Plants

I have not had much success over the years, at growing plants that need a lot of attention.  I could blame busy days filled with a full time job, meals to prepare and household chores for the neglected and withering foliage gasping for relief.  Then there were a few that refused to thrive even when doted upon.  I've no green thumb for the finicky and fragile.

My feline roommates are also a threat to indoor horticulture as they deem it their inalienable right to nibble flowers and prune leaves until the plant is gradually relieved of its growth and future potential.  I eventually stopped buying new plants as it seemed I was unfit for the responsibility and my household too hazardous.

Not a complete failure, I have managed to sustain two plants that are are hardy and independent of regular human intervention.  An aloe and a jade plant are my true survivors.

The jade is thick-stalked, sturdy and balanced.  Its leaves are plump and dark green. Although a victim of frost two winters ago, the cut back damaged places have revived.  The base of the jade is dense with new growth and short of being tossed into the burn pile nothing seems to diminish its penchant for life.  It is one of my favorite plants for this reason.  This spring it decided upon tiny flowers at the tips of several stalks.

The aloe plant is long limbed and lanky.  I have actually used the gel of it's leaves for burns.  Great stuff!  And never really asking for much, left on its own in the dead of winter, it seems to draw in on itself just slightly.  When the air surrounding it becomes chill and lifeless, the aloe pales softly and as most plants do in winter, ceases to grow.

Pulled indoors in winter, both plants cheer quietly and accept offerings of water and the artificial warmth of my entryway.  Staring into the glow of the sidelight they sit waiting for some future rendezvous with the open sky.  They seem happy enough as things unfold around them and the season peaks and wanes.

Both plants sit on the front doorstep.  The sight of their pleasant vigilance often brings a smile to my spirit at the end of my work day.  Returned to the outdoors when the sunshine of spring beckons, both plants urge little replicas of themselves to emerge.  Given freedom once again they thrive unencumbered.

Plants and people.  Growing with the elements that surround them.  Damaged by extremes and prolific when well fed and nurtured.

Eyes Wide Open

It is annoying to find yourself awake at odd hours when you know you have a full day waiting, which by the way, comes with the expectation that you show up with an ability to think and participate with others.  There should be no mystery involved when it comes to getting to sleep and staying asleep.  Babies are so good at it.

They might fuss and howl first, but inevitably babies will close their little eyes and just sleep.  And while they are deeply asleep, an infant in the same room that has succumbed to slumber will be oblivious to you, your voice or the dog barking outside.

At some point in the game this affinity for sleep no longer happens.  For some people, sleep deprivation and unwanted wakefulness is a chronic issue that has its own name.  We call it "Insomnia," and although there are many, many causes of insomnia, for your reading pleasure here today, I blame parenthood.

I recall years of my young adulthood spent sleeping in on the weekends, my eyes closed, my mind totally offline until the sun had been up for at least 3 hours.  With no where to go in any hurry and no one waiting for me to provide them with their first meal of the day I was queen of my own castle, captain of my own ship, ruler of the roost, sleeping when I chose to.

Then I got all misty eyed and maternally inclined and decided to satisfy my longing for motherhood.  Along with the pure joy of welcoming a child into the world to nurture, love and care for I found a depth of feeling I had never before experienced.  The tradeoff however, was the ability, inclination and opportunity to sleep through the night and sleep in on weekends.

Who knew there were so many sounds in the dark of night that would mimic the stirring of a tiny human being?  And I was not aware that my tiny miracle was capable of screaming so persistently at 2:00 AM.  No one told me these things.  We worked it out, but a heads up might have been nice.

So now, these many years and 5 children later (no I am not Catholic or a Mormon I just love kids), I have either broken my sleep "On" button or I have just never re-learned sleeping like a baby.  Oh, I confess to stretches of time when, with good sleep hygiene I have managed a succession of nights with 6 or 7 hour stretches of sleep.  But truth is, after parenthood I have not recovered either my cherished late adolescence sleep-coma, or my wild and crazy 2o-something up until 2:00 at work the next day at 8:00 then sleep for 10 hours recovery.

The sleep cycles of my maturity are a charming pattern of sleep and wakefulness followed by sleep and wakefulness.  Early to bed, early to rise has new meaning and is often combined with the question, "Have I slept since 3:00 AM?"

Golden

On a warm, sunny spring day when I was maybe 7 years old my Dad took me fishing. He took me fishing once, and only once.

The fish were running so thick on the Potomac River you could just about scoop them out of the water with a net if you wanted. We loaded up our gray Rambler with fishing gear and the night crawlers I had dug out of the soft brown soil in the flower bed. We drove to a stretch of river access with easy parking against a grass lined paved walkway dotted with benches. A railing separated the walkway from the water. We set ourselves up on a bench and I was given a pole and directed to bait the hook. I spent several minutes fumbling with the hook and out of concern for the safety of my fingers Dad took over and skewered a large earthworm for me.

I was more interested in skipping back and forth along the railing, looking at the fish teeming just below the water’s surface.   When our lines were ready I was given a casting lesson and standing patiently along the railed walkway I waited for the action to begin. When it seemed the waiting was unproductive given the obvious presence of plenty of fish in the water, Dad had me jerk on the line as I walked along the edge of the railing which resulted pretty quickly in a snagged fish! I squealed with glee with each catch and it took little time for me to fill our bucket.

I had no idea this bucket full of wriggly fish was intended to be the evening’s fish fry. So, I gave them away. Dad reacted visibly but did not overrule my gift giving. I offered them to the folks that were fishing next to us when they admired our catch and they were happy to receive them. Indicative of my parents’ approach to child rearing it was assumed that I knew what was going on and that we were going to eat the fish Dad and I caught. In all likelihood there most certainly there had been some conversation to this effect that I had tuned out. The white noise of parental pontification was often the background noise upon which I staged my juvenile thought life. They must have questioned my sensibilities often.

Dad was quiet on the drive home.  I’d had a great time, and I suggested that a hamburger and fries from that snappy new McDonald’s drive-in would be a fitting end to the day. When we stepped through the front door Dad’s proclamation regarding my generosity betrayed his real feelings. I didn’t see the problem, but like I said, he only took me fishing once.

Fish fry? Not for me - but thanks anyway.

Empty The Boat

Change.  Impermanence.  Everything changes.  What kind of cosmic joke is that?  Change is a universal experience for everything and everyone and I am just as subject to change as the rest of creation.  The changes brought on by Multiple Sclerosis are my personal object lesson in physical impermanence.  But even the sadness and discontent I experience at times as I grapple with physical limitations can dissipate completely given the right stimulus.  And to top it all off, MS limitations themselves also change and give me no certainty from day to day that any of my well laid plans will come to be. 

Life is like a river full of events, flowing constantly.  Where there is life there is change.  A simple concept with profound implications.  The very ground I try to plant myself upon and affix my world to is simply unreliable.  How do we get through life with so much turbulence?  Are we kind of numb to it?  Do we tune in to a different channel to obscure the facts?  Are we zoned out much of the time to escape?  How am I supposed to  cope with so much serendipity?

There is a way.

I do not remember when I first began to think that I was separate from the whirling storm of feelings and ideas that crowded my thoughts.  Was it as a little girl who grew up in a home characterized by chaos and uncertainty?  Was it there that I took a step back to observe without internalizing the relationships and situations?  Or did I just block out the dissonance and wait for the liberation of young adulthood?  If I could have said  anything to the teenage me those many years ago, it would have been, “... you are really close, but let me tell you about compassion, self care and love.”

Mindfulness meditation is about embracing life as it is and myself as I am.  With the awareness that change is inevitable comes the understanding that everyone experiences change.  We are all connected to one another by the ways in which life impacts us.

As I steer my vessel across the river of this life I will encounter other vessels and will likely bump into one or two.  When that happens I may find myself at odds with the pilot of the impeding craft.  Once I begin to see that the occupant and I are one, the opposition vanishes, whether the pilot is a face with a name or a disease I attempt to  hold at arms length.

Dreams

Where do I go to hide from MS?  Is there a place I can just hang out for a day or two and not be reminded that I have this spectre of physical impairment following me around?

Lately I feel drained and really tired towards the end of a day.  In the morning I have a decent energy level and breakfast is generally very satisfying.  Lunch is my biggest meal of the day and I’m still moving along at a good pace.  But after work I’ve got very little left in me and if I have dinner, it had better be early so that I don’t end up going to bed on an empty stomach.  Not much else happens after I get home at the end of the day.   

Today is Saturday and I have been busy doing laundry, and helping organize my son and daughter-in-law’s things as they settle in here for a while.  I even washed walls in hopes of doing some painting this weekend.

I could feel the strength leaving my legs and arms by about 4:00 and after a shower I could barely move.  It frightens me to not be able to function.  My vision is blurry.  It takes a lot of effort to move my legs.  My arms seem really tired.  All of this is frustrating because I feel inadequate, weak and unable to cope with a "normal" activity level.

I spent two weeks in Austria earlier this month, visiting my daughter and son-in-law who have a new baby girl.  I didn’t have to cook, drive or even do my own laundry.  And although I was tired after we had been out sight seeing, I wasn’t terribly fatigued or weak.  It has been a revealing comparison of activity level and energy.  

I will spend the rest of the afternoon and evening resting, reading as long as my eyes cooperate and working at being gentle with myself.  Pacing myself will help me manage my days.  MS will decide how much mobility I have and I will need to adapt and adjust.  

Last night I had a dream that I was in a wheelchair.  I was passing through a hospital setting and when questioned I said I was not a patient; just visiting.  Leaving, I took an elevator and went alone into the street on my way to a better destination.

Gracefully, gratefully...

...aging.  A process I hope will be characterized by gradual decline and not a poorly timed free-fall.  I liken the process of aging to parenthood.  There is no written guidance, and no certain outcome aside from the inevitable taxable event.  Searching for the shaman of my golden years, I look with some reassurance at the paths of those who walk a bit ahead of me.  

Speaking of walking, I have been doing so every morning, very early.  The new light of day sweeps away the cobwebs clinging to my eyelids and once I get the motor started the body starts to move along fairly smoothly.  

Earlier this week while on the homeward end of my normal route, I had taken my glasses off because they darken, almost too much, in the sun.  As I walked I saw a medium sized white metal cage sitting beneath a tree about 5 or 6 feet off the road in an empty lot.  Inside was a smallish, dusky brown object with a pale stripe around its middle.  It was very still.  It seemed to be sitting, nose against the corner of the cage,  legs and feet tucked beneath its body.  

I was appalled, disturbed and dismayed that someone would be so cruel as to abandon their guinea pig on the side of the road.  I stopped and stared not knowing if I should call animal control or take the poor creature home with me.  I looked both ways up and down the street and saw no one of course.  This damnable act had been done under cover of darkness no doubt!  No water bottle, no food; was the poor thing even still alive?

With my heart pounding in my chest, I stepped a little closer.  I hate coming upon dead things.  Especially when they were once pets and deserving of decency of care.  Tentatively, I leaned closer to the cage, still standing in the street, toes braced against the curb.  

I had been standing here for several minutes at this point.  So far I had taken in some very concerning bits of information and I was faced with a decision I did not want to make.  So, leaning in, I put on my glasses.  After taking a closer look, I turned away quietly and walked the rest of the way home in the bright glow of the morning sunlight.

I like to think I have a reasonable grasp of reality, that I am fully cognizant of things as they are.  I like to feel as though I understand my limitations and have clarity around my strengths and capabilities.  It is beyond me what the child (presumably) had in mind, putting a plush football in a cage, and leaving it beside the road.  But I hope the parents take that as a sign that this youngster is not ready to assume responsibility for the care of a small caged animal.  And let me assure you that I never leave the house without my glasses.

Joy

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [you aren't alone]

In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promised joy. "  --Robert Burns


Who planned for their life to this point in time?  If you had asked me when I was about to graduate from high school where I would be in 30-plus years the answer would have been - not here.

I might have agreed upon family, career and a comfortable life.  I may have pictured myself as I am, on the west coast rather than hunkered down amidst my east coast origins.  But nearly everything else has been a best laid scheme.

The human mind likes a plan.  Thoughts revolve around what we want to have, where we want to go and what we want to do next weekend.  Is foresight really vain?  Like the mousie of Mr. Burns' poem, I set about to build my nest without a thought of it being unearthed by anything.

And yet I have to tell you I am more than happy, more than blessed, more than fortunate.  Why you ask?  Why and how could you be considering, well, so many things you have been through?

I have literally had people look me in the eye and say, "I thought I had a rough life until I heard about what you go through."  And so, it is best not to rely on others' for uplifting sentiments.

I my friend have everything I need.  Even in moments that are less than glorious, I have wealth at hand that never fades and will not pale against a stormy day.  I cannot point to a book, or a person, or a solitary concept without embracing the entirety of creation in my riches.

Needless to say that grief and pain are painted into the artist's work, but so is promised joy.