Spring and Yellow and Poetry

It’s been a long time; a long time since I’ve written any words in my blog. 

Time has passed, full of worry about my mother and weariness from her care.  Time passed regardless of whether I wrote or whether she grew worse or well.  The months rolled on; time and circumstance changed both our lives.

Mum deals with her new fragility.   She struggles for strength, relishing every day and every accomplishment, pushing her energy forward to healing.   Back in her own home, she manages with help from family and a hired caregiver, a good friend.  She learns to cope with the changes in her body.

I am recovering my own energy and relishing the seasonal changes, the bright places in each day.   My focus on writing, particularly poetry, has returned, and though rusty, is responding to re-writes, polish and hard work.
 

The grey and brown days of spring give way to splotches of fresh green, flashes of colour—the goldfinches at the feeders, the dime-sized yellow crocus, the larger purple ones, the hint of red and gold on a blackbird’s wing. 

I welcome these signs of colour, renewed vigor and fresh life.    It’s been a challenging winter.  I am grateful for the lessons of love and the wisdom hard won, as I move into a transformed thankfulness for each new day.

Spring and yellow and poetry and purple fill the sweet breezes.  I am ready.

Photo and words are ©copyright 2009-2014 Carol Steel

The Mother of Us All

 

 

I'm back, was away for a time because my Mum's been ill.  What was diagnosed as flu, morphed into perforated bowel and emergency surgery, late Saturday.  She's still in Intensive Care but should be allowed to move to the surgery recovery floor soon.

When a parent is ill, family dynamics launch into intense versions of themselves.  As in all families, this is good and bad.  Anxieties get out of control.  Everyone scrambles to be helpful in whatever ways he or she is able.

We are a large family, wide-spread across generations and geography.  Mum is a mother of five, grandmother of seven, great-grandmother of eleven, plus all the in-laws and ex's. 

She is "The Mother of Us All."  And in crisis, we draw near, holding Mum in love and prayers, journeying with her toward her healing.

The healing may take awhile, so I may not be here as much as usual.  For now, it is more important to draw near and to accompany Mum.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall*

My knees don’t like the rain, though they now give more accurate predictions of the weather than the meteorologist.   Aging is less fun as I pass the six decade mark; at least the physical aspects of growing older are less amusing.  Gravity is not my friend and some body parts are missing and others, wearing down.  Each day, I grow more curious about what will accompany me into the future and what I’ll relinquish.

And yet aging bears gifts.  I am more patient, more focused on fewer priorities, have a deeper wisdom and have let go of needing to force what I know into the ears of others.  And I have lived long enough to recognize there are cycles in my life.  There is a kind of balance between the dark times when all is painful and waiting and the fecund times when all is green and growing.  Life, all of life seeks balance. 

Me, too.

After passing through four years of depleted energy levels, depleted to dangerous levels resulting in back-to-back illnesses, I have come to a place of stillness and inner focus.  There is time now to spend loving my husband and family and friends, time to cuddle the cats and to garden.  There is time to stop for a while as my life comes back to healthier balance.  There is time for me to write, to stare out the window and to gestate inside.

My family genetics lead me to hope that I might live into my mid-nineties.  How encouraging that is in terms of becoming a skilled poet and writer.  There are still many years in which to learn the craft, to hone the skills, to practise and to write.

I’ve learned I can give myself sweet permission to do what I need and want to do.  So now, I write every day, sometimes wearing my magenta bathrobe until noon.

And I know that no matter what happens in my life, whatever it is, it will begin and it will end, just like the rain. 

 

NOTES:  *“Into each life some rain must fall” is a quote from the poem, “Rainy Day” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.   The line is also the title of a 1944 song performed as a duet by The Ink Spots, featuring Ella Fitzgerald and Bill Kenny.   Words in colour will link you to another website with additional information, if you click on them.

 

On the Right Track

 

 

On the Right Track

 

Writing is hard, harder than usual.

 

Most of the time, my mind composes lines of poetry and creates fragments of stories no matter what else is happening around me.  I carry a small notepad and a pencil everywhere I go, to capture thoughts, observations, conversations and phrases.  At home, notebooks and pens lie scattered, ready for words.  Most of the time, my mind flows with writing.

But writing is harder than usual because I’ve been ill, had surgery, radiation and an accompanying depression.  These new and nasty experiences are behind me now.  Yet they remain close enough to influence how well my mind works.

This “how well” part isn’t working so well.  I loathe feeling so slow and so stupid, like swimming blind through a river of slush.  My clarity is improving but at the pace of an icicle melting in winter.  I attempt to write each day; the output comes in drips.

To journey through recovery is to wander in a fog of weariness where thoughts and images flicker at a distance, indistinct and muffled.  I reach for them and they retreat.  I can’t bring them to the page.  Some days the fog smothers my way and I am lost.  I can’t write a thing.

I’m told this is normal.  Gosh!  It's not comforting.  I’m finished my treatments, done with the meds and I want to be well.   What my mind wants doesn’t matter; what my body wants does.

I am weary.  I rest.  I sleep.  I am awake and energetic in short bursts, then I am weary again.  Am I improving?  Yes.  Are there longer periods of energy?  Yes.  Will I return to myself?  Yes…eventually.  I am on the right track.

I am grateful for early diagnosis, for medical care, for survival.  I am thankful for moments when mind-fuddle clears, when I can write, when I glimpse feeling at home within myself.

But, I’ll be delighted as a four-year old in new rubber boots on the first puddle-filled day of spring when my mind sheds this fog and this weariness.

Until I can embrace my writing with all of myself, with every bit of myself...until then, I am on the right track...frustration on one side and patience on the other.

 

Words and photo are copyright © Carol Steel.

 

A Good Question

 

A Good Question

Enduring an encounter with serious illness and the possibility of death tested all my significant relationships.

Who was there for me through the months of illness?  Who suffered with me?  Who was really affected by the possibility that I might not return to health?

To whom did I really matter?

Answers were not easy to find, for people had different ways of showing they cared.

I acknowledged how difficult it was for friends and family.  I appreciated that they did what they could.  There were many who backed off and I was hurt and disappointed.  Some relationships I valued didn’t turn out to be the way I thought they were.  It wasn’t that people did not care; it was more likely they just didn’t know what to do or say. 

People helped and supported the best they could; sometimes they didn’t know how to do this.  Perhaps they thought ignoring what happened and trying to move on was best for everyone.

My own expectations were sources of disappointment.  When I felt tired, vulnerable and scared, the withdrawal of others from me did not help me.  It was as though I had contracted a shameful, contagious disease.  It hurt and yet I understood.

Thankfully, there were many who stayed in contact through cards, notes, emails and phone calls, dropped off meals, sent small gifts or flowers, made short but loving visits, listened and found ways to show that I mattered to them.

For them I was grateful.

Significant relationships were not all constant.  Many changed.

To whom did I really matter?

A good question.  A greater lesson. 

Finding Truth

 

 

Finding Truth

Experiencing cancer took me into a time both strange and scary.  Before I knew my exact diagnosis from my surgery results, I faced the reality of having an illness that might kill me.

I have been lucky.  My apprehension of the illness, my experience of pain and my endurance of radiation treatments are all behind me now.  I have been lucky.  The surgery removed the malignancy; the radiation gave assurance against recurrence.

While I was in the midst of this, I recognized the insignificance my everyday concerns and worries.   I recognized a need within myself to refocus my energies, to pay attention to what nourished my essential being, to avoid that which drained and diminished me.

The illness made inner wisdom easier to hear, as my world shrank, as I conserved strength and tended to my own health.  I recognized that when I am well, I tend to say “Yes” to requests to help, to organize, to participate.  I find it difficult, nearly impossible to say “No.”  My compassion, my need to be needed, my guilt, my desire to be unselfish propel me to share in activities which seem to require only a contribution of time and a bit of energy.  The truth is more often that these involvements take far more time and energy than advertised.

I know this and yet, again and again I allow some unwise part of myself to whisper “Yes,” even though I know that I give time and energy to tasks, to people, to relationships that deplete me.  I cling out of guilt or an assumption that I am responsible for the job, the person or the relationship, that I must take on the burdens or the choices of others, that I am essential.

One of my oncology nurses told me that no one is irreplaceable.  We are each like a finger dipped in water.  When the finger is withdrawn, the water resumes its shape with no trace of where the finger once was.  Truth and wisdom.

I am at home recovering, still tiring easily and needing all the energy I have to help myself heal and gain strength.

I have clarity about what is right for me and what is wrong for me.  I am re-learning to value my inner wisdom, to trust my perceptions, to count on myself.  And I am learning to say “No” to situations that I previously acquiesced to out of my need to be liked, to conform, to be valued or out of a fear of reaction from others.  I am learning to say “No” to what is wrong for me or is the wrong timing for me.

Surviving, becoming healthy are my priorities. 

I trust these lessons will echo through the rest of my life helping me to stay on my pathway, to discern the wisest choices and the best uses of “Yes” and “No,” to find my truth.

The Ducks Have Returned

The Ducks Have Returned        

The ducks have returned and so have I.

We feed Mallards, American Black Ducks and their hybrids.  For the price of cracked corn thrown daily on the snow in our side yard, we have entertainment from January through April.   We live within sight of the Petitcodiac River and its marshes, the ducks’ usual haunt, and are content to aid in feeding them through the harsher months of winter.

The ducks return to us each year when other nourishment becomes scarce.  With the first flush of spring’s new growth, they will leave us again.

I too have been away, away from my blog and from my writing.  Last fall and this winter have been harsh times for me.  I have been ill, endured surgeries and months of treatments accompanied by debilitating side effects.

My hope is to be recovered by the first flush of spring.

In the meantime, I do what I can each day—often that isn’t much. 

But, I have the ducks as entertainment.  They keep coming back and so will I.

Words and photo are copyright ©Carol Steel.

Today is a Gift

The heat of the sun, like a warm compress, soothes my skin.  Leaves, crisp, dry and turning brown, rustle a meditation.   Random thoughts follow the sound and ripple out on the breeze.  Cars whoosh, whispering by, far away on the road below.  A neighbour is building, hammering on her deck, getting ready for winter. 

A red squirrel climbs the wrought iron pole to the bird feeders, finds nothing appealing and falls off.  Or leaps to search for fallen rowan berries and the last of the grapes hidden beneath the vine's yellowing leaves.

Last night's rain and the sunlight wink and glisten on the leaves of the wisteria vine, the elm hedge and the sugar maple.  The light plays, creates patterns of shade.  Shadow copies of the leaves dance on the grass, deep greys on green.

Hosta leaves, touched with frost, droop now, brown tinged, wilting into the earth, turning themselves into compost for their winter's rest.  The air is cool, smells crisp and fresh, smells like fall.

The sunlight slants through the dark green, waxy leaves of the saucer magnolia, makes it look different; it becomes a glowing, unreal, lime colour.  The magnolia has had a good summer, has recovered from its breakage.  Tender care and the duct-taped splint are a success.

Autumn changes, touches everything.  Each shrub and tree, every vine and berry turns from one form of itself into another; transitions from one stage of its life cycle into another.

Me, too; I am changing, transitioning.  I await the next change in my life, this new transition into another form of myself.

I hope to pass through this cycle of health challenges, perhaps a little browned at the edges, perhaps dry and rattly for a time.  Like the magnolia, I hope to have a good season.  I anticipate my physical self will look different, maybe it will sometimes seem unreal.  But, I hope with tender care, I too will survive and become stronger.

May it be so.

Words and photo are copyright Carol Steel.

Vulnerability

I sit in a wooden chair beneath our crab apple tree.  The sky is blue, blue as my own eyes.   Breezes carry the scent of new mown grass and crab apple blossoms.  The last of the magnolia blooms unfold like pink tea cups on pale saucers.   The day’s only sounds are the far-off drone of lawnmowers, the squeals of children playing in the neighbours’ yards, and the plump buzz of gold and black bees as they heave over clumps of violets.   On the next street, I hear car doors open and close, open and close at a garage sale with “items too numerous to mention”…items now noticed and mentioned and sold.

All around me, life repeats its endless cycles.  And inside of me too, life cycles.  Life happens and changes…everywhere it is the same.   But, I can’t concentrate.   My mind wanders.   I fret.  I worry.  My brain buzzes like the bees.   I can’t stop it.

I am part of this cycle of life.  I began and I will end.  In between, I live and I am.

At 62, I am closer to my end than to my beginning.  I don’t give much thought to the end, to my mortality, not usually.  Perhaps, I believe it is a long way off and so avoid thinking about it yet.

Of late, I am mindful of my age.  I am aware of degenerating discs, of back pain, of decreased energy, of chest pain and aging.  Yes, aging.  

Why? 

Well, on Thursday, I spent the day, eleven hours of it in the Emergency Department hooked to monitors, and received X-rays, three sets of blood tests and ECG’s.   Then, after being so scared, breathes of relief; there was no heart damage. 

The doctor and I both believe the chest pains are a reaction to the anti-inflammatory pills that I am taking for my back.  The chest pains and nausea and weariness and pressure are likely not heart problems.   But just in case, I am booked for a Stress Test on Tuesday morning, first thing.   Just in case a partially clogged artery is sneaking up on me.  Likely, all is well.  But I am a worrier.  So doubts nibble at the edges of my mind.

I will heave sighs of relief on Tuesday after the test, exhale all my worry.  Then, the doctor and I will have to figure out the other possible causes for this chest pain and pressure and nausea.  Perhaps, it is something as simple as indigestion.   But, for now, “What if’s” plow through my head, creasing my mind with fretfulness, make it hard to be calm or to think.

I struggle to see the positives and the bright spots.  I stare at the dappled shade on my page as I write.  I see the shadows of the crab apple tree dance with the sunlight, the dark and the light together on my page.  Dark and light, these opposites are part of the natural world, part of the cycle of life, part of me.

Shadows and sunlight, pain and joy, worry and relief, vulnerability and reprieve are part of me and part of the cycle of my life.  Life happens and changes, carries me along with it…vulnerable and hopeful, frightened and joyful.

I sit in my wooden chair beneath the crab apple tree and I focus on life.  I focus on birdsong and bees, the sunshine and the peace of this afternoon.  I am glad to be alive, to be.  I am glad to be alive now, alive here, on this sun-blessed afternoon, grateful for this gift that is my life. 

And I hope my life, the life still ahead of me, contains joys and sunny days too numerous to mention.

Photos are mine.