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Wondering when I will write the next newsletter. Finding the "balance" between intuition, time and when people tell me that they miss the newsletter when I don't write it. Gifts and surprises. My wanderlust is on high. Reading about the witches of Salem. I'm surprised I don't know more about this. The memory that returns from a few weeks ago. I was at Au bon pain at the hospital. The woman in the wheelchair without use of her arms and legs. The staff who carried her food, took her money out of her wallet and finished the transaction with her. It was kind, respectful and easy. Walking the beach in the rain.
The coyote that howls right outside my bedroom window. I am completely awake now. Asking her to create a necklace called Trust. I can't wait to see how it feels. New provider. Conversations about square pegs in round holes and how they don't fit easily. Her words, "well at least she isn't letting us put her in the wrong hole." Discussions about dreams. She asks, "Is it realistic?" In my head I'm thinking dreams are dreams. Are they supposed to be based in reality? The hawk that is circling the backyard while I write this.
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A small procedure. I am in the corner, in the room, on the chair that is reserved for parents and loved ones. I see the box that contains non- sterile, ambidextrous, non-latex gloves. The tools. The tiny headlamp that she wears. The sutures, to stitch and hold together flesh, that will heal and grow and become new. Bodies and souls. Hearts and minds. The way that the light finds it's way on to all of us. Biscuits and gravy. The list he makes of his favorite foods that I cook for our family. Remembering that my need to cocoon increases in fall and winter months. The awareness that sometimes it's easier to like a victim, than someone who is vocal and standing in their truth.
The dream that I have cancer. Smudge cat wakes me up and saves me from the end of the dream with his meowing. How it's okay if you aren't okay. The restless sleep that happens when you know you have to catch a flight, dispense an overnight med or can feel the full harvest moon. The man who is knitting a cable blanket at the bench at the beach. Following the magical thread. Waiting. Solo piping plover and white crane. Pink sunsets. Finally the milkweed puffs are ready. Picked up by the slightest breeze, they float all around the yard. I make wishes on them. Anniversary dinner at Village Tavern. Watching the couple who is at the table next to us. Body language. On phones. Icy conversation. Silence. Working to avoid being that couple in another five, ten, twenty years. Witnessing her six month mark. Nothing to do, but be present, listen and love her up from afar. Dreams about driving the car into a frozen pond. Apple pie, apple cake and apple crisp. So many apples. Focused and clear communication. Expressing needs. This is a direct outcome of my work in EMDR.
Las Vegas. A white man with a semi-automatic rifle. An easy way to kill and hurt so many people. Paying attention to how people language this tragedy. When the world doesn't make sense, going to the beach, laying on the stones and listening to the waves. The knowledge that some people just don't get it. Waiting. The news that the hospital social worker, who has been a part of our lives for nine years, is moving on. Tears on the phone with her, she has one month left. Wondering who will take her place. Missing her support and kindness and compassion already. |
