Category Archives: Third Phase

Wow

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Wednesday gratefuls: Kate’s interstitial lung disease is stable. Now for almost a year! Her stamina let her, yesterday: go in for her pacemaker check, her blood work for her physical, and into Joann Fabrics to shop for mask making materials. She also got up early and got on the Clan call. Can’t imagine her doing this six months ago. The snow came. The snow went. Still cool though.

Yesterday was busy. Got up for the Clan call, ate breakfast, then talked with Michele, the home health care nurse, about Kate’s feeding tube. Nap. Then 4 hours plus going to Kate’s heart doc, the lab for her bloodwork, and finally to Joann Fabrics. No time to write.

Still tired this morning. My stamina’s not what it was either.

Understanding what’s going on right now? Priceless. And, impossible. The strong ropes of disruption woven by the coronavirus, the economic crisis, and, now, the rising and welcome wave of unrest will weave themselves together into a hawser capable of hauling us all into a new future.

There will be discontinuities with the past. Masks and social distancing will persist for months, as will staying at home for the older ones among us. How we can care for the hourly wage workers displaced, for the small businesses that go bankrupt or are severely damaged, for the economy as a whole could take years to sort out. The Black Lives Matter movement may unlock the biggest changes of all. And, of course, climate change continues its role as a disrupter of the past.

I’m excited about all of this. America, the world’s indispensable nation, has failed to live into its dreams of a racially diverse nation. That may be changing right now. We’ve never valued the low wage worker, dismissed them from our health care system and a path forward. These same workers saved our lives at risk to their own. Not by choice in most cases, but that’s the point. They work where they do because these are the jobs of our day. Important jobs. Each and every day. Small businesses, not Walmart or Target or Kroger’s or Wendy’s or McDonalds, make a place unique, local. They’re in deep trouble now which could mean a greater homogenization of our retail businesses unless economic reforms gain more traction.

Yes, it’s scary. No, the change will be neither consistent nor smooth. But it’s happening. We are responsible for guiding it in productive and valuable ways. Making sure we rid ourselves of the great divider is most important, but even a Democratic sweep in November won’t ensure success. A change of governance is essential, but insufficient. You and I need to watch, pay attention, act. For the rest of our lives.

Wow. What a time.

Sanshin Speaks

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Sunday gratefuls: Two Elk bucks, eating dandelions in our backyard. Kep, stepping on my eye in his surprise at seeing them. Seoah, bleary eyed, “I got video!” Sanshin reminding me of the reassurance he sent last June, just before I started radiation therapy. Reassuring me now. Wild neighbors. Who go where they want, when they want. For whom humans are at best a nuisance. For my heart, which follows my wild neighbors

Kep likes to get up, then lay down on me in the morning. It’s part of our getting up ritual. When he does, though, he can see out our bedroom window. This morning he let out a bark and lunged forward, putting his right foot on my right eye. Ouch. Good thing eyelids move fast.

As I let Rigel and him outside, I saw what had caused Kep to react. Two Elk bucks stood on our drainage field, eating dandelions. Talk about the web of life. They are huge, as big as the Cow Moose I saw last week, perhaps a bit bigger.

Neither Rigel nor Kep barked at them. The two Dogs and the two Elk eyed each other. Kep and Rigel went off to pee and wander around the yard. The Elk continued eating dandelions. Elk Bucks, healthy ones anyway, can fend off Wolves and Mountain Lions, so Kep and Rigel were no threat to them. Kep and Rigel seemed to get that, too.

At first I thought these couldn’t be the two who came last June 17th to reassure me before my radiation therapy started. One of those had only one antler. Then. Oh. Yeah, the horns grow back each year. Could well be the same two, back to their secret stash of the yellow flower. Right now they’re resting among the lodgepoles in the northeast corner of our property. Last year they stayed the night.

Yes, the radiation has been on my mind. It was a year ago this month that my imaging work was complete, the new diagnosis finished. I knew the radiation would start, but I wasn’t sure quite when.

These two Elk, come again for our dandelions, have also come again to soothe the part of me that remains anxious, uncertain. No definitive news on the effectiveness of the radiation until November. Dave died last week and a needleworker friend of Kate’s died last week, too, also of glioblastoma. Cancer always wants to kill you.

A Change in the Weather

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Saturday gratefuls: Gray rain Clouds over Black Mountain. The blue Sky behind and above them. The two young Bucks dining on our grass yesterday. This weakened body, ready to be free from Lupron…and cancer. Protests. And, the protesters. The police. Those whose lives have been damaged in the last six months whether by Covid, or job loss, or police brutality. Each Black life heartened. A new day dawning. I fervently hope.

Ghosts. During my workout yesterday I did a triceps exercise, close-grip on workout bench. I could hear Dave telling me, “If you want to make it harder, just take your chest closer to the bench.” It was as if he were in the room, encouraging me. The reality of the experience shocked me.

All day yesterday and still this morning a gray cloud like the one over Black Mountain hangs in my inner world. Not quite to melancholy, but close. This world is too much with me, late and soon.

I wonder, why am I not like this all the time right now? That’s an encouraging thought. Why? Because it means I’ve learned to accept the reality around me, the moments of grace as well as the moments of sadness and sorrow. I’m not pushing either of them away, nor am I letting any of them dominate me. They come and they go.

Shadow Mountain is far away from Lake and Hiawatha in Minneapolis. Far away from my friends joining with others there. Far away from the folks with whom I worked over many years. It feels strange to not be there. Just another of the wispy clouds floating in the sky of my inner world.

The outer winds blowing here this morning are coming from the east, not usual. It’s as if the power of change sweeping through the Twin Cities has caused a change in our Front Range weather. May it be so for us, and the rest of our country, the rest of our world.

Songs to the heart of it

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Monday gratefuls: George Floyd. The riots. Pain filling the air. The ICU’s. Trump in the deep shelter. Our original sin. This nation, my home. My love. Its troubles. Music from the sixties. Diane. The Keatons. This life. Seen so, so much. Ancient friends. War. Peace. Love. Anger. Fighting the power. Even when it’s us.

Diane responded to my post about tears and said she heard “Ripple” on Playing for Change. Her online choir is learning it. Tears for her, too. Even before George Floyd. Gimme Shelter came up next. Wow. These two songs. These times. Enough for this morning.

“Gimme Shelter” The Rolling Stones.

Ooh, a storm is threatening
My very life today
If I don’t get some shelter
Ooh yeah I’m gonna fade away

War, children
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
War, children
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

Ooh, see the fire is sweepin’
our streets today
Burns like a red coal carpet
Mad bull lost its way

War, children
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
War, children
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
Rape, murder, yeah, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

Mmm, a flood is threatening
My very life today
Gimme, gimme shelter
Or I’m gonna fade away

War, children
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

I tell you love, sister
It’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
Kiss away, kiss away

“Ripple” The Grateful Dead

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

It’s a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they’re better left unsung
I don’t know, don’t really care
Let there be songs to fill the air

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again
Let it be known there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of men

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall, you fall alone
If you should stand, then who’s to guide you
If I knew the way I would take you home

I Can’t Breathe

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Saturday gratefuls: The sun. The protests. The peaceful protesters and the others. Consciousness rising. Again. Still. All my Minnesota friends. Especially Joanne Platte who worked at the Town Talk Diner. Another three set day in my resistance workout. The pain in my shoulder. The pain in my heart. Seoah, who has bought special treats for Kep.

A voice from our past:

“THESE are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated” Thomas Paine, The Crisis

These are the days of our lives. Hard to believe that, in the middle of a pandemic, civil rights emerge, still repressed, suppressed, volatile. No, violence and looting. Yes, violence and looting. Put yourself in the heart of people who cannot run in Atlanta without getting shot. Who can’t put on masks for fear they’ll be considered criminals. Who have to teach their children what to do when the police stop them so as not to provoke a George Floyd response. Or, an Eric Garner. Not if, but when.

Imagine you’ve been in stay at home for weeks. Imagine that your community has been harder hit than the privileged whites who live next door or a few blocks away. Imagine that someone you know has had a bad experience with the police for driving while brown. Imagine that your son or daughter is brown. Now, see that video of the flagrant murder, the callous murder of George Floyd. Is your first thought charitable? Even your second one?

The Moon of Sorrow acquired another meaning. As if it needed one. Racism so permeates our culture that it is not visible to those who benefit from it. That’s us, at least those of you whom I know read this.

Plague. Racism. Climate change. Our work is not done, the race not complete.

I witness. I wait.

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Thursday gratefuls: MVP last night on calmness of soul. Calmness of soul. Kate’s many improvements, her seder practice. Seoah’s frittata. Rain. Thunder. Another cool morning. Pictures of nearby bears on Nextdoor Shadow Mountain. One really big guy. Cataracts maturing. The morning sun, rising bright.

I have no clue how others see me. For some reason. Weird to discover this at 73, but there you are. The person my ancient friends described a couple of weeks ago? Huh? I mentioned this to Kate and she said, well, you’ve never cared how others see you. True. And, not true. I mean, I want to be seen favorably; but, I’m not willing to pay for it with my integrity. No one wants to be reviled. At least I don’t think so. Not sure what this means, but it feels strange to realize.

Got pretty far behind on the Talmud. Questioning my commitment. Is it worth the amount of time required? Maybe not for me. I can’t tell if this question has arisen because I’ve let it slip, 7 days now, or because I find it interesting, but only sometimes. Maybe not enough to keep at it for seven and a half years? Yes, I like long projects. But. I also have to like the long project itself. Leaning toward bagging it.

Loft reorganization report. Yes, you might be surprised to know that this is still underway. Getting much closer, but the fiddly stuff toward the end always takes a while. Filing. Redoing some decisions. Maybe this week? Really looking forward to a finished job.

Why so slow? A major job. Paying attention to other things led to me piling books and papers here and there. Not exactly new, but I let it go on for a while. Then. OK. This is too much. Things have to change. Passed that point well over a month ago. I’m moving furniture, books, files, painting and sumi-e brushes, inks, paints. Had to clear off the tops of the book shelves to accommodate new additions to my library.

Also, I can only work on it for a limited period of time until I get weary. This is a psychic thing I don’t fully understand. Yes, there’s a lot of mental energy in deciding what to do with this and that, where that file or set of files needs to be, which books go together, how I can set up my painting and sumi-e to best support my work. OK. Maybe that explains it actually. Well, that plus Lupron.

Oh. Final introspection. My practice for calmness of soul is, whenever I see my image-mirror, zoom, elsewhere-I will recall this phrase from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself: I witness and I wait. See below.

From Song of Myself, Walt Whitman

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait

Tuesday

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Wednesday gratefuls: Clean sheets and pillow cases. Socks and underwear. T-shirts and shirts. Washing machines and dryers. (remembering the agitator Mom had with the aggressive rubber rollers for wringing out wet wash) Gas stove. (though. climate change) Plumbing. Toilets and sinks and showers and baths. The boiler. Solar panels and IREA. Wiring. Outlets. Our well. Our aquifer. The septic tank and its leach field. The driveway. The garage. The house itself.

In a concrete mode this morning. Took out the trash, might be it. Seeing edges, corners. Feeling the cool morning air. Hearing the faint whine of the oxygen concentrators downstairs and the silence up here in the loft. Tasting the bitter coffee from my Conifer Physical Therapy cup. Nose twitching as allergens come on the air to greet me.

Clan gathered yesterday. Mary got up early, had to miss the call to sleep. Mark’s in a four-day, 24 hour lockdown for Eid. Eiding out, I guess. Diane says there’s a haze of marijuana smoke from the alley when the youngsters get together in her San Francisco neighborhood. We’re still staying home. Another day, another week, another month of this unusual, suddenly dystopian time.

After the call, I retrieved the pouch in which Kate deposits our monthly dope money, blue and red quilting with a zippered top. Went upstairs and ordered 8 packages of Wanna indica edibles from the Happy Camper. We no longer have to order online only, but it’s simpler.

Backed our apple red Rav4 out of the garage and headed down Shadow Mountain to Hwy 285. An l.e.d. sign courtesy of the class of 2016 announced Conifer High School’s 98% graduation rate. If we ever have to sell, good schools are important to our home’s value. The Stinker’s Sinclair station has gas at $1.99. Across from the station, two log cabins slump though they’re still intact. One has an added garage. It doesn’t match the cabin. Right angles. Dimension lumber against round logs, chinked with gray.

On 285 I’m headed south accorded to the highway, but west according to my compass. 285 does run south, all the way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, but the stretch from here to Baily is more like southwest. As I near King Valley, the intersection that has claimed many lives, especially motorcyclists, the continental divide floats on the far away horizon, snow covered. This is a declining grade with a 45 mph speed limit, often ignored.

The Rav4’s console beeps with an incoming text message. Ah. Happy Camper. My order is ready. It’s about a 20 minute drive and I was counting on them getting it ready before I got there.

On Mt. Rosalie road, a left turn, then a quick right up the hill. The Missouri Synod Lutheran Church whose property adjoins the Happy Camper’s gives a website for its services. Jesus on the left and marijuana up ahead. One toke over the line, sweet Jesus. One toke over the line.

A masked security guard checks my idea and asks me to pull down my mask. Feels risky. A paper bag with Charles B. written on it is by the cash register. The clerk, whose name I have again forgotten, hands me change and enters my phone number. Yes, even marijuana dispensaries have loyalty programs. I’m the only customer in the store at the time.

A short nap. Kate and I head off to Aspen Roots. Jackie, our hair stylist, has begun working again. Kate’s roots had begun to shed their color, leaving maybe five inches of gray exposed. She was eager to get her hair cut, a Michele Williams do, and return to her ash blond norm.

Jackie has customers come in with no masks. Is that ok, they ask? No, she says. She can’t social distance. Jackie’s not happy to be working, exposed and having to enforce sensible precautions on her customers. It’s not right to put the enforcement burden on small business owners. But there you are. It’s Colorado and my right to make you sick trumps your expectation of a healthy workplace.

Short. Beard and hair. Short. Jackie’s a sweet lady and I hate to see her put in this situation. I hope things get better, but logic suggests they’ll get worse first.

Back home around 2 pm. Exhausted. Wanted to work on the loft reorganization, getting close. Too tired. The lupron effects do get worse as time on the drug increases. However, I only to have think of Dave and Judy, two cancer patients, friends, one dying and the other back on chemo. I’ll take the hot flashes and fatigue.

Ongoing

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Saturday gratefuls: Deep fried shrimp by Seoah. Wow. Delivery of six ten-year battery smoke detectors. Fire extinguishers on the way. Workout. 2 sets, but back. Teeth cleaning. My dental hygienist. Fear. Still. Protecting us. High threat of wildfire. Keeping us aware. Brenton White caring for Murdoch. The second coming. Of Covid.

Mood better today. Moods fascinate me since they seem so important for our daily life, yet they are not much discussed, and from what I can tell after a quick Google search, not much studied. One turgid page on Psychology Today referred to moods as dispositions toward positive or negative emotions. Sounds circular to me. If I’m in a good mood, I have good feelings. If I have good feelings, I’m in a good mood. Duh.

How does the weather shift in our inner life? What causes a sad front to move in, or an ebullient one? What creates an anxious mood and what dispels it? Is my melancholy a stalled mood? Curious me. Maybe sleep is a circuit breaker between moods.

POTUS the medical experimenter. May he bravely give his all so that the rest of us can know the dangers of hydroxychloroquine as a Covid-19 treatment. POTUS, his own Mengele.

Hot flashes have increased in frequency. Sneaky bastards. Why did this room suddenly become hot? Oh. Not the room. They wake me up. Make me take off layers. Go outside if it’s cool or cold. Luproned.

Dental hygienist told me what I thought was gingivitis was in fact a side effect of Lupron. Sensitive teeth, sore gums. It recedes, she says, after you come off the drug.

I’ve been on Lupron since September of last year. The side effects seem to be getting worse. On some days I’m too weak to workout. The resistance work doesn’t increase my muscles so much as prevent more loss from the sarcopenia.

It’s true that it’s better than dying. Certainly. But, like all of my cancer experience so far, I’ve experienced few symptoms from the disease, but many from the treatments. Not that I want symptoms from the cancer. The irony of it, that’s all.

Asked Kate the other day how she felt about all of her troubles. I’m tired of them, she said. I’m sure. Sjogren’s. Tube feeding. Reynaud’s. Two shortened fingers. Interstitial lung disease. Lugging the Inogen whenever we go out. Tethered by O2 tubing in the house. Small insults add up. Yet. She’s had improvements in stamina, weight, her ability to manage. Sore wrists, rheumatoid arthritis. She takes hydroxychloroquine for them. Bursitis. Neuropathy in her feet.

OK. Enough of the organ recital. Have a great memorial day weekend. One forecast puts nine inches of snow on us tomorrow or Monday. Rain. Cold. Helping us stay home.

Moody

Beltane and the Corona Lunacy II

Friday gratefuls: Kate and her magical power. A 30 minute walk on the treadmill. Still reorganizing. Getting there. Mussar yesterday. Confront with compassion. Oh, the magical power? She disrupts technology with a touch. Rain and snow in the forecast for Memorial Day. Bears. Foxes. Mountain Lions. Pine Martens. Mink. Humans.

Cool and gray yesterday. My mood sank with the cloudy skies. I’m just coasting, not engaged. Why haven’t I ordered groceries? Three days in a row with no exercise. Loft closer to order (seder), but a ways to go yet. Body achy. A Tree fell over in the wind. A healthy Lodgepole pine. Work to do in the yard, around the house. The pandemic. Things crowd in, get close, agitate each other like clothes in a washing machine. Ick.

That mood lingers this morning. Glad I have this outlet, this space to mirror my inner life. When I see it on the page, sometimes my mood changes. Not this one, not yet, but maybe later? The sun coming up helps, too. Colorado blue skies, bright sun. A positive.

The pandemic hangs like a pall, a meta-mood. It begins where our driveway ends, where the cars of others go by, others who may or may not be infected. Here in our safe space we three know each other, know our level of commitment to masks, hand sanitizer, to caring for our own and each others health. Out there, beyond the end of the driveway, there be dragons.

We’re among the lucky ones, privileged. It’s quiet here. Not crowded. We have plenty of space. No toddlers or teenagers. No need to get back to work. We have Seoah with us. I’m grateful.

A Red Flag

Beltane and the Corona Lunacy II

Thursday gratefuls: Kate, sewing. Seoah, laughing. Rigel, sleeping hard. Kep, eager to get up, get breakfast. 34 degrees this morning. High Winds, low humidity, lots of sunshine=red flag warning. Masks. The Lodgepole blown over yesterday. Equanimity. Mussar. Kabbalah class yesterday. Missed opportunities for exercise. Dave and Deb.

High Winds yesterday. Up to 40 mph, gusting lasted most of the day yesterday and Tuesday. Both were red flag days. Occurred to me that these are the original red flags. When they show up, those of us surrounded by the Arapaho National Forest pay attention. Not a metaphor.

A Lodgepole pine blew over in our backyard. Pines tend to have shallow roots. Fortunately it blew over away from our house. It could have hit the upstairs balcony had it gone south instead of north. An unintended consequence of fire mitigation, I think. Lodgepoles grow close together up here, an area clear cut for Denver early last century. I removed this Individual’s companions, left it to deal with the gusts of Wind all on its own.

Gotta get out the limbing ax. There’s other limbing work to be done on Trees felled last fall. And, there are still Trees to remove. Shallow roots are a good adaptation to thin Soil, rocky Soil, but they do have their risks. Wondering about other reasons for shallow roots.

In people shallow roots can lead to problems, too. The strong winds of the coronavirus can lead to a fall. The middah of equanimity, the topic for MVP mussar next week, is the psychic equivalent of deep roots. When life pushes us hard, say isolation or lockdown for an indeterminate number of weeks, equanimity can keep us upright. We will feel neither the need to run out and fill up the car with toilet paper, nor will we hunker down, go still, bury our fears.

Judaism has a clear view of the human experience: “Your spiritual experience will give you many gifts, but don’t expect it to relieve you of your human nature.” (Everyday Holiness, Alan Morinis, p. 99) Yes, practice equanimity, but don’t be surprised when life sends you a fire, or a virus, or a serious illness and you lose it. Notice that, congratulate yourself perhaps on a less severe reaction than you might have had in the past, and learn what you can from it. Mussar is an incremental practice that does not have an endpoint.