Darkness and Light and Stuff

The blooming of my redbud tree is, for me, a personal harbinger of Spring. Always, when I see the blooms, I am reminded of better days to come, and the idea of moving into light and leaving darkness behind. It is a weak metaphor because we can't forever and completely leave the darkness behind. It is in the darkness that the seeds germinate. It is in the night that we rest and recover.

The tree was planted in between two strong and large live oaks. She has to fight not to be consumed by the darkness, and to grow toward the light. The heaviest concentration of blooms is above my head, where the branches have broken through the crowded darkness of the oak limbs.

The blossoms speak to me of tenacity, and courage, and persistence. They remind me to hang in there, to keep on growing.

It's often not easy to break through darkness, or the desire to give up and quit, but I choose to believe there is always hope, and light.

No big lesson here, just a gentle reminder for me.

My husband is doing relatively well with his recovery.

My sister will be needing chemo and possibly radiation.

My nephew is getting married next weekend. I will be acting as photographer. Gulp.

My second nephew and his wife are due to have a baby in March.

I played a singles tennis match today, my first ever, in league play. I'd missed last week and felt like I needed to be there this week. I lost both sets. Badly. But the other woman was a gracious opponent and I'm grateful for that. I plan to do better next weekend.

Good times, hard times, I'm grateful for the light. And occasionally, also for the dark.

Slow and Steady, Grasshopper

It's not easy facing your own mortality. It's not easy facing the mortality of your loved ones. And yet, I've done that, and I'm doing it again, now. 

My sister is facing surgery for colon cancer. 

My husband has had triple bypass surgery. He's doing well, all things considered.

It's far easier being the patient than watching your loved one be the patient.

I did not expect to feel so lost, driving home from the ICU after that first visit. 

I felt like a vessel without a rudder. I still do. 

I got all shook up (and not in a good way). 

I lost so many hours, not knowing quite what to do, or where to be.

I got bogged down in worry and stress and fear.

I lost my present moment while living in an imaginary future.

And then I read this:

"taking even one more breath is a blessing."

And I knew I was reading a fundamental truth.

This "one more breath,"

this present moment,

now,

that is where I need to be.

As I told my sister,

"one step at a time."

As I told my husband,

"you'll get better, a little at a time."

One step at a time,

a little at a time.

I did not tell them

there would be days

that would feel like the proverbial

two steps forward, one step backwards.

Oh, there will be days like that.

But just remember, always,

"taking even one more breath is a blessing."

Directions of Correction

I'm reading a book that has art assignments at the end of each chapter. As is my pattern, I did the first few assignments, then decided to just read the chapters and get what I could that way. This is done on a cardboard box a friend used to send me a birthday gift. The assignment was to decorate a box to hold the other things we would be doing throughout the book. Harrumph. I think I did three or four more small things before I quit doing the assignments. But part of what I learned from doing this little thing is how it's sometimes fun to do something using less than stellar materials, and without having any aspirations whatsoever of creating a masterpiece. I'm thinking that sometimes, it might be better to do something rather than being paralyzed by the desire for perfection.

Anyway, this is an example of found poetry. I'd cut out the phrases a good while ago, and found them again when I was looking for something to decorate my box. It also helped that I'd recently been working in my art room to clean it up a bit, something I've been intending to do for a very long time (and something I now need to get back to doing). We all know what they say about good intentions.

I have some very wise friends. One said my colors belie the dark sentiment. But I have another friend who often talks about the "direction of correction," and if you are a person who craves time alone, sometimes being left alone can be a good thing. That might be my "direction of correction!

Upon Beginning My 61st Year

A note to my 60th year:

I spent considerable time thinking about what all I'd do for my 60th year. Imagine my consternation when, sometime in October, I realized I'd been living my 60th year all year long and it was almost finished! I had to wrap my head around the fact that come today, February 8, I'd be finishing my 60th year and would be beginning my 61st year! My bad, 60th year. But let me tell you, I really didn't do you too shabby, all things considered.

Want to hear a little of it, 60th year, in no particular order? Here's an incomplete summary, 60th year: I survived chemo! After 5 years of not having a car, I got another car. Her name's Li'l Jade. I got a pair of red cowboy boots. I made prayer flags and gave some away. I made a quilt top (which I still need to finish). I started walking for exercise again. I got afraid to eat and lost a considerable amount of weight. I went to San Antonio to see my blog sister friends. After over 20 years, I began again to play tennis. I made an origami paper crane (and made ne'er another one!). I read a sci-fi book. I went back to swimming lessons. I returned to my spiritual book club.

I continue to learn: to accept myself as the authority on my life and how to live it, that often, in spite of my best fretting, things tend to work out, seemingly little things often mean so much to others, life is not always easy, or fair. I do want to live. Occasionally I've thought I might rather not, but all that changed when colon cancer arrived again. I wanted to survive!

Another thing, which I already knew, I have loved ones and friends who shine much light into my life, particularly when my times seem the darkest.

And now, in beginning my 61st year, my advice to myself is to be steady, stay calm, breathe, look for the joy, and be grateful.

Leaves, Sticks & Shadows

 We do get a little bit of fall color here in Louisiana. I am grateful for what we get (I need to write more about this place, it is such a major part of me).

I took a video on this day. The wind was gently blowing the leaf across the surface of the water in the bird bath. At the time it felt like I was listening to the universe breath. All was quiet and peaceful.

This stick is still sitting on my desk in the country. I'm going to save it for a while and see if I can somehow work it into a piece of art. There's something hopeful about the buds growing in and then the undeniable brokenness of the branch dashing all hope of growth. Life and death on the same little stick. Life is full of such paradoxes.

I'm working hard at understanding what matters most to me, trying to discern my voice from all the voices of authority that rattle around in my head. It seems to me I should have "been done" figured this out. On the other hand, we are never totally done with this task. I read a quote this morning that said:

"If in the last few years you haven't discarded a major opinion or acquired a new one, check your pulse. You may be dead." ~ Gelett Burgess

Holding The Tension

One of my favorite metaphors about life is the one of us holding the tension. I think of my grandmother, and my mother, and myself, sewing, and adjusting the tension that is necessary to keep the stitches even. When teaching me to hem a garment, my mother quoted my grandmother, saying "If you make your stitches too big, you'll hang your toe in them."

I think of my brother, who, when he was young built himself a bicycle out of scrap parts, and apparently, did not have the tension of the chain quite right, because, somehow, the chain slipped off, or locked up, and he tumbled off the bicycle and broke a leg.

There is a tension we must hold (and constantly adjust) as we raise our children. Some of us have to learn that saying "yes" is not always the most loving thing to say. That holds true in more than our parenting relationships.

I held a different kind of tension this past weekend, when I was in Houston for my second three month checkup. I wonder when I will quit numbering the checkups and just call it "my checkup"? My husband, for the longest time after my son died, knew the exact number of days our son had been gone. I suspect he might still be keeping that tally. I remember my son's words on the back cover of a notebook when he was in a rehab facility: "number of days I been here:" followed by his hash marks that numbered the days. We humans do love to count the days and mark our times.

I have to make five years before I'm declared truly cured. For the first couple of years, those years are measured in three month increments. I was particularly stressed this time around, mostly because they had me scheduled to have my port removed. Before I would see the oncologist. I asked the woman at the pre-procedure meeting if they would know my scan was clear and all was well before they took the port out. She said they wouldn't. That bothered me. I dealt with that, speaking to several people throughout the day, and eventually got the port removal changed to take place after seeing the oncologist (which is how the nurse said it was supposed to have been all along).

Sometimes you just can't make nice and do what the "authorities" tell you to do. Sometimes you just have to make a little noise. As it turns out, in this case, everything would have been perfectly okay whether my port was taken out that morning or that afternoon, but we didn't know that in advance and I was unwilling to take that risk. And that's another of the side effects of my cancer: I'm less willing to sit down and shut up and hang on for the ride.

To make a long story short (oops, too late!), my scan was clear and they did remove the port. As of now, I remain in remission, and I am working to let my life be.

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

My sister gave these to my daughter as part of her Christmas present. I "kidnapped" them to take their pictures. I like them a lot. But I got to thinking about how dangerous "see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil" can be, particularly for people who tend to be "good little boys and girls." If we never see or listen or speak of the bad things, they continue on in the way they always have. That's a harmful thing for the more weak and powerless among us.

The road in the background leads up and out from our place in the woods. When we leave town and come in to the country, I am relaxed and ready for the quiet. This year, I want to be more aware of what I am taking out from here as I travel up and out the road to head back to town.

I want to live with more awareness. I want to be a calming presence in the places I go. I also want to be more intentional in the way I use my time.

I also want to blog more. And I want to work on a few creative projects. We shall see how I do. :)