whip away my worries

"Love is the wind, the tide, the waves, the sunshine."
~ Thoreau

            Love is an amazing sensation.  It bubbles through my body, flowing through my veins, beginning at my heart, and warming my fingers and toes.  I take deep breaths and close my eyes, tears of wonder dampening my lashes.  It is like nothing else I have ever felt. 

            I love my parents who have nurtured me from birth and given me a safe place to heal.  I love my sister, my beautiful, kind, intelligent sister who has become a friend and an amazing mother.  I love my niece who is incredible to watch as she explores this new world with wonder- I hope she always finds wonder in the world.  I love my cousin who speaks like someone much older than she is.  I love my friend who has supported me through these difficult times with unwavering loyalty- I wish her the greatest joy.  I love my cat and bird, who always make me laugh and feel needed in this world.  I love the trees and honeybees, the sky and the clouds, the wind and the rain, fresh air and warm sun, dolphins and whales, minnows and frogs, crickets and caterpillars, hawks and eagles, chickadees and finches, earthworms and butterflies. 

            Although it is so easy to feel sad and discouraged, when love overwhelms me, I look at the world with the wonder of my niece and I am thankful to be alive.  I am ALIVE.  I feel the wind whip away my worries and I stand listening to the rustling leaves and the chirps of the birds and buzz of the bees, breathing in the crisp autumn air, watching as clouds travel across the sky.  I see the sun dip below the horizon and the first star pierce through the dimming fabric above me.  The owl hoots as the Milky Way glitters a path across the sky and I spy another galaxy and another world.  I am alive here, now, and I can’t wait to begin.

the fall forest

        Yesterday, I treated myself to a dose of autumn—to the bright warm sun, crisp biting air, and dry crunchy leaves.  As I enjoyed the wonders of nature, I let my worries of the future fall away and focused on the sounds, smells, and sights around me.  I couldn’t help but marvel at each patch of moss and mushrooms, at the colorful leaves rustling in the trees and beneath my feet, the twittering birds, hooting owls, and the running water of the creek.  Walking the last stretch of trail, I spread lovingkindness to myself, to my family and my friends, to those I had met along the path, and to all the beings in the world.  I felt myself quiet even further.  When I stepped into my car and started the engine, the motor rumbled loudly, and the radio shouted news of war and politics.  I turned off the radio and rolled down the windows as I reentered civilization, trying to hold on to the quiet I had found once again in the fall forest.

A lattice of roots.

Creek view.

A trail for hiking.

Golden leaves.

Turning.

A bumper crop of mushrooms.

back to where I had smashed the sponge

“It couldn’t be any other way.  Each moment of your life is the sum total of all the prior moments.  There’s not a single thing that happens to you that doesn’t leave its mark, doesn’t redirect your course somehow, doesn’t make you more fully who you are.  It took every single step—even the steps you took as life dragged you by the hair of your head—to put you exactly where you are.”

                                    ~~ Jefferson Bass, Bones of Betrayal

            I’ve had many dreams of late, colors and words and faces swirling together in a stream of changing scenes and feelings.  Waking up, I can only try to put together the fragments, like a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, some locking together to create a longer narrative while others never quite come together.

            “How do you feel, sitting with these classmates again?” a voice within me inquired.  I looked around at the smiling, expectant faces, eager to learn and expand their knowledge of molecular biology.  Years ago, we had been classmates, some even friends, and we had not seen each other since then.  Now, we came back together to listen to teachers weave together stories about the building blocks of life, how we all came to be.

            “I am pleased,” I replied, smiling at the others.  “We are making amends.”

            “Amends?” the voice asked, confused by what I meant.

            “For not being kind enough to each other.  For taking others for granted, for ignoring the inherent truth at the core of us all—that we all struggle to survive and we all need to hear that we will be okay.”  I paused, to remember the countless days I wandered the hallways trying to be optimistic, but also hoping I would go unnoticed.  “We are together again having seen more of life and the world, and we will be kinder.  Although we cannot rewrite the past, we can make amends.”

            I’ve been researching graduate programs in Forensic Science for the last month or two.  In high school, all I wanted to be was “a Forensic Scientist for the FBI.”  For my senior project, I created a crime scene—a three-foot by three-foot by three-foot crime scene of plywood, Plexiglas, and carpet.  I found a recipe for a fluid with a similar viscosity to blood and splattered drops of it at different angles.  I calculated the ratio of the drops, pairing that ratio with the angle of impact.  Then, I soaked a sponge in the fake blood and splattered it across my crime scene, smashing the sponge with a hammer.  Working backwards, as if seeing the gruesome scene for the first time, I attached strings to the individual blood spatters at the angle at which they hit the surface and was able to trace the trajectories back to where I had smashed the sponge.

I found my project in a box of old school things and read through it.  There was a post-project questionnaire that I had to fill out and one of my answers was, "I am even more excited to study this field than before."

            I have contemplated what caused my fixation on becoming a forensic scientist.  After all, I never watched any crime shows until my junior year of college, and we didn’t have an introductory class in high school.  The only thing I can think of is the day I heard the crunch of steel on steel.  I ran to the scene of a massive accident on Lake Road.  I had my camera with me, I loved taking photos of anything, and I snapped photos from every angle.  I wondered why it had happened, who was at fault, and if it could have been prevented.  I’ve always asked questions as to why something happens and how certain things come to pass.  Perhaps it is this curious nature that caused me to choose forensic science.

            It is this need for answers that led me to choose Environmental Studies after Hurricane Katrina and the mudslides in Guatemala and the huge earthquake in the Indian Ocean that resulted in that horrific tsunami.  I wanted to answer those very same questions I had tried to answer after the car accident.  As I studied, I knew the answers would never come, but I kept reaching.  After years of obsessing, I finally accepted that these questions would never be answered when it came to nature and the environment.  So, my focus has returned to the less-grey nature of forensic science—a desired path I had buried with my pre-Katrina past, but it was always there, trying to be heard.

After analyzing how the blood spattered on each surface depending on the angles, I created my crime scene, measured the spatter and calculated the angles of impact to put the story back together.

            In order to qualify for the graduate programs I have found of interest, I must take a few more science classes before I am fully qualified.  I will take Molecular Biology & Genetics and Organic Chemistry in the spring and summer in order to begin a graduate program in the fall.  Since it has been years since I have studied chemistry, I am attempting to re-teach myself general chemistry so I will be ready for the more advanced organic chemistry.  I am still in the beginning chapters, but I find the problems to be fun—little puzzles that lead to one answer in black or white, no grey.  I have missed the world of hard science.

            However, there is so much more I have to do in order to enter a forensic science graduate program.  I have to fill out the applications, visit campuses to tour the laboratories and talk to current students.  But I am nervous that none of the programs will accept me, being as competitive as they are, and that thought makes me so anxious that I am almost too nervous to try.  Then, there is another part of me that insists if I try my best, I will succeed.  When this voice is louder, my heart beats with excitement and anticipation of what life has in store for me. 

            And how I want this so much.  I feel like I have gone to the end of the earth and returned only to find that what once was true is still true because some things never change—whether that truth is my desire to study forensics or the truth is more universal about the survival and desires of each and every one of us. 

           

we've traveled through time

             Memories are thoughts that transport us back in time, triggered by a smell, sound, place, image, taste, no matter how infinitesimally small.  Biting into a raspberry, its sweet and tart juices exploding over my taste buds, I am suddenly picking the red berries along side my grandparents, parents, and sister.  A basket tied around my waste, I move between rows of bushes, gently picking the ripe fruit.  Next, in the same rows, I have a can of water in one hand while I pick pesky Japanese beetles off green leaves before they devour the whole bush.  I walk into the kitchen with my sister, and take the beetles from the watery cans and toss them into the sink, counting each as it falls into the disposal, each worth a penny or two.  I swallow the delicate fruit and lick its juice from my lips.

            We consider time as linear—the past is on the left, the future is on the right, while we live in the middle, between the two.  But in our minds, time is anything but linear.  One moment, we’re focused on the present, the next we think of something is the past, and then we’re wondering what we will have for dinner, what we will do next weekend, what life will be like in five years.  In those few moments, we’ve traveled through time.  But really, the only time we have to act and live is the present moment.  Each breath we take happens now.  Living in the past—wishing things had been different or wishing things were still that good—only brings despair.  Obsessing about the future—worrying about what will happen—only leads to stress and anxiety.

            For a very long time, I had a hard time letting go of my past.  I thought about the choices I had made, why I had chosen certain paths, and how I could have avoided the wrench that was thrown into my plans.  When Isaac pushed storm surge and dumped heavy rains over the Gulf Coast on the anniversary of Katrina, I become emotional, threatening to throw myself back into the despair I felt in 2005.  I reminded myself that it wasn’t the same.  It was a different storm, a different time.  Things have changed.  Maybe politics are just as screwed up, or more so, and the same can be said about the environment—but I’m different.  I’m the same, but different.  I have finally accepted my past.

            I have thought of the different scenarios that could have played out since my freshman year of college and what kind of person I would have become as a result.  I compare those other dimension personas with my present self, and I realize that I don’t want to be any of those people.  Due to the path that unfolded before me, because of the events that took place and the choices that I made, I endeavored on an exploration of my physical, emotional, and spiritual selves.   I have slowly put the pieces together and made myself whole once again, maybe even more whole that I ever had been.  I have new knowledge and wisdom that I will add to every day of my existence.  Although life is scary and uncertain, I am excited to be alive.

            When it comes to the trajectories of our lives, it is easy to become caught up in the “what if” scenarios.  However, if we believe that every choice we make, no matter if the outcome is labeled as good or bad, is the correct one, then it becomes easier to let things unwind.  When making a decision, we use all of our experience and wisdom to decide which path to take.  Blaming ourselves for a choice that we made, wishing we had chosen differently, is unproductive, and even destructive.  These choices have made us the people we are today.  And now, if we want things to change, we can’t think, “What if?”  We need to think about the choices that are here now, in the present, and choose accordingly.  But we can’t get too wrapped up in moving forward that we forget to enjoy the present.

just out the door

             After finally gathering up enough courage to face the day, I slowly rolled out of bed and opened the shutters to groggily survey the courtyard below.  I peered into the parsley-rosemary-caterpillar world, a small patch of vibrant greens speckled by the yellow of small blossoms.  My blurry eyes tried to focus on some movement, and squinting hard, my vision cleared and I let out a small gasp of surprise.  I propelled myself down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen, and out the door into the courtyard.

            I gasped again, this time in awe, as the black swallowtail paused its fight against the netting to open its wings threateningly as I approached.  My mind finally cleared away the last cobwebs of sleep as this wild, beautiful creature stood its ground.  The butterfly’s wings a satiny black, etched by veins filled with life-giving liquid.  Bright yellow and blue spots curved along the edge of its wings to create a delicate but menacing face to scare off predators.        

   

            It beat its wings again trying to fly up, up, up.  Its antennae and face were through the netting, but its wings were caught on the other side, and it fought to be free.  I had known that the netting, that kept out the birds and discouraged the wasps, would pose an obstacle for the newly emerged butterflies, but I had wanted to give the caterpillars a fighting chance.  But now, watching the swallowtail try to force itself through the narrow netting, I began to weigh the benefits with the risks. I had to act fast before it hurt itself.

            I pulled the netting up from the ground, fumbling to create an opening for the butterfly.  It rested again, watching me, almost laughing at me as I became tangled in the netting; better me than the fragile butterfly.  I held the net above my head; urging it to just fly, fly away.  And it did.  It took flight into the sun, pumping its wings up and down and up and down, teetering in the light breeze, until I couldn’t see it any more.  It was gone so fast, I ran back through the house, out the front door, to see if I could catch another glimpse, or get a hint as to where it was headed.  But it was off, headed to a wonderland of sweet nectar, to start the cycle once again.

            Back in the courtyard, I checked the chrysalises to find which one had hatched, but they were all intact, bright green.  This had been a bonus butterfly, magical, forming from nothing but sunshine, wind, and goodwill.  I searched the rosemary, squinting through the fragrant herb until my eyes rested on the never-before-seen shell of the hollow chrysalis.  I shook my head in disbelief—in wonder—and I smiled to myself, to the butterfly, and to the great camouflage nature provides. 

            I found the baby caterpillar, now a “teenager,” and watched it munch fresh parsley leaves.  Then, I noticed a new baby nearby, black and speckled with yellow, becoming oriented with its large surroundings.  Smiling down, like the mother they would never know, I thought of how lucky I was to witness all of this life, and every good and difficult thing that comes with it—the struggles and successes, birth and death and finally freedom—through my window, just out the door.

fighting the good fight

             A couple months ago as I took stock of how I felt—mentally, emotionally, physically—I realized how much has changed during the past year.  About a year ago, I left the small farm, on which I had been working and living, due to extreme fatigue, overwhelming pain, and depression.  I wanted to do what I had set out to do—to work a full year on a family farm so that when I became a political agricultural hotshot, I could back up my ideas with firsthand experience.  But I could no longer ignore my body as it screamed out, demanding to be heard.

            A few months prior to leaving the farm, I had been given the diagnoses of Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  The diagnoses seemed to fit—widespread pain, problems sleeping, depression—but I couldn’t accept it. I had such little energy I could only move for a few hours a day, but at least I had a legitimate excuse.  But that’s how I saw these illnesses, as an excuse, not something I wanted to learn to live with.  I was far from accepting this fate.  I wanted to get better so that I could hike the Appalachian Trail, travel through Africa, and absorb knowledge so that when I fought for what I believed, no one could refute my arguments.  Although these dreams are idealistic on anyone’s to-do list, these were the dreams for which I hoped and lived. But as everything became too great to handle, my dreams began to mock my slow, painful body. 

            By this time, I had been seeing a Physical Therapist for six months.  When I arrived at my appointments after working in the hot fields, I could hardly do any exercises.  After leaving the farm, I could save my energy for my exercises, and I did them religiously.  Soon, the pain in my legs began to decrease, and then the discomfort in my lower back diminished as well.  I saw a glimmer of hope returning, but the pain in my upper back and shoulders and neck intensified. 

            Trained in Postural Restoration, my Physical Therapist treats her patients differently than the PT I had seen when I was twelve.  No matter what the complaint, she begins treating patients from the legs up.  She doesn’t just view her patients as muscle and bone, but as people with feelings and emotions, in a body whose systems are interconnected.  Therefore, if a problem is too stubborn to respond to her treatment, she looks more closely at the feet, eyes, and mouth. 

            Starting with my feet, my Physical Therapist determined that I could use orthotic inserts—those made especially for those doing Postural Restoration—and better shoes.  I bought a pair of Asics running shoes, being sure they met her strict parameters, and got my first pair of custom-made orthotics.  After a few months, although the inserts had been helpful and my feet were happier, my PT decided that we could do better.  I went to an ophthalmologist to have my eyes checked for the first time since grade school when the school nurse gave vision tests in the hallway.  Although I retained my hawk-like vision, I was deemed in need of Plus Performance Lenses to relieve eyestrain and fatigue.  With these new glasses, my eyes were much more comfortable, but it still wasn’t the magic fix we had hoped it would be.

            Finally, after a year of seeing my Physical Therapist, she sent me to an Orthodontist in Virginia to be evaluated for Temporomandibular Joint Dysfunction.  After being poked and prodded around my neck and head, I had x-rays taken of my mouth and MRIs taken of my TMJ.  The verdict was that my TMJ was dislocated on both the right and left sides of my jaw.  The solution was that this special Orthodontist would give me an intraoral appliance to, first, relieve muscle spasms and put the dislocate discs back in the joint and, second, to correct my bite so that the discs do not dislocate again.  The hope was that by treating my TMJ Dysfunction—wearing the appliance 24 hours every day—my persistent back and neck pain would dissolve. 

            I suppose it would be a bit extreme if I said that wearing this could be added to Dante’s already existing levels of hell, but it is extremely difficult and frustrating. The appliance covers all eight of my lower back molars with a hard acrylic material.  And every six to eight weeks I head up to Virginia to have my bite adjusted.  This is all fine and well, but adjusting the placement of the lower mandible also effects the cervical spine placement, effecting, like toppling dominoes, the rest of my spine and all of the muscles and nerves connected.  All of this creates a very uncomfortable few weeks until my body gets used to its new position. 

            Presently, the appliance is built up in such a way that when I close my mouth, there is a centimeter gap between my upper and lower teeth and only half of each upper molar is in contact with the appliance—which is all I have to grind my food.  The first month I lost more weight than I could afford, but I am getting better at finding soft foods.  With every adjustment, with every day, I am hoping that this only lasts the year the Orthodontist predicted.

            A year ago I wore moccasins, looked directly at pages in a book, and ate whatever I craved.  Now, I wear shoes with orthotic, stare through magnified lenses, and eat applesauce and yogurt if I need a snack.  Although it’s not fun, when I take stock of how I feel now compared to a year ago, I wouldn’t go back.

            A couple of months ago, my diagnosis changed again.  I switched doctors because I was sick my words being brushed away, and she sent me to whom she thought was the best Rheumatologist in the area.  After another round of x-rays (18!) and blood tests, we discussed the results and she gave me a new label: Sjögren’s Syndrome.  This illness is often misdiagnosed as Fibromyalgia or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and my symptoms fit this even better.  My doctor explained that autoimmune diseases are very difficult to diagnose, since they all have overlapping symptoms.  She said that this might not be the last label I am given, but I have decided to not worry about that. 

            When dreaming of hiking and traveling and fighting for my causes, I never thought I would first have to fight to have a so-called normal life.  But I am fighting the good fight and I have a whole team on my side—a Physical Therapist, a Psychotherapist, an Osteopathic Doctor, a Rheumatologist, and my family and friends.  Although I would never have chosen this path, it’s the one I have to follow.  So I do my exercises, I read, I write, I paint and create, I practice mindfulness, and I marvel in the little things—the fluttering butterfly, the rhythmic rain, the changing wind, the pastel sunset, the softness of my cat’s fur, the antics of my parakeet. 

            Each day when I wake up, I am not sure how my body will respond, but I get up anyways.  Some days I become frustrated and I cry and I want to give up.  But when I remember how far I’ve come this past year, I realize I have one more thing on my side—hope.  When I was twelve, I wrote a paper on the word “hope.”  My closing line went something like this: “When people utter the word “hope,” they give themselves a future.”  And how exciting it is to have found it once again.

before turning into a chrysalis

             Immediately after returning home from D.C. for a doctor’s appointment and to visit family, I went out to the courtyard to check on the caterpillars.  A few weeks earlier, a Swallowtail butterfly had laid its small yellow eggs on the bolted parsley blossoms.  Once hatched, the caterpillars munch on the leaves and flowers, growing and expanding from little black “turds,” to spotted yellow and black, to a beautiful bright green with black and yellow spots running the length of their bodies.  When ready to pupate, the caterpillars travel to a nearby plant on which they will attach before turning into a chrysalis.  At one time, I counted seven caterpillars and two eggs.  Then, they began to disappear.

            As they disappeared, others hatched, but at a slower rate.  Before I left for my long weekend away, I counted two “babies,” one “teenager,” and two “adults” (I label them this way depending on their size and color).  When I checked on them upon my return, one had pupated, two others were attaching to the rosemary, and one “teenager” munched away at the parsley; one had disappeared.

            Mocking birds and catbirds had become very interested in the courtyard since the yellow eggs began hatching, much to the dismay of my poor peeved cat.  Perhaps they were finding a nice feast on the parsley.  The next day, I checked on the caterpillars again and the “teenager” was missing.

            “No, no, no, no!”  I cried out loud to the parsley, the birds, and the wind.  I searched through the stalks and leaves, swatting a wasp away.  But the wasp kept coming back, flying around, zoning in on the parsley.  I glared at it.  It was too interested.  Finally, the wasp landed on the ground next to the planter of herbs and I looked on in horror.  It sat on a half-eaten caterpillar corpse, masticated parsley oozing out.

            I yelled at it, flinging insults and threats, and cursing its very existence.  I grabbed a nearby rock and lunged at the wasp, giving away my moves as it zoomed away.  I took a breath and waited for it to return to its meal.  This time, I pounced and crushed it.  I angrily buried the wasp in the mulch, and then carefully, almost reverently, I covered the caterpillar’s remains with soft, rich soil.

            So, wasps were the culprits, perhaps acting in tandem with the birds.  Then and there, I claimed that wasps were the embodiment of all that is evil.  And I hated them.  As I strived to love and accept all beings, I hated wasps.  I stared at the recent battleground, meditating on this poisonous idea of hatred. 

            What is the purpose of wasps?  Is there any benefit to their existence?  I looked online for the answer and learned that, yes, wasps and beneficial!  Wasps kill garden pests, like caterpillars, and bring them back to their nest to feed their young.  Then, the article went on to mention that, however, if you have a butterfly garden, the wasp would be the pest.  I grumbled to myself.  Having worked on three organic farms, I should have worshiped this mighty predator, but now, we were on opposite sides of the battle.

            The next day, I found a new “baby.”  With the support of my mom, I swore to watch over it until it turned into a chrysalis.  We covered the parsley in the smallest netting we could find—not quite small enough—and hung up a wasp trap in a nearby tree.  The netting would at least keep the birds away, and it might present a challenge to impatient wasps.  

            Presently, I have been heading into the courtyard to check on the caterpillars and chrysalises obsessively throughout the day.  There are three chrysalises and still the one “baby.”  I look forward to seeing the butterflies emerge, stretching their new fragile wings, and warming in the sun—to start the cycle once again.

round eyes peaked through the leaves

             I walked on a paved trail, leaving the city behind.  It was another perfect day—clear blue sky, gentle sun rays, and a calm breeze.  There was a small plane, like those that fly by sporting events advertising insurance, pulling an American flag across the sky.  It made a turn and the flag whipped around catching on a wing.  The plane spun out of control, nose pointing to the ground, altitude rapidly decreasing.  Like a deer caught in headlights, I stared as its nose aimed directly at where I stood.  Finally, as if pulling my feet out of molasses, I surged forward as the small plane, wrapped in the flag, crashed to the ground next to me.  I expected an explosion, but none occurred.  Continuing down the path, I distanced myself from the crash site as fast as I could in case it erupted in flames. 

            I entered a dense forest and all around, large ferns rolled out new shoots, chipmunks and lizards rustled through brown leaf litter, woody lianas wound through branches and climbed tall trunks toward the early summer sun, and colorful birds fluttered and twittered among leafy treetops.  The ground sloped down sharply, but the trail did not, becoming a hanging path—long and winding, remaining flat as the ground fell away.  I tentatively placed a foot on the shaky wooden planks and transferred my weight until I was sure it would hold me.  Ropes hung at waist level allowing me to reach out to steady myself.

  

            Walking along the wobbly path, I peered down to the forest floor.  From above, it was a carpet of new green from which large trees reached up to the vast sky above.  Hovering in this middle ground between earth and sky, I felt as if I was intruding; eavesdropping on some secret that natural ground-dwellers weren’t suppose to hear. 

            Suddenly, the green ground began to move, and round eyes peaked through the leaves.  I held my breath, not daring to move, as short, scrawny, two-legged creatures emerged from the undergrowth, stretching long blue arms and yawning.  They didn’t seem to see me standing above them, and I didn’t want to interrupt, so I quietly and quickly walked on, leaving them be.

            The path twisted and curved around the trees, still hovering above the ground.  Rounding another turn, the earth dropped down further and I stood above a sandy beach.  The yellow and tan grains stretched ahead to the horizon.  The forest loomed behind me and ran along the beach opposite the water.  There were a few people walking along the shore, enjoying the azure water.  The suspended trail gently snaked its way down to the sand.

            Before I reached the end of the wooden planks, the calm breeze became a strong wind and the sea began to roil and churn.  Tall waves pounded the shore, and the people on the beach gathered their belongings, staying away from the reaching waters.  I backed up the hanging path, keeping an eye on the angry swells as they grew and multiplied.

            Suddenly, creatures began to walk out of the waves.  They looked like the extinct Tyrannosaurus Rex—large oblong heads, sharp teeth bared.  The creatures walked into the shallows and onto the beach on strong hind legs, stunted arms reaching out ahead.  As far as I could see, countless creatures emerged from the sea and onto the beach.  I turned back to the forest, walking up the path, out of reach of the wild waves and strange T-Rex-like creatures. 

            Joined by the beach goers, the trail was crowded as we rushed through the forest, passing the tiny blue creatures foraging in the lush green undergrowth.  Reaching solid ground, I let out a breath I had been holding.  Strange things were happening in the forest and on the beach, and a plane had crashed in the clearing ahead. Behind me and in front of me were confusion and uncertainty, but this place felt safe.  My feet were on the ground, along with the little animals that scurried through the undergrowth.  Beneath this, in the soil, worms and insects worked and snakes made their homes.  Above me, trees stretched their branches to the blue sky, where birds and butterflies reigned.  That all made sense to me; I wanted to stand on that patch of ground forever.

the salty water washes away my past and future

            I contemplate the thunderous ocean waves as they wash onto the beach, calmly receding until another crashes onto shore.  Sea foam, splashing and bubbling, blows off wave crests by the constant breeze.  Pelicans fly low, searching for their next fish meal, gently skimming their wingtips against forming waves.  Sandpipers run on their quick stick legs with the ebb and flow of the ocean, daring to wet their beaks.  

            Humbled by the shear magnitude and energy of the ocean and waves, I recite lovingkindness, “May I be strong.”  I realize that I am directing this request to the water, hoping that I may be graced with just an ounce of its strength.  I enter the water, cool at first touch, becoming a warm embrace as I float among the waves.  My body feels light and the salty water washes away my past and future as I listen to the underwater shush and watch the white feather clouds cross the blue sky.

            As the sun descends behind stilted beach houses, the sky turns grey-purple-pink-blue above silver water.   The moon rises over the horizon—big, full, and flat against the pastel sky.  The sun bows beneath the horizon, and the moon rises higher accepting its reign over the night.  It brightens as if glowing from within, casting a perfect path of light on the ocean’s surface, ending at my feet resting in the hard damp sand.  The path beckons me to come—to walk to the edge of the world with the moon as my guide.

            I walk along the beach and the moon glows mysteriously in the ever-darkening sky, its path never wavering from my side.  I ponder my ability to walk along the gleaming trail, treading lightly on the water’s surface, beneath a moon full of secrets.  I walk slowly, feeling heel-arch-toe press into the cold sand, listening to the whispering waves, feeling the moon’s celestial light and recite, “May I be happy.  May I be healthy.  May I be filled with ease.  May I be filled with peace.  May I be strong.  May I be safe.”

as time and space passed by

             If there was no wall of aluminum silicate glass and the shuttle wasn't moving, the deck on which I stood could have been the large balcony of an estate house.  I leaned against the railing with a dozen or so classmates and watched the scenery go by. We passed Jupiter and the rings of Saturn, really just asteroids caught by its gravity—we could see every individual rock.   Speeding by Uranus and Neptune, they seemed stunted after the real gas giants.

            I thought we were headed to the moon.  The Earth was now a tiny blue dot in the dark expanse; we had passed its dusty grey satellite long ago. 

            We left the solar system and space was hardly empty.  It was filled with bright stars of blue, green, yellow, and red.  Some were young when I saw them, but so far away that they had already died.  And there were asteroids and comets and planets that had yet to be discovered.

            I stepped to my telescope and focused it on Earth’s pinprick of light.  I saw gladiators fighting in the Roman Colosseum, entertaining bloodthirsty crowds.  I watched as laborers stacked bricks to connect fortresses and smaller walls into one Great Wall that slithered through mountains and across the Gobi Desert.  I saw the Sphinx sitting regally, rising from the sands as peasants cultivated the fertile river delta. 

            Shocked, I checked to see if anyone else had seen this.  But my classmates stood idly chatting, gazing out the window as time and space passed by.   I turned back to my telescope and watched the history of humanity and the Earth rewind to nothing.

a lot can happen with an open mind and an open heart

             I felt sad when Thursday came this week.  My class on Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction had ended so no longer would I be sitting in a circle with my classmates each week, discussing our struggles and successes in Mindfulness.  Our class had become a little haven, where we could speak and share openly, knowing we would each be listened to and accepted with warmth.  There aren’t many places where a person can feel so safe and secure.  And at the beginning of the eight weeks, we had all been strangers to each other.  A lot can happen with an open mind and an open heart.

            The first meditation we learned was Awareness of Breath.  Even if I am going to do a different meditation, I always like to begin my formal practice with this one.  The Awareness of Breath meditation is a practice in attention and focus.  To try this meditation, take a comfortable but alert position, seated in a chair or a cushion, or lying on the floor with legs on a chair or pillows beneath the knees.  Close your eyes and gently invite your mind to focus on the breath.  Feel the air move into your nostrils, down your windpipe, expanding your chest and abdomen, then flow out, emptying your diaphragm and lungs out your nose on the exhale.  Feel the breeze of the breath on your upper lip and notice the pause in between exhale and inhale. 

            If your mind begins to wander, and you find yourself thinking about dinner or the book you are reading, label the thought as “Planning” or “Thinking” and gently invite your awareness back to the breath.  If you have a thought, that is not failure, you might have a hundred in a minute.  But just by noticing that your mind has wandered is an act of awareness.  Remember the seven attitudes of Mindfulness: non-striving, non-judgment, patience, beginner’s mind, trust, acceptance, and letting go.

            If you want to begin Mindfulness meditation, or any meditation, start small.  Our minds have been programmed to think, think, think; this is the monkey mind. It takes time to quiet the constant stream of thoughts, so don’t be discouraged.  When I first began meditating, I could barely make it to ten minutes, if that.  After two months of daily practice, I can meditate much longer, sometimes up to an hour.  However, some days, fifteen minutes is all I can handle.  I begin to get frustrated, but I remind myself that these things take time and each day is different; this is just today; tomorrow will be different, as will be the day after that.

            Our lives and our minds are anything but static.  We are constantly shifting and changing.  In Walden, Thoreau reminds us, “All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant.”  But this is a hard sentiment to take to heart.  So easily, we get comfortable with routine and shy away from anything different.   But if we can embrace change, such as moving cross-country or finding a new meditation group, with an open mind and an open heart, anything can happen.

For step-by-step instructions of an Awareness of Breath meditation for beginners by Mindfulness Psychotherapist, Lisa Dale Miller, click here. 

the other side of the fence

            I had helped to plan the trip, but as our departure drew closer I grew weary.  Something didn’t seem right.  There were discussions behind closed doors, with people I had never seen before, to which I wasn’t invited.  What had started between my friend and her brother seemed to be growing out of control, international businessmen began to take over.  We had planned to go abroad and explore new places, but now, with hushed tones and paranoid glances, our trip had taken on sinister undertones.

            We headed out to the cars—dark sedans, tinted windows.  I had never seen them before.  This is really strange.  I slung my bag over my shoulder, filled with a couple changes of clothes, a book, and toiletries, and pretended not to be alarmed.  My friend, her brother, and I piled into the cars along with the businessmen.  Since when were they coming, too?  I plastered a little smile on my face, trying to look as if this was only to be expected.

            When we disembarked from the cars, we weren’t at the departure terminal of the airport.  Instead, we were in a large hangar with three Boeing 737s.  I saw that one of the planes was boarding and noticed that a group of young woman, with bags much like my own, huddled nearby.

            After the cabin door shut, engines whirring, mechanical arms extended from the sides of the airplane.  I blinked hard and shook my head; I have to be imagining this.  When I opened my eyes, the young women had formed two lines, fear and uncertainty covering their faces, as an official-looking man shouted orders.  One by one, the mechanical arms wrapped around the women and held them above the ground.

            Is anyone going to stop this?  I looked around frantically.  People were going about their business like this was normal.  A similar group of young women had formed around me.  Am I next?  I tried to hold my fear at bay.  No way.  This is going to be a fun trip with friends!  I tried to console myself.  But my situation was growing far too similar to the one I was witnessing.  When the mechanical arms of the plane secured all the women, the plane pulled out of the hangar.  My breathing stopped and my blood ran cold.  What   is   going   on?

            One of the remaining airplanes pulled up to the group with which I stood.  The cabin door opened and steps were rolled up so that boarding might begin.  The businessmen climbed aboard, as did my friend’s brother.  My friend was nowhere to be seen.

            The cabin door closed, the stairs were rolled away, and the engines growled.   The women made two lines on either side of the plane, as ordered, and mechanical arms began to reach out.  I looked to either side of me as the metal claw wrapped around my torso.  The same thing was happening to the other women as well.  Terror filled their eyes. 

            Then, another man appeared, a grin playing at his lips.  He walked with a sense of power in his wing-tipped shoes and smart black suit.  He peered at each of the women, searching their faces.  He approached me and leaned forward to inspect my face and my uncomfortable situation.  I wanted to ask what was going on, but no sounds escaped.  He could sense my fear was changing to anger.  “Humph,” he looked at me down his nose one last time as he moved on to the next women.

            I looked down at the arm around my waist, trying to wiggle free.  I have to escape.  What are they trying to do? Why? What are their plans? Why aren’t we safe inside the plane?  At 30,000 feet we’ll freeze!  We’ll suffocate! Suddenly an image flashed into my mind.  In it, each woman was dropped from the plane.  We aren’t going to die, it will be worse.  They would make sure of that.  But they didn’t need to treat us like people, because to them, we weren’t human—we’re a commodity.

            The man in the suit made his way to the end of the line and the official-looking man stayed close to him.  There was no one else guarding the plane.  I took my chance and began prying open the metal claw as much as I could.  I slipped to the ground, holding my bag close, and ran as fast as I possible out of the hangar into the daylight. 

            A high chain link fence surrounded the hangar, with a large gate to let out the planes.  Businessmen walked about, talking in hushed voices, and guards with large automatic rifles slung walked the perimeter.  I kept running.  I knew my running would draw attention, but they would see me either way—I was not a businessman, nor was I a guard.  But if I kept running, they would have less time to act.

            I ran toward the gate as it began to close.  A guard stood directly in my path, but I didn’t hesitate.  Every moment counted.  For a split second he stared at me, shocked that someone would try to escape.  Then he began yelling orders to the others.  I ran faster and faster, trying to get to the gate before it closed completely, trapping me inside this strange compound. 

            And then I was there, at the gate, sliding through the narrow opening.  I didn’t know what would be on the other side of the fence.  Most likely it was a wide-open tarmac over which I would have to run before I got to safety.  Or there could be more guards waiting to capture me.  Or it could be something completely different—it could be a field of wildflowers with butterflies drinking their sweet nectar and birds flittering about in the sun, with a path leading into a quiet lush forest, just for me. 

            But before I could find out, everything went black.

the answer for which I had been searching

             About a year ago, I took a six-week art class on Altered Books at the Arts Center in Carrboro.  At the first class, my classmates and I were instructed to choose a theme for the book—it very possibly might evolve as we worked, but that was expected.  I chose, “Transitions.” 

            I had already moved from a place where my mind and body were on the same path, to a place where they were not.  I was hoping to go back to that original path, but with more than when I had left—something like wisdom.  I hoped, when I am done with this book, my transformation will be complete!  It was a naïve thought.  We are always in transition.  We are always evolving.  Every morning when we wake up, we are a bit different from when we awoke the previous day.  But in hoping that my transformation would be complete, I hoped that my pain would cease and my energy would return.  In creating this Altered Book on transitions, I hoped to find the answer for which I had been searching even since Hurricane Katrina had struck the Gulf Coast.

            Now I have finished my Altered Book.  In the process, I did not complete my transformation or find some key piece of information that was missing.  However, the process of creating this book may have helped to illuminate the path before me.  Through some curves in the road, I was led to Mindfulness.  Through Mindfulness, I realized that there is no key piece that I am missing.  And by quieting my mind with Mindfulness, I was able to complete the book.  

"ecotone, n. a transition area between two adjacent ecological communities

It has some of the characteristics of each bordering community and often has a greater number of species than are found in either flanking community.  Some organisms need a transitional area for activities such as courtship, nesting, or foraging for food.

For example, the Chihuahuan Desert giving way to glistening gypsum sand dunes."

"The atom moves an intricate course, swerving here and there, myriadly attracted, myriadly repelled, seeming to give, seeming to respond —always remaining free and alone."

 

        "accept

                   your

                          reality

          and

              permit yourself

                                      to

                                         fly"

       "Four: Some Practical Conclusions for the                         Survival of Man"

                    "dynamism of the whole

                           the universe is not rational.

                     revolutionary, dreams

                           'fellow traveler'

                     transition, harmony

                           true person"

Here is a video tour of my Altered Book, "Transitions"
(To see more detail, click the "YouTube" icon here, then at the original video link, click the bottom right square for full screen.)