Day 232 “Levels of Virtue”

“Good, better, best.  Never let them rest.  Until your good is better and your better best,” my father would make me recite often; a constant reminder that I was never good enough.

“Patience is a virtue…, ” my mother would wag her finger at me implying that I was somehow sinful.

I gave up being virtuous long ago.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been leery of “good” people.

I knew a woman once who was touted by others as a guru – saintly sweet, full of love and light – you know the kind.  She often rented space in the same office building where I was working at the time, and for some reason, I kept my distance.

Call it instinct.

Or maybe, it was because I didn’t want her judging my lack of virtue.

One day, as I approached the building, I heard a distinctly female voice raised in anger, coming from inside the lobby.  I hesitated, not wanting to walk into the middle of a fracas, and listened for distinguishable voices.  I caught the low, gruff tone of one of the landlords, and the higher, more nasal,  and still calm voice of his partner.  Whoever they were trying to discuss matters with was having none of it – her voice like piercing shards of glass was bouncing off the walls, and as it did not seem like it was going to subside, I had no choice but to push open the door and disturb the scene.

Red in the face, foaming from the mouth, was the “guru”.  Unforgiving of my untimely entrance, she turned her wrath on me:  “Could you not have waited?!  Does no one have any sense of boundaries around here?”  Then she stormed out the door, leaving three brow-beaten people in her wake.

“What was that?”  I asked looking at my befuddled landlords.

“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I think.”  chuckled one.

“Apparently we did something to disturb her,” stated the other.   “Nothing that would provoke that amount of anger, I should think, but there was no talking about it with her.”

I had no reasoned response.  After all, she was the purported paragon of virtue, certainly not me.

 

 

Intuition

The body has a voice –
not silent, nor harsh –
it is a knowing.

When ego drives hard –
Screaming ambition,
demanding to be heard

Block it out!

Let your body speak –
waves of understanding,
gut feelings; truth.

Logic has no place here –
book learning seldom serves
the needs of the soul.

Set it aside.

Listen to your body –
that pounding in the chest,
that sudden surge of vertigo.

Reason is cellular –
ancient, ancestral instinct.
Trust the wisdom within.

(Image: www.huffingtonpost.com)

Embrace your intuition.

Sufficiency

My living room has beautiful big picture windows facing two directions, allotting me a full view of the neighbour’s front gardens to the north, and the constant comings and goings  on the  street in front of the house.  Lying on the couch with my morning cup of tea is how I like to greet the day.

On Sunday mornings, the rush of traffic is replaced by clusters of runners, with their long, sleek bodies, puffed out reddened faces, and self-satisfied grimaces.

“My wife had CFS,”  a man once told me, “but now she runs marathons.”

It is hard for me to believe.  The distance between my own physical capabilities and these weekend athletes far exceeds any race they might run, the copper-coloured legs of my sidekick walker remind me.

Maybe wheelchair races, I chuckle to myself.

Now that my life is confined to the four tiny rooms on the main floor of our home, I have new perspective.

I cannot remember a time when I did not feel lacking in my life – not enough hours in the day, not enough help, not enough money – but the truth is, in retrospect, I always had exactly what I needed.

Today, I do not have the legs to carry me swiftly on my way, nor do I have the energy to aspire to such feats, but I do have a home that I can easily navigate, surrounded by the endless beauty of Nature, and friends and family that truly care.

Abundance, I am discovering, is an attitude, not a state of material wealth.  It comes with the recognition that life is sufficiency, not lack.

 

The River

There’s a river runs between us,
you and I.
Our thoughts, like tears, are liquid
carried effortlessly by the current.

But you and I,
we stand on the banks, oblivious;
ignoring the connection,
proudly touting our individualism.

Still the river flows,
and all you’ve suffered,
and all I’ve suffered,
or dreamed, or imagined, or hoped,
flows with it.

Step into the water with me,
feel our connection,
do not be afraid.
for it is sacred.

Wade deeper and know
you are not alone
for I am here
in this river
that runs between us.

( Image:  ldsmag.com)

War is Hell

The battlefield still smolders,
oppressive gray smog hovering
The landscape is scarred,
ravaged reminders of war.

Origins borne of uncertainty,
fear spurred by righteousness
and a disgust of imperfection,
prolong the futile fight.

Subtly, imperceptibly,
defenses strengthen,
confidence renews
but the opposition
will not be silenced.

War is hell.
Unfair, biased,
blinded, deceitful.
Sacrificing the innocent,
destroying potential.

War is hell –
especially when….
the battleground
is the Self.

(Image: www.smithsonianmag.com)

Day 227 “Life is Love”

It is nap time and I am lying on the bed with my three-year-old granddaughter who pushes her rosebud lips up against my face, squishing my cheeks with her chubby baby hands.  She snuggles so close and with such intensity, it is as if she wants to merge her little body with mine.

I adjust her position so that she is now cradled in my arm, her head resting on my shoulder.  Taking slow, deep breaths, I close my eyes.  I can feel her intense blue eyes staring at me, and then she too starts to breathe deeply and I peek to see she has succumbed to sleep.

We will lie like this for two hours, her baby hair matting as she sweats in her slumber, and I marvelling at this little soul who has brought so much love into my life.

Earlier, she and her two-year-old cousin collected fallen leaves in the backyard and I pressed them so we could make Thanksgiving collages.  The world, through their eyes, is wondrous and new, and all the leaves are beautiful no matter how torn or blemished.  The enthusiasm is contagious.

After nap, we will all sit down to a traditional meal and the babies will chatter non-stop, and giggle at their own nonsensical language.

Then both granddaughters will scramble to sit on Grandma’s lap whilst I read a book and we discuss its content as if its the most important thing in the world.  (Really, I will do anything to prolong the scent of their baby hair and the feel of their sloppy kisses.)

Hours after they leave, I will lie in the dark and replay each delectable moment over and over in my head, and Grandpa and I will talk about all the little developments and beam with pride.

There is no mistaking the fullness in my heart after time spent with my “babies”:  life is love!

 

Day 226 “Resistance to Change”

The magician rehearses and I, alone, observe from the front row of the theater. 

Assisted by two women, he plans his piece de resistance:   the illusion of transformation, one woman appearing to give birth to another.  Dark, terrifying, and magnificent.

In the final run through, one woman walks away, and because of my proximity, I am drawn in.  The part is now mine.

“No!” I protest to no one listening.  “I don’t know what to do.  I’m not prepared!”

Everything around me turns to chaos:  the stage manager suddenly falls ill, as does the stage hand.  I am alone and the curtain is about to rise, and I have no choice but to play the role.

“Improvise”, I tell myself.  “You can do it!” 

Concealed beneath the cloak of mystery, my partner and I merge and appear as one   entering the stage.  Strobe lights cut through the dim atmosphere and the magician begins his spell, gesturing and waving cloths, and just at the right moment lifts the cloak and I’m pulled off stage, out of sight, and the new woman emerges: transformation has occurred – suddenly, magically, efficiently – and only those behind the scenes know the fear that led to this moment.

*  *  *  *

The dream repeats itself again and again, and I toss and turn trying to shake it loose.

It makes no sense to me at first consideration, but then I see it:  “All the world’s a stage,” Shakespeare penned, “And all the men and women merely players.”  Reluctant players at times, as I am in the dream.  Improvisational players.

No matter how much we prefer to sit in the audience and watch others perform, time comes when we are called to play our part – or as, in this case, the part chooses us.

Is this what this illness is about?  Am I being called to transform myself, give “birth” to a new woman?  Is this an opportunity?  Or am I just participating in a grand illusion?

Change is never easy.  I have certainly been dragged against my will into my current state, and I know I fear that my self is lost.

I do feel as if I am playing someone else’s role; this is not supposed to be happening to me.  And yet it is.  And why not me?

The woman who walked away – whose role I filled – she did so because she felt too vulnerable and didn’t want to be exposed.  I didn’t have that choice.  I had no rehearsal.  I get one shot at getting it right.  What pressure I am putting on myself to succeed at this illusion of transformation.

Thank goodness for the magician’s skills.  I couldn’t do it without him.

Wonder who this magician is that makes change appear as easy as 1, 2, 3.  I could use some of his magic.

 

Day 225 “The Way of Life”

The sky is a cornflower blue, the sun bright, biting, as if in competition with the mustard gold, tangerine orange, and chartreuse leaves shimmering in the breeze.  This is the view from my window, and I close my eyes again, the scene too vivid for my newly awakened eyes.

I contemplate what I have witnessed and think life is like this:  too beautiful at times for words; glorious perfection.

I want to capture it, but when I open my eyes again, white clouds form the backdrop and the autumn wind is tossing the tree about. Branches dip and pull and the harmony of the past moment is gone.

And, I think, life is like this too:  it can turn in a moment, and what was once balance is suddenly lost, and we are left spinning.

I hear it now:  the wind rushing against the windowpane, taunting me:  Change!  Change! it leers.  Change is coming!

And I know what it speaks is true, for life is like this:  ever-fluctuating, never the same.

And the reminder is bittersweet.  I want it to be summer forever, but in my heart, I know it’s okay.  Change is okay.

It’s just the way of life.

Kindness Not Advice Needed For Ill

What is it about illness that invites so much input from others?  Everyone has an opinion and seem somehow emboldened by my vulnerability to express it, as if they have suddenly become the expert on all things health-related.

Since my diagnosis, I have been counselled to exercise more, eat more meat, eat no  meat, get magnetic therapy, see a psychic,  see a shrink (as it is surely all in my mind), and seek a second opinion.  All offered with the best of intentions, I am sure.

One friend even called from her therapist’s office and said she was on her way to get me, as he was positive he could help me.  “He says that what you’re doing is not enough,”  she told me excitedly.  “He has worked miracles with me.”

I have no doubt that he has helped her, and I bite back my desire to tell her that both he and she are being unbelievably arrogant as they have no idea what my course of treatment is at the moment, nor any idea what I have gone through to get to this point.

Diagnosis of ME/CFS does not happen haphazardly.  It comes after a series of specialists appointments, eliminating other diseases, and adding up to this particular one.  In my case, it has been four years of doctors, and testing, and worsening conditions that have led me to this point.  In the meantime, I have also been working with therapists and experts to find healthy solutions – specific to my ailments!

What I want to tell others is that while I appreciate their concern, the discussions drain me, and while their friendship is treasured, I have to limit my interactions, so would prefer to not keep going over this sensitive subject.   Trust me that healing is my number one priority, and that I am making healthy choices for myself.

Take a page from my friend, Naomi, who arrived for a visit last Monday.

“I can only stay for a quick visit,”  she announced, then steered the conversation to a discussion about our mutual interest – grandchildren.  After a precise amount of time, she said she had to go, and added:

“I know you are doing everything you can to get better, and I know you will be successful.”

Uplifted by her visit and vote of confidence, I saw her to the door, then headed for the fridge to find something for lunch.  Imagine my surprise and delight to find a fridge full of fresh fruit, and a ready prepared dinner, plus a few other special treats.

In her unassuming way, Naomi brought me great comfort that day.   Her actions, not just her words, spoke volumes in support of my healing.

 

 

ME/CFS: Just Need Clarity

The desire to re-engage with life is so potent that when any window of wellness pops up I grasp it and, like a naughty school child, ignore all well-intended warnings of caution.  It happened yesterday.  After two weeks of slumping, I felt almost normal.

“Aha!” I said to myself.  “I have energy!”  Before sensibility could get a hold of me, I bundled up the laundry that had been amassing unsorted in the bottom of the closet, and whisked it all downstairs into the laundry room, where more piles awaited.  (I know, this is preposterously bad behaviour, but believe me, laundry has that power over me.)

The plan – hastily devised – was to wait out the washing cycles downstairs.  Armed with an iPad, I thought the lazyboy would be a perfect place to set myself up in between loads.  “Seven minutes”, I told myself as I folded the stuff in the dryer, then:  “Maybe I should have done this sitting down.”  I chose to be optimistic.  “Oh well, I am feeling better today, I can afford a bit more time standing.”

The truth about this disease (ME/CFS) is that while the mind and intentions may play tricks, the body is absolutely clear about its limitations.  The tremors began as I stood folding.  I ignored them.

With a new load underway, I collapsed on the lazyboy and scooped up my iPad.  “Distraction is what I need!”  I tried to convince myself, turning it on.

The headache started next.  “Must be the lights.  I’ll turn them off next time I’m up.”

By the time the laundry was ready to turn over, my body was very clear:  Enough already!  I am shutting down.

“But I haven’t had this much energy in weeks; just let me do a little more,” I begged, while continuing to shuffle the loads.  I returned to the lazyboy, lights now off, and thought I’d try a bit of television – nothing too heavy.

I watched with my hand over my head, trying to hold back the pain.  I waited till the laundry finished.

“What are you doing?”  Ric caught me red-handed.  “I can do this!”

“I’m alright,” I lied.  “Just finishing up.  That’s it for the day.”

He grabbed the basket out of my hands and carried it up the stairs, clearly not believing me.

Truth is, I was not okay.  I had over-extended myself.  Again.

Why is it so hard, when my body speaks with such clarity, to honour its messages?

“Why do you have to make this so difficult for yourself?” Ric asked echoing my thoughts.

“I just want to feel like I’ve contributed something; like I am useful.”

That’s it really, isn’t it?  I used to know who I was, or I thought I did.  I had a sense of being a part of something greater than me; I had something to add.  Now, I am totally dependent on the kindness of others, with little to offer in return.

Who are we when all has been stripped away?  What are we left with that defines us beyond being the blob in the bed?  I guess this journey will, in time, reveal the answer.

This is the clarity I seek.