choice: fear it or become curious. Maybe I should say the truer way is fear it AND become curious. That’s been my reality. 

As my writers’ group joked about taking the jungle way instead of the superhighway as writers, we likened it to using a machete to make the way ahead instead of putting the car on cruise control. It takes effort, but an effort born of deep desire. It’s soul desire. And it doesn’t take effort if it is seen not so much as something to be conquered, like writers’ block or like cancer—and rather something that is to be experienced while fully awake and aware, staying curious to what words will fall on the page or what intricate ways the heart can open to love when cancer calls us to look at our mortality. 

I don’t have a cancer that comes with a dire outcome. My surgeon calls it a “nuisance” cancer. It creates a lot of trouble but she can fix it. It’s noninvasive. 98% cure rate. And yet, and yet, I am in this new club—cancer survivor. 

One of those graces is that it is so clear– I want to get off the superhighway of living my life in the familiar conditioned ways and head into the jungle.

I once forayed into the jungle in Ecuador after taking a narrow canoe down the Napo River. We disembarked on a muddy bank and then walked a mile through the thick network of flora, walking on wooden bridges over dark black water. At the mile’s end we got in even smaller  wooden rickety canoes, just enough for four, and edged across a lake full of small alligators and piranhas. (but not to worry, they only feed after 4:00 in the afternoon.) I would walk trails that left the track of the python and past holes of spiders that were bigger than my outstretched hand. I would climb a kapok tree above the overstory of the trees and spy on brilliantly colored birds and rusty colored howler monkeys. I would walk to the dinner hut as white-faced monkeys swung by me through the vines. The evenings were so full of shrieks, croaks, groans, and calls that it made me laugh at the cacophony yet keeping me from sleep. But the thing I truly feared most, the onslaught of biting weird insects—never happened. The water was so acidic that it didn’t allow breeding of bugs!  

I have things I fear about putting my writing out there in the world and I have things to fear about cancer, but my actual times in the jungle have also taught me that the wondrous nature of words, of life, of being curious quiets the anxious instinctual animal that lies nestled below my breastbone. It transforms even those things that are challenging or painful or scary into yet something I can hold in the palm of my hind, gaze at with love and come to know. 

Time to enter the Jungle. Don’t tell anyone, but the secret name of my writers’ group is now The Machete Gang. I need to sharpen my machete, take plenty of water, and start swinging, making this new path.

Steve and I heading out to explore the jungle from Sacha Lodge, Ecuador.

I’ve Been Reading Too Many Mystery Books Lately

I’ve written a lot of serious stuff recently so I thought I’d include something totally different. I have been on a mystery movie/book binge most of my life. (If you have a great series you recommend, let me know.)

My Writers’ Group met last month and we had a interesting prompt; write something in 20 minutes using 4 words. We each chose a word from another exercise we just finished: Shoelace, Veins, Suspicious, Itched.

As always, I’m amazed and often amused at what comes out of these free writes. My response using the 4 words became the start of a mystery! See below: Do you think he did it?

The only evidence that she might have been here was a frayed, dirty white shoelace, looking as if it had been carelessly flung to the side of the road, draped over a bush of blooming pea vine in the ditch. Just hanging there, still, unmoving, while I felt the panic rise, my heart beating like a stretched drum, the veins in my neck pulsing with pressure. It wasn’t even the whole shoelace, just a fragment. That  simple detail alone made it all the worse. 

Where was the rest of the shoelace, the rest of the shoe, the rest of the girl? 

Sinking down to sit on my haunches, my head in my hands, I tried to think. Don’t jump to conclusions here. It might not be hers. But it might.

And it didn’t help that most of the people out looking right now were suspicious that I was the one who kidnapped her. I felt their wary eyes on me. They’d seen the police question me. They knew that often the perpetrator was a person who knew the victim. I knew they didn’t trust me, but there was nothing they could find to formally charge me. At least not yet. How would they respond if I’m the one to find the first bit of evidence? Wouldn’t that look suspicious too? Was that just too coincidental? Would they think I planted it?  I feel so judged already that I don’t know how to act like I’m innocent even though I am. 

The others are searching in quadrants all in sight of me, all within 100 yards of where she was last seen. In the Foreman’s backyard. 

It’s been 6 hours. I don’t have an alibi that can be checked. I was out riding my bike but it was midweek and I took a backroad. There’s no one that can back my story. I sit strung tight with the torture of not knowing where my niece is and wanting to vomit that others think I would do such a thing. 

Seeing me sitting, a couple of other volunteers stop what they are doing and come to my side. I can see they can’t decide whether to comfort me or tell themselves to not be taken in by my grief which may be only play-acting.. “How are you doing?” they ask in a neutral way. I point to the shoelace. 

They look and yell over the police officers at the far side of the field. 

I see them running over, I see the concern on other’s faces who turn as well. I see the officers, looking serious but almost eager to see what’s been found at last. 

I find myself itching my hands relentlessly. What is this? Is this a sign of guilt? Am I trying to wash my hands of wrong-doing? Is that some psychological clue the officers are trained to see? I do feel guilty. I feel guilty that I was back late from my bike ride. That looks suspicious too. 

I keep telling myself the story. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where she is. But the police keep asking me about the argument with my brother. How I told him he would be sorry for what he did. He’s the one that’s not innocent. Yet now he points the finger at me. Maybe this was the revenge I hinted at? More rumors may start. I’d been depressed in college and done some erratic things. I search my past. Is there anything else that would make me the one to take a child? 

I was out bike riding at the time? Wasn’t I? Now it seems a bit foggy. I was so angry, I don’t really remember where I rode. And why is the shoelace torn? Did it catch on the pedal of my bike? 

And Old Journal, New Thoughts

An old journal ended up beside my chair this morning. I’m not sure why it was out of its place on the shelf where it’s been since 2006. Given no other explanation, (and actually I don’t want one), I’ll say it was “spirited” there with divine purpose in mind.

It’s one of my favorite journals, purchased on the Rialto bridge in Venice after much negotiation with my heart in its choosing. Its soft red leather holds sweet memories and still molds in my hands after all these years; the long leather thong wraps itself around this journal three times; I tuck in the end that comes to a point and secure the words inside. That pleases me.

I filled this journal at a time of major transition in my life and conversion in my soul. I was leaving my work as a parish pastor and wondering what was next. There are pages and pages of angst, oceans of revelation, miles of wondering, acres of inner exploration and a field of just luscious words, some poems. That stirs me.

I love and despair of what I wrote now as I re-read it this morning. It was all so sincere and yet here, fifteen years later, I am living with so many of the same questions and wondering about so many of the same steps to take. I often use that metaphor that says, “yes, yes, it’s the same questions but I’m asking them from a higher step on the spiral staircase.” And that is so true. I’ve taken at least a hundred steps up those stairs, seeing things differently at every turn of that spiral. That graces me.

And yet I am tired of the metaphor. Not that it doesn’t fit or tell the truth. Only that I don’t need to keep dragging those questions up the stairs with me anymore. I’m at a place I don’t need answers. I’m okay not to know. I can choose that. That frees me.

So much of that journal about wanting to write, and aching to write and regretting not writing. Even though I was. Such paradox. That amuses me.

This past week I pushed “send” on an email message to a publisher with the completed manuscript of my memoir of walking the Camino in 2007 attached. My red journal was completed just weeks before I walked that pilgrimage in Spain. I have written what I wanted to write about those 500 miles of taking steps– and the questions I took with me from the red journal. I sent the book off. That gives me peace.

And yet the deeper peace is simply relaxing about the writing. Not relaxing about the discipline of it. I still need to have the seat in the chair. But easing the expectation of it. Even in writing this blog. Too long it has been captured in making it part of my ego identity. The invitation here now is to let the muse have its way. To enjoy “stringing words together” as my friend, Michelle one said. To trust that what is next, with my writing, with my life, is all unfolding just as it should. That relaxes me.

I’m beginning to see that relaxing into life, rather than defending against it, answers a lot of questions, relieves that angst, and opens so much potential to living my life in truth. Writing just to enjoy it, even with the work that it necessarily entails. That intrigues me.

I’m putting the red journal back on the shelf. Or maybe….. I will let it go.

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.