Today’s reflection offers a formula:Â Estimate the number of years you have left, subtract a third for sleep, and another third for eating and working, and that is the time you have left to accomplish something.
I have 11 years, providing I live to 88.
Hmmmm!
Daylight beckons me to stir out of my bed, but a relentless heaviness drags me under into the realm of sleep and dreaming.
The path I walk on is covered by water, like a shallow trough. It is a gray, overcast day. To my right the landscape drops off revealing a large body of water below, which flows beneath the place we stand. We must be on a bridge, I think.  A female companion walks just before me, oblivious to our surroundings, but me, I am captivated by the movement of snakes in the water below. “Look!” I exclaim. “Look at how magnificently they navigate the water.” We both stop to look as a long, earthen-toned snake effortlessly glides side to side passing beneath us.  Relieved to view them from a distance, I suddenly notice movement in my peripheral vision: a large water snake is headed our way, its head poised as if to strike.  How can this be? The water here is very shallow. I alert my friend and step out of the water onto the muddy bank to the left. The ground here is steep, with patchy clumps of overgrown coarse grass. I step carefully to get a good footing hoping the snake will not follow me on land. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I see that an even larger, earth-coloured snake is coiled in a shallow hollow only a step away from where I am. I try to warn my friend, but am too late. She jumps out of the water and throws herself directly into the mushy mass of snake. “Back up carefully,” I warn her, trying to discern the head of the snake in this enormous coil. “But try to move quickly.” The large mass slowly comes to life, shifting its weight, readying for movement.
Startled, I awaken. Not again!
I have dreamt of snakes frequently over the past several months, each one prefacing change within our lives. I have come to dread their appearance. But these snakes are different, not the bright coloured greens, reds, or blues of previous dreams. These blend into their surroundings, natural components of a larger ecosystem.
I wonder what message they bring. And who is the woman that accompanies? I decide to let her speak:
As I trudge along the shallow waterway, I see only miles of barren, grey landscape before me. Something looms in the far distance, be it denser, black clouds, or mountains, I cannot tell: the greyness of this day offers no light for clarification. The water at my feet is not cold, despite the lack of sunshine, nor are there rocks to heed my pace; it simply appears that the path has recently filled with water that otherwise wouldn’t belong here. The passageway is narrow, and doesn’t offer any apparent alternative routes, so we carry on, carefully making our way. The woman who follows me is distracted, lacking intent, and I am afraid she is going to hinder our progress. She stops to observe snakes that swim in the waters far below us. This has once been an old train trestle, I believe, a passage carved in the side of this hill, overlooking an expanse of inland water. The scene might be beautiful on another day, but the land has not yet recovered from the harsh winter, and the landscape appears battered, with only dried up stumps of what was greenery in a better time. I observe the snakes and wonder at her fascination. Does she not share my desire to be clear of this place; to move on? I sigh. Suddenly, she warns me of a snake approaching. Instinctively, I leap from the water and throw myself on the earth beside me. I land not on solid ground, but on a warm, springy mass, that first recedes, then expands, repelling me. I hear the warning: Move cautiously, and scramble to gain my footing, horrified that I have met my doom. Is this how it will all end?Â
Maybe we need to let the snake speak:
I am as old as all time, and I have grown and grown over the years, until my size has become legendary. Some think me lazy. Others run in very fear of my physical enormity. Few know me well. When times get hard, I curl myself up and sleep it off. Not much you can do to change things, I’ve learned, so why try to fight. Just go with it. Curl up, and wait for a new day to dawn. Detached inaction, I call it. This certain kind of grayness that lingers in the air is one of those times. That sky is one endless huddle of clouds, obliterating the sun and any hope of a clear day. I have dug myself a nice comfortable hollow in which to coil up for a long rest. Or at least, that is what I thought, until some out-of-control woman, bent on some foolish mission, comes along and disrupts my sleep! Scared herself silly – so silly, she didn’t even see me lying there. Now, I know I am fairly well camouflaged – and that has helped me survive for so long, no doubt – but there ain’t no mistaking my massive curves, if you’re paying attention. I know I am slow to react, and like to just let things roll off my back, but this woman got to me. The full of weight of her jumped on my sleeping back, and I am not taking that lightly. I need to get a look at this disturbance. I blow myself up to full size, pushing her off me, and begin to stretch. Ohhhh that feels good – the first stretch of the day, coming out of a long slumber. I stretch and breath in a long, satisfying inhale, waking up each and every fiber of my inner strength. I unwind, raising my head and opening my eyes. Two women are beside me, or should I say, besides themselves. One, the perpetrator, is struggling to regain composure. The other carefully stepping out of my way. “Hello Ladiesss”, I say, disarming them yet again.
“So sorry,” the clumsy one mutters. “Didn’t mean any harm, really.”
I see the head of another snake go slithering by, laughing, and realize that he has been the culprit. “Ssstartled, were you?” I ask.
“What? Oh, yes!” Then the inevitable: “You talk!”
“Well, yesss, I do. Sssshould we wassste time on that?”
“Oh no!” exclaims the other. ” Not at all. We are very sorry to have disturbed you. Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Give it a ssshot,” I hiss.
“First off, where are we? Is it always so glum?”
“Ahh, yes….glum. Well, not always, no. Recently, certainly.” I ponder the first question. “Where are we? Well only one answer to that: Where aren’t we?”
“I don’t understand.” The fallen woman seemed to be regaining her composure.
“It’s a riddle,” said the other. “She speaks in riddles.”
Clever girl, I think to myself.
“But why? What is the point in that?”
“You are my practical side, aren’t you?” the clever woman addresses the other. “You are the one that keeps moving even when there is no apparent direction and all looks hopeless.”
“Well….yes. What else would you want me to do? Sit down in the muck and let it overwhelm me?”
“It’s not ssso bad asss that,” I offer. “I wasss quite comfortable before you two came along.”
They both look at me.
“Are you going to eat us?” The practical one asks.
I guffaw. “Terrorize you maybe, but eat you never. You are too full of poison and toxinsss for my liking.”
“We’re what?”
“She’s talking about your diet. We have been eating a lot of junk recently.”
The practical ones just nods.
“Pretty hard to terrorize now that you’ve spoken to us, though,” the clever one offers. “What are you doing here?”
“Been here forever,” I glibly respond. “Question should be: what are you doing here?”
“Things are not going well for us.” Practical One states.
“I have been struggling with anxiety and depression,” the other offers. “We have been trying for quite a while to stay on the straight and narrow, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. Too much uncertainty.”
“So she brought us here,” Practical add defiantly.
“Look, I know you are disappointed, but I have limits. What was the point to pushing on anyways?”
“Ladiessss, I ssee your dilemma. One of you jussst wantsss to maintain the ssstatusss quo, while the other wantsss change.” Their glances tell me I’m on the right track.
“Do you know how many times she has stepped off the path?” Practical sounds more venomous then I ever have. “She is always changing her mind, taking us on side trips, losing her perspective. She would rather we live our life unpredictably, without security and reliability. Can you imagine what others think of us?”
“And I think your narrow-mindedness and conventionality has led us astray. What if we are missing out on our true life purpose? What if all this catering to norms is making us miss our calling? Maybe we’re not meant to conform.”
“That sounds like a cop out to me! What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of living life to someone else’s drumbeat, not my own. I am afraid of never really living out my potential, out of fear that it might not please others. Who cares what others think?”
“You are missing my point!”
“Which is?”
“That a certain amount of conformity is necessary for survival. If we don’t keep trucking, this place is all we are ever going to know. We’ll get stuck here. How depressing would that be?”
“So what would you have us do instead. The same thing over and over, hoping someday it will produce a different outcome? That is the definition of insanity.”
“Ahem!” I cough, trying to get their attention. “First off, thiss isss not just somewhere, it is where you are right now. It isss your life. Now, you can argue and over-think it, or you can try and flee it, but you cannot esssscape it. Best to ssstart to live it.”
“Easy for you to say, no offense, but you are a snake.”
“And a dream figure at that.”
“Point taken. A sssnake that hass been around for a long time.  A ssurvivor, you might ssay.”
The clever one’s eyes narrow. “Do I know you?”
“Maybe,” I respond coyly.
“A survivor, you say?”
“That’sss right.”
“Were you there when I had that accident at nine?”
“Maybe.”
“And when I fell off that horse at fourteen and was bedridden for a week?”
“Perhapssss.”
“And that time I was abducted and raped. Were you curled up with me in the corner?”
“Even sssooo!”
“I know you! You are my inner strength! I wondered where you’ve been hiding.”
“Oh, never hiding, my dear girl, I can asssure you. Sssleeping ssssometimes, but never far away.”
“Will we get through this?” Practical One wants to know.
“Of courssse we will,” I state with confidence. “We’ve got through everything elsssse.”
“The world works in mysterious ways,” my father used to say to me. “It’s wonders never cease.”
I forget sometimes that life is a mystery. I forget that there is an underlying force that weaves its way through our lives and creates a tapestry of meaning. A Universe of order and compassion, Dora Kunz* calls it.
Thor has just had his fourth surgery since January. His ability to heal is severely compromised. I worry for him. He feels as if he is just watching one marble after another drop in his life, falling to its fate: out of control.
I, in the meantime, am losing my marbles. I try to carry on as if everything is normal, and push through the anxiety, but every part of me resists. My body rebels against my rational thoughts and proclaims its dominance. In moments, I feel calm, reassured, but then I leave the house and my chest contracts, squeezing the breath out of me, and my heart races, fatiguing me greatly. I want to lie down and wake up to a new reality.
There is no other reality.
This is our life.
If I can find faith, I will remember that this is just one more creative process in the greater scheme of things. One of life’s mysteries.
*Co-founder of therapeutic touch.
Thor has just undergone a third surgery to his knee to remove infection. After yet another week of IV antibiotics, the doctor is threatening a fourth surgery next week if the healing does not progress. Compromised by his cancer and the radiation treatments, it feels as if he is scaling a steep, and dangerous, cliff wall.
What we desire right now is relief:Â a sign that things are turning around and that a return to health is imminent.
There are no worldly things that can calm the anxiety of uncertainty. Even our summer travel plans, which had previously given us something to look forward to, are now cancelled. Life is on hold.
The kindness of friends brings reassurance and warmth, but the reality still looms, stifling.
Rationally, I know that grief has many stages and that bargaining is just one of them, however, that is exactly what I want to do: negotiate. I want to make a deal with God that I will give up all my material wealth if only He will promise me that my husband will be well.
It is a desperate and hollow plea.
Instead, I must find inside myself the courage and strength to carry on.  Surrendering to fear is not an option – my husband deserves more than that.  Fiercely, I must attack this enemy with all the love and compassion that I possess.
It is all that matters right now.
The thoughts inside my head are debilitating right now, paralyzing me. There is no silence, only a constant swirling of I should, what if, how, why, and don’t forget to…….Â
There is no progress amidst all this noise. Life is too in my face at the moment, and I feel like I can’t breathe.
I used to know how to do this:Â feet on the floor, breathe deeply.
A vision of my husband, recovering from yet another surgery floats into my mind, and with it emotional panic. I can’t help him like this, I remind myself.
And breathe again.
The clutter of the house closes in around me. I have let things go.
The more the mind races, the less you get done…..I know, I know…..
Breathe. Find your quiet place. Let the extraneous go, for this moment, in this moment. Breathe.
My chest expands, pushing through the tightness that has resided there these past months. I follow the breath deeper, into my belly, reconnect with my core strength. Surrender to stillness….
The sound of my breath, my heart beating, and the safety of a vast inner nothingness…..
Suspended consciousness….
ecstatic….
I float…..
ahhhhh……..
peace.
Thor has fallen again. It seems impossible to fathom, but there it is. Ten months into his healing, he has re-injured his leg, requiring surgery once again. The damage is more extensive this time, and will take longer to mend.
My husband is angry and discouraged by this recent setback, and I cannot fault him. He rallied through seven weeks of radiation, and maintained a positive attitude through the first surgery, but this time he is not bouncing back. Everything he does seems to tire him.
As a caregiver, I too am exhausted. This time has been emotionally, as well as physically, draining. With the diagnosis of cancer, the doctors had warned us that our quality of life would change, but we could not have imagined this.
Yet, as I drag myself through the extra responsibilities that I have right now, I cannot help but recognize the gift that my husband has been in my life.  With each passing day, my gratitude deepens.
Thor is normally a high energy man, who unassumingly takes on many tasks. He gets groceries, helps out in the house, and thoughtfully makes a point of showing he cares. He has been a rock for our children, and tirelessly fights for justice for the many people who employ him. He asks for little in return.
I realize now how much Thor does for all the people around him and hope that the little I am able to give back right now suitably expresses my gratitude to this wonderful man.
Surrounded by family, friends, and the nursing staff, Thor hit the gong to signal his last radiation treatment on December 24th, then came to celebrate Christmas as usual.
Three days later, as I was leaving a gathering with some friends, my right foot hit ice, sliding out from under me, and sending me crashing to the ground.  My hip, then elbow, slammed into the solid ice and I writhed with pain, before willing myself to get up again. Nothing was broken, but I had some work to do to heal.
A week later, as I was on my way to my first therapy treatment, I received a text from Thor:Â I am trying to crawl up the stairs.
I stared at the phone, trying to make sense of the words. Thor had fallen down the stairs and knew that the damage was serious. He would need me to take him to emergency.
I couldn’t believe it. As if he hadn’t already been through enough! I rushed to the house, only to find him sitting in a chair, pale and clammy. He had crawled up the stairs and onto the chair.
“It’s my quad tendon,” he said. ” I’ll need surgery. ”
Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but Thor is considerably larger than I am. Getting him up and out of the house was posing a problem. I found crutches, and he got to the doorway, but our threshold is aluminum – as in slippery – and then there are two steps down. In silence, we both looked at this obstacle and mentally noted the current impossibility of navigating it.
“What if we try a chair?” I offered.
It didn’t work.
“Get a cardboard box,” Thor suggested. “Flatten it and I’ll slide down.”
And that is what he did – down the porch steps, off the porch and across the snow covered lawn!
“You should video this,” he kept repeating.
I was too concerned about his well being to comply.
He slid himself right to the door of our Crossover, and faced his next challenge. I ran inside to see if I could find something to help. When I returned, Thor was seated in the passenger side. He’d pulled himself up.
Thor didn’t complain once through the whole ordeal. He joked with the nurses before and after surgery, and nodded with acceptance as the doctor told him that it would be a good six months to a year for this type of injury to heal, and that he would not be able to drive for at least a month.
I looked at my husband and wondered about the unfairness of it all. Here he was, immune compromised from the radiation, immobilized by the recent injury, and dependent on a wife who was also physically compromised. Despite my best efforts, I burst into tears.
“How will we manage?” I cried.
“Ah Honey,” Thor softly reassured me. “We’ll make it work.”
I don’t have the confidence about life that my husband has, but he was right. It did all work out. He is driving again, and with steely determination his life goes on. Not much stops him.
And through it all, I learned more about the man that I love.
Thor has always told me that “what you see is what you get”, and now I understand. Even under immense duress, Thor is still a rock.
And, I hate to say it, but he was right:Â I should have videotaped the episode!
Sit comfortably, feet planted on the floor, back straight, palms up.
Breathe deeply, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Repeat.
I breath deep into the bottom of my belly, imagining it filling up, then forcing the air out, and with it all my tension. Emptying.
Did I remember to change the wash over?
Start again. Breathe deeply. Feel my feet on the floor. Hear my heart beating. Surrender to the calm. Let go.
A heaviness washes over me. It has been a trying time. So many challenges. I am weary.Â
Breathe in, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Release the tension. Exhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Open to new possibilities. Breathe them in. Feel the expansion. Let go of the burdens. Release the fear. Make room. Make room. Breathe.
I am a vessel of light, empty, anticipating.
The phone rings.Â
Hold on. Breathe. Let it all flow through. Be empty. Breathe.
There is room. There is time. There are no limits.
I am renewed.  All is well.
“Why can’t I play hockey, Mom?”
John and I were watching boy after boy try to shoot a puck through a hole punched out of the middle of a cardboard goalie. It was a fundraising event for his older sisters’ school.
Truth was, I didn’t have a good answer; I just didn’t like the violence that playing hockey entailed. How could I tell him that? At four-years-old, John was already demonstrating a natural athletic talent. Did I have a right to choose sports for him?
“Tell you what,” I offered, “If you can hit a puck through that hole, I’ll let you play hockey.”
The odds were in my favour. So far no one had been able to do it.
John shot four out of five.
As a goalie, he excelled at shutouts. His quick reflexes and ability to anticipate his opponents moves served him well.
My fears about hockey were never founded. John himself dropped out once body contact became part of the sport. He had found a new passion to focus on: skateboarding.
For fifteen years now, John has practiced diligently, pushing himself through the fear and pain, to become an accomplished skateboarder.  To onlookers he is “The King”, gliding through any course with grace and ease. He makes it look so simple.
Only John knows how hard he has worked to hone this skill: hour upon hour, overcoming disappointment and frustration, always willing to try again. He talks about a ‘zone’ – a state of mind – that he strives for, which helps him maintain balance and focus. His art is very disciplined.
When John rides the board, he is free. A freedom only someone who has mastered the art of movement can understand.
The man seated across the table pried me with questions.
“Who played Wendy?” he asked. “Was it you?”
I nodded.
“And who played the Hooker?”
“Also me.”
“Really,” he drew the word out as if chewing on it. “Both you?”
We were celebrating closing night at a local eatery.  My questioner was not a familiar face amongst our usual theatre crowd, but I could tell by the way others were addressing him that he held some position of esteem.
“Have you done a lot of acting?” he persisted.
“High school, mostly.” I loved acting, and had contemplated pursuing it at University. Just recently, I had purchased a ticket to travel to Great Britain. It was my plan to investigate theatre school there, hopefully Shakespearean.
“I am currently writing a play that you would be perfect for, if you are interested. You have heard of me?”
I recognized him now – playwright and critic. He was well-known in our area, although this was my first meeting.
“I’m flattered,” and I was. “I am leaving for England shortly.”
“Of course you are. It would be a shame to waste that talent locally. If you have a change of mind, look me up, will you?”
The play had gone well. Even though I had bit parts, apparently I had made an impression. Maybe there was hope for me. I looked forward to the future.
The date of my departure was fast approaching. Disillusioned with life in my hometown, I was anxious to explore the world and embrace adventure. To celebrate my move, my sisters threw a party.
Seven years older than me, Mae is a classic beauty with dark eyes, and a perfectly sculpted face draped with beautiful flowing brunette hair. She stands 5′ 8″ and has curves in all the right places. I was used to being eclipsed by Mae’s presence, but she made up for it in sweetness.
My other sister, Lily, was eleven years my senior. Also a brunette, she was a fireball, who commanded attention and rivaled Mae for attention.
I shrank into a corner and disappeared into my dreams. This was not my crowd. Apart from a fellow I had been casually dating and a mutual friend of my sisters, I really didn’t know these people. Just when I thought the night was a total loss, I heard a knock at the door.
I opened it to find Stewart at the door. Stewart was one of Mae’s many suitors, and I knew he’d be disappointed. Mae’s current boyfriend was also here. I offered him a drink and some friendly conversation. I felt bad for him.
“I’m headed to England,” I offered. Stewart had a very distinct British accent.
“When?”
“In three weeks.”
“Really? I’m headed to England in three weeks. Where are you flying into?”
“Heathrow.”
“Me too!”
“What date?”
“What date are you going?”
“The 19th.”
“Me too!”
“No way! You are flying to England on the 19th!”
“Yes, I am. We might be on the same flight.”
I have to admit, he had me going. Turned out he was just playing with me. Always fun to tease the little sister.
I busied myself in the kitchen, playing hostess. Stewart made his move on Mae.
Last to arrive was the last to leave. Mae had already left with her beau, and Lily was nowhere in sight. I escorted Stewart to the door, where he paused before stepping out and turning around to face me, leaning in for a kiss.
“Good night,” he whispered leaving me alone and slightly stunned.
What had just happened?
“Don’t pay it any mind,” Mae told me the next day. “He has a crush on me.”
I knew she was right, but it was me that Stewart invited out later that day.
Our courtship was a whirlwind race against the ticking of the clock and my imminent departure. Stewart made me laugh, and caused my heart to flutter. I couldn’t sleep, didn’t care to eat, and was certain that this was love.
He was all I could think of while in England, and I wrote to him everyday – long, lengthy letters oozing with mush. When I’d received no reply, I finally called him. He hadn’t received one letter. I had sent them care of Mae, and she had forgotten to check the mail. I couldn’t stand the emotional turmoil.
I came home.
Stewart and I would later marry and have three children, ending a seventeen year relationship in a bitter divorce.
I always wonder what might have happened, had I stayed in Britain, but I have never regretted the gift of my three children.
Isn’t it miraculous that life turns out the way it does, despite our plans to the contrary?
(Image:Â afadedromantic.wordpress.com)
One Woman's Quest 