An Inspiration

I woke up sad today. I thoroughly enjoyed having some family in for Thanksgiving, but the two days of fun flew by. This morning, the weight of the concerns I'd ignored while they were here to distract me felt overwhelming. My problems felt heavy, unsolvable; my heart was weary and I wanted nothing more than to stay under the covers and pretend the world didn't exist.

As my thoughts spiraled down their gloomy path, a memory of my daughter surfaced.

She was halfway through chemo at that point. Her body was bloated from the steroids and poisons they were using to give her the best shot they could at keeping her cancer at bay. Her hair was gone. She ached, she was exhausted and jittery. Her mouth tasted of heavy metals.

And she decided her best chance to feel better was to exercise. She hauled her sorry rear out of bed, got dressed in her running clothes, and took off along her favorite route along the Mississippi river in St. Paul.

As she ran, she told herself, 'I am an inspiration.'
Soon, she was passed by a young woman pushing a stroller with two active toddlers in it.

'I am an inspiration.'
She was passed by an old guy jogging slowly along with a hitch in his step.

'I am an inspiration.'
She was passed by a homeless drunk man trying to escape his demons, weaving hither and yon across the trail, bottle in paper bag clutched firmly in one hand.

'I am an inspiration - to myself!'

And she was. She finished her 'run' even though the best pace she could muster was slower than the medium walking rhythm of her good days. The endorphins kicked in to lift her mood a bit, getting her blood circulating helped ease some of the heaviest of the aches. She'd pushed back against the pain and the blech and didn't let it stop her from living the day as best she could anyways.

Her tale has stuck with me, and helped me to reach past my own aches and pains more than once. Today, it got me out of the house and walking around the park - and the movement worked its magic to bring perspective to my problems and some ease to my concerns.

Kate, whether you believe it or not, you were an inspiration to more than just yourself that day.

Night on the Streets

"Have you ever spent the night outside when it wasn't your choice and you had no place to go?"

My morning walk to work takes me past a group of homeless men. Some, I don't know, so I greet them only with a smile and a nod. Some have troubled eyes and spirits - I don't talk to them; I am afraid of disturbing their demons. But some of the men regularly waiting there are just down on their luck, and to these, I say hello as I pass them in the street.

I first noticed KC earlier this fall. He stood out because he was reading a book as he waited for the library to open; the only one of these men I've ever seen actually reading. I've stopped time and again for a few minutes to talk about the story he is reading that day, to hear a bit of the story of his life.

He's on the street because of a dishonest roommate - the guy took $720, two months rent, and instead of paying the landlord, skipped town.  KC found out about it when they came to post the eviction notice.  He had just a few days grace period, time to move his things to a storage unit; not enough time to find a new place. And, with the rent money gone and no cash reserves, he didn't have the money to buy into another arrangement anyways.

He gets social security; is trying to save enough that he can get a new place, but rent is expensive these days, and he's having trouble finding an apartment he can afford. It's taking him some time to pull the money together - being homeless is expensive. (Food is really pricey when you have to buy all of it already cooked because you have no kitchen and no place to keep what you don't eat.)

This week, with Thanksgiving approaching, I invited him to join me for lunch on Friday. I can't fix his problems, but I hoped a good, hot meal would provide a balm for his cold and discouraged soul.

As we ate our hearty bbq sandwiches, he spoke just a little about some of the challenges he's faced these past few months. Hardest, he said, are the nights when the homeless shelter is full, and there is no room at the inn.

"Have you ever spent the night outside when it wasn't your choice and you had no place to go?", he asked.
"No", I replied, "What do you do when that happens?"

He continued his story:

There is a building near 12th and Oak that has a public outdoor area dug down into the ground about half a story. It has some places to sit; the kind where the tables and stools are bolted to the ground. I can feel almost safe there. When the wind is from the north and northwest, those are the coldest winds, the walls provide some shelter from their chill; I can almost pretend I am warm. 

There is light there, light enough to read. I sit down with my book in this oasis in the dark, and try to lose myself in a story. I watch the courthouse clock across the way.  10:30, 12:30. The first few hours aren't so bad, but I know I won't be able to sleep, so I continue to read.  3:15.  The night is dark and cold and long. The minutes feel like hours and the hours until morning stretch endlessly in front of me. I return to my book anyways.  The story is better than reality. After an eternity, 6:30 finally comes, the light begins to return. 

I give thanks for the ability to read; my books have guarded me from the terrors stalking the night. I gather my bags, and move on, grateful for the return of day.

As I listened, my eyes filled with tears. I don't know the rest of KC's story, why he has no one to turn to who will take him in. He didn't offer that part, so I didn't ask. I don't have the wherewithal to begin to fix his problems; I felt helpless, and a little shallow. And I thought buying him lunch might make a bit of difference?

But then, as we finished our fries, he thanked me profusely. He said the food was the smallest part of what I'd given him. More importantly, for the hour we sat and talked, he was a person again. No longer just another throwaway ragtag bum with his plastic bags, he was again a Someone. I'd listened to his story and found his story worth listening to.  It mattered.

Good Is.

No One Leaves Life Alive

Life: No one gets out of it alive.

This is one of the thoughts I know brings solace to Libby as she prepares (not plans) to leave this world.

She is largely at peace with the days she knows are coming, but she is not dying yet. She is busy living the days she has.

I had brought my camera to Minnesota; I wanted to take one more picture of her; to try to hold a bit of her here with me. But the camera never came out, because once I was there, I knew the lens wouldn't be able to capture the beauty I saw in her. It would have caught only the pallor of illness, the exhaustion lines around her eyes; it wouldn't have been able to capture the unearthly beauty of the essence I could see overlaying her physical frame. Some things just can't be photographed.

I swear, somehow, as illness thins her skin, her body can no longer contain her. As she lets go of her last illusions of control (we all have them...), her goodness, her peace with the knowledge she now knows how her story ends, and yes, her anger and frustration with the difficulties of these last days of her life glow softly through, her inner light too bright to contain within.

Goodbyes are hard.  This one was especially hard because I knew it just might be the last time I get to say it to her.  It wasn't, "I'll see you next month or next spring or next time we're in the same town," but rather, it was, "I want to say all the words I've ever wanted to say to let you know just how much you mean to me because it's possible the next time I see you it will be on the other side of life, but I just know I'm not going to be able to find them." 

Libby and I had danced around the discussion the last few days I was up there; it was too touchy to approach. The days I was there, I was able to focus on the things I could do to help. To work as part of a cleaning crew, to help her set the house in order. To take the girls shopping for this and that, to fix food she might like to eat, to pick up soft, flannel unicorn and llama sheet sets for the hospital bed which arrived the day before I left. But ready or not, Saturday morning came, and it was time for me to go home.

As I gathered up my things and packed up the car, I was heartened to hear her stirring upstairs - she'd had a full day on Friday, and she quickly runs low on energy these days, so I thought she might not be up. But there she was, and there I was, and neither one of us knew what to say. 

She said 'Goodbye. Now leave before I break down.' I, of course, didn't leave, but went over to sit at her feet, lay my head on her lap, and let the tears freely flow. We both did.

Slowly, haltingly, some words came out. I can't remember the actual words, and they don't matter because they all distilled down to the essence: I love you.  Be well, where ever your path leads. You are in my heart all of the days. I will miss you.

God be with you.  Always.

Comfort Kittens

I came on up to Minnesota last weekend to spend some time with Libby.

When I got here, Sunday, she was in considerable pain. She was doing her best to manage it with Tylenol and Advil since the stronger painkillers were coming right back up, but she was losing the battle.

She'd invited a hospice team to come in and talk with her about the services they offer, they came in on Monday. After some discussion, she and Scott decided to sign up.

These people don't fool around. By the time they'd left, they had a list of medications, and had given advice on which ones she should and shouldn't be taking in which combinations. A courier arrived with a pack of new ones to try before bedtime. By Tuesday, she was much improved. A few days later, her pain levels are down considerably; her nausea is under control. Her color is better, she's getting some restful sleep.

I'm singing the praises of her hospice team. They listen, they care, they are treating the whole person, not just the symptoms of her disease. Just what she needs right now.

One of the things the hospice people talked about in the initial discussion was that their goal was to help her prepare for what was coming, not plan for it. I appreciate the linguistic distinction, and it's stuck with me all week. She's not dying yet, but any plans she makes are on shaky ground. However, she can work to prepare for the days ahead; to lay the groundwork for how she wants to spend the days she has.

One of her daughters is still in high school, and struggling to cope with the changes rocking her world. A few months ago, they went out and picked up two kittens. The little gals are destined to be outdoor cats. They have a warm house, and many mice to learn to catch. As I watch them outside the window, they are practicing their pouncing skills on the leaves blowing about the yard.

Because they are so small, they are still spending nights inside, closed up in the bathroom. Turns out they are the perfect therapy animals. When her life gets overwhelming, Onnika goes into the bathroom, and the kittens provide some much-needed therapy. They climb on her, they purr. They chase the toys scattered about the room. She relaxes, she smiles. Her troubles fade to the background just a bit, life is better.

Goodness Is.

Done

Her email subject was simple:  Done.

The words in the body of the message were clear, inarguable, heartbreaking:

I had scans on Monday.  The cancer has spread to my lungs, liver and bones.  Other than the possibility of getting me into a trial, there won't be any further treatments.
Thank you for your love and support.  I could not have done this without you.
Libby

No arguments from me this time. Only tears, the day the message came in, and again every time I see them again in my mind's eye, which is often.

October has come in this year with a cold blast of rainy weather. In the last two weeks, we've gotten enough rainfall to make up for the rains we didn't get all summer. 

A huge climate report came out last week. If we don't take our heads out of the sand, and do it yesterday, the balance will tip, and coastal areas around the world will disappear. A hurricane blew out of nowhere last week, wreaking havoc on the Florida panhandle, and dumping a torrent of rain on the Carolinas, already ravaged by last month's hurricane.

Where is Good in all this? As I rail against God and the fates in my anger and grief at the finality of Libby's words, at the dark days ahead for the people of our planet, I keep hearing a small voice.  

Tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. All things living - ants and stars, people, planets and flowers - all things living will one day die. Today. Today is the only day each of us has.When you remember to look for Good in her hours, you will find it there.

I tried to heed the voice. I can't find Good anywhere in the force of the hurricanes, they're too vast, too far beyond what I can affect today, but if I look closer to home, to the places I can touch and the people I love, I can find it.

Instead of lamenting the tomorrows which may or may not come, I decided to enjoy the today I have.

I went outside this afternoon. The air was cool, the sun peeping out now and again. The rain has revived the plants in my yard. The grass is a healthy green, the flowers are blooming, quick counterpoints of color against the cloud cover. I pulled up the tomato plants, thanking them for their bounty of this past month. I mowed the grass. I stopped to admire a monarch butterfly, eagerly drinking from the garden's flowers.

Libby's decision to continue chemo last year bought her a year and more of mostly good days. Not enough days, but good days. (Are there ever enough days when facing death before one's children are grown?  I think not.)  I know she's lived those days looking for Good and Beauty - and finding them when she looked.

So many questions, so few answers. But one deep and abiding conviction:  When I remember to look, I will find Good - even, and especially, on the darkest of days. 

Walk a Mile

I have no trouble whatsoever walking for a while in Christine Ford Blasey's shoes - unfortunately, I know their fit all too well.

Brett Kavanaugh, on the other hand, is a bit harder for me.

I've more often been on the receiving end of drunken and insensitive behavior than the dishing out, but  I can try to get there. The news coverage on this has turned him into someone so one-dimensional, and I know no one-dimensional people. I'll admit - I am angry at him because he is a self-centered rich frat boy, and he got away with it.

But what if he didn't? From what I read, sometime between 18 and 53, he woke up and realized there was another road he could take. His wife, his daughters. As a judge, does he take pride in trying to be just, to be fair?

How does a young man feel inside when he wants to be liked, and the road to popularity lies through drunkenness and conquest? How does it feel when you wake up one day to realize drinking more and more alcohol only makes the empty hole inside bigger instead of filling it?

When I read the account of his testimony before the Senate, it rang with all the convincing truthfulness of Bill Clinton saying, 'I did not have sex with that woman.'

He may not remember that exact night but I'll bet my bottom dollar he remembers one (or more) like it. And he'd not want to admit it, even to himself, because it doesn't fit with his image of the man he wants to have been, the man he's tried to become.

Slowly, as I've pondered this image this week, I've come to feel a (small) measure of sympathy for him. He followed the rules as he was taught them. No penetration means no rape, and if I was drunk, I wasn't responsible for what I did. It was all in good fun.

Wasn't it?

How devastating to have a foggy ghost from your past resurrect itself and try to derail your life just when you've reached for the stars, been offered the job of jobs in your profession. No wonder he ranted and cried and went off the rails.

No, I don't think he's gotten off scot-free. He has to look in the mirror each morning. His long-buried sins have come out of the past to haunt him - and the entire country knows about them. He's not allowed to reflect and atone on the down-low. If he wanted the job, and he did, the only way through was to bluster and scream, deny and accuse in return.

He is now a Justice on the highest court in this land, but I can't believe his conscience is clear. I can't help but wonder if the dichotomy will eat at him, or if he will find a way to quiet the small, still voice.

This much I do know - I don't envy him, and am grateful I don't have to walk in his shoes every day.

Jiminy Cricket

When we walked in the house after getting back from our trip to Minnesota, I went first to the panel to turn off the alarm. Joe was following shortly behind me and headed straight for the basement. Puzzled, I opened my ears to hear the sound of water rushing, followed by silence as he unplugged the sump pump, which had blown a gasket, and was busily pumping away, sending the water in the pit mostly onto the cover, where it would promptly fall back into the hole. I'm not sure how long this had been going on, but it was long enough for the motor to have heated the water well into the point of steaming. (Has to happen when you're out of town, doesn't it...)

The next weekend, I put fixing the pump high on my list of priorities - rain is coming, and the pump definitely keeps my basement drier. As I walked over to the sump pump pit one of the basement crickets hopped ahead of me and jumped straight into the hole. While I'm all about catch and release when it comes to most bugs, I was not about to reach down into the hole to try to catch the little guy.  

I'd already picked up the replacement backflow valve, so I moved on, leaving him to his fate. I pulled the pump out of the hole - and found I'd picked up the wrong part. *sigh*  Back to the store with me, this time with the offending broken piece in had so I was SURE to get the right whizmagig.

Home again, it didn't take too long to swap out the valves. As I lifted the pump to put it back where it had started, I noticed my friend the cricket, clinging to the corrugated side of the pit. I guess it was too deep for him to make the leap out o his own. I still couldn't figure out a good way to safely get him out of there, so I moved on once again. After I finished tightening down the clamps holding the pipes in place, I needed to test my repair, so went and got the hose to fill the pit with enough water to trigger the pump.

The water started blasting in, and my forlorn bug friend found himself a pretty good perch on the top of the float. He rode there for a bit, but fell into the water once the pump activated itself.  I said a little prayer for his shortened life, and continued my test. Satisfied my repair would hold, I turned the water off and returned to the corner to start cleaning up my toys.

The cricket was floating on top of the water, feebly struggling, but alive. I couldn't just let him drown after he'd survived the great flood, so I positioned the hose beneath him, lifted him out of the water and set him down on the floor next to the pit. I ran upstairs to get a cup and a stiff piece of paper - he had barely moved before I got back to the basement.

I put the cup over him, the paper underneath, and carried him up and out into the sunshine. I set the trap onto the grass, lifted off the cup, and had the satisfaction of watching him perk up, shake himself off, and hop off to wherever he went.

His startled leap into the pit had unexpectedly ended well. (While a little worse for the wear, he actually landed ahead in the game, since I'm sure he prefers the great outdoors to the hard cold stone basement.)

These days, I often feel as if resistance is futile; as if my efforts to make a difference in this world amount to little more than nothing. I appreciated the reminder that, sometimes, a small effort on my part can make a big difference in the life of another. 

Even if it is only a cricket.

I Miss Her

I've had several conversations recently about my camper van trip, already seven years in the past. When we talk, they say, 'I loved to read your blog'. Past tense. When I tell them I'm still writing it, they say, 'I know, but it's not as fun anymore, so I don't look at it as often.'

I'd take umbrage at the statements if they weren't true.

It's not as fun any more.
I'm not as fun any more.

I miss her - the woman who was adventurous and free. She who threw all the cards in the air and took off to see if she could find where the road went. She who trusted the Universe she would land safely when her adventure was done.

Me? I'm back to my former responsible self. Chomping at the bit, yes, but leaning dutifully into the harness, pulling the weight of the wagon slowly forward. Busy looking at the ground and the road just ahead instead of watching the sky and the horizon.

The excitement is gone from my life - no wonder it's gone from my writing. My account of building a cabinet just doesn't have the verve of my tale of climbing the remains of an ancient Arcadia Park mountain on a rainy October afternoon. How can the story of my drought-stricken flower garden possibly measure up against the one about pulling up to a campground along the Appalachian Trail, and choosing a campsite based on the number of deer browsing in it?  (I seem to remember there were either five or six of them.)

I miss her. I really miss her.

Most days, these days, I think I've gone too far past the detour sign to ever find the old road again. I haven't given up the dream entirely, but it's fading; a trail petering out into the nothing of an unremarkable back field.

But then, I remind myself, boring has its up side. Boring means no drama. Boring means the bills are getting paid, the car runs, the roof doesn't leak. Boring means my remaining body parts are still functioning normally, that my aches and pains are just the normal ones of getting older.

My story may be boring, but at least it continues - and I find enough words most weeks to fill a page with my musings. And there are at least a few people left who find the words worth reading, which makes the time needed to gather them into some semblance of order and put them out into the ether worthwhile.

So, to those reading this page, thank you. Thank you for sticking with me, even though it's not so fun at the moment. Because it's still worthwhile. And, maybe, one day, I'll get back in touch with her.

I hope.
because I'm pretty sure she misses me, too.

Family Reunion

John Family Reunion, 2018

My Dad's family hosts a reunion every summer. He was one of nine, eight of them boys, all of them had children For some years now, the duty for hosting rotates among the families - this year's event was this past weekend. I try to get up there every other year or so - I enjoy spending a few hours with my cousins and catching up a bit on their lives. It's a long drive for just a few hours, but I always find it was worth it.

For me, the hardest part is trying to make my way around the room to talk to everyone in the short time allotted for the reunion. Everyone gathers just before noon, and by three, they're packing up the leftovers and getting ready to head on home. There were over fifty people there this time. Once you take out the time needed to overfill your stomach eating the potluck lunch (I don't know who brought the baked beans, but they were to die for!), there's just not enough time to get around the room.

It's funny. I haven't spent much time at all with my cousins as an adult, but it turns out that if you know someone as they're growing up, they don't really change that much as grown-ups. Nancy still has that quirk to her smile, the twinkle in Mark's eye hasn't changed a bit.

The reunions are smaller these days; our children are grown with children of their own, and most of them don't want to make time to go sit around with a bunch of old people they don't know just so their parents can point to them with pride, and say, 'that one's mine'.  (There WERE a few of the kids there, with their kids in turn. My son Joe and his wife Rita-Marie were among them - and yes, I pointed them out with pride many times during the course of the afternoon.)

These are the ties that bind us and hold us and support us. I have many friends I am closer to than I am to the crew pictured above. We have more in common, they know more of the details of my day-to-day life.

But they weren't there the day we had the epic king-of-the-mountain game in my Uncle Eugene's hayloft. They don't share the memory of our moms, sitting in Aunt Diane's kitchen, the air blue with cigarette smoke, conversation screeching to a halt when any of us kids walked into the room - they'd kindly see what we needed and usher us back out the door.

 I know the reunion tradition will eventually fall by the wayside, but I am grateful it hasn't happened yet. These are the people who knew me when, and love me anyways. You can't beat that.

Labor Day

Ever since I took off in the camper van in late August, my inner two year-old is pretty sure it's time to do it again when Labor Day rolls around. I reinforced this conviction the first couple of years back in town when I took off again for my month-long trips in the summer and early fall. She's downright moping this weekend at the realization nothing exciting is going to happen this fall. The only thing happening on the day after Labor Day will be me hoisting my rear into gear and getting it into work.

**sigh**

It was seven years ago last week when I threw all the cards in the air and took off for points unknown. I spent five months on the road before moving off on my long detour. Though the trip recedes in my rear-view mirror, I carry vivid images of beauty and peace with me yet today. I call them up when I lay down at night, they calm my breath, they calm my mind. Spending day after day journeying to beautiful places healed my soul in places I didn't know needed healing.

There was no particular destination in my travels that stands out - the cliche is true - it was all about the journey. I didn't get anywhere, but everywhere I got, I found what I was looking for.

This past week, I've found myself especially homesick for those days of being, not doing. I have my lists of things to get done, at home and at work. I have goals and measurements and check marks next to completed items. I do a pretty decent job of keeping up with the curve, and every once in a while, getting ahead a bit, but my heart isn't in it.

My gut understands why I go into the office. Retirement might last for a coupl-a-three decades. I don't really want to shortchange my future because I'm restless in my present.

But my inner child is afraid. The gaps between my fingers where time slips through grow ever wider. The days last about the same amount of time they always have, but the weeks and months are here and gone before I've had a chance to savor the gifts they brought. I am afraid I live on borrowed time, that the cancer will come back, and I'll have wasted the only days I have staring at a monitor so I can collect a paycheck. Right now, that paycheck represents a more secure future. What will it represent if I find another lump?

I'm looking for the balance. The point where I have enough in reserve where, God willin' and the crick don't rise, I can take care of myself through retirement, but not so much I waste any of my precious days working for nothing but an extra cushion. Where is the magic moment?

I'm not precisely sure, but I think I'm approaching it with some speed.

And, until it gets here, I will calm my fears with the images from my time apart from my real life. The time I kept my time for myself. The time I trusted in the Universe to help me to land on my feet after my big leap. I trusted, and my trust was rewarded. I need to trust again. When the time is right, I will know.