Day in the Life

01/04/12
I’ve been able to understand what they say for a while. I don’t always let on though because if I show them I understand then I can’t do what I want, and then they yell at me and call me a Bad Dog. I hate being a Bad Dog. I try so hard to be a Good Dog. I’m so happy when she runs her hands over my head and ears and calls me a Good, Good Dog. There is nothing better. The temptations are so great though. The smells, oh goodness the smells! Especially in the morning after the sky has rained and everything is wet. The smells are so clear and vivid, so very interesting.
We go out for a walk this morning in the hills. The feathered things fly about. They smell as if they would taste good and if one flies close enough, I will try to eat it. There are tiny furred four-legs scurrying away. They also smell good, like food. She is talking to me the whole time. I love her voice. Sometimes when I don’t quite understand I will tilt my head way to the side. Maybe the words will find their way into my head quicker and I will understand. We practice Come! And Heal!, but I get distracted with the lessons. Too much is going on around us. A Thought enters my mind: Sometimes, if I’ve been a Very Good Dog!, She will take off the rope. Ahh freedom! I begin to formulate a Plan. I’m still quite puppy minded, but if I think very hard, sometimes I can think up a Plan. This is how it goes: If I am Very Good, she will take the rope off, then, I will RUN. Even though I understand her, I will pretend that I can’t hear her and I will Run.
I am a Very Good Dog, and she takes the rope off. I start to trot, then jog, then I gallop, and then, then I RUN. For a brief minute running is all that there is. In this whole great world of feathered things and furred things, and people that I love and smell so good, there is only running. But then, then I hear her, way, way back there, calling for me. And I must. I must turn around and go to her. I know that when I get to her she will run her hands over my head and ears and call me a Good, Good Dog.

Bad Habit

01/06/12

The smell of burning food brought her back to the world. She had been staring out the window in her kitchen, but she was a thousand miles away, somewhere warm and sunny. She pulled the frying pan off the burner mumbling softly to herself, “oh, sorry, sorry, shoot, I’m sorry”. She had a real bad habit of saying sorry; she really should work on that. As she put the well-done food on the plate, and added the vegetables and potatoes, she thought she could remember a time when she wasn’t sorry. She remembered when she was young and confident, and felt like she had a place in the world. As she brought the plate of food into the dining room she sighed. Seems like these days she’s sorry for the air she breathing. Just as she is about to put the plate on the table her fat little dauchsand shot out from under the table, excited by the food smell, and got tangled in her feet. She went down hard, the plate flying from her hand in slow motion, like a Frisbee, stopping only as it hit his lap. Then it tumbled over itself twice before smashing against the wall.
“Oh! ‘She piped,’ I’m sorry! It was an accident I’m so sorry!”
Still lying on the floor she looked up at him with apprehension. She did not like what she saw. There was a storm brewing in his face. His eyebrows were low over his squinty eyes, his lips pulled back in a snarl.
He took a big breath and exploded, “Dammit Lila! Can’t you do anything right? All I wanted was a little bit of dinner. Is that too much for a man to ask for?”
He wiped the steak and potatoes off his lap then he picked up his beer and swigged down the last drop. Lila got up off the floor, punctuating his outburst with sorries, thinking the whole time,’ this is a really bad habit; I’ve got to stop apologizing’.
“Now, You go get me another beer, fix me another plate”, he said, ticking off items on his fingers, “ and dammit Lila! You apologize for ruining my dinner”
“Ok, sorry,’ She said,” I’m sorry for ruining your dinner!”.
To herself she thought, Bad habit, I need to stop apologizing. Then she felt something inside her break lose. The spilled dinner was just an accident after all, not really her fault. Lila was done apologizing. She went back into the kitchen and got a Coors out of the fridge. She popped the top and took a long pull. Then she went to the cookie jar and retrieved her gun from its depth. She smoothed its warm barrel against her cheek. The gun smelt faintly of chocolate chip cookies. Lila took another swig of the beer and sauntered into the dining room.
‘That didn’t take long’, He said, licking his lips as he saw the cold beer, “ Now Lila, where’s my dinner?”
Lila brought her arm from around her back and pointed the gun right at his forehead, and then she pulled the trigger. The dauschsand yelped in surprise. He looked surprised too. Now his eyebrows are peaked, eye wide open, his mouth a round little o of pure wonderment.
“Oh!”, Lila whispered’ “ Sorry! So sorry!”, and on the heels of that, ‘Dammit, that is a bad habit saying sorry like that I’ve got to stop it!”
Lila wiped the gun off and put it back in the cookie jar. She threw a few things into a bag, grabbed the dog, got in the truck and she headed south. To somewhere warm, where there was water, where she wouldn’t be sorry anymore.

01/28/12
Super Power

Before the world ended, people would do all sorts of crazy things to themselves, their children too. Momma’s would line up at the geneticists lab to order up what up kind of child they wanted, Ha! Everyone wound up looking alike in those last bad years. All those choices! Skin color, hair color, sex, height, weight, smarts; all those things could be ordered up like we used order pizzas in the old days. Everyone wanted tall skinny, blonde children though! No one cared much about ordering smarts, or musical proclivity, or common sense for that matter. Everyone sure was pretty though. I’ve made it to the grand old age of 125! No genetic cocktails for me, no. I’ve eaten mostly vegetables for the last 50 years, and I’ve always felt the need to be active. A glass or two of wine, when it was available, may have helped as well. Oh lordy , who knows? Towards the end, people were doing all kinds of crazy modifications. The ability to breath water, or become invisible! They were close to being able to modify people so they could fly! Imagine that…one injection and you could grow your own wings! Bad thing was though; people became so involved in themselves that they forgot about the rest of the world. Politics went out of fashion. People stopped caring about the poor and misfortunate, in their own countries and globally. Third world countries obtained the technology for nuclear weapons, and then BOOM! The end of the world….Well, I reckon if I’d had the notion to order up a super power, I would have had those geneticists tinker with my mind so that I would be able to understand another’s point of view. Culturally, philosophically, religiously, yes, that is it, universal understanding. Ha! Too bad it’s too late!

Wind Dream

01/28/12

In my dream I was the wind. I started out the last breath of a dying man. I combined with the summer breeze that ruffled the curtains and made the tree branches dance. I blew through the tall city buildings and then over and through the pine trees. I gained momentum from the heat of the earth and blew up into the cold mountains. I screamed down the slopes as I cooled, melding with a warm humid wind. I became angry and powerful and funneled myself into a tube. I tipped over trees and picked up trucks and let them drop. I blew over a vast grassy plain, then down through the canyon, so narrow that I whistled as I contoured the sandy tall narrows. I followed a mighty river to the sea. I blew the water into waves, tall and taller. I spent a long time blowing over the salty ocean. I was sucked into a whale’s blowhole, and jetted back out. I got caught in the crisp canvas of a sail, and then held a sea bird aloft as it drifted on my warm thermals. I blew back into land and I slowed and became calm and quiet. I blew through a geranium and became infused with its scent. I blew through an open door and tousled papers on a kitchen table. I drifted up some stairs and into a room. I was the very first breath of new born, bellowed out in the insult of life.

04.21.2010

Essay from 9.21.2008
After driving for 11 1/2 hours, Allen and I arrive at the marina in San Diego and board the boat that we will be spending the next three days on. We will be diving around the Channel Islands in the great kelp forests, amongst quadrupeds and garibaldi. My birthday is soon and this is my present. I am also trying out my twin doubles for the first time in the open ocean. The last time I dove with doubles was a disaster. Allen and I signed up for a deco/nitrox course and went down to Florida to dive in the fresh water grottos there. Long story short, I was woefully unprepared for the rigorous, military style dive boot camp. The instructor had a big van with F.R.O.G labeled on the side of it. Good first impression, I like frogs well enough. Then I found out it stood for, Fully Relying On God. I should have taken that as a sign from the Universe that this class was more then I was ready for. The next day brought more demoralizing frustration then I had felt since junior high math.
There are people everywhere on the boat, talking loudly, laughing as they haul gear on board and try to find a place to put it. I have been a little apprehensive about the number of other folks that are going to be sharing this boat with us. Whenever I am around more then 5 or 6 people I begin to feel as if the others are breathing all my air. Soon gear gets all sorted out. People begin to file to the upper deck into the dining area for a briefing before we head out. After introductions and some common sense rules we are allowed to mingle and socialize. I follow my husband down to the sleeping bunks and we get toothbrushes and go back up to the deck. Soon four or five people are brushing their teeth. I wonder if we are aboard a boatful of lemmings.
Our bunk is on the very bottom, ie. The floor. We crawl in and close the curtains. My sea sick pill is starting to kick in with a vengence. I had carefully timed taking it an hour before we boarded. Alas, I am a land lubber. A desert rat from western Colorado, transplanted to Salt Lake City. I have been sea sick before, and have no qualms about better living through pharmacy. In addition to quelling nausea the pill makes me drift off to sleep, actually enjoying the movement of the boat as it rises and falls on swells. I have dreams about being an owl and flying in the mountains, and then I’m awake, and we are out to sea.
A minute or two passes before the cold water starts to trickle down my back. I bob in the ocean like soap in a tub as I wait for the Allen to jump in. The current takes me away, and I have to kick to get closer to Allen before we begin our descent. As the cold water slips over my head my world becomes quiet and blue. I find my neutral buoyancy and begin my way through the giant kelp forest. As we sink gently deeper the cold water presses against me. I glance at my dive computer and see that I have 2800 psi, full tanks, I clear my ears and sigh with content. Girabaldi swim up to my mask and peer into it wondering what lies behind the reflective surface. There is reef structure that reaches down so far I can’t see the bottom. We glide along the structure taking our time, checking out the little nooks and crannies for critters. I pull ahead of Allen and turn upside down to watch my bubbles rise to the surface. The twin doubles feel unruly and I struggle with my neutral buoyancy. As I come back around to the prone position I notice that my reg is breathing a little hard. I make a mental note to ask Allen to look at it when we surface, and then I breathe the tanks dry. No Air.
Allen is about 15 feet away. He appears to be inspecting a long frond of kelp.
I watch him, willing him to feel my gaze as I slowly blow tiny little bubbles through my reg. The trick works and he glances at me, I signal to him that I’m out of air, a brisk stroke of the hand across the throat. Apparently he doesn’t quite believe me, and he mimics the signal back to me as a question. “What, You’re out of air?”
I can see through his mask that his eyebrows are lifted in a question.
Yes, goddammit, I’m out of air! I signal back to him. At the same time it dawns on me that I have an alternate reg. I think it might be a good time to try it while Allen is kicking over to me. I forget to purge it and toke on some icy sea water. I’m feeling a little air hungry now, and Allen seems to be moving in slow motion. I give the octo another suck and find that it has been cleared of water. I take a really really big pull of air on it, and then another and then another. Allen is by my side and I show him that I’m breathing now. According to Rick, the dive nazi, there is no longer an emergency, after all I’m breathing. I still feel as if there is an emergency however. I have a firm grip on Allen’s arm, and my face is very close to his. His eyebrows are all frowny now and I can see his mind whirling, trying to figure out what is going on with my rig. I signal, with authority, that I would like to ascend. We begin to slowly kick up, purging air from our BCD’s as the gas expands. At 15 feet we stop and hang for a three -minute safety stop. As we break the surface I realize that I can’t inflate my BCD. Hmmm…? One regulator is dead, no joy for the BCD. Wonder if there is something wrong with my manifold? I reach back and fiddle with the valve. I feel and hear the rush of gas from one tank to another. Everything makes sense now. My isolator manifold was in the off position. Who ever had filled my tank apparently shut it, and filled only one tank. I feel some relief, and then I feel really really stupid because I did not check my valves before hopping in to the water.
After clamoring back aboard the boat Allen and I debrief and talk what had happened and why. Allen tells me that my eyes were very wide open down there. He snickers to himself a little bit. I take note of my eyes and feel as if they are still wide open. Even out of the water, with all that lovely breathable air swirling around me I feel anxious and a little short of breath. I wonder about the propensity of humans to toe the line and try to be where they really don’t belong. I think about how breathing is really underrated and quite a fine thing in itself. I think about how pleasant it is to feel my lungs full of air.

To every thing turn turn turn....

The first thing I thought was, Why didn't I read this when she was dying? After i was halfway through the book I wished I had read it even earlier, before my mom was even sick. That way i would have known how to grieve. I would have had directions, a map to follow so that I could see which way to go.
There were questions that should have been asked. Answers and explanations were missing. There was so much that went unsaid. Even after she died words that went unspoken got backed up and stuck someplace. I'm still bewildered by these piles of things left unsaid. Like log jams stuck high up in a slot canyon, the words all tangled and stuck together,confused. She would look at me and say 'I love you Beck', and I would say ' I love you too Mom". Then there were all these other things that went unsaid.
Are you ready to die? Do you want to go to the hospital and get a tube put in your nose to feed you? Do you want to be poisoned with chemotherapy that may prolong your life for years, or may not? Do you want to go anywhere? Is there something you want to tell me? Oh, so much stuff unsaid.
The day she died my Aunt Jeanie and I had been trying to amuse her and keep her comfortable. After painting toes bright pink, and putting on Vivaldi, Mom relaxed and was snoozing a little bit. all of a sudden she called out my sisters name. "Julie... Julie where are you?" My sister was far away in Florida. She couldn't come out because she had life to live, daughters to take care of.
She had spent a week with us after Mom's first surgery and couldn't come out again. When mom had died, breathed her last quiet breath, I called my sister to tell her that she had died. her response to me was, are you sure? Did you listen to her? I am a nurse and my sister a PA, so often we were able to hide behind clinical verbage and diagnosis and prognosis. Again, so much stuff left unsaid. My sister is my strongest ally now. One huge gift that came about from the death of our Mother.

The book is 'Refuge', by Terry Tempest Williams. I'm learning how to grieve from this book. I'm asking my mom the things I should have, and I'm getting the answers from the mountains and the desert and the moon, and the changing seasons.

Autumn

Waiting for a change. The first chilly morning that smells of dusty warmth as the furnace burns for the first time in months. The October light slants, and casts long shadows in the afternoon. Shivering in the sunshine. I want to wake up to cold cloudy skys and weather. I want to eat hot soup and bundle up in blankets. I want to go for a walk at night and smell woodsmoke and feel chilled. I know that soon enough I will be complaining of cold feet. I will be longing for the deep, dry heat of the Utah desert. For now though, I'm waiting for winter, waiting for change.