Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sickly Talented 23 year old!
Lately I've been working more on my drawing and painting. Just found this fantastic site for this sickly talented 23 year old. Check it out! http://mbetteker.blogspot.com Perhaps I'll post some of my own work in the next few weeks. Who knows!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Time Flies
I've been moving away from the Internet lately and closer to my writing. Seems unbelievable, but true. Twitter has helped. I could do 148 characters for a while. Still, eventually even that seemed like too much cognitive function. Better to just read twitters by others...
I've also been on this long and dark journey called cancer with my Mom. (Well, she's in the dark water, I'm just on the shore helplessly looking on.) A friend of mine from college wrote diligently every day when his wife was struggling with cancer, to the point where if I hadn't begun to read his blog before she passed, I wouldn't have known when/where her funeral was. He's currently working through a memoir about her/their experience. I can see how his writing kept him sane and strong during the process.
For me, it has been the opposite. Me, the girl who started to read in the womb, the girl who was writing and binding her own books when she was eleven, the girl who said in 5th grade, "I'm going to become a writer when I grow up, Mom."
It's as if words are a molten stone on my tongue. They sear the moment out of my mind if I try to capture them, wipe away the deep swirl of emotion, the fast ticking of the clock inside my mother's body. Sometime during the last four months, my mind drifted from words until - for once in my life - that noisy voice in my head fell silent. Perhaps that is my own form of therapy. I've been saying for years I'm going to learn to meditate, to keep my anxious mind in line. Now it's been forced on me. For several weeks, I've only been able to read poetry, and then only sporadically. Anything longer could not hold my attention. Nature holds my attention now. I sit on my porch at midnight and watch the full moon whisper through the tree branches and past my besom (Witch's broom). I drive to Burlington and watch clouds caress the mountains - clouds shaped like angels and doves sometimes, or dark fingered spectres. The hills are so green it burns my eyes, the sunset so orange I can feel the heat of the sun in my chest.
The worst time I've had was the last three days before we admitted my mother to the Fletcher Allen because I could no longer take care of her. The crushing moment of having to let her care go into someone else's hands, coupled with the moment of realizing something was wrong with her cognitive abilities as she tried to speak to us that day, finding only a slur of words and a distant stare, told me that this was the last bend in the river. She was heading into the last leg of her journey. An hour after I had her admitted, because she couldn't use her right leg, and I could no longer carry her from bed to chair, she had a seizure. It was the most frightening moment in my life, mostly because it was so frightening for her. She is all about control in her life. Her strength and ability to be in control helped her raise three children alone, after all.
Tomorrow, she goes to the Williston Respite House, where she will have her own room, be a resident and not a patient, and be able to get some strength back for this final leg of the journey. My one wish for her is that she can just 'go home and feel normal again and play with Daniel' (her youngest grandchild) at some point over the next few weeks. It's not much to ask is it? A night in her own bed, an afternoon with the grandchildren?
Life used to seem so difficult. This journey has given me the blessing of so much quality time with my mother, and some not so quality time. It's allowed me to see how deep the roots of strength grow inside of me. Now, as I release my burden, and move into a time where I can simply visit with her, the words are blossoming again. Again, a gift from my mother. Always, she is giving to me, even during her own struggles.
I've also been on this long and dark journey called cancer with my Mom. (Well, she's in the dark water, I'm just on the shore helplessly looking on.) A friend of mine from college wrote diligently every day when his wife was struggling with cancer, to the point where if I hadn't begun to read his blog before she passed, I wouldn't have known when/where her funeral was. He's currently working through a memoir about her/their experience. I can see how his writing kept him sane and strong during the process.
For me, it has been the opposite. Me, the girl who started to read in the womb, the girl who was writing and binding her own books when she was eleven, the girl who said in 5th grade, "I'm going to become a writer when I grow up, Mom."
It's as if words are a molten stone on my tongue. They sear the moment out of my mind if I try to capture them, wipe away the deep swirl of emotion, the fast ticking of the clock inside my mother's body. Sometime during the last four months, my mind drifted from words until - for once in my life - that noisy voice in my head fell silent. Perhaps that is my own form of therapy. I've been saying for years I'm going to learn to meditate, to keep my anxious mind in line. Now it's been forced on me. For several weeks, I've only been able to read poetry, and then only sporadically. Anything longer could not hold my attention. Nature holds my attention now. I sit on my porch at midnight and watch the full moon whisper through the tree branches and past my besom (Witch's broom). I drive to Burlington and watch clouds caress the mountains - clouds shaped like angels and doves sometimes, or dark fingered spectres. The hills are so green it burns my eyes, the sunset so orange I can feel the heat of the sun in my chest.
The worst time I've had was the last three days before we admitted my mother to the Fletcher Allen because I could no longer take care of her. The crushing moment of having to let her care go into someone else's hands, coupled with the moment of realizing something was wrong with her cognitive abilities as she tried to speak to us that day, finding only a slur of words and a distant stare, told me that this was the last bend in the river. She was heading into the last leg of her journey. An hour after I had her admitted, because she couldn't use her right leg, and I could no longer carry her from bed to chair, she had a seizure. It was the most frightening moment in my life, mostly because it was so frightening for her. She is all about control in her life. Her strength and ability to be in control helped her raise three children alone, after all.
Tomorrow, she goes to the Williston Respite House, where she will have her own room, be a resident and not a patient, and be able to get some strength back for this final leg of the journey. My one wish for her is that she can just 'go home and feel normal again and play with Daniel' (her youngest grandchild) at some point over the next few weeks. It's not much to ask is it? A night in her own bed, an afternoon with the grandchildren?
Life used to seem so difficult. This journey has given me the blessing of so much quality time with my mother, and some not so quality time. It's allowed me to see how deep the roots of strength grow inside of me. Now, as I release my burden, and move into a time where I can simply visit with her, the words are blossoming again. Again, a gift from my mother. Always, she is giving to me, even during her own struggles.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Spring at last, Spring at last!
So wow. So much for updating more regularly. Some of you may have noticed I'm now hooked into twitter.com. You can follow me there! Of course I 've got like, the best record for having NO ONE following me! A couple of retailers have tagged my butt for following, but I have brushed them off my list. I am, of course, following The Nature Conservancy, Ten Downing Street (the office of the English Prime Minister), and David Hewlett (@dhewlett) as he is one of my favorite actors. I'm also following his sister, Kate Hewlett, which sounds like a great stalker line, doesn't it? But following other performing artists makes me feel more connected to the 'biz.'
My mom got her first catscan this week after about 9 weeks of chemotherapy. The tumor is shrinking! Whoo! Of course, it becomes a double edged sword. I couldn't get her on the phone last night as I'm sure she was talking to many folks, but I can't help but think she was probably like "GREAT!... uh... great, more chemo..." But I'm happy to hear this news and I'm sure she is too.
Spring is here. I can't wait to actually see the little buds begin to sprout and that fabulous light green, new-leaf color on the trees! But for now I am content to have the sunshine. I feel like a person thrown down a dark hole for six years right now. I am sure I was a cat in a former life, as I spend all of my free time basking in the sun, in windows at the library, in the pizza parlor, and on the street against the brick walls. (No, I swear I am not a prostitute, sir, just leaning here to get the sun!)
Here's to spring... May it reign for many more weeks.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Fearful? or Fearless?
I couldn't sleep last night. Who let me have 3 large caffeinated beverages yesterday? So I got up to read a bit after I'd been in bed about an hour last night. The book I am reading is called “Broken Open: how difficult times can help us grow” by Elizabeth Lesser. There were repeatedly notes and comments that aligned so perfectly with the work I’ve been doing the last 5 years, it was amazing.
You see, I've been working with a local counselor who does dreamwork. I've been patiently, methodically trying to pry open the heavy cellar door to my subconscious, my essence, my soul. In between, I've also found "Lexipro." You bet! I took Lexipro for the first time three years ago. After three days, I turned to Terri while we were standing in the living room and I said, "Wow. So this is how normal people feel isn't it?" Tears welled up in my eyes a moment because I felt so tender, so in awe of the moment. You could say I"m a bit of an anxious person and always have been. So now it's the work and the medicine. That moment of calm inside the storm that the medicine has created for me, allows me to do the work or "The Work" as those of us in-process call it. Eventually, I'll be off of the Lexipro.
So in this book I was reading, there was this quote from Chogyam Trungpa (Who first taught Tibetan Buddhism in the US).
“When we slow down, when we relax with our fear, we find sadness, which is calm and gentle. Sadness hits you in your heart... this is the first sign of real warriorship...Discovering fearlessness comes from working with the softness of the human heart."
My human heart has been feeling quite soft and vulnerable lately. It’s not a bad thing, it's something delicate I am balancing inside of, like the feeling of being fresh white linen hung on the line in a hurricane. I can feel the wind, feel the ‘phwup’ of material billowing, and feel most of all the tenuous, rough line I am hung on. On either side, the tight, splintered clothespins. Will the wind ever stop? Sometimes it does, and when it does it brings a fresh air like none other.
Remember spring mornings when you were a child, or the way the field outside your house smelled at dawn, when the dew was accompanied by the thick downy blanket of a fallen white thundercloud in the valley below, and the sound of the black crows, that moved incessantly back and forth across the empty baseball field, cawing out, first one, then another, calmly, methodically pecking at carcasses and dried grass seeds and bugs. They picked the land clean for their meal with such a calm you had to wonder, if you could live like a crow, feel the calm swell of death as it came slinking off of the surface of the earth, its cool dark shadow expanding silently, would you be fearful? Or fearless?
You see, I've been working with a local counselor who does dreamwork. I've been patiently, methodically trying to pry open the heavy cellar door to my subconscious, my essence, my soul. In between, I've also found "Lexipro." You bet! I took Lexipro for the first time three years ago. After three days, I turned to Terri while we were standing in the living room and I said, "Wow. So this is how normal people feel isn't it?" Tears welled up in my eyes a moment because I felt so tender, so in awe of the moment. You could say I"m a bit of an anxious person and always have been. So now it's the work and the medicine. That moment of calm inside the storm that the medicine has created for me, allows me to do the work or "The Work" as those of us in-process call it. Eventually, I'll be off of the Lexipro.
So in this book I was reading, there was this quote from Chogyam Trungpa (Who first taught Tibetan Buddhism in the US).
“When we slow down, when we relax with our fear, we find sadness, which is calm and gentle. Sadness hits you in your heart... this is the first sign of real warriorship...Discovering fearlessness comes from working with the softness of the human heart."
My human heart has been feeling quite soft and vulnerable lately. It’s not a bad thing, it's something delicate I am balancing inside of, like the feeling of being fresh white linen hung on the line in a hurricane. I can feel the wind, feel the ‘phwup’ of material billowing, and feel most of all the tenuous, rough line I am hung on. On either side, the tight, splintered clothespins. Will the wind ever stop? Sometimes it does, and when it does it brings a fresh air like none other.
Remember spring mornings when you were a child, or the way the field outside your house smelled at dawn, when the dew was accompanied by the thick downy blanket of a fallen white thundercloud in the valley below, and the sound of the black crows, that moved incessantly back and forth across the empty baseball field, cawing out, first one, then another, calmly, methodically pecking at carcasses and dried grass seeds and bugs. They picked the land clean for their meal with such a calm you had to wonder, if you could live like a crow, feel the calm swell of death as it came slinking off of the surface of the earth, its cool dark shadow expanding silently, would you be fearful? Or fearless?
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