My lone knitted sock is perched steadfastly just below my knee and waiting to be joined by its mate. My bare left foot firmly holds to the laundry room floor as my head enters the dryer. It is definitely in there somewhere.
My lone knitted sock is perched steadfastly just below my knee and waiting to be joined by its mate. My bare left foot firmly holds to the laundry room floor as my head enters the dryer. It is definitely in there somewhere.
My love,
I did not go gentle into that good night.
I lingered on the precipice,
holding tight to the memories of the warmth of my days.
My life played like a movie before my eyes,
and it was beautiful.
I couldn’t bear to leave you.
I raged against that white light and held fast to you.
I walk in your footsteps and hear all the words I should have been able to listen to,
words that should have fallen on my ears while you were in my arms.
I float on the words you speak to me, words you are unsure I hear.
I am still with you.
I am the air that dries your tears.
I am the breeze that tickles the wind chimes you love so much.
The sound of your laughter makes me feel alive again.
I did not go gentle into that good night.
I chose to stay with you.
***
There are several familiar expressions that humankind uses to describe the same outcome. Whether it be “Live by the sword, die by the sword” or “what goes around, comes around”, they converge on each other and intertwine to form a common thread that we all weave into our lives. That common thread is called Karma.
Karma is part of the law of “cause & effect” and it chooses how and when to seek its retribution or favor. It may come back to surprise you in a swift and effective charge, it may linger in the shadows and creep in when you least expect it, or, if you believe in reincarnation, it may make its presence known in your next lifetime. Regardless of when it chooses to expose itself, it will seek you out and place its law gently at your feet.
It can be calculating and manipulative or favorable when it wants to be, and the words used to describe it may best define the actions that led Karma to finding you in the first place.
Karma is not a superstitious hypothesis. I believe we each create our own luck, be it good or bad. Karma is energy, a life force that gains its momentum from the vibrations we put out into the world. And it is not just about negative energy and paybacks. Karma works just as well on the opposite side of the energy spectrum. Good deeds done selflessly tend to have Karma smile favorably upon us as opposed to hunting us like wounded prey and going in for the kill.
The Golden Rule, or as I discovered another name, The Ethic of Reciprocity – is this, do unto others as you would have done to you. It is such a simple string of words with such a profound outcome. And, as this is the year that I vowed to give back, I am putting my good karmic vibrations into the atmosphere and have been receiving those positive vibrations back in spades.
Karma has been very generous in its intention to show me that it appreciates my efforts. And I can only continue to grow my relationship with that Ethic of Reciprocity and hope that I can keep paying that generosity forward.
I was recently rummaging through my writing desk when I came across a letter I had long since forgotten. It is not the typical style of prose I would choose to hang on to but it is a glaring reminder of how therapeutic it can be to exorcise a toxic friend from your life.
Toxic friendships start so innocently. The relationship begins to build on a foundation of trust and common interests, a bond is evident and the rules of the alliance seem to be clearly outlined and understood by both parties. Each participant silently vows to put the other’s well-being ahead of the general population and to always have the other friend’s back.
But, somewhere during one particular friendship of mine, the rules changed. My toxic friend began to show the obvious characteristics of being narcissistic and she no longer had a genuine investment in my feelings. She began to pollute my reality with her selfishness and her uncanny ability to focus solely on herself. Although the previous vows of our friendship still may have percolated in the back of her mind, she forged ahead only looking out for herself, completely negating any regard for my feelings.
Unfortunately, I have fallen victim to more than my fair share of toxic friends. I have created excuses for their behavior, forgiven them on many occasions for the negative effect they have had on my life, and the lives of others, and defended their antics ad nauseam. For the duration of those relationships my toxic friends broke all the fundamental and universal laws of friendship and yet I found it difficult to break the bond of our kinship.
I keep this letter, still, as a reminder of the journey I took to find my worth. This one solid shred of evidence is proof of the strength I possessed to finally walk away from a toxic friendship and put myself first. It is a letter, penned by a third-party, written to attack my character and accuse me of misrepresenting myself as a friend. Although this letter initially angered me because the author was completely ignorant regarding my history with this certain friend, I now look at the words and smile.
I was accused of being a bad friend, and I was a bad friend – to myself. I was accused of changing, and I did change – for the better. I was told I would regret ending this one-sided friendship and, yes, I did indeed have regret about ending this particular friendship – but only because I didn’t have the balls to do it sooner.
I made a monumental decision that day and one I will never regret making. I finally gave myself permission to define how I let people treat me. My friendships now are nurturing and reciprocal and the friends I have in my life treat me with the same respect I show them. It was a bumpy road for a while but knowing when to let go was a lesson I learned the hard way. I may have a few cuts and bruises from having walked into a new freedom but I shall wear those scars with pride.
The snap of the spring echoed throughout the house. Nervous whiskers twitched as big eyes peered from the hole in the floorboard. A lone piece of cheddar sat untouched on the trap. The second mouse pilfered the cheese without the slightest hesitation.
For those unfamiliar with the bird in the above picture, this seemingly benign creature is a Black-Capped Chickadee. They are tiny in stature and extremely friendly once a level of trust has been developed. I would spend countless hours as a child sitting outside on our deck with a handful of sunflowers seeds charming these little creatures to land on my hand. I would marvel at the heat produced by their tiny claws as they gripped my fingers and admire their courage to trust a human feeder.
I became much smarter as time went on and removed the actual bird feeder altogether. I was the only source of food for these feathered friends and slowly became the Chickadee Whisperer. These beautiful little birds would jockey for positions on my outstretched hands and graze on the seeds that I willingly provided. More often than not, I would have to leave my perch to fill the supply of food but they were anxiously fluttering around the deck awaiting my return.
On one particular occasion, I had gone inside to replenish the supply of seeds and had unwittingly left the screen door wide open. One lone Chickadee flew into the house through the open door and, like a Kamikaze pilot on a suicide mission, thrust itself straight into our living room and landed squarely between the shoulder blades of our long-haired Lhasa Apso, Misty. She had been sound asleep on the couch but the shock of having a foreign object entangled in her fur was immediate and Misty leapt off the couch to shake the intruder loose. The more she shook, the stronger the bird held to her hair.
Not knowing which creature was more terrified, I watched Misty go from disbelief to panic in milliseconds. As Misty began thrashing like a bull being ridden in a rodeo, the bird held fast. The movie 8-Seconds had nothing on this bird. It was going for the World Record and the seconds began to tick on the clock. Misty, realizing that a mere shaking of her shoulders was unsuccessful, jumped off the couch, taking off like a shot into a full run. She lapped around the circuit from living room to kitchen to dining room and the chickadee hung on for dear life, riding that poor Lhasa Apso like it was going for Gold in the Olympics. (I had to stop writing for a moment because I’m laughing too hard to type)
If you’ve ever watched a horse race and really concentrated on the jockey’s hands on the reins and position on the horse – this is what the poor Chickadee looked like riding my dog through the house. I made vain attempts to catch the dog so we could rectify this unsettling but extremely hilarious chain of events but I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to focus on the task at hand.
After I finally caught up with the dog there was a great deal of panting. I was panting trying to catch my breath after laughing so hard. The dog was panting because she was probably moments away from having a stroke, and the bird was even panting – perhaps thinking a few more seconds would have garnered that coveted position in the Guinness Book of World Records.
With a great deal of wrestling, we finally held the dog still long enough to cut the hair in the death-grip of the birds feet and finally took that poor Chickadee back outside to give it the freedom it so rightly deserved. World record or not, that was one hell of a ride! After this scene, that could only be described as something from a movie, my mother and I both had to change our pants. It will live as one of the most cherished memories of my childhood and I think about that rodeo ride every time a Chickadee graces my feeder.
What is your funniest childhood memory?
~~
A thousand tears have fallen
and saturated my face.
Keeping alive the memories
that time will never erase.
Salient thoughts burden my brain,
each with a life of their own,
keeping me close to my ardent emotion,
my sadness never far from home.
A rushing wave of sorrow,
an eclipse of what was good,
trying to find the buoy of happiness,
in the sea of misunderstood.
Embracing loss, moving on,
clinging to what I hold dear.
Knowing that the emotion I feel,
others keep just as near.
I cry a thousand tears,
knowing I am not alone,
and I hold tight to those who cry with me,
feeling that they are my home.
I may not always follow the letter of the law when it comes to my health. I have been guilty of eating things that are more processed than my hair after it has been freshly dyed. I have been known to imbibe in some alcoholic beverages which is frowned on….depending on which new study you read. And I have been culpable of using over-the-counter nasal sprays that wreak havoc on my blood pressure.
Thankfully I am not a hypochondriac and I only take up space in my doctor’s office when I truly have a medical issue or need a prescription refilled. The moments are few and far between that I will put myself through the painstaking process of arriving considerately early at the office, getting in exceedingly late for my scheduled appointment and then feeling like I am taking up too much of my physician’s time by asking questions.
It took me a while to warm up to my doctor’s “desk-side” manner but I truly appreciate the fact that she does not sugar-coat her curative banter. I have had my share of real health issues that warranted a trip to the hallowed dominion of her office and I came out wondering if there were a few chapters in her medical books that other doctors had not been privileged enough to read.
I had a severe case of Pneumonia two years ago that could have possibly been diagnosed as a lung infection. I had been so sick that I purposely subjected myself to a walk-in clinic…..in the middle of the afternoon…….on a Saturday. After being prescribed a drug that made me feel like I had been chronically licking a tire-iron for a week, I made an appointment to follow up with my doctor.
I was given the good news that the intensely strong medication had its desired effect and my lungs sounded relatively normal. During the course of my regaling her with my intermittent trips to the office while sick with Pneumonia she casually expressed a few primitive medical terms, obviously from the book that only she received in med school.
The first archaic phrase was uttered and I was called an “idiot”. This is a much shorter version of the 19th Century diagnosis that was identified as a “profound intellectual disability”.
Approaching with caution, I summoned up the courage to then mention the truthful number of times I had been to the office, and out in public, during my illness and I was then diagnosed as “stupid”. I have since examined an alternate medical journal a little more closely and found that analysis of my symptoms to be defined as Fecal Encephalopathy which, roughly translated, means “shit for brains”.
I have always held on to the hope that my doctor has remained on the cutting edge of technology, that she is one of the few rural doctors that truly has her finger on the pulse of modern medicine. What I had not prepared myself for was the fact that she was reverting back to honest medicine and just calling a spade a spade.
For those about to panic and skip by this blog, this is not a collection of words about childbirth. This musing is about Magnetic Resonance Imaging or, on an alphabetical scale, an MRI.
I had reason to have an MRI on my knee two years ago after it had swelled to the size of a slightly deflated football. In hindsight I should have contacted Tom Brady and Bill Belichick, but instead I opted for the less challenging task of calling my doctor. After her skillful medical prodding determined I was not a hypochondriac, I was placed on a waiting list for an experience I am hoping to forget but probably never will.
I am not new to hospital procedures. I have had my fair share of expensive medical equipment scan parts of my body that only a skilled technician should see. I just regaled a few friends with this tale about how a mammogram and an ultrasound have been the cause of many laughs. (If you need a good laugh, click on the link. It’s a really good story). But having an MRI is an experience like no other when you are prone to enjoy open spaces and breathing normally.
I had done my best to mentally prepare for what I assumed was similar to a Sensory Deprivation Chamber. I arrived early to undertake the task of filling out reams of paperwork which only made my pulse race faster than it already had been. I dressed myself in the latest hospital fashion and was led to the room where I would spend the next 45 minutes trapped in a small vessel that made up for its size with its sound.
I can only be grateful that I was not fully immersed in the tube-shaped magnet that would send pulses through the layers of my being. My head was allowed to be free of the cage in which my body was being held hostage. With headphones blasting horrific music and the thrum of the machine making me wish that I had chosen to be thrown from an airplane, the scan ensued.
I tried my best to close my eyes and concentrate on the disconnected notes playing on the music channel they had chosen for me. But I am a curious sort of person and that doesn’t always bode well. After mistakenly hallucinating for the duration of the scan, I realized, after the torture was over, that the wall to my left was a live-action wall and that birds had been flying across the screen while I lay, coma-like, on the bed of the scanner. I was relieved to know it was the hospital’s sick sense of humour and I was not having an aneurysm. At the end of the process, I was birthed from the giant womb that is the MRI machine and sent, in my swaddling clothes, to the change room to retrieve the belongings that represented freedom – my clothes and my car keys.
I have a dear friend who, as of this morning, will have undergone his first of two MRI’s last night and I can only hope he weathered the first of his two storms with as much of a consequent sense of humour as I now have about my encounter.
And although it is an unpleasant experience, I do hope his womb with a view can provide answers that will help him move forward and begin to feel like himself again.
I have started this new year feeling better about myself than I have in a very long time, maybe ever. The scale still hovers around the same number, the grey hairs seem to multiply exponentially while I sleep and the lines around my eyes seem to be getting deeper. But those lines around my eyes are being etched further into my skin because my smile seems to be a permanent fixture on my face.
I will be the first to admit that I have never spent much time volunteering for anything. Sure, I jumped on the “pay it forward” bandwagon and I have even blogged about that very phenomenon. But there is something much more rewarding about really putting in the time to help someone rather than just buying a coffee for the person in line behind you.
What began as helping a friend, who is currently tackling an undiagnosed medical issue, spiraled into a concept that is slowly growing into something I am becoming very passionate about. It combines two of the things that I hold near to my heart – cooking and being able to help people.
Some of my blogs over the last few weeks have alluded to the Sundays we have spent cooking in the kitchen of the family resort where I am employed. We have successfully sent almost twenty freezer slow-cooker meals to a young family who lost their home in a fire just after delivering twins, and we are gearing up to do it again this Sunday to add ten more meals to their freezer. In a few short hours in the span of three Sundays, we have provided a month’s worth of dinners, giving them more time to devote to their children and their next step rather than having to think of what to cook each night.
I also had the pleasure of delivering the first of those meals to my very dear friend on Friday, the friend who inspired this journey. Just knowing that I can alleviate the tiniest bit of his stress pays me in ways that I never thought possible. It is a very emotional feeling and, even as I write this, it brings tears to my eyes.
I have watched them before. I have seen volunteers many times and noticed the light in their eyes but, until now, I had never really understood the source of that light. I get it now….and it is a light that I would like to have continue shining in my eyes for a very long time.