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.