tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33233729853103077182024-03-05T03:25:02.689-08:00Catbird ScoutDeb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.comBlogger412125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-411863102629120802020-05-18T12:30:00.000-07:002020-05-18T12:31:52.010-07:00Toby's Last Morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I got up Saturday morning, Toby was lying against the wall in the dining room, as I’ve often found him these last weeks. Neither of us had gotten much sleep the night before as he moved around trying to get comfortable and as his breathing sounds shifted. He opened his eyes to look at me, but there was no flop of his tail or lift of his head. I bent down to pet him and to clean up the leakage that had accumulated under his muzzle. <a href="https://www.drlorigibson.com/">Compassionate Care</a> was scheduled to arrive sometime between 8 and 10, although we’d been told it would be closer to 8. I went about my morning routine, feeding the cats, emptying the dishwasher, sitting with my coffee and the NY Times puzzles, pushing away doubts. Toby didn’t move any of the many times I stopped to talk to him and pet him.</div>
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For days I had been agonizing whether it was finally time to release Toby from the last several months of struggle with cancer. He was still eating and drinking, and peeing and pooping. He ate regularly, sometimes with remnants of his usual enthusiasm. Granted we were feeding him by hand, and just days before had to resort to hiding his twice-daily pill in cheese to get him to take it. But he loved his chicken and his dog cookies and seemed thrilled with the addition of cheese to his diet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Just a week earlier he came out to the front yard while I worked in my flowerbed. At one point he plopped himself down in the middle of the flowers and I didn’t have the heart to make him move. A neighbor came up our driveway to chat, and Toby leapt up and ran barking at him, tail wagging the whole way. The run was wonky and the barking was hoarse, but the greeting was clear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A day or two after that Toby’s face swelled up to the point he couldn’t see out of one eye. His breathing grew more labored and much louder. He was restless at night, and had a hard time getting comfortable. He had had spells previously, but seemed always to recover after a couple of days. So three days became my standard. If he didn’t get better after three days, I would consider that it might be time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He didn’t get better, although the swelling went down after it burst open under his eye. His breathing was liquid and glurpy and he was lethargic. He’d eat, but the inside of his mouth bled after every meal. He’d get up only if I nudged him. Walt and Toby had been going for evening strolls around the yard, and now he got outside the gate and stopped, wanting to go back before they’d even got to the front yard. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I couldn’t remember the last uninterrupted night’s sleep I’d had, and my daytime hours were now spent managing the leakage from his face, getting him to eat, and trying to get him moving. Somewhere in my determination to not end his life too soon, I’d forgotten that joy was one of the criteria for whether to continue on. And none of us were feeling joy in Toby’s life any more, most especially Toby. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So the call was made, and the appointment set, and I started Saturday knowing we had only hours left together. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I decided to see if he would go outside with me one last time before the vet arrived. His absolute favorite thing in the world had always been being outside with his humans. Whether it was walking or fetching or simply lying at our feet, he lived for the hours we spent together under the sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After a little nudge, he pulled himself to his feet and went out with me easily. He headed for the grass and peed, then over to the birdbath to drink, all part of his usual morning routine. I stood on the patio talking to him as he wandered a bit in the gentle rain, sniffing the grass. The next thing I knew, he was doing his best version of running to the back fence, barking, his once deep voice now a raspy seal croak. He had spotted the deer on the other side, and as he had done his whole life, gave chase. He then pooped and came back to me on the patio. Instead of heading to the door, however, he moved to the gate, looking back at me expectantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the gate from which all of our walks began, from which he would be invited to join me working in the front yard, at which he always greeted us when we came home from time away. It was raining and I was barefoot and I knew he wouldn’t be able to go far, but I opened the gate anyway. We walked out together. We didn’t get more than a few yards from the gate before he stopped. It made me think of the very last time we headed out to do our daily walk so many weeks before, when he stopped and leaned against me. His body was no longer able to carry his spirit where it longed to go. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We turned around and went back into the house. We stopped in the kitchen where I offered him some chicken, which he ate carefully, and some cheese, which he consumed eagerly. I fed him until he turned away. Then I walked him into the living room where his bed has been for months. I had pulled it into the middle of the floor and covered it with his favorite blanket. He plopped down, clearly tired from our outside adventure. I sat with him and petted him and talked to him. Walt joined us. A little before 8, a car pulled into the driveway. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dr. Beth, as she introduced herself, was calm and kind and gentle from the beginning. When she first came in she asked if Toby was snarling. For a second I wondered why she thought that, and then I realized his breathing was that loud. When I reassured her that we’d never heard Toby snarl, that it was his breathing, she came and knelt in front of him. I was at his head. Walt was behind him. She asked questions and filled out paperwork and petted Toby when he lifted his head toward her as greeting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She explained the entire process while preparing, and again as she carried it out, petting Toby the whole time. At one point I heard her humming what sounded like a lullaby. Toby was calm and completely relaxed into the love that Walt and I were pouring over him. The only time he showed any reaction at all, and that was just a raised head, was when she swabbed the newly shaved spot on his hind leg with alcohol. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bunkie, the older of our two cats and the one who often sat in doorways for the express purpose of keeping Toby from going through, was with us through it all. He kept going between me and Toby, stopping for pets, and then gave the vet’s equipment and coat a thorough inspection. In the last minutes of Toby’s life, as we talked him over to the other side, Bunkie sat at the edge of the blanket and kneaded a steady beat until it was over. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mimsy, the cat who adored Toby and who often curled up against his belly, didn’t come out at all. When Toby’s great heart finally stilled and Dr. Beth went out to her car to get the stretcher, I went looking for Mimsy. I brought her out and set her on the floor next to Toby. She sniffed and walked away. However, when the vet came back in and knelt again in front of Toby with the stretcher to prepare him to go, Mimsy came back in the room. She marched up to Toby’s back feet and rubbed her face and body against them like she had rubbed against his legs so many times before.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The three humans enshrouded Toby and then carried him out to the vet’s car. She drove him away to be cremated and returned to us so we can return him to the ground of the place that became a sanctuary because of his presence. There will be a dogwood tree to shade and bloom over him in the years to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dr. Beth was gone by 9. Walt and I went back into a deeply quiet house to begin the long journey of learning to live without our boy. My heart is broken, but it is a larger and softer heart with a much greater capacity for love than it was before Toby. Recalling the gift of Toby’s life and the gift of his dying in the time ahead will help weave the pieces back together into a heart that reflects the greatness of his own. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-91547872552495819002020-02-24T07:01:00.000-08:002020-02-24T07:01:16.591-08:00The Gift of a Long Goodbye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It’s a dark wet February morning. I’m the only one awake. Toby, in what has become a new normal, came into the bedroom at 3:00 a.m. and woke me up. In this new routine I pet him and talk to him and try to convince him to lie back down, but he isn’t having it. He needs to go out. Exhausted as I am, I soak up the warmth of his coat, the sweetness of his face, the special toasty smell that has always been his. I get up and let him out, feed him, let him back in. He goes back to sleep, along with the cats. I am wide awake. </div>
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As I have so many times this winter, I consciously accept the gift of his presence and of this early morning time with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At the end of November, just a month after he turned 12, Toby sneezed himself into a nosebleed. A week later we knew for certain he had a mass in his nasal cavity that was cancerous. After a lot of research and a long conversation with our vet, we decided not to pursue treatment, but instead to take him home and enjoy our remaining time together. Three months was the number I found: the time after diagnosis without treatment that we might expect to have with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We cancelled the February trip to Hawaii with friends that we’d been planning for two years. I gave up tentative March plans, unwilling to commit to an assumption that he might be gone by then. For a while after the diagnosis, I cancelled a number of outings because I needed time and space to absorb this new reality of our lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
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An accounting of sorts began the day we heard the news – a daily quality of life inventory. We knew that at some point the balance would tip and we would be making the decision to end Toby’s suffering. Our vet agreed to come to us when that day arrives, and the relief of that has helped make this journey more bearable. The question of how we will know when that day arrives is how I start every day now. It’s a terrible question to face. The weight of it threatens to crush. But I refuse that. So that our remaining time can be as joyful as possible, I cannot dwell in the darkness. So far no day has been that day. Today is not that day. And I am trusting that Toby will let me know when that day finally does arrive. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What Toby could do in December far outweighed what he couldn’t. His symptoms, mostly sneezing that resulted in sprays of blood or drops on the carpet as he slept, were spaced so that we could go fairly long stretches without focusing on his illness. There were days when I could almost forget the diagnosis, and when I could almost believe Toby might live forever. Cleaning up after him felt purposeful and meaningful, like I was somehow in control. Every successful walk and meal eaten felt like a small battle won.</div>
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Slowly, inexorably, the disease consumes more and more of our old life. If this is a war, I won't win. The only control I really have is how I choose to walk this path. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On what turned out to be my final walk with Toby a week ago, he stopped more than a dozen times and leaned on me to rest and be reassured. He refused to turn back then, but didn’t protest when we cut the walk in half. Often now when he hears the telltale sounds of me getting ready to walk, he doesn’t move from the floor. When he came with me eagerly to start our walk a few days ago, he stopped on the road and leaned on me before we’d even gotten out of sight of home. We turned back and he trotted a few steps toward the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometime in January he stopped eating the kibble that he’d inhaled for his whole life. I bought canned food to add to the kibble and that got him cleaning his dish again for a bit. When that stopped working, I added chicken to the mix, and the bowl would be cupboard clean in a matter of minutes. Now it takes him all day to finish breakfast, and he usually finishes dinner just before bedtime. Even with the extra food and lack of movement, he’s losing weight.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He only goes upstairs now if we’re both up there with him. He has slept in his bed at the top of the stairs for most of his life. With his failing eyesight and balance, he fell coming downstairs a couple of times early on. So I started escorting him up and down. I would go upstairs when I got up in the morning to bring him down to start the day. Now he sleeps at the foot of the stairs, and his bed is in the living room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With every new loss, we regroup and adjust and keep going. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The daily quality of life inventory has turned out to be an amazing teacher. I am a planner and an organizer. I like knowing what’s coming. And while I do know the end of this story, I don’t know the path or the timing that will get us there. This time demands being fully in the moment. Looking backward at what no longer is, or forward at what is inevitable, are equally painful. Now is the only bearable place. Opportunities to choose gratitude and seek joy are boundless, and it’s up to me to find them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I look for evidence of joy in Toby’s life. It’s all little things now: a wagging tail, a meal consumed with gusto, a walk around the yard. His head rested against my lap so I can pet him. His eyes lighting up at the prospect of a treat. He’s not in pain, his breathing is still open enough, and he greets me happily when I’ve been away for a bit. </div>
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Because I want him to feel loved and not upset, I’m choosing to be upbeat with him as much as I can. I laugh at his sneezes, hug him when he has a hard time standing up, talk to him endlessly. He gets treats often, and for no other reason than being so damned cute. Every time I walk past him lying in the hall I reach down to pet him, the contact as much for me as it is for him. There will be abundant time later to be carried on the currents of sadness that are there just below the surface. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As hard as this time is, I am truly grateful for our long goodbye. Every day I am reminded what a magnificent companion he’s been. Our long decade together has been the best time of my life, in large part because of our relationship and the inspiration of his spirit. He has taught me lessons in loving and living, and finally dying - all done with a particular grace only dogs seem to possess. Now I get to give him the ending his life deserves, and while my heart aches, it also swells with love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The eastern sky is beginning to brighten. It is perfectly still outside. I hear Toby snoring in the other room. I breathe this moment in with gratitude. </div>
Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-63216180100283782482019-10-31T10:49:00.000-07:002019-10-31T11:01:18.383-07:00Toby Turns Twelve<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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It’s a perfect fall afternoon. The time of year when Toby blends into the big leaf maple leaves and fallen fir needles covering the path. The time of year when sloshing through those leaves ignites inner children who delight in both the sound and the fragrance. The sun shines sideways into our faces, and the breezes bring leaves dancing around us. We’ve been doing this walk together, Toby and I, for going on twelve years. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I stop while Toby sniffs at coyote scat on the ground, and absorb the moment. I feel deep gratitude for all of this: Toby, the wild blue air, the gentle warmth of a soft autumn sun, the flicker calling in the distance. And the fragrance that is both death: the leaves and needles beneath my feet; and life: the moist earth already holding next season’s possibilities. I breathe it all in. I embed it in my heart, knowing I will need to draw on its beauty and truth sometime in the fairly near future. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Toby is turning 12, and the opportunities for days like this are dwindling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When we first came down to this wild area, Toby was still a puppy. I brought him to the river so he could swim for the first time. It was early spring and the river was in flood. He took to the water like the retriever he is, bounding in and out of the river’s edge. At some point he went a bit too far out, ignoring my calls, and the current caught him. I watched him paddle hard toward the bank as I ran to catch him, terrified I’d lose him. He reached shore, fairly unruffled, and we headed back home. That moment would be a hallmark of our relationship. Toby has an independent streak that will not bend to demands, but he will always honor our connection, just not always as quickly as I’d like. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because our walk route is a campground and mostly undeveloped, I could allow him to roam free. In the early days I called him back repeatedly, just to make sure I didn’t lose him. Over time we developed a rhythm. He would run ahead, or off to the side, exploring, sniffing, chasing. If I was out of sight for too long, he’d come back looking for me. A few times I called him back and had to wait an uncomfortably long time before he returned. But he always did, and so I would often become so absorbed in my own walk experience I would lose track of him without worry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We always ended up at the river. A beach that’s private property, but almost always empty. In the early years he would swim for sticks endlessly, ready to rush back into the water the minute a stick had been retrieved. He dove for rocks, digging in the water to find the perfect one, then submerging his head completely to bring it up and carry it to shore. I stood in the shade of a huge big leaf maple reveling in his exuberance, and absorbing his joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He chased everything: robins, rabbits, shadows. Deer were his favorite, although once they spotted Toby, all that was left for him to chase was a lingering scent. Owls would lift off in front of him and he’d take off barking, running circles certain he’d find one until something else caught his attention. Our route is a two-mile loop that he did twice or three times that distance in his pell-mell joy-filled chases. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There were a number of coyote encounters. One season it was an older male that was claiming territory. Toby chased him a couple of times, until I started keeping him close as we passed through that part of the camp. We eventually changed our route completely in the early summers when it became clear that year’s pups were out and the mom was on patrol. Much of Toby’s marking on our walk involves him reclaiming coyote territory for himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We walk year around, and every season brings its own gifts. The river has been a constant and ever-changing companion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Winter is high water and bare branches, kinglets peeping invisibly in the trees, winter wrens singing their tiny hearts out along the trail. Spring is flooding, cottonwood greens so vivid they vibrate, the shell of a robin’s egg found on the path. Summer is a singing river, the water low enough to dance over the rocks, an abundance of flowers and berries and greens of every shade, an abundance of bird life: owls, towhees, kingfishers, dippers, mergansers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fall, my favorite season, and Toby’s birth season, is low water and salmon spawning, then high water from the seasonal rains. Storybook blue skies against evergreen greens, vine maple reds, big leaf maple yellows, and diamond studded spider webs festooning everything. Mushrooms of every size and shape, often with tiny tooth marks at the edges. My eagle sitting in the snag across the river, or lifting off from the bank where he’s been dining on salmon. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Being witness to these seasonal gifts is possible because of Toby, and made so much richer in his company. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We are both in the autumn of our lives, although he will reach winter far sooner than I. At 12, he is 84 in people years. For a while earlier this year I grieved the dog he’s left behind. The one with endless energy and able body and sharp eyesight. The dog who insisted on a ball being thrown so he could fly to catch it and bring it back to be thrown again. All joy and play and exuberant life. <o:p></o:p><br />
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I have learned to love and treasure the old dog he’s become. I’ve never had an old dog before, so never experienced the losses and gifts that come with this territory. </div>
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His face is almost completely white. His body is covered with lipomas. His back legs are weaker and joints are stiffer, so sometimes he’s unsteady. Chases last a few yards now. Ball throwing is a happy memory – when I threw the ball while working in the yard a few days ago, he didn’t even look at it. He barks more because he can’t see who’s at the door, or in the driveway. Sometimes he just seems confused. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He’s also so much sweeter, leaning his head into my lap for comfort and ear scratches often. He still dances for his dinner, and begs for treats. He still plays with his toys, but for much shorter stretches. He doesn’t like it when one of us is gone, preferring to have both members of his pack with him at all times. He still gets excited when I get ready to walk. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The change in our walks has been the hardest for me to adjust to, and amazingly, one of the biggest gifts of my life right now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We used to do the two-mile loop every day, be home in 30 minutes, and he’d want to stay outside and play. The weather had no impact on his desire to walk, or his joy in the time outside. I walked a brisk pace to keep up with him, pausing at the river while he swam for sticks, or to watch the deer and owls he flushed, but otherwise taking in my surroundings with a quick eye. Often a good portion of the walk would pass with me in my head processing problems. It never felt like I was missing anything. It actually felt like those walks were the best of everything: time with a joy-filled pup, immersed in an ever-changing canvas of life, moving in harmony with my body and my surroundings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now I never know what to expect. We don’t walk every day because he needs time to recover. Some walks are short because he’s plodding along, clearly not enjoying the experience. Sometimes, coming up the hill from the camp, he’ll stop and lean on me for a few minutes of petting and comfort before moving on. For a while this summer our walks were so short I thought we might be nearing the end of them. I took him to our spot on the river one day and he went in, but I had to help him out over the rocks, holding up his hips so he could regain his footing. I was sure we were done with the river. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But then autumn arrived, and he seemed to come to life in a way I haven’t seen for months. He started trotting more, heading down parts of the trail we hadn’t done for a while. He led me to the river, walked into it, swam around, got a rock, and headed back up the trail – all without a hitch. He’s chased the owl, and deer, although the pursuit is much shorter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He’s never out of my sight on our walks now. I follow him, and talk to him fairly constantly to let him know I’m there. He will stop and look for me if he can’t hear me. What was once a brisk stride is now a slow stroll. At first I resisted the change of pace. Slow felt foreign and uncomfortable, and left me with no way not to see Toby aging before my eyes. That started to shift the day he went back into the river. I realized that I don’t know how much time he has left. I don’t know from one day to the next how he’ll be. What I do know is that every day with him going forward is an extraordinary gift. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And so our walks have become long slow rambles of gratitude and absorbing the changes of the seasons more completely. While I stand and wait for him to sniff some new treasure I feel the sun on my face, and hear my eagle call in the sky, and see one single golden leaf spiraling down. I breathe deeply, and marvel at the glory that is Toby, my constant companion for the last twelve years. My teacher. My playmate. My comfort. My guide into old age. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Happy Birthday, sweet boy. Your yearly ice cream treat awaits. Your humans love you as completely as human hearts can, but don’t come close to the love we receive from you. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-88273325684693361702019-06-01T07:12:00.001-07:002019-06-01T07:12:58.145-07:00Grief Lessons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It’s been a year since Mark died. Before his death I would have said I knew grief, knew how to grieve, knew what lay ahead. I would even have said, I think I did say, you can never truly prepare for a grieving time. But, despite previous experiences with grief, and the surprises it brings, I was completely unprepared for the deep muck of this last year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mark died on May 27. I left for Spain to walk the Camino de Santiago a little more than a month later. In that time between, the grief I could feel took the form of gratitude that he was no longer suffering, and a renewed closeness with my two remaining brothers as we moved forward into a world without our middle brother. My anticipation of the pilgrimage in front of me, and the shock that carries us through the early days of loss, kept the hard work of grief at bay. I also believed I had done a large part of the grieving in the two years I watched Parkinson’s Disease and Fronto-temporal Dementia steal my brother away bit by bit. I expected I might do what was left of that work on the Camino during the long hours of walking alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Camino, however, had other plans for me. What I felt more than anything else as I walked those miles was joy and a sense of aliveness and a complete occupation of my whole self. Or I was tired beyond thinking and road weary and hot. There was no space for grief.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Twice on the Camino I felt Mark’s presence as though he was walking with me. Both times I felt that magical combination of sadness and joy that is the knowing of loss ameliorated by the grace of a spiritual gift.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first time was fairly early in the walk. I was alone, crossing a field, headed to a bright yellow arrow painted on a fence post. Hanging from the post, laminated and attached with a zip tie was this sign: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>So how long does a man live, finally?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>And how much does he live while he lives?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>We fret, and ask so many questions –<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Then when it comes to us<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>The answer if so simple after all<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>A man lives as long as we carry him inside us,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>For as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>For as long as we ourselves live,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Holding memories in common, a man lives<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>B.G.C. 1930-2017<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I read it several times, took pictures of it, read it again, and moved forward with tears brimming. That afternoon I texted the picture to my brothers, hoping they might find comfort there as I had. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The second time Mark joined my Camino was four weeks into my six-week pilgrimage. I had been walking with a couple and a single woman for a couple of weeks. We were in the last village before O’Cebreiro, the last big climb of the walk. I had been nervous about this climb for months, and although I had managed every challenge of the Camino so far, I was still concerned. Our albergue was right next to a small church at which there was to be a pilgrims’ mass that night. My walking companions retired early, so I found myself sitting in a pew next to several younger pilgrims whose English was limited. I watched the priest arrive – a young man with dark unruly curls, smiling and radiating joyful energy as he set up for the mass. I smiled as he got out his phone and set it on the altar next to the traditional paraphernalia. As had been my experience previously, most of the mass was in Spanish, and a small part was in English. The phone, it turns out, was for music. Which the priest played between each part of the mass. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So I sat in the semi-dark of a very small church, surrounded by pilgrims and the local women who seemed to find their way to every pilgrims’ mass and the fragrance of candle smoke and ancient stone. I was relaxed, delighted, completely present in that time and space. The next song on the priest’s play list was Silent Night. It took a minute to register that that was what I heard, and when it did, the tears came. I was right back to the last time I’d sat in church with Mark, at a Christmas Eve service. It was our last Christmas Eve service and our next to last Christmas. We sang Silent Night at the end of the service in a room full of the stars of lit candles held aloft, as we had for several years in a row. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After the song finished in the small church, the priest switched to English, addressing the pilgrims seated in front of him. I was having a hard time focusing on his words, until I heard him say that our prayers went with the pilgrims who walked into eternity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At the end of mass, the pilgrims were called up to the altar to receive a blessing from the priest. In Spanish, and then English, he explained that our blessing would be in the form of a small stone with a yellow arrow painted on it. A reminder to carry with us that the arrow shows the way and the way is love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That mass, and Mark’s clear presence at it, was a comfort. It carried me up O’Cebreiro the next morning, and I carried it in my heart for the rest of the walk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I returned home mid-August, I expected to bring the light and joy and heightened awareness of the preciousness of life with me. I expected to continue my pilgrimage in the day to day, as the person I came to know and love on the Camino. If I considered it at all, I expected the worst of my grieving of Mark was done, and that I was ready to move forward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That was not how it unfolded.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first couple of weeks were fine as I enjoyed home and the luxuries of modern life, as I floated on the memories of the most impactful experience of my life. As the shine wore off, however, and despite the beauty of my favorite season settling around me, I found myself unsettled and out of kilter. The bright colors of fall didn’t touch me. The home I love with its bright new kitchen and lovely yard failed to move me. The usual comforts of pets and the love of friends and family barely penetrated a heart that just a short while before had been so responsive. I longed to be back on the Camino. I continued my practices of self-care: intentional gratitude, walking, yoga, journaling. But none of them touched the darkness that grew deeper with every day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a long hard winter, both inside and out. But it was also a winter during which everything seemed fine on the outside. There was no big crisis. My life overflowed with an abundance of love, and every need and most wants were fulfilled. I grew closer still to my two remaining brothers. I found ways to enjoy my newly retired husband, although I longed for the return of days of solitude. I saw friends. I traveled a bit. I even had the opportunity to coach a family preparing to walk the Camino this summer, which let me relive my time there and created a new and much treasured friendship.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I felt wrapped in a cocoon of wet cardboard. Nothing really got in. At least not in the way it had before the Camino, before Mark’s death. Had I failed as a pilgrim? Spent all those weeks walking and so fully alive, only to come home less than I was before I went? Had I failed as Mark’s sister, unable to cry for him, or feel anything much at all about his loss? Had I lost all my healing, all the work of the previous years, only to be this tired, sad, unmotivated old woman?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course it’s not that simple.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As each of those questions presented itself, I found my way to a negative answer eventually. That didn’t make me feel better. If anything I was more confused. Always before when I found myself in a spiritual wilderness, I worked my way out of it through reflection and study. New insights brought new light and a new level of healing. I had never before felt like I was working harder and losing ground faster.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As spring arrived, I began to emerge from the muck into the new light. Nothing had changed except the passage of time and the arrival of a new season. I began to feel stirrings of joy again: at the first robin song of pre-dawn, at a walk in balmy air and sunshine, at little spontaneous connections with people. Gratitude developed dimension again, growing from two-dimensional words on a page to magical multi-dimensional light.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the images gifted to me in the winter was that of the lotus flower. It starts in muck – slimy, thick and dark. It emerges from the muck, growing through water, emerging into the light as a singularly beautiful blossom with a very short life. The metaphors here are multitude, but the one that seems to speak most clearly to me is this: That lotus’ roots are still in the muck, and it could not live without it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Always before when I came from darkness into light, aside from believing I’d brought myself there, I believed I’d left the darkness behind. That isn’t the case this time. Mark is still gone. My Camino still continues beyond what I asked or hoped and far beyond any previous spiritual experience I’ve had. I’m aging, as are my husband and my dog. The world is a terrifying place full of death and disaster too overwhelming to absorb. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And yet:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Last week, just days before the one year anniversary of Mark’s death, the three remaining siblings took him home. We had talked at length about what to do with Mark’s ashes, and in a rare occasion of easy agreement decided our childhood playground was the perfect place. The playground is a mountain, specifically the Third Cliff, as we have always called it. I joked about throwing Mark off the cliff, a tribute to childhood times when perhaps we all considered doing that with each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The trail to the cliff was obscured by housing development and overgrowth of brush, but we found a way up on a rough cat road. Straight up, and then bushwhacked across, until we found ourselves looking down on our childhood home from the Third Cliff. Younger brother led, carrying Mark in a backpack, his ashes surprisingly heavy. Older brother took the middle position, and I followed. Emotions filled the air like the cottonwood fluff of our childhood. We were all near tears, and when we reached the top, no one seemed to know what to do. I think we were all reluctant to release Mark. So I started, was given permission to go first as the oldest. We each tossed a cupful of Mark into the air, each offering our own prayers and words of love as he flew. We laughed and hooted and hollered, at ashes blowing back on us, at the relief of saying goodbye, at the joy of each other’s company. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a gift of a day. The weather could not have been more perfect. Mark was there with us, laughing and delighted that we were together and connected. In the last years of his life, his biggest mission was to bring his fractured family back together. We gathered, and buried hatchets, and allowed our love for each other to surface for Mark. On the mountain that day we were a family and love won.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were several times during the day with my brothers that I became aware that I was happy. Simply and perfectly. As I followed them up the mountain, as we carved Mark’s name into an ancient Ponderosa Pine that had watched over us as children, as we wandered the property that had been our childhood home – I felt lighter and more alive and more of the self I was born to be than ever before. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Spring is warming into summer. The world is every shade of green, vibrating with birdsong, filling with colors almost too vivid to be real as flowers bloom everywhere. I feel it and my heart, still broken and still heavy, sings along with the birds. I brought what remains of Mark’s ashes home with me. Some will be planted in my flowerbed with a yellow rose that bloomed every summer of our childhood outside one of the barns. Younger brother and I dug several starts before we headed home from our mountain adventure. As we’ve returned Mark to the earth and the air, it helps me remember that I exist in both as well. Firmly grounded in the fertile dark muck of all loss and pain, reaching into the air for the light of love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-35606616942975532112018-06-30T12:06:00.001-07:002018-06-30T12:08:12.628-07:00Pilgrimage<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love gifts for my Way</td></tr>
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After two years of dreaming and planning and studying, I leave tomorrow for Spain. When Patricia first mentioned the Camino de Santiago in a conversation over coffee all those months ago, I'd never heard of it. By the time she was done explaining that The Way of Saint James is an ancient 500 mile pilgrimage route across the north of Spain, I was hooked. When she suggested I join her, I said yes without hesitation.<br />
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When I said yes, I didn't really believe either of us would actually get ourselves on the Way. I will never say no to an invitation to adventure, figuring I can work out the details later, knowing that more often than not things fall through. Patricia has kids at home and has never left them before, and I didn't think she could.<br />
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At first I was going along just to hang out with Patricia. However, as I read and studied I realized the Camino was beckoning me. Anecdotes would brings tears to my eyes. Pictures would tug at me like silver threads pulling me toward a light my soul couldn't live without. The movie <i>The Way, </i>which I'd somehow missed previously, made me want to get on a plane, get to Spain, and start walking that minute. <br />
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Telling Walt was the first hurdle toward making the walk a reality.<br />
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I would be gone for 45 days, almost the entire first summer of his retirement. He would be home taking care of critters and yard alone. We were struggling with the transitions created by aging and retirement. I was already leaving for the Canyon for another rafting trip in April. We had a big remodel project planned for early spring. My brother was ill and declining rapidly. Walt's dad was failing. In the face of all of that, he promised his support. And he's kept that promise. He's encouraged me without reservation. He's helped with travel plans, and technology issues. He's sending me off with gifts that will remind me every step of the way that I am loved.<br />
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We bought our plane tickets early January this year. From that point forward, everything in life was filtered through the impending pilgrimage. I got serious about getting in shape with long walks, hikes, and yoga. I read books and articles and forums. Patricia and I had long conversations. I told friends, who more often than not looked at me like I'd lost my mind. My enthusiasm eventually won them over, or they were at least kind enough to allow me the dream regardless of their belief that no sane 66 year old woman would walk 500 miles willingly. Even my hip doctor, when I went to get permission to put those miles on my replacement joint, said yes you can, but why would you want to?<br />
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Why indeed.<br />
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The truth is there is no simple answer. My first answer was that it was an adventure. Later I said I wanted to come back with a plan for how I'll spend the last third of my life. Sometimes I would say I was seeking a connection with the spiritual energy that is a huge part of the Camino. More recently I've said I'm looking forward to enjoying the company of my own inner self with no distraction. I'm looking forward to testing my limits. I'm looking forward to meeting people from all over the world. I'm looking forward to the freedom of simply walking every day, with no obligation beyond self care.<br />
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A lot has happened in my life since Patricia first mentioned the Camino. Events that provided opportunities to grow and grieve and expand my heart. It's as if my Camino began the minute I said yes.<br />
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Around the time of our Camino beginnings, my brother Mark became seriously ill. He'd been sick for a long time, but none of us knew that until things reached a tipping point where his symptoms could no longer be easily explained away. In the course of these last two years he went from living independently in a sweet little house, to assisted living, to a locked memory care facility, to the hospital, to a nursing home. Visiting him became a cornerstone of my weeks, so I was with him as he declined with a speed that shocked us all. I considered delaying the pilgrimage for him, but the timing seemed out of my control. As it turned out, there was no need. Mark died on May 27 with his siblings by his side.<br />
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This week, as I've walked Toby and enjoyed my morning coffee ritual and visited with Walt at the end of the day, I've held the moments as treasured gifts I'm offering to release as the price for this pilgrimage. The comforts of my own bed and newly-remodeled bathroom. The joys of familiar birdsong and flower beds exploding in fireworks displays of color. My beautiful new kitchen. My friends and family. The comforting routines of a retired life. All being left behind so that I can experience something new and sacred and life-changing.<br />
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My pack is packed, and within a reasonable weight limit. Patricia and I have been firing texts and pictures back and forth for days now. We are as ready as we're going to be. We'll meet at the airport in the morning, say goodbye for a while to lives and people we love, and fly away to follow the Way of Saint James to wherever it leads us.<br />
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<i>You are invited to come along this summer as both Patricia and I will be posting on Facebook from time to time.</i>Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-3836834520696840192017-08-17T06:40:00.000-07:002017-08-17T06:40:45.010-07:00Anniversary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thirty years ago yesterday, I walked trembling down an aisle and met this man at the end. We made promises to each other without really understanding where those promises might take us. In the time since I have both regretted and rejoiced in my commitment to a life with Walt, as I know he has. Regardless, we have stuck together. We created a life.<br />
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In thirty years we've loved three golden retrievers, twenty-six cats, two homes, hundreds of children. We've travelled thousands of miles in three different Hondas. We've planted dozens of trees together. We've hiked hundreds of miles on trails that took our breath away and took us to heights that made us certain of love and a higher power. There have been laugher and tears. There have been silences, some comfortable, some icy and painful. We've sat in the dark of movie theaters holding hands. We have said I love you and hugged good morning and good night every day. We've held each other through losses that felt unbearable, but which we bore together.<br />
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Our anniversary celebration included a rafting trip, and a mini road trip that took us through a bison range, a ghost town, a national park, and up a mountain on a chair lift. We hiked down that mountain together, enjoying the sunshine, the huckleberries, and the ability of our aging bodies to still move with some agility. We navigated the time and the miles together, occasionally getting lost or turned around, but always ending up somewhere interesting. We planned and changed plans, negotiated and renegotiated. We problem solved and focused on the adventure rather than the inconvenience. In so many ways, the two weeks held the elements that define of our thirty years of marriage.<br />
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In those times when I was sure I'd made a huge mistake walking down that aisle, I stayed because being with Walt has allowed me to become the best possible version of myself. His steady and unwavering love has provided the ground from which I've blossomed. I've learned to love from him.<br />
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During this most recent trip, I came across a quote that illustrates almost exactly what our marriage has become. The words of Rainer Maria Rilke both validate what is past and provide a map for the years ahead of us:<br />
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<i>"The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky."</i><br />
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In the years that remain to us, as we learn to become old in the most alive way possible, the journey will be richer and fuller because we travel through an immense space of sky together.<br />
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<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-60714827027593995422017-04-10T15:25:00.000-07:002017-04-10T15:25:37.433-07:00Rallying<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My brother, Mark, turned 61 on April 6. He is the middle child in our family constellation. I am the oldest, only girl, and do not share a father with the three boys who followed. There is a brother between me and Mark, and one younger than Mark.<br />
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A year ago, when he turned 60, he flew to Palm Springs alone to celebrate that landmark birthday with his older brother and sister-in-law. A few days after, a group of us, including younger brother and spouses, went to iFly at Southcenter in Tukwila where Mark entered the wind tunnel and flew. He'd been recently diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. It showed in his stiffness, lack of emotional response to the celebrating, and tremoring in his right hand. But we were hopeful then, his siblings and his friends. Parkinson's is very treatable in many cases. There are medications and surgeries. Stories abounded of people who lived long and satisfying lives after diagnosis.<br />
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We rallied: work parties at his house to clean and do yard work; family meetings to discuss next steps; systems put in place to make sure he had the support he needed to live as independently as possible for as long as possible.<br />
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Mark continued to fail. Bills went unpaid. His antique business, which he'd poured heart and soul into, languished. He beloved Maltese puppy Max went untrained, so that the carpet Mark had so proudly purchased for his house became soaked with pee. Worse, he grew more and more quiet. He smiled rarely. He seemed to be completely disconnected from any of those new realities. When asked what was going on, he couldn't answer. "I don't know," was his most common response to any questions.<br />
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Doctor visits focused on the Parkinson's symptoms. Questions about Mark's other symptoms went unanswered. Different medications were tried, including antidepressants. Except Mark wasn't depressed. He felt nothing.<br />
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In concerned conversations out of his hearing, his siblings acknowledged how much like our mother he was becoming. The mother who spent the last five or so years of her life lost in the swirling mists of dementia. Deeper research into Parkinson's revealed a cognitive component that is rarely discussed, one that might explain Mark's confusions.<br />
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By the end of that summer, it was clear to all of us, including Mark, that he could no longer manage day to day living on his own. He turned his affairs over to older brother, who stepped into the role like he was born for it. Mark was moved into an assisted living facility in September. His new place was close to his church and the house he'd just moved from. Max moved with him. The apartment was full of his antiques and pictures of past sibling gatherings that he had been instrumental in orchestrating. For a while he seemed relieved.<br />
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I think we all felt relieved then. It seemed that with the stresses of managing his life removed, he was more himself than we'd seen in a while. Visits involved driving him on errands, shopping, movies, lunch. He called from time to time, mostly when he wanted someone to take him on an outing. It was a new normal that, once adjusted to, could be lived with comfortably. A different path than the one we all hoped for him, but still one in which he was still more himself than not.<br />
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Then he got sick just before Christmas, a virus that knocked him flat for days. Walt and I planned to pick Mark up at his apartment on Christmas Eve, and take him up to younger brother's for the holiday. Older brother would be in Palm Springs as is his tradition. After several back and forth phone conversations, we decided to continue with our original plans. Mark and I already purchased his gifts for everyone in the family on my last visit before he got sick, and they were wrapped and ready to go. Mark wanted to spend the holiday engaged in traditions that were formed almost a decade previously when he got out of prison. We had rallied then, working to heal old sibling rifts, to help him re-enter society.<br />
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Walt and I headed north mid-morning Christmas Eve. I called from Centralia, less than an hour away, to tell him we were close. He promised he'd be ready. When we arrived and knocked on his door, he called in a wavery voice for us to come in. The door was unlocked. I opened it and looked toward his voice to find him sitting on the end of his bed. Stark naked. With a small white washcloth placed in his lap, and a befuddled look on his face. I made a sharp right turn into his living room. Walt following on my heels. He got the unenviable job of going in the bedroom to help Mark get dressed. I stood in the living room listening gratefully to the gentle murmurs of Walt directing Mark to move various body parts while I texted our brothers.<br />
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We eventually made it north to younger brother's. The holiday was weirdly happy. Mark smiled more than we'd seen him do in a while. He sang and clapped during the Christmas Eve service, and we all pretended not to notice the strong urine smell. He helped set the table, played Mexican Train, ate like a starving man. He also needed help with everything (toileting, showering, dressing), which younger brother managed with such grace and dignity it felt like a miracle. Again, we allowed ourselves to hope. Once he recovered from this illness, surely he'd return to pre-virus abilities.<br />
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He did not. The time between the first of the year, and the birthday we just celebrated held more change and loss than I've been able to absorb, let alone grieve. Additional medical testing revealed fronto-temportal dementia. It explained so much about Mark's lack of emotion, loss of language, inability to problem solve. While knowledge is often empowering, in this case it broke our hearts.<br />
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Our sweet, smart, generous brother - the one who could solve any tech problem, who talked to everyone as though they were the most important person in the world, who stitched our family back together with his humor and stubborn will - would continue to disappear. We had already watched first a father, and then our mother, disappear as their brains slowly died. There was no treatment, no slowing the slide, no hope.<br />
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His dog Max went to a new home when someone discovered Mark had been forgetting to feed him. A cane and then a walker accompanied him everywhere. He didn't answer his phone much of the time, and when he did was difficult to understand. He slurred and stammered and froze - indecipherable words, or no words at all. He couldn't figure out how to work his Keurig, or the remote to his television. Always a canny navigator before, he would tell me to turn left when he meant right.<br />
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Still, hope clung to life stubbornly. I rallied, increasing my trips north to take him on outings. We went to movies and to lunch and wandered stores for treats. I realized at some point that I was really enjoying our dates, and the person Mark was when we were together. The silences tended to be long, which is not my natural state, but they held no tension so I let them be. When we did talk, glimpses of his old humor revealed themselves like the first lightning bugs on a summer night. I could get him to laugh with outrageous declarations of hyperbole. He even asked about my life once in a while.<br />
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On Saint Patrick's Day we sat across from each other at lunch. I commented on his green shirt and asked if he chose green because of the day and because he knew I'd pinch him if he wasn't wearing green. He looked down at his shirt, grinned, and grunted yes. Then he peered at me intently, head to waist, clearly searching for green, and just as clearly hoping for a chance to pinch. He seemed disappointed when I pointed out the green in my earrings. The miracle of that moment shines still.<br />
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With every visit came some evidence of continued decline. Once he answered the door in nothing but his Depends and an open shirt. Lunches were material for sitcoms as he would eat forgetting he already had a mouthful so that food would stick out of his mouth or fall to the floor (or on his shirt or back to his plate). I didn't mind any of it. Not really. I was just grateful for no nakedness, and that he enjoyed our outings. I was determined to get as much time with him as I could manage. The long driving day (5 to 6 hours total, depending on traffic) seemed a small price to pay for these gifts of time.<br />
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I knew the day would come when he needed more care than the assisted living place could provide. Eventually he would need to live in a memory care facility. But eventually came much sooner than I was prepared for (or agreed with), less than a week before his birthday. He turned 60 in a home he bought and created with pride and love. He drove. He worked. He used a computer. He was active in his church. He golfed with his best friend Paul.<br />
<br />
He turned 61 in a nursing home.<br />
<br />
Walt and I drove the 2 1/2 hours north yesterday to see Mark's new home and take him out to celebrate his birthday. The new facility is in Gig Harbor, a 20 minute drive from his apartment. It's clean, the staff friendly and willing to talk. He has a couple of his antique pieces and his pictures of the siblings who love him in such different ways. He also has a roommate who snores, so he's not sleeping. When asked what he misses most about his apartment he said his queen bed. The cot-sized bed he has now leaves little room for his 6 foot frame to spread out on. He says the coffee's not good. It's a lock-down facility, but he discovered in the first days that the code was written above the door. He almost made it to the front door from his wing. The code is no longer there.<br />
<br />
When we walked in, he was sitting at a counter finishing his breakfast. I got the first of what would turn out to be a multitude of smiles that day. The second came when I handed him an Easter basket much like our mom gave us as kids. We drove him to his old church for Palm Sunday services. During the years before his illness, Mark's siblings would attend Palm Sunday services to hear him sing in the choir, so this was a continuation of that tradition. Except Mark wouldn't be in the choir this time. Younger brother and his wife met us there. We sat close to the front, Mark on the aisle, me next to him, Walt next to me, then sister-in-law and younger brother. Mark sang and clapped to all the songs, although the singing was barely audible and the clapping was out of rhythm. He took notes on the handout during the service. And made a beeline for the donuts when the service was done, leaving us still making our way to the aisle. After some discussion, we decided on lunch at a burger place at Tacoma Mall. Mark's best friend joined us, so the table was a happy gathering of people who love Mark. Laughter and conversation bounced around the table, keeping the sadness that's come to live with us permanently pushed to the periphery.<br />
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My routine with Mark will change now. Phone conversations require passing through two people and waiting for him to walk from his room to the dining space. When I drive to get him, I need to traverse the Narrows Bridge. I have to close my eyes as a passenger to keep the car from flying over the edge and into Puget Sound far far below. I'm hoping that concentrating on the road in front of me will have the same preventative effect, and that repetition will conquer this fear as I've conquered others in the last few years. Once in his wing, someone will have to let us out the door, which I'm sure I won't be told the combination to. We'll find a new theater to go to, new places to explore for lunch. The drive home after will be longer, with three major pockets of rush hour traffic to navigate instead of the two I had gotten used to.<br />
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It's all detail, and while hard to do, easy in comparison with the changes coming far sooner than we ever thought possible. I will step into my fear, I will push through the fatigue, I will make friends with this particular species of grief. As long as I can be a sister to my brother, I will rally.<br />
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<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-20886672505109284762017-01-28T10:10:00.000-08:002017-01-28T10:10:40.798-08:00Voice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Standing on the bank of the river that has provided me sanctuary so often, I listen to the shushing of cold water, a steady calming pulse of sound. Here I can breathe easily and see clearly. The air this time of year is clean and cleansing as it enters my lungs. Purifying as it leaves and returns to the forest that surrounds me. Some days my eagle watches from the snag across the river, chuckling at me occasionally, more often silent but oh so present, and oh so powerful.<br />
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Toby chews on sticks, or splashes in the shallows, radiating joy. In this place I am able to focus on the abundance in my life, the blessings for which I am grateful. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day. The shouting of the world that exists outside of this one small beach echoes in my brain, but is no match for the river's constant voice. The fear that threatens to overwhelm and win has no voice here in the land of moving water and life-giving trees and creatures with wings to remind me that there is more.<br />
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The river's murmuring allows me to hear my own voice. The one that lives deep and that I've often disguised to be more acceptable to people I needed to be loved by. From childhood, my voice has been the one to challenge and question. I was the "why?" kid. Then for a long time I became agreeable, my outer voice echoing the voices of others, even when inside I was still asking why. Perhaps inevitably, what came next was a very loud voice, declaring truth righteously and angrily. Demanding to be heard and understood. Huge noise that sounded like explosion, but was in fact a heart breaking. When none of that worked, I wrapped my voice in soft cotton and put her away in a safe place. And while out of danger, I felt distressingly invisible for a very long time.<br />
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Over time I learned that honoring my own voice was less about being heard, and more about simply being human and present. I choose to remain quiet as much as possible (although there are some who would dispute that I'm ever quiet). I listen as fully as I'm able. And then, when I believe my words will bring light or new truth to a situation, I'll find a way to offer them. My voice as an offering, not a weapon of aggression or shame, or a handmaiden of fear.<br />
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A tiny brown winter wren chips and flits just inches from where I stand. His voice ranges from the chip-chipping he seems to use as he seeks food in the underbrush, to the full-throated glorious celebratory song far too big to be coming from a few ounces of feathers. He doesn't regulate his voice to please, or out of fear. He sings and calls in his wren voice because there is no other way to be a wren.<br />
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For better or worse, there are many many ways to be human. There are times when I want to shout over the shouting of others, frantic to be heard before it's too late. It seems like the loudest voice wins, even though I know this is not a game or a competition. Whether in family or in the larger world, I am one small voice. And, as has been the case for most of my life, my voice does not often reflect a majority view. I am choosing not to shout, or demand. I am choosing to attempt to hear what the shouting voices are saying, although the louder and harsher they get, the harder it is to hear. Which in turn reminds me why stillness and gentleness are really the only escorts I want for my own voice.<br />
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Stillness, not silence. Light, not fear. Love, not shame.<br />
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Walking away from the river, headed toward home, I stop for one last look upstream. The river's voice fades into the background. Toby and I make our way along the trail into the woods and another voice whispers overhead. The wind has joined our walk. Much like the river, wind's voice is constant and soothing, speaking truth that has no words. Like river, wind's voice can get loud, but neither are so loud that their voices diminish the importance of my own. Their voices simultaneously humble mine and honor it.<br />
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Each voice is important. Each voice deserves to be heard, if for no other reason than to reveal the speakers to themselves. At the same time, each of us is one very small voice in an incomprehensibly huge gathering of life. We matter. But we don't matter most. Not one single one of us. Understanding is always one river bend away, one wind voice in the trees speaking a language just beyond our ability to interpret. Seeking to understand is when voice seems to offer the most comfort, and the most wisdom. Asking why, voicing possible answers, being open to the entire chorus of humanity. Searching for harmony.<br />
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<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-69881007135141089752017-01-08T13:45:00.000-08:002017-01-08T13:45:15.069-08:00Another Yoga Lesson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In yoga recently the teacher compared the 90 minute class with the 90 years of a human lifetime. The first 50 minutes, he said, like the first 50 years of your life, are preparation for the most challenging part which comes after. Bikram yoga starts with a series of standing postures that focus on balance, strength and discipline. The standing series feels much harder than the 40 minutes of postures done on the floor.<br />
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Balancing on one foot and then the other, posture after posture. I stagger, regroup, tip over, breathe, and find a center from which to be still. Suck in your stomach, tighten up your thighs, glutes, knees. Use your bulldog determination. Breathe, always breathe. If you can't breathe you need to back off a bit. Listen to your body. Go beyond your limits, but not too far. Sweat rolls and pools and drips. Muscles hold and then tremble and then hold again. Breath catches somewhere in my chest and I have to go inward to bring it out. But often there is no time. Forward movement leaves little room for catching up.<br />
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I'm aware of people around me going to the floor at times during the standing series. Doing only one of the two repetitions of each posture. Or none. Triangle, also called the master's pose, referred to as the top of the mountain, never fails to bring at least one person to their knees. Already exhausted, but also as flexible as we're going to get, doing triangle requires complete focus and an ability to shut out the voice that says you don't have to do this. I think now and again about only doing one, and always talk myself out of it. Better to do the posture in less than full expression than to go to the floor and maybe not want to get back up again.<br />
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The standing series feels like hard work, and the work often hurts. In those 50 minutes we resist the pull of gravity, as much as we resist the urge to inertia. That time is about building muscle and endurance. We're directed to focus outside of ourselves on our reflections in the mirror, not for judgement, but to check for alignment and form. That judgment inevitably happens then becomes part of the work.<br />
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The last of the standing postures is the Bikram version of tree or toe stand. Balanced on one leg, hands in namaskar, focused on one spot, breathing evenly, standing strong and proud like an oak tree. This is one of my favorite postures. In part because the floor is only seconds away. In part because I have seen much improvement in the months I've been practicing. The best part though, is the green energy field I can see radiating from my body when my focus is clean.<br />
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As we settle into savasana (dead body pose) at the beginning of the floor series, the teacher will often say the standing series was the warm up for what comes next. There's always a bit of a chuckle at this, because really what could possibly be harder than what we've just done. We're pretending to be dead bodies, with nothing expected of us in that moment but stillness. And breathing. How hard can that be?<br />
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It turns out that it's a completely different breed of hard.<br />
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No longer struggling against gravity, we are encouraged to let the earth hold us as we lie on the floor. The strength required for this is more mental than physical. The mirrors are no longer available for feedback, so it's even more important to go inward. To listen to the body voice and the heart voice. We don't always appreciate what those voices are saying, but there's no way to escape beyond the spectacle of fleeing the room.<br />
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Rest is built in, savasana done after every posture. Done, we're told, to allow the body to absorb what it's just been through. A time of focusing entirely on breathing. None of the distractions easily available when standing; no twitching or wiping sweat off or drinking water or pulling at your yoga pants so you look thinner.<br />
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The most challenging posture of the floor series is camel. Meant to strengthen and stretch the spine, it also opens up the heart. The result is often a flood of emotion, or nausea, or dizziness. The teachers often say we might feel euphoria here, but I think that's a fantasy thrown into the dialogue to trick us into not giving the nausea too much credit. Feelings are pushed to the surface through the opening up of the front of the body. Not for the faint of heart for sure. As the analogy goes, I see this pose as a chance later in the process for a final cleansing and releasing of long-held pain. It also involves a release of control. There's no real way to know what might find its way to the surface.<br />
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After the standing series, there is no energy left for anything but essential movement. Monkey mind is quieter. Energy is conserved. Focus is on small adjustments, which bring small improvements. There is also less inclination for comparison with fellow yogis because it's much harder to see others from the floor. A feeling of camaraderie replaces the pull of competition so hard to resist when we can see each other in the standing series. We've all gone through this thing together, a family of sorts. The privilege of being human becomes a gift to be cherished in those clear clear moments. The gift of breath. The peace of exhaustion and attention paid to every part of being human in 90 minutes. The space created around the troubles and worries brought into the room makes life outside the room easier and brighter.<br />
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When I was younger, I looked at retired people, if I considered them at all, with envy. Old people had it easy. No responsibilities. No worries. Sure there could be physical issues, and losses, but mostly it looked like a cake walk. I looked forward to being one of those people. From the hubris of unlimited energy, endless possibilities for starting over, and reliable mental resources, I neglected to understand I would be one of those people but in an older body with an older mind. Not retired with the energy and perspective of my middle age as I expected.<br />
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I'm discovering that being in the life version of the floor series is indeed more challenging than it might look from the outside. The resting in between postures is essential. Everything moves more slowly and requires more concentration. Instead of pushing myself harder, it's much more effective to be still and relax into whatever is being asked. Resistance no longer serves. Acceptance and listening and breathing into the stretches has replaced muscling through. Asking my body, not demanding.<br />
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Just as I feel lying on the floor in class, in many ways this time of life seems easier despite the challenges. It's really just me and my own inner voice. Outer voices only carry whatever weight I'm inclined to give them. The struggle is less physical and more everything else. It's harder to get away from unpleasantness, cradled in the arms of the earth. Running (or resisting) requires more energy and intention than simply staying put. On the other hand, staying with the discomfort turns out to be not as terrible as I used to believe.<br />
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I find myself in a time where it would be easy to forget my grounding and the lessons of breathing to expand and clarify and cleanse. Like so many, I'm still grieving the election. Winter, and this harsh winter in particular, and the literal darkness that comes with this time of year, always challenge my healing and my equanimity. Freedom of movement is curtailed by ice and snow. Electricity has been lost to winds with the power to uproot giant fir trees and to split my favorite oak tree in half. A younger brother is caught in the whirlpool decline of dementia. Family members are in pain and struggling, and sometimes their struggles create pain for me. There is a clarity that powering through is no longer an option. This groundedness is really my only choice, even when it doesn't feel like enough, and too slow and with no illusion of control for comfort.<br />
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But there is a fluidity to the ground. Change is embedded in everything. Each in-breath brings in new air, new life. Each out-breath takes away what no longer serves. Even in stillness there is movement. In death, life. In darkness the memory of light that burns through, that promises to return. Living to 90 feels less important than living to 90 fully alive. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Live.<br />
<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-67952442375331194812016-11-19T06:50:00.000-08:002016-11-19T06:50:38.761-08:00Wings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have surrounded myself with wings.<br />
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It wasn't a consciously intentional act, but wherever I look from where I sit, I see wings. Dragonflies. Eagles. Hummingbirds. Angels. Fairies. Hearts. It's a collection that has accumulated over years. Whether they're lacy and insubstantial, or muscular and heavily feathered, wings comfort me and lift my spirits. Never more so than right now.<br />
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If it were possible, I would have wings.<br />
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Not much imagination is required for me to feel my shoulder blades sprout beautiful furls of feathers attached to hollow bones that unfold into appendages that might lift me high above the ground. They carry me beyond myself, and defy the weight of gravity. When I walk on a particularly windy day, the air dancing on my face and pushing against my body allows me to feel the lift, even though my feet remained firmly on the ground. <br />
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Wings would allow my body to soar as my heart often does.<br />
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Maybe to join one of the myriad V's of geese that fill the air here this time of year. Maybe to float high currents of air with the eagle who has returned to the river in the last few days. Maybe to migrate to warmer climes to wait out the cold and dark of this season in a place of light and abundance.<br />
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With wings I could rise above this unthinkable new reality and my sadness.<br />
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I could look down and see a much larger world than the one my human, grounded, eyes can perceive. One that might offer hope. The view from beneath the buoyancy of extended wings might allow beauty to shine more brightly against the shadows. I'm not trying or wanting to escape this grief. I know better than that. But I am seeking relief, air, lightness, from which to bear it. I search for the particular and unique beauty that comes only in the days of mourning, to hearts that are broken and tender and raw.<br />
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The whispers of wings deliver truth to a listening ear.<br />
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It's the small still voice. The one that encourages love and kindness. The one that is the opposite of shame and fear. Sometimes the whisper is so low it sounds like silence. It offers a space in which to simply be with it all: the sadness, the beauty, the joy, the hope, the ugliness, the shock, the uncertainty.<br />
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Things with wings are messengers of the highest order. I wrap myself in the protection of their strength and breathe in their fragile beauty. I fill my eyes with the unlikeliness of their form and function. Their existence, bird and dragonfly, make angels seem probable. Their existence and my ability to know them make now seem less hopeless, and tomorrow as open as the wide sky that those beings paint with their wings.<br />
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<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-82386282946943353782016-10-27T13:45:00.000-07:002016-10-27T13:45:24.101-07:00Grounding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the first time since before my retirement over a year ago, my calendar is empty. Sure, there are the usual notations for yoga and walks and haircuts. A new every other week commitment to write with high school seniors. Lunch dates with friends. But no big adventure. I'm not particularly happy about this state of affairs, regardless of the fact that I'm the only one in charge of my life these days. It's only been three weeks since my last adventure with the Vashonistas on Vashon Island, but already I'm feeling the itch to go.<br />
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I've grounded myself, not as punishment or out of fear, but to catch my breath and to recharge. To process and absorb. To reflect and find places in my being for all that's happened in the last year. So that I can feel grounded again. Yet I feel twitchy, edgy, left behind. Like a detox. I also feel with absolute certainty that this is what my soul needs most of all right now.<br />
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I'm already missing summer, longing to return to any of the many islands that have provided the settings for my most recent adventures: Hawaii last winter, Vancouver Island this summer, Impala Isle in Texas, Orcas Island for a wedding, and Vashon Island for time with my sisters. Surrounded by water and friends and for all but the last two trips, sunshine and heat. I long to be on the small island of a raft floating the Colorado River held in the embrace of ancient stones and accompanied by people whose spirit of adventure matches my own. I long to have the next island to look forward to - New Zealand or Australia or the Galapagos.<br />
<br />
Two friends (two of the Vashonistas) are in Greece right now, volunteering at a refugee camp. I was invited. I played with the idea seriously. I wanted to go badly. Greece is an island, my urging voice said. Look at all the islands in your life these days. It's a sign you should go. They need you there. You'd matter there. But somehow in the excitement of the conversations about one friend's return to the camp and the other's first trip, a quiet voice kept insisting that it was not the right time or the right choice for me for now. And so, reluctantly, I declined.<br />
<br />
I stand now on home ground, being thoughtful and intentional with how I spend the hours of my days. Imposing a gentle structure that has at its core being present and honoring my writer self and resting. I look at travel sites (when I'm resting), and talk to traveling friends, thinking if I only had something on the calendar, I would be able to really relax and accept this grounding time with a whole heart. But then I would be looking forward - looking into the future and anticipating (with great pleasure) something that's going to happen.<br />
<br />
It's not like the present is something I'm trying to escape. I love home. I love my life. I love the solitude and stillness of these days. The rain soothes. The soft breezes and songs of arriving winter birds lift my heart to the point of tears. Watching Toby chase scents through leaves his same exact color with joyous abandon makes me so grateful to be alive, to have him as he turns 9, to be able to appreciate the beauty that surrounds us on our walks. Even the shorter days offer gifts. I walk into yoga in the dark (6:00 a.m. class) and come out to sunrise. Several days recently I've driven home under glorious skies with precious metal flashes of light radiating against Impressionist gray clouds.<br />
<br />
For now my feet carry me down familiar paths, and I release again and again the yearnings for more and different. I breathe in cottonwood, and wonder at perfect spider webs suspended in midair. Dogwood leaves, each leaf one perfect lick of flame, light my way. I marvel at mushrooms pushed through the hard earth, unfurling a little more each day, into glories of color and symmetry. Air and earth are sustenance enough. There will come again the time for a life surrounded by water and a heart on fire with new experiences, in love with a world so full of beauty and surprise it makes me want to live forever just so I don't miss one single sight or sound or smell.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-4136762719088334512016-10-12T12:01:00.000-07:002016-10-12T12:01:46.740-07:00Chairs on the Dock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Chairs on the dock look away</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
from the land</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
toward water</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
toward the horizon line.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Empty or occupied,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the chairs sit facing away</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
from all that's known,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
from certainty and history.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Buildings on foundations</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
they occupy a space that </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
is both grounded and not:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the dock solid ground over</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
ever shifting fluidity,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
waves lapping in and then out.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The chairs sit still, as chairs do,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
as their occupants do.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But there is a sense of outward</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
leaning</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
longing</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
waiting.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Chairs on the dock can't follow the winds</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or the waves</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or the tides</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or the sun setting in the west.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But they bear witness.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And if you sit in a chair on a dock,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
that chair holds you in possibility.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Its longings awaken yours</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
so that you know you can </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
fly or float or find your way.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You know it even as you still </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
don't know how.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If you fall asleep, there will always </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
be another chair</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
on another dock</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
looking out on a body of water - </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or at least this memory </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of the balmy fall evening</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
you sat in a lavender metal chair at the edge of a dock </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
looking into a Texas sunset over</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a softly breathing lake</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and you felt you had arrived</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
home. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Thank you, <a href="http://midlifejobhunter.blogspot.com/">Julie</a>, for providing the creative space from which this writing came, and the bottom picture.</i></div>
Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-89419460691891115102016-09-01T13:30:00.000-07:002016-09-01T13:30:52.370-07:00Year Two Begins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Facebook and the news are full of back-to-school this week. Walt met his new classes yesterday. My former teammates met theirs on Tuesday. This week marks the beginning of my second year of retirement. I feel tugs of something now as I sit in a quiet house looking out on a quiet yard on a cool quiet gray day. It's not sadness exactly. Or even nostalgia. This is the time of year when my whole being vibrates with longing for some unknown possibility. It's like the wall between what is and what can be is thinnest in the fall.<br />
<br />
I signed up for Medicare yesterday. The process was easy and pain free. It took 15 minutes at the most. Then I went to the dentist to have whitening trays made. That took longer, mostly because the person making the trays has become my friend over the thirty years or more I've been seeing her when I go in for my checks. I also went to yoga and then walked 6 miles, 4 with a friend who is also retired. We both turn 65 this fall and so our conversations are full of how to navigate aging with as much grace and as little suffering as possible. The entire day focused on creating an end-of-life that is as full and alive as possible.<br />
<br />
The wall between life and death grows thinner, and more obviously so, with each passing year.<br />
<br />
The distance between my working life and this new retired life feels so much greater now than the actual time that's passed.<br />
<br />
A year ago I was overflowing with joy and relief. Every day felt like a gift that I created as I went. For a while I did little that felt constructive: read, walked, sat on my patio. Lots of stillness. Lots of moments spent absorbing whatever was on offer. Hummingbirds chittering at the feeder. Two new cats. Fixing a dinner with full attention and care. Toby walks fully awake and present - no longer used as a processing time of a difficult day, but now a small pilgrimage into holy territory where kingfishers and eagles and salmon and deer and coyotes reign. Where Toby's joy and energy seemed a reflection of my own.<br />
<br />
Slowly my days took on more purpose. A yoga practice established and maintained. Time with friends that filled me with light and energy and gratitude. Afternoons spent with books and cats and no pressure to do anything else. Travel - Vashon, Idaho, Tucson, Hawaii, Malibu, Grand Canyon, Vancouver Island. What a marvel that is. I look at the list and can't quite believe that that gets to be my life.<br />
<br />
There were shadows. Of course there were. The biggest being my middle brother's Parkinson's diagnosis, his rapid decline, the awareness that whatever was happening to him was more than Parkinson's. As painful as the loss of the relationship we had when he was whole, is the loss of relationship that is the result of other siblings' choices around his illness. And then there is the ongoing challenge of recreating a marriage relationship in older age, in retirement, when our paths are no longer parallel.<br />
<br />
Tears well often these days. Some are sadness, grieving the losses of sibling and spousal connections. Some are deep gratitude for the life of choice and privilege I lead right now. Sometimes in yoga my throat will close and my eyes fill for no good reason. So much feeling looking for an outlet. Without the distraction and fatigue of work, I experience so much more of what I feel.<br />
<br />
For every thing I accomplished last year, there is another item on my list of things to do that didn't get done. I didn't get the inside of my house painted. I didn't get closets cleaned. I didn't write nearly as much as I intended. I didn't get thin. I didn't volunteer or sign up for mediation training or take classes. I didn't offer classes. I didn't get my pictures organized.<br />
<br />
I care less about the didn't-get-dones than I thought I might. They are all things I'd like to accomplish at some point, but only one item has a certain urgency behind it. The writing. Always the writing. Some days I wish it would go away, that voice that urges and whispers and coaxes. Can't I just walk away from that part of myself? Isn't it done? A possibility that was never fully realized? And I suppose the answer could be yes. But then how would I know what anything means? How would I know myself, my soul, my purpose? And if it's so important - and it surely seems to be - then why do I resist the voice so strongly?<br />
<br />
Last year I was a prisoner set free. This year I'm less dazzled by the endless variety of choices, the bright colors, the freedom to choose whatever I want. I am more overwhelmed by the possibilities, more aware of the time limitations, wanting to find a balance. Frustrated that I really can't do it all, all at once.<br />
<br />
I was in Powell's last spring with my friend, Mary. We were there to hear Krista Tippett speak. As we wandered the store, looking at books, we talked about authors and titles we were drawn to, ones we'd read, and ones we wanted to read. Mary bought a Gloria Steinem title. I bought the book Krista Tippett was there to promote. The next day, Mary sent me an inspiring and relevant quote from the Gloria Steinem book. I replied that maybe I should have bought that book, too. She responded that I can't read all the books.<br />
<br />
I can't read all the books.<br />
<br />
It's a pretty obvious truth, but one that all these months later still stops me in my tracks. Because I can not only not read all the books, I probably can't even read all the books I want to read. And if that's true, then it's also true that I won't visit all the places in the world I want to see. It's true that the unfulfilled dreams of my 20 and 30 and 40 year old selves will remain unfulfilled. I could act on them, but my 65 year old self would not find them so satisfying. And it's likely even all my current dreams won't find their way to reality.<br />
<br />
Which only means I need to make careful, thoughtful, mindful choices. With my reading. With my travel destinations. With my life decisions. But not too careful, either. There needs to be room for spontaneity, surprise, and acceptance of life coming from left field.<br />
<br />
There was a moment in the Canyon this summer. We were floating on bright green water under benevolent blue skies dotted with story book clouds. The temperature was still friendly. My new friend, Shelly, sat next to me. No part of my body hurt. No worries plagued my brain. The thought wandered through, "This is happy." I breathed it in, and breathed it out. The River carried me on and into the next moments in time.<br />
<br />
Last week I went north to help my brother sort through his possessions in preparation for his move into assisted living. We sat on his couch in a living room that less than two years previously I'd helped him decorate. Boxes everywhere. Piles of papers. Pieces of random furniture blocking our path. The air full of the smell of an un-housebroken dog, dust, and despair. He seemed so disconnected from the loss. I seemed to be feeling both my own losses and his. The loss of freedom, the loss of his dreams, the loss of a home we'd worked so hard together to create. And as I looked at his unsmiling, unshaven face I wanted to weep. I breathed it in, and breathed it out. We got busy and packed and sorted.<br />
<br />
I can't read all the books. I can't travel to everywhere. I can't stop bad things from happening. But I can be fully present for each moment, savor the breath and the life and the possibilities. I have this moment, and probably the next few. If I am able to hold each with gratitude and wonder, then it won't matter quite so much how I spend my moments and minutes and months. In full mindfulness, the thinness of the wall enriches what is rather than diminishing it.<br />
<br />
And so this new year begins.<br />
<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-53322042066378960632016-07-23T06:36:00.001-07:002016-07-23T06:36:37.145-07:00Adventurer Soul<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOjItsz33KUEh-r9v2NwJxAtE3l9Oak4rhkzFnkUEjkRqwrCRnHwvg6wQ5g30LjN8HGbMFXSF5sSoeSTSBKPq7pxemcKEv6ScGbdsEW55tYj-y-6AXFrnGBh9FtCX35ltitDpGRJ8TqiQ/s1600/DSCF0885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOjItsz33KUEh-r9v2NwJxAtE3l9Oak4rhkzFnkUEjkRqwrCRnHwvg6wQ5g30LjN8HGbMFXSF5sSoeSTSBKPq7pxemcKEv6ScGbdsEW55tYj-y-6AXFrnGBh9FtCX35ltitDpGRJ8TqiQ/s320/DSCF0885.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last morning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
From the beginning the trip fed me surprises.<br />
<br />
After an easy flight and a long wait I was finally being led to the shuttle that would take me from Phoenix to Flagstaff where I would catch another shuttle the next morning for Lee's Ferry. A man led a small group of us through the airport, away from the company's fleet, and out to the pickup area. There a small white shuttle sat with a familiar looking figure at the back helping someone load their luggage. Big Ed!<br />
<br />
Big Ed, the Navajo driver who shuttled us to Lee's Ferry on the first trip, was going to be driving me the whole distance this time. Not me personally, although it certainly felt like that as I sat behind him and we chatted. He hadn't changed that I could see - the thin braid, the bandanna headband, the cheerful happy face. He asked where I was going and what my plans were. I told him and that I remembered him from before and I expected he would be driving me the next day. He confirmed that.<br />
<br />
Toward the end of our trip to Flagstaff, Big Ed asked everyone where they wanted to be dropped. One women, sitting alone toward the back, said she was going to the Courtyard Marriott, which was my destination. I looked back and asked if she was headed for the Canyon. She was. At the next stop I went back and sat next to her.<br />
<br />
There is no good explanation for what followed. So it can only be a miracle.<br />
<br />
We went to dinner that night, traded stories, laughed, talked about the adventure ahead of us. She had questions. I had answers, and stories from my first trip. Shelly, short for Michelle. A California city girl. Young enough to be my daughter. Starting over at midlife after raising and teaching four children, now in their twenties. Tender heart. Adventurer soul. Courageous spirit.<br />
<br />
We sat together on the shuttle to Lee's Ferry the next morning, chose gear next to each other, packed together and got in the raft together, talking the whole time. When we stopped for camp that first night, we decided to share a tent and a campsite. We rode together the next day. And so it went for the rest of the trip. An easy companionship that simply existed without either of us discussing or deciding. We took pride in our ability to pitch and break down our tent quickly and efficiently. We developed routines, again without actually deciding on them. People thought we were mother and daughter traveling together, and then shared in our state of wonder at our actual relationship.<br />
<br />
At the end of the trip, after the long bumpy school bus ride from the river at Diamond Creek to the reservation at Peach Springs, we pulled into a lot where a now-familiar white shuttle waited to take us back to Flagstaff. There was Big Ed, standing with his big smile and bigger presence. I was so happy to see him that I surprised us both by hugging him.<br />
<br />
At the rest stop halfway to Flagstaff as Shelly and I were chatting outside the shuttle, Big Ed came up to us. He was holding the medicine bag I'd seen hanging from the rearview mirror of the shuttle. He said he'd been thinking of the two of us the whole time we'd been gone, wondering how we were doing. He wanted to share stones with us that held medicine, that he'd been given and carried in that bag. He told Shelly she had seemed so sad at the beginning, but that she looked different now. He reached into the small painted leather bag, and a small group of stones and crystals followed his hand out.<br />
<br />
Shelly received hers first. A round polished stone of black and white. Beautiful and smooth and compelling. The veins of black creating pictures that changed with every glance. A stone of stories and hope and promise.<br />
<br />
There was a stunning clear crystal in Big Ed's hand that my eye was drawn to, and I almost reached for it. But he handed me a completely different stone. This one looked very much like a small finger, reddish, slightly rough, rounded at one end, with a slight indentation at the other. It's hard to tell if it was shaped by man or the forces that shaped the Canyon we'd just left behind. It looks like it could have been a tool, or a bead that just needed a hole to complete. Or it could just be a small symmetrical miracle of weather and water.<br />
<br />
Big Ed said we should carry the stones with us, and hold them when we needed to be reminded of the gifts of the Canyon.<br />
<br />
At first I was disappointed. Shelly's stone seemed better, prettier. Big Ed's words were for her. He offered no special words of wisdom or insight for me. What message was I supposed to take from that?<br />
<br />
The message is the mystery. I have a stone that is more question than answer. He didn't have words for me because this isn't the time for answers or outer wisdom. It's a time of deeper questions, inner wisdom. My stone reminds me that while there is a part of me always looking for the one answer to all the questions, true perfection is at its core imperfect.<br />
<br />
Shelly and I rode together with the same shuttle company to the airport the next morning. No Big Ed this time, but he was there with us regardless. I expect he'll always be a part of our friendship, as he'll always be a significant part of my relationship with the Canyon and the River. Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-44706632176859588032016-06-23T07:52:00.001-07:002016-06-23T07:52:26.761-07:00Great Unconformity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won’t be in the Grand Canyon physically until next week,
but most of the rest of me is already there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I pack, every item I put in my duffel
reminds me of the first trip. While I work to get things ready here so I can
leave feeling like I’ve left ducks in a row for Walt, I already feel his
absence next to me in the raft. Every story I read about the Canyon and the
Colorado puts me back there. I feel my whole being lighten whenever I’m given a
chance to talk about how much I’ve fallen in love with that place. Memories
from the first trip resurface as I look at pictures, reread my journal,
remember the person who was in this place two years ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Big Ed was the Navajo driver who took us from Flagstaff to
Lee’s Ferry. He informed us early on he was Navajo, not Hopi, which turns out
to be an important distinction. His single braid, bandanna headband, and
slightly accented speech were the first indication that I was leaving the world
as I knew it behind. He told us the Colorado River changes people. He joked
that the changes would run deeper than our sunburned faces and blistered feet
and two-weeks-without-a-shower fragrance. I was eager to discover what the
River and the Canyon had for me, how I would be different at Diamond Creek 13
days down river. I had hopes: a deeper understanding of God, my marriage
revitalized, renewed energy to finish a career that was sucking the life from
me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turned out, I was able to retire just a year after
that first trip – three years earlier than we’d originally planned. After two
weeks in the Canyon with no demands other than simply being and enjoying my
experience, I came home knowing deeply that I was not willing to lose any more
time than I absolutely had to. Now, at the end of my first year of retirement,
I know that was one of the wisest decisions I’ve ever made. It’s an interesting
symmetry, two Canyon trips bookending my last year of teaching and my first
year of retirement. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While Walt and I left the Canyon feeling closer than we had
in years, the day-to-day wiped that out pretty quickly. Both of us are at the
beginning of old age, but each is traveling the road very differently. A friend
provided the analogy of a bridge. I’m moving forward, eager to see what’s on
the other side of the bridge in front of me. Walt seems uninterested in what’s
across the bridge, and is content to stay where he is golfing and napping
and watching television. While we decided together that I would do this trip
solo, I worry about crossing one bridge too many. About losing sight of each
other completely. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems like I’ve spent my whole life trying to understand
God. The minute I thought I had an answer to a question about God, a new
question would emerge and I would be left more confused than before. I grew up
with a mom who used God as a weapon and taught that God hated liars. I went to
churches where we were taught that following rules and Jesus made God happy. I
joined a cult where I was taught that all the answers to all the questions were
in the Bible. I had questions all along. Questions for which the answers always
seemed weak or wrong. Questions that were taken as doubt and rebellion and
answered with scripture that told me to believe and not question. The questions
would not go away, so I asked them in different places. Buddhism offered
sanctuary and a new way of seeing, being, thinking. I didn’t find answers there,
but I did find new questions that left me feeling more alive and somehow on the
right track. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I figured if I couldn’t find God in the Grand Canyon, I probably
was never going to. Natural beauty, solitude, vulnerability – the perfect
conditions for hearing the God voice. What I found was a realization that the
mystery that is God, and the magnificence that is the Canyon, are both far
beyond my human ability to corral and define and absorb with any level of
complete understanding. The existence of one, the Canyon, seems to me to prove
the existence of the other, God. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we were in the Canyon, it felt like we were guests in
God’s garden. Evidence of God’s presence was so palpable there was no way to
deny it: the grand vistas, the falling trill of canyon wrens, the bright
tropical blue of the Little Colorado. The rainbow that emerged over the canyon
wall at dusk while we listened to the trip leader tell us stories. The full
moon that lit our nights with the gentleness of candlelight, and the dark nights
that revealed universes beyond comprehension. The River itself carrying us
along like a sentient being whose purpose was to teach us how to be human,
maybe more than human. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I can’t really grasp the mystery and magnificence of
either God or the Canyon, the next best thing is to spend time with them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I decided to go back, I didn’t really think about how I
wanted to be changed this time. I wanted the feelings I had then. I wanted to
experience the Canyon without the distraction of the anxiety inherent in any
new adventure. I wanted to spend time in God’s garden, and maybe, just maybe,
catch a glimpse of his face this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
still want those things, but there is something else, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About halfway through the first trip we stopped at a place
called Blacktail Canyon. At the back of the canyon there is an exposed place in
the rock called the Great Unconformity. While this unconformity stretches
through much of the Grand Canyon, in this place it’s low enough to touch.
Geologically an unconformity is a place where there is missing time between
layers of rock. The Great Unconformity spans over a billion years. In one of my
favorite pictures from that trip, I’m standing with arms outstretched, hands on
the canyon wall, a billion years unaccounted for in between. I’m grinning at
the camera like that missing time makes sense. The truth is just the opposite.
Like so much of the Canyon and floating the River, the vastness of it, the
aliveness of it, the Great Unconformity is far too much to absorb. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fact that no one has an answer for why a billion years
are just not there leaves me both unsettled and almost giddy with the mystery
of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my favorite things to do as we floated endless hours
on smooth water under skies as moody as March was to ask questions of the
guides. Most of those questions were of the “what’s that?” variety. Some were
“who are you?” questions. Some were about the history of the Canyon. All of the
questions had answers, and I found that satisfying, even as those answers
triggered more questions. As I’ve prepared for this second trip, the company
has sent a number of emails inviting me to ask them any questions I might have
about the trip. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The logistical questions were all pretty much answered on
the first trip. I’ve done as much research as is possible, and read every blog
post the rafting company has written. The questions I have about who the guides
and passengers are, I don’t want answers to until I can see for myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most important questions I’m taking to the Canyon can’t
be answered in an email. Certainly not by the employees of the rafting company.
Maybe not at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder what’s going to happen to my marriage as we seem to
drift farther apart each day. I wonder what this next year of retirement will
bring, and what might be the best next steps for me. I wonder how I can matter. I wonder what’s going to
happen with my brother as he learns to live with Parkinson’s, and fades away
from me like the last embers of a campfire. I wonder about my relationship with
my other brothers as we all cope with the loss of our middle brother differently, and not always in a
loving way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder how much time I have left. I wonder about dying and death
and what, if anything, is on the other side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The poet David Whyte says, “<span style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-bidi-font-family: ChronicleTextG2-Roman;">a beautiful question shapes a beautiful
mind. And so the ability to ask beautiful questions, often in very unbeautiful
moments, is one of the great disciplines of a human life. And a beautiful
question starts to shape your identity as much by asking it as it does by
having it answered.</span>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon I will make a second pilgrimage into God’s garden, his
personal cathedral. I take my questions with me, tucked in my bag along with
sunscreen and a map. Instead of looking for answers this time, I will release
those questions, and search for new ones. Questions that will shape my end of
days, my marriage, my relationship with my brothers. Questions that will reveal
my true shape and calling and open my heart to all the uncertainties of life.
Questions that will lead to more incomprehensible questions that will carry me
home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-70726048351909230542016-05-20T11:37:00.000-07:002016-05-20T11:37:07.697-07:00Facing Fear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix24uSUzTdmYUhE2IgFR6OTpo0N8ayujyST_EINVfvLbU0LGMT6E10IiE02CJhirAHykyZK-S6GuMERjDOMABBy7Hp4lTrbsIBhTgHRuGq_IV-NqBeQ7TJtF1g3yfBflDZu4CDp2Nuo_8/s1600/DSCN4831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix24uSUzTdmYUhE2IgFR6OTpo0N8ayujyST_EINVfvLbU0LGMT6E10IiE02CJhirAHykyZK-S6GuMERjDOMABBy7Hp4lTrbsIBhTgHRuGq_IV-NqBeQ7TJtF1g3yfBflDZu4CDp2Nuo_8/s320/DSCN4831.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt fear three times on the first trip to the Canyon. The
kind of fear that comes from the brain stem and calls on all bodily resources
to do what it takes to survive. Heart pounding, stomach clenching, and
breathless. An inner voice screaming, “Run!!!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time was the dream, or not, in which something
crawled over my bare arm in the night. I tried to scream, but nothing would
come out of my mouth. I woke up enough to look for what had to be a snake, but
saw nothing. Weirdly, I went right back to sleep. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The second time was as we approached Lava Falls Rapids at
mile 180, rated 8-10 on the Canyon’s 1-10 scale of difficulty. We had run 64
rapids in the days before, one of which, Crystal, is considered as difficult as
Lava. All the runs were successful. No one ended up in the water, no one was
hurt, and everyone had fun. We had scouted Lava: all the guides and passengers
who wanted to hiked above the rapids to determine the best way to approach
them. The guides were the most sober they’d been the whole trip. All the
instructions we’d been given at the beginning of the trip about what to do if
you ended up in the water were repeated. Our guide (nicknamed Turbo), a
constant trickster in camp and always smiling, became serious. He asked us to
be silent in the approach to the rapid so he could concentrate on finding the
best line – the route that had the best chance of getting us through without
crashing into rocks or being sucked into holes that would pull us to the bottom
of the river. The roar of the rapids warned us to enter at our own peril.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turbo shouted, “Hang on!” The raft crashed
into house-high waves we couldn’t see until we were in them. At that point,
there was no time or space for fear, and I released myself into the moment,
screaming and shouting, along with everyone else in the raft. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The last time I felt fear in the Canyon involved jumping off
a ten-foot cliff into the River. We were just a couple of days from our
take-out at Diamond Creek, the end of the trip. I was feeling fully alive and
fearless. Up to that point I’d hiked narrow ledges, climbed steep rocks, and
was an old hand at hanging on through wild rapids. I was cavalier and even excited
for the experience right up until the moment I stood at the edge of the cliff
looking down. My body seemed to think I was standing at the top of a skyscraper
and did everything in its power to make me walk away. Everyone else had gone
once. There was a line behind me of people excited for their second turn. All
but a couple of the two dozen passengers on this adventure were raring to hurl
themselves off this cliff – again. I needed to decide, and quickly, so that I
didn’t become the focus of well-meaning attention. The choice to do the trip in
the first place was about facing fear. I knew I’d be sorry if I let fear
dictate my actions this time. So I walked away from the edge, turned and ran
toward it. And jumped. Screaming all the way to the River. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
In the months, weeks, and then days leading up to that first
trip I lived with more fear than I was willing to say out loud. It started with
the Acknowledgement of Risk form we had to sign. I made fun of the language
while at the same time wondering if I was up to so much risk at age 62. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trauma. Mental anguish. Impaired health.
Injured. Death. Hypothermia. Heat stroke. Snakes, scorpions, fire ants. </i>All
were subtly downplayed. All were mentioned, I assumed, because at some time
someone had experienced them. One of the books I read prior to that trip was
about all the deaths that had occurred in the Grand Canyon, including deaths on
the River. Oddly, that was reassuring. Most Canyon deaths in modern times
involved alcohol and stupidity, neither of which were going to be factors for
me. Still, what if my aging and moderately out of shape body wasn’t up to the
challenge?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Not really trusting the list provided by the company, I was
afraid of not being adequately prepared. I read and reread the list, scoured
the company website and blog, studied pictures for clues. I worried about
privacy, going to the bathroom, and living with complete strangers for
two weeks. What if Walt and I didn’t get along? What if my new hip couldn’t
handle the rigor? What if, what if, what if. I countered the fear voices with
lists, and piles of gear, and reading everything I could get my hands on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Ultimately, the anticipation of the absolute magic of what
we were about to embark on won out. The minute our raft floated away from shore
into the River, facing downstream in the hot June sun, all fear disappeared
completely. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t even read the Acknowledgement of Risk form for this
next trip until today. Walt typed my name at the bottom and sent it in last
February. All the things I worried about before the first trip either happened
and were handled, or didn’t happen. All the things that I didn’t worry about,
and would have if I’d known, happened and were handled, and did nothing to
diminish the joy of the trip. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems like I should be afraid, maybe just a little, as I
prepare to experience the Colorado River for the second time. I do get little
niggles of something gut-squeezing when I consider the ants and the scorpions
and the rapids. I got lucky the first time. The more often a person goes
through the Canyon, the more likely they’ll experience more of the less
pleasant aspects. And this time I’m going alone. Without Walt to rely on or
turn to or talk to, I’ll be on my own to solve problems and face the world in
all its messy glory. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passengers can be
jolted, jarred, bounced, thrown to and fro, and otherwise shaken about during
rides through some of these rapids . . . . It is also possible that some
participants would suffer mental anguish or trauma from the experience of being
thrown about in the rapids. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When I read that statement from the Acknowledgement of Risk
form today, my mind went immediately to my brother. My middle brother was
diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease in March. Our journey with him in his
physical and mental decline, much more rapid than any of us were prepared for,
has been much like riding the rapids of the Colorado River. Fear sneaks up on
me in the nether hours of the night when sleep should be healing me. It
slithers across my arm, leaving me breathless. While I was relieved at first to
have an answer to puzzling behaviors that emerged over the last couple of
years, now I’d rather not make the journey through these particular rapids.
Rapids that no amount of scouting will really help me travel through without a
fair amount of mental anguish. I’ll think I’m getting used to this new normal,
and then my brother does something uncharacteristically thoughtless. Evidence
that he can no longer manage his life overwhelms hope that medication will buy
him time. I look over the cliff into the unknowns of where this disease and his
response to it will take us and I want to turn and run the other way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder what I’m afraid of with my brother. Snakes and
cliffs and rapids all threaten physical harm. Those fears are rational, or at
least have roots in something concrete. My brother’s decline will not harm me
physically. The loss of him as I’ve come to know him in the last few years does
not threaten my life. His is not my first major loss. But it is unique. He’s my
brother. He’s still here and likely will be for some time. But all that makes
him essentially him, all that our current relationship is built on, is slowly
disappearing with each new cell-death at the center of his brain. So the
grieving is unfamiliar. And the unfamiliar is fertile ground for fear. There is
no amount of reading or information gathering that will ease the pain or smooth
the journey. My newly acquired expertise in Parkinson’s Disease does nothing to
soothe me or ease the fear of the huge unknown at the edge of this cliff. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
What can I do except what I’ve chosen to do every time fear tells
me I can’t. I do exactly the opposite of what it says. And so with my beloved
brother, whom I hardly know any more, I walk away. I turn. I run full tilt and
launch myself into the air. Screaming all the way, but airborne and committed
and refusing to be dictated to by fear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It may be part of the power of a River experience through
the Canyon. There’s no way to get through it or life without being shaken about and suffering in some form. Living with my brother’s decline and
the loss of relationship that brings is the latest rapids I’m finding my way
through. I had decided that I didn’t need to jump off the cliff on this second
trip on the Colorado. I didn’t want to experience the stomach-lurching,
heart-freezing, run-like-hell feeling again. I might change my mind. Perhaps
experiencing that real challenge of fear will give me the strength I need to
continue launching myself into each new unknown as it presents itself with my
brother’s illness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I head south in six weeks, I will travel with the
sadness of the losses that accumulate daily. I will search for wisdom in the
River and the billion year old rocks and the song of the canyon wren. I will
seek peace under the blanket of the Milky Way. I will surrender myself, and my
fears, to the heat and the beauty and the flow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-34293566174837356992016-04-23T06:27:00.000-07:002016-04-23T06:27:05.341-07:00Tremor of Love<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday, 2011 - Frank, Deb, Mark, Geoff</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As with so many things in life, it's hard to identify exactly where things started to change. Hindsight is providing many clues that seem like they should have carried more importance. It's not like they were ignored, the little shifts from what had been normal. It's more like they were absorbed as part of aging and a life slightly off the rails.<br />
<br />
The tremor in his arm became the turning point. A tremor he denied even as he was holding his arm to keep it still. That got people's attention in a way the many more subtle behavioral changes did not.<br />
<br />
My brother, Mark, has Parkinson's Disease. He was diagnosed two weeks before his 60th birthday on April 6. That news created a whole new tremor, one that continues to ripple through both the family and each one of us individually as we adjust to a much-altered future.<br />
<br />
Previous to Mark's March diagnosis, I could have brought little to a conversation about Parkinson's. Our paternal grandfather had it, but we were young enough when he died that Parkinson's was a disease old people got and had nothing to do with us. Michael J. Fox brought a younger more hopeful face to the disease. L-dopa I knew I bit about just from general reading. That was it.<br />
<br />
I know much more now. Each answer I've found leaves in its wake a dozen new questions.<br />
<br />
At first the diagnosis was a relief. An explanation for changes in my brother that were distressing and confusing to his siblings if not to him. He has maintained such an emotional and mental distance from the changes that he seems able to believe they don't exist.<br />
<br />
The changes. So subtle at first. Cells dying in the center of his brain, parts of my little brother blinking out with each tiny death.<br />
<br />
He grew quieter and quieter, and it was harder and harder to draw him out. He stopped smiling and joking. He'd stare into space, or stare at a face, with no emotion or expression. His grooming grew sloppy. His handwriting grew illegible. The house he was so proud of started to look like a hoarder who'd lost control lived there. The antique business he'd worked so hard to create, a life dream, slowly fell apart from lack of attention.<br />
<br />
The weirdnesses started to accumulate to the point it was clear something was wrong. We thought depression. There was plenty of reason: losing his job, loneliness, a death that knocked his pins out from under. He swore he was not depressed. He said he was fine.<br />
<br />
And then there was that tremor. And a diagnosis. And medication. And hope.<br />
<br />
An answer to the question, and solutions offered. <br />
<br />
Mark is the middle child of four. I'm the oldest, the only girl, and do not share the same father as my brothers. Our two brothers book-end him both chronologically and in their personalities. That we are close in adulthood is something of a miracle. A lot of that closeness is because of Mark.<br />
<br />
Nearly ten years ago, he was released from prison, an experience he's <a href="http://thedarkestcloset.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=22">written about at length</a>. He went in angry and judgmental and disconnected from us all. He came out loving and wanting relationship, saying that was the most important thing. "We know God through our relationships with people." And he acted on that.<br />
<br />
Mark's love became the glue that bound our family - four siblings with not-always-positive history, who loved each other, but whose lives had taken very different directions. He sang in his church choir and we would go to the holiday performances to support him. He organized brothers and my husband into a team for an annual charity golf tournament that I tagged along on. We became Team Lyons and a fixture at the tournament. He invited both brothers and their wives to surprise me for a birthday dinner one year, the first time we'd all sat at a table together for years. That birthday dinner celebration has become a tradition, and the best gift I receive year after year.<br />
<br />
Before the diagnosis, as we watched Mark fade away, it seemed that all might be lost. With the diagnosis I felt a surge of hope that while things would be challenging, the essential Mark might be returned to us. I was ready to fight. So were our brothers. Mark's response was the opposite.<br />
<br />
He took his medication and went to physical therapy. But he did not find a way to exercise, the one thing he was told provided the best chance of slowing the progression of the disease. For a time everything got worse: grooming, communication, attention. He stopped answering texts and his phone. His contribution to conversations was flat and one word at a time. The only thing that improved was the tremor in his arm, which grew quieter. He continued to insist he was fine.<br />
<br />
Last weekend, younger brother and his wife, Mark's best friend, and I spent a day helping Mark in his yard and house. Despite the reason for our presence, it was a good day. Five of us working together, chatting in the spring sunshine, restoring beauty and order. SIL brought food so we ended the day on Mark's deck eating sub sandwiches and a homemade pie. We talked. To Mark. He said little. Blunt truth was spoken with as much love as possible. Mark needed to step up or he would lose everything sooner rather than later. If he wanted a voice, he needed to speak. We wanted to be there to support him, but could only do that if he told us how. When asked if he wanted to say anything, his only response was, "I love you."<br />
<br />
We meet again on Sunday. This time all siblings will be present, and his best friend. Mark promised to come up with a plan for what he wants to happen, and how that might be put into action. I anticipate it will be a hard conversation. The other two brothers, who love Mark fiercely, have very different ideas about what helping him looks like. Decisions will need to be made about POA and medical POA and finances and estate planning - at the very least, that conversation needs to be started.<br />
<br />
A tremor of hope shivers once more. I've talked to Mark twice this week. He said he's got his plan. He went to a support group meeting (and called to tell me). I've talked to both of our other brothers. We've all continued to inform ourselves about this disease that will ultimately take Mark from us. We're all committed to doing whatever we can to keep him as long as we can, and to help him walk this new path with as much independence and dignity as possible.<br />
<br />
There is tension and fear and disagreement among us. There are family dynamics that threaten to overwhelm. There is Mark, trying to keep as much distance between himself and this hard hard truth as possible. And there is love. We, four siblings whose history could easily have broken their ties forever, end every conversation with, "I love you." That won't be enough to cure Mark's Parkinson's, or to stop the losses, or to prevent the grieving that's already begun. But it is the only glue that has the power keep us together though what's to come.<br />
<br />
<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-83626072671972324322016-04-05T13:11:00.000-07:002016-04-05T13:17:15.143-07:00Ready<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
This first year of retirement is almost over. The school year for Walt is being counted down in weeks. Summer plans are bubbling on the back burner. And for more moments than could be considered random, I've begun to feel a gentle pressure. I am happier than I've ever been. Life is full of choices and travel and love. The one thing I haven't honored in the way I expected is my writing, and my writer self has begun to nudge against my heart with ever increasing impatience.<br />
<br />
Finally, almost too late to complete the application process, I decided to pursue a training that would make not-writing impossible, and open new doors for guiding other writers. Ready to take a step, but without commitment to any need beyond my own.<br />
<br />
On paper the week looked loaded with potential for powerful magic, great learning, and adventure. A Franciscan retreat center in the Malibu hills overlooking the Pacific sounded like an ideal place for learning how to lead others in a method of writing based on gentleness, kindness and a firm belief that everyone has value. Practices rooted in the belief that everyone is creative and has a voice that deserves to be heard.<br />
<br />
The weather forecast offered brisk beach weather, with mostly sun. The list of participants, seven of us in all, included women from Ireland, the east coast and all over California. The instructors came with a strong list of credentials. I was ready for this new challenge after months of take-it-easy retirement.<br />
<br />
I arrived at <a href="http://serraretreat.com/">Serra Retreat</a> in a flurry of stress and anxiety. Issues with the shuttle bringing me from the airport and L.A. traffic and a surly guard at the gate conspired to deliver me at the top of the hill 15 minutes after the training was supposed to start. I don't do late, especially for something that felt as important as this. Once I set foot on the grounds, however, everything heavy and pointy fell away. I was greeted by our lead teacher with all the warmth and ease of a friend not seen for much too long.<br />
<br />
In another flurry, this time getting a key, settling into my room, and finding my way to the space that would be home for the next five days, I released my fear and the events of the morning, and settled in.<br />
<br />
Our classroom was originally a garage for the family who owned the place before the Franciscans bought it decades ago. A garage covered inside with gorgeous tiles worth a small fortune and imbuing the space with an earthy warmth that held us all as we opened our minds and hearts and souls to the learning we were there to receive. When I walked into the space for the first time, other women were seated in the circle that very quickly became sacred space. We greeted each other as though we'd known each other for a very long time. There was never a moment of unease or uncertainty or posturing for position. Our love of <a href="http://www.amherstwriters.com/about/awa-method">AWA</a>, and our desire to be messengers of the method, were enough foundation for easily granted trust and a willingness to be vulnerable quickly.<br />
<br />
During the next few days, the on-paper potential was realized and exceeded beyond all expectation. The method of writing that had brought us together was applied to life with incredible success. Kindness, clarity, common sense, creativity, communication - all took on much deeper meaning as I watched them modeled again and again.The inevitable problems and challenges (a snoring roommate, a participant with an alternate agenda, fatigue) were solved in ways that only added to the learning and the laughter and the bonding.<br />
<br />
And oh how we laughed. Great swooping belly laughs. Soft girly giggles. Bursts of joy and delight that left us all feeling lighter.<br />
<br />
We talked and listened and wrote. We shared and read and listened some more. We asked questions and brainstormed and shared some more. We wrote and shared and offered feedback, marveling that our writing was so powerful, so clearly from our deepest places. We took turns leading groups and writing and receiving feedback. We learned from each other. We held safe space for each other as we took our first tentative steps into new territory. We fell in love with each other.<br />
<br />
There were so many bits of miracle throughout the week, I was left with no doubt that this time was a gift of extraordinary value.<br />
<br />
Serra Retreat can host more than a hundred people at a time. We were the only group there for most of the week, and never had to share with more than a half dozen others at a time. That meant we had the beautiful grounds to ourselves for morning strolls to the point overlooking the Pacific, or walking the labyrinth in the shade of giant eucalyptus trees, or sitting quietly on a bench surrounded by the fragrance of pink roses and the multi-versed song of a mockingbird. My first mockingbird experience. The complex and joyous music coming from the throat of that simple gray bird was a wonder to behold. A perfect soundtrack for the week.<br />
<br />
The weather got more beautiful as the week progressed. While cool, our wanderings were sun-kissed. By Wednesday, we would pour from the building during breaks and find places to bask like the many lizards we shared the grounds with.<br />
<br />
Because our group was small and our teachers wise, we had time two afternoons for trips to the beach. We walked the warm California sand in bare feet, marveled at pelicans diving pell mell into the waves, admired the skill and sleek seal bodies of surfers. There were long spaces of comfortable silence, and long girl conversations about everything and nothing.<br />
<br />
The parting at the end of the week was bittersweet. I was full to overflowing, ready to be home and sleep in my own bed. I also didn't want to leave ever, and missed my new friends even as I was saying goodbye to them. I traveled home with a pretty piece of paper that certifies me to lead writing groups in the AWA method. I can call myself an affiliate. And as is always the case with an intense experience like this, I am changed in ways that I expect will continue to reveal themselves in the months to come.<br />
<br />
In these first days back I continue to feel the Southern California sun on my skin, to smell the roses and the ocean. I hear the voices and see the faces of each of the women who became my sisters for that week. Ideas fill the air around me like the squawking and tropical flashes of green that the parrots of Malibu punctuated our days with. The mockingbird's song echoes still, a reminder of joy and full-throated expression of the voice he was born to share. A reminder that my voice matters. A reminder that no one is ever served when any voice is silenced.<br />
<br />
I am ready. For exactly what, I'm not sure yet. But I'm ready.<br />
<br />
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<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-44614628618541467812016-01-03T15:38:00.001-08:002016-01-03T15:38:19.444-08:00Congregation<br />
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<br />
We arrived at Christmas Eve service late. The seats we found were in the back of the large church under an overhang, and because the service was so full, the five of us shared four chairs. The man directly in front of me was huge, so I spent the hour shifting constantly to see around him.<br />
<br />
I usually love this service. Singing carols from my childhood on Christmas Eve, sitting with family, I feel loved and connected to the divine energy that I've called God most of my life. It's how we've started our Christmas together for the last several years and I find myself looking forward to that time as much as the food and the gifts and the games we play.<br />
<br />
I have become an Easter and Christmas church-goer. I go with my brothers to their churches. One church, the Easter church, is friendly and warm and the music is uplifting and glorious. The pastor tells stories that make me laugh and cry, often at the same time. And while I don't agree with all that's said, I feel love in that congregation, from the front and all around.<br />
<br />
The other church, the Christmas church, is more formal and I feel surrounded by strangers who are also surrounded by strangers. Usually I don't mind because it's about the singing and the candles and my family.<br />
<br />
This year things did not feel the same, and it was only partly because of the physical discomfort. We didn't get to sing as much. I was working against claustrophobia. And the sermon was long and full of threats of hell and a pedantic teaching bent on proving the reality of Mary's virginity. Three times the pastor said, "and in closing" before actually ending. There was no sense of hope or revealing of light. There was no offering of love. There were no stories.<br />
<br />
When the pastor ran out of words and we lit the traditional candles, I felt a divine presence for the first time that evening. My youngest brother, our host, received a flame from the usher. His wife lit her candle from his. My husband lit his from hers. I lit my candle from my husband's. My middle brother lit his candle from mine, and then passed the flame on. By that time the church was full of stars, each one representing the hopes, dreams, and divinity of each person in the room. We sang together, carols as familiar and comforting as the family surrounding me. At the end everyone lifted their candles up, the stars ascending to a heaven that was this congregation of people acting in one accord for those few moments. That time was far too short for me. I wanted to stand in the twinkling light of those candles, and the congregation of common focus, for so much longer.<br />
<br />
On the way home, my sister-in-law asked if we'd heard of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X98N18-Kp88">Bothell crows</a>. She talked about a phenomenon of crows gathering each evening at the University of Washington campus in Bothell where there is a mitigation wetlands. She told us thousands of crows come in from the surrounding countryside. It seemed a worthwhile thing to see.<br />
<br />
The next afternoon on the early edge of dusk, while SIL put the finishing touches on our Christmas dinner, five of us headed for town. Youngest brother drove, middle brother in the front seat with him. I sat in the back, in the middle, between husband and niece's fiance. Right away we saw trees full of crows, hundreds of them maybe. When we got to downtown Bothell, there was an apartment building covered in crows, all cawing and calling to each other. We could see more arriving from the distance, and as we watched and listened, we talked about the movie, <i>The Birds</i>. We wondered how it might be to live in that place and to be in the midst of that invasion every evening.<br />
<br />
I thought that was it. Youngest brother said there were usually more than we were seeing, but I thought we were going back. I'd forgotten how stubborn my little brother is, and we continued to drive around. And around. And around. For long stretches we saw no crows at all. Or we saw clumps of them in the sky far away.<br />
<br />
Just as it was on the edge of full dark, we pulled into the cemetery. The scene was movie perfect: The air was full of black shadows shifting here and there, like giant leaves being blown by a giant wind. Giant leaves that settled back into the waiting skeletal arms of winter trees. The ground was covered with crows, as were the headstones. The sound of those multitudes of crows was both chilling and awe-inspiring at the same time.<br />
<br />
As we pulled away from the cemetery we could see crows in the sky arriving from every direction. We continued to drive around while the sky around us thickened with crows. We were on campus, heading up a hill, crows swirling and wheeling and calling all around us. Youngest brother pulled into a lot at my request. We marveled at a roof covered in crows arranged so symmetrically that it looked like each crow was honoring the personal space of each of his neighbors.<br />
<br />
I got out of the car. For a short time I was alone outside at late dusk on Christmas night with hundreds of thousands of crows for company. The few sitting in the bushes closest to where we parked shifted to more distant branches. Otherwise there was no change. My presence had no impact. I wasn't afraid, or even nervous. Apparently, neither were the crows. Alert for danger, but sensing none. Only feeling a huge sense of wonder at the privilege of standing in the midst of this amazing congregation of corvids.<br />
<br />
Eventually the guys joined me, one at a time, and I was glad for the human company. Marvel and wonder are much magnified when you have someone to share them with. I didn't want to leave, but dinner waited at home, and pie and dominoes.<br />
<br />
A little research revealed that this phenomenon, while larger than many, is not unusual. Crows gather at roosting time in part for the protection of each others' company. They sit together in trees, in a hierarchical arrangement. Anything disturbing the branches alerts everyone in the tree. Crows are smart. They have a culture. They use tools. They take care of each other. They play. So their choosing the safety of congregation seems to be more than just instinct. <br />
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As we drove home from the holiday, I thought about the two congregations: the church and the crows. I am able to experience wonder in both, but I definitely felt more alive and connected and open in the midst of the crows. I wanted to go back and spend more time with them - want to go back and watch them depart at dawn.<br />
<br />
Traditional church feels heavy, oppressive, full of rules impossible to follow and contradictions so hard to reconcile. I've spent a lifetime trying to find the right church, trying to find a congregation to fit in with, trying to find a sweet spot of spirituality that feels like home. But when I pay attention to when I feel most connected to the divine energy that is love and grace, it isn't in church.<br />
<br />
Walt and I went to yoga on New Year's Day. This was a special class done to music: Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. In a regular class there are anywhere from 8 to 20 students, depending on the day. There were nearly 60 people in the room on this day. We were set up with no more than an inch or two between mats. Many had never done yoga before, and many people were there with their kids. Several times during class giggles were heard from the back of the room. Because we were so crammed in, there was a lot of accidental bumping into each other which resulted in smiles and reassuring pats.<br />
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Several times during the class, when we were all in a posture together, regardless of how deep, it seemed we all breathed the same breath at the same time. As with my brothers' churches, I don't know many of the people who practiced in that class on New Year's Day. It didn't seem to matter. We breathed together, moved together, laughed together. While not religious or even officially spiritual, that gathering was a congregation that felt like home to me.<br />
<br />
I keep thinking I need to find a church. That need is a leftover one from my childhood, my years in the cult, and pressure from my brothers. Maybe this is the year that I find church in whatever congregation of living things that evokes wonder and love. Maybe it is time to accept my own soul's longings as real and enough. Maybe it's time to listen to the rustle of wings and breathings of hearts that tell me without doubt I'm not alone.<br />
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<br />
<i>Image from www.cascadia.edu</i>Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-76664961577847546202015-12-17T09:49:00.002-08:002015-12-17T09:49:31.831-08:00A Break in the Clouds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I walked out of yoga last Monday into a damp gray morning that was only slightly lighter than when I'd gone in at 6:00 A.M. One of the teachers has said she likes to watch us leave the studio on these early winter mornings because steam rises from us as we move into the day. This particular class left me not only steaming, but sore and frustrated.<br />
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Three months of four-days-a-week practice has resulted in some pretty big changes. None that show on the outside necessarily, but I'm occupying my body very differently these days. It doesn't hurt to stand after sitting for a while. The chronic hip flexor pain I've dealt with in the three years since my hip replacement has improved dramatically. And when I bend over to pick something up, nothing hurts.<br />
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Some postures are much easier than they were all those weeks ago. Some I still can't do the full expression of. Most classes, I focus on my breathing and the form of the postures and don't worry about how far I get into them. When I get farther that I did the week before, it's a lovely surprise. As long as I don't expect my body to do more than it can, all's well.<br />
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Last week there were two classes in a row where amazing things happened. I did <a href="https://zuzkalight.com/workouts/camel-pose-can-make-you-cry/">camel</a> twice, the second time actually seeing the floor under me. I did the sit-ups with no pain at all. I was able to grab the sides of my feet for the forward bending posture where before I was lucky to reach the floor in front of me. It felt like I'd moved into new territory, was practicing from a new normal.<br />
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I walked into class Monday feeling like I do for most classes, nothing out of the ordinary, only maybe a little more eager because of last week's successes. The temperature in the studio was not overly warm (meaning it stayed around 105) and the humidity didn't seem oppressive. As is usually the case for the early morning classes, the atmosphere was serious and focused, calm and rhythmic.<br />
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From the beginning, however, I was stiffer than normal for me. I had to keep coming back to my breath because assuming my body would go back to where it had been two days before wasn't working. I fell out of postures I hadn't fallen out of for a long time. I started to get frustrated, and I could feel tears gathering in my chest, working their way up my throat. I was so glad when the standing series ended and we moved to the floor. As we settled into savasana the teacher said, as she often does, "Let the ground hold your weight." On this day the relief of that almost brought the tears all the way to the surface.<br />
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When we got to camel, the posture that is known as the emotional pose, I considered not even getting out of savasana. But I did a partial sit-up (those weren't working at all) and got to my knees for the set-up. I put my hands on my hips, breathed in and tipped my head back. And that's where I stayed. I was dizzy and my back hurt and my left leg wanted to cramp. When the teacher called us into savasana, I was already sitting on my knees in anticipation. Often, the second time (most of the postures are done twice) is easier. That was not the case for me on Monday. I got my head back, but didn't even try to reach my heels. I considered it a victory that the tears stayed inside.<br />
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When I finally walked toward my car after class, my mood matched the dark gray morning. The shame voice was ramping up, going from subtle to all-inclusive at the speed of light: All that time and work and you still suck. Is this really how you want to spend your retirement? And while we're on the subject of retirement, weren't you going to focus on your writing? What a joke.<br />
<br />
I wasn't laughing. And I was trying hard not to listen. But it was hard, as it always seems to be with shame.<br />
<br />
I had just put my sweaty pad in the trunk when something caught my eye. I looked up to see a break in the clouds where gold shone through. It was the first time in days that I'd seen anything but gray. That opening got larger as I drove home. Pink softened the gold and brightened into blue by the time I hit the freeway. The sky was still more gray than anything. My body was still sore. I was still discouraged. But I held that bit of light and color as a gift, and it was enough to sent shame scurrying back into the shadows.<br />
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Wednesday's class was easier. I got into camel both times. I was able to make breathing the priority, to return to my breath when the voice tried to get me to force my body into places it's not ready for yet. Places it may never be ready for.<br />
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Three months ago I made a commitment to myself to go to yoga regardless of how I feel, and regardless of how fast I see results. It's the one bit of structure I've imposed on this new retired life, the perfect amount. It may be time to add one other commitment to the mix. One, like yoga, that may not show much on the outside, but that will make worlds of difference for me on the inside. Like yoga, showing up consistently for this new commitment is how success needs to be measured. Just showing up with sincere intention, believing the light will find a way through.<br />
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Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-28325188852409462492015-10-22T12:21:00.002-07:002015-10-22T12:21:49.598-07:00Strength and Flexibility<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"There are two gifts in life: strength and flexibility. Everyone is given one and then spends their life learning or being challenged by the other." The instructor's soft words during savasana rang particularly true in that moment. I'd just fallen out of tree pose again and again trying to get my leg to bend up enough to be where it was supposed to be, resting foot-up on my thigh.<br />
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I know myself to be strong - body, mind, and spirit. What has served me well in life so far, serves me well in yoga. Staying in the 105 degree room for ninety minutes, while challenging, is never an obstacle. Pushing through discomfort is automatic, and I have to pay attention to not push too hard, over the edge into pain. I don't quit.<br />
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It is definitely true in my case that flexibility was not included in the original package. Teaching helped me develop mental and emotional flexibility. It was either become flexible or be miserable, and misery is no place to live. I can look into my past and see that some of my hardest times came when I dug in and tried to power through situations that might have been eased with a softer, bendier approach. Marriage, one of life's greatest schools, has offered lessons in flexibility that came close to breaking me when I tried too hard to control the direction of things.<br />
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When I returned to Bikram yoga six weeks ago, I was shocked to discover how much physical flexibility I'd lost in the five years I was away from practice. Not that I had that much physical flexibility to begin with, but what little I had gained from that initial year of yoga was gone. Nothing wanted to bend - my neck, my back, my legs. There was not one single posture I could do the full expression of, no matter how hot the room, or how hard I stretched.<br />
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This was not something strength could help me with. Pushing harder just meant I lost my breath and my focus and I'd find myself looking around at everyone who seemed to be so much more successful (and thinner and younger and better-everything) than I was.<br />
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Fortunately, with age has come some measure of wisdom. I know I have choices, and that more often than not, the automatic choice will not get me closest to where I want to be. In this new adventure that is older age and retirement, I have the chance to do things differently. I have the chance to <i>be</i> differently.<br />
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I started yoga this time determined to focus on what I could do, and the benefits of that. On showing up regularly and being as fully present as possible when I did. I promised my body I'd be kind and gentle and grateful. It didn't believe me at first, for good reason, but with each class I can feel it begin to trust that I've told the truth this time.<br />
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The tenth posture in the series, <a href="http://www.bikramyogaposesguide.com/standing-separate-leg-head-to-knee-pose/">standing separate leg head to knee pose</a>, is one I've had to work at not dreading. Every single time I have had to quiet my mind and visualize the full expression while pointing my body gently toward that goal, knowing I won't even get close. It requires a tucked chin and choked breathing while rounding over and trying to touch your forehead to the knee of the leg stretched straight out before you.<br />
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The most important part of this posture is getting the forehead to the knee, so it's allowed to bend the leg up until that happens. The problem for me is that my forehead wouldn't touch my knee no matter how much I bent my leg. And I struggled so much with the choked breathing that I'd lose track of both my forehead and my knee.<br />
<br />
Until one day last week. I followed the directions, one by one: arms overhead, hands in prayer, step over your mat four feet, pivot to the right, twist hips, twist, twist, twist, two hips in one line, tuck your chin, look at your navel, and with exhale breathing round over like a cat touching your head to your knee, bend your knee up if you have to but get your forehead on your knee, hands lightly touching the ground in front of you.<br />
<br />
I followed the directions all the way through. To the full expression of the posture.<br />
<br />
My knee was bent, but my forehead was definitely touching it. And then it touched when we did the posture going the other direction and it touched twice more when we repeated the posture. I wanted to do a happy dance, but we were already onto <a href="http://www.bikramyoga.com/BikramYoga/TwentySixPosturesDetails.php?pos=11">tree pose </a>which required all my concentration, and which brought me back to myself as I fell out again and again. <br />
<br />
My forehead touches my knee every time now, some days with more ease than others, but it's just there like it's been there all along. I still have to bend my knee, but I can feel a release that lets me know that might not always be the case.<br />
<br />
Even though it's just one yoga pose, and one tiny accomplishment, what I'm left with is profound. That forehead on my knee offered clear proof that I don't have to work so hard. Not at yoga. Not at life. Persistence. Showing up. Being grateful for what's already there. Breathing. Focus on what's right in front of me. The rest, amazingly, takes care of itself.<br />
<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-41582269464368030492015-10-09T12:09:00.000-07:002015-10-09T12:28:43.193-07:00Vashonista Celebration<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>
THE SUMMER DAY</i><br />
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<i>Who made the world?</i></div>
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<i>Who made the swan and the black bear?</i></div>
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<i>Who made the grasshopper?</i></div>
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<i>This grasshopper, I mean-</i></div>
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<i>the one who has flung herself out of the grass,</i></div>
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<i>the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,</i></div>
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<i>who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-</i></div>
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<i>who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.</i></div>
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<i>Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.</i></div>
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<i>Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.</i></div>
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<i>I don't know exactly what a prayer is.</i></div>
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<i>I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down</i></div>
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<i>into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,</i></div>
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<i>how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,</i></div>
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<i>which is what I have been doing all day.</i></div>
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<i>Tell me, what else should I have done?</i></div>
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<i>Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?</i></div>
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<i>Tell me, what is it you plan to do</i></div>
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<i>with your one wild and precious life?</i></div>
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<i>Mary Oliver.</i></div>
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For five days at the beginning of this month, a group of six bloggers met for our fourth annual gathering at <a href="http://www.lavenderhillvashon.com/">Lavender Hill Farm </a>on Vashon Island. For the first time we were all retired, and so we decided to meet longer and to use the time to write. The magic that happened during those days as we responded to prompts and allowed stories to emerge from our depths is hard to describe. As a way to celebrate that time, we decided to share our last writing in each of our blogs, and to link so that you, our lovely readers, can see what different and powerful responses a prompt can evoke. We followed Pat Schneider's AWA method as explained in her book <i>Writing Alone and With Others</i>.</div>
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Our facilitator (me - what a joy that was!) read Mary Oliver's <i>The Summer Day </i>out loud, and the group responded to the question that ends the poem. We had ten minutes to write by hand the pieces you'll read, and we will all have done some revision before publishing on our blogs. You can read their responses here: <a href="http://flyingintothelight.blogspot.com/2015/10/vashonista-celebration.html">Sandi</a>, <a href="http://benchmark60.blogspot.com/2015/10/vashonista-celebration.html">Jann</a>, <a href="http://bagladyinwaiting.blogspot.com/2015/10/vashonista-celebration.html">Linda</a>, <a href="http://djanstewart.blogspot.com/2015/10/vashonista-celebration.html">DJan</a>, <a href="http://sallysbloggingspot.blogspot.com/2015/10/writing-with-my-blogging-friends-on.html">Sally</a>. My response is below. </div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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What do I plan to do with my one wild and precious life? </div>
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I plan to be as fully awake as I can be and to bear witness to a life of joy earned through both suffering and grace. </div>
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I plan to sing in full voice, not with my mouth, not in haunting melody or joyous carol, but through my writing. </div>
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I plan to seek Divinity in the face of every person who crosses my path. I plan to let my light radiate and encircle and heal. </div>
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I plan to seek both the wild and the precious in the birds of the air - my beloved bald eagle appearing out of nowhere, hummingbirds hovering before my face, robins ringing in the seasons. I will soak in the wild and the precious in sea breezes, sun filtering through brilliant fall leaves, the delight of the juice of a freshly picked apple exploding in my mouth. </div>
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I plan to continue to seek beauty in the mundane, the painful, the broken and ugly. </div>
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I plan to breathe gratitude deeper and deeper into my body, and to release it back into the world through my eyes, my smile, and whatever words are given to me to express all that's wild and precious.</div>
Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-32042449657699087552015-09-24T11:27:00.000-07:002015-09-24T11:27:52.455-07:00Eyes Open<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
We're in savasana, the first of the session. Two glorious minutes spent lying on our mats after fifty minutes of standing postures that have us all dripping and breathing hard. A respite before the floor series which will challenge in a completely different way. Each teacher approaches this time slightly differently. Some are mostly quiet, making the time meditative. Some will offer instruction on postures. Some will tell stories about people who have healed lives and bodies with yoga, my favorite.<br />
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Every teacher talks about the importance of keeping our eyes open during savasana. We've already been reminded at the beginning of the day to practice with eyes open, but the instruction while we're in this resting pose is especially clear. "Keeping your eyes open helps you stay present and gain the most benefit. This time allows your body to absorb what it's just done. If you close your eyes you'll drift away."<br />
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Eyes open during savasana is easy. There is no struggle to stay present. Nothing is expected in those moments beyond being and breathing.<br />
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The only time I'm even tempted to close my eyes during a class is when I'm pushing too hard. My mind tells me my body stretched that far last class so it should this one. My body tells me no. And even though I've sworn I will not compete this time, I will only do what I can and be grateful for that, I start to feel like a failure. I need to close my eyes and go inside where it feels safe.<br />
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But closing my eyes makes me dizzy. I lose my balance. I can't do the posture at all, let alone as deeply as I think I should. I get frustrated, and catch myself at the top of a spiral I do not want to spin down. And so I open my eyes, focus on my breathing, and stand facing myself in the mirrors until the spinning stops.<br />
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My life right now feels like one long savasana. A savasana earned after years of sweating and pushing myself to and sometimes beyond my limits. There is nothing expected of me. Nothing. So I breathe. I am. I see.<br />
<br />
In past years I staggered through autumn, exhausted from the start of another school year, grasping for moments of stillness and beauty. I longed for a time when I could drink in all of autumn's glories through eyes not clouded with stress and fatigue. That time is here, and I'm drinking it in like a blind woman seeing for the first time.<br />
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Everyday sights take on a brighter hue and have the power to delight so much more deeply than I ever imagined. It doesn't hurt that we're having possibly the most beautiful autumn ever.<br />
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My daily walks with Toby have become sacred ritual. While they've always been important, when I worked I used that time to process the day. That often meant I saw very little around me while I wrestled inwardly with whatever monsters the day exposed. I was also walking at the end of a day, exhausted and sludgy.<br />
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It's become our habit to walk in the early afternoon. The sun has warmed the air just enough, and accompanies us like a benevolent spirit. Toby sprints after deer, or the hope of deer, and I marvel every time at how beautiful and regal he is. Graying around the muzzle now, almost 8, he is still the best companion a wanderer of the world could hope for.<br />
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Our route rarely varies, and I anticipate parts of it eagerly. On clear days, there is an open spot where the blue blue sky meets dark evergreens in a storybook scene often enhanced with sheeply clouds. At a certain bend in the river the resident pair of kingfishers begin their clattering call. It feels like they're announcing our arrival, although Toby is usually in the river before I catch the flashes of white and black and blue shooting just above the water.<br />
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The river itself is both a soothing constant and a source of daily surprises. One day it was eleven mallards resting on the opposite bank. I watched them preen and dabble and sleep through a frame of big leaf maple leaves while the river chuckled over smooth stones and Toby dived for rocks farther upstream, completely oblivious.<br />
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Often after our walk Toby and I will hang out in the back yard together. He chases bird shadows as they race across the lawn. I sit on the patio with a book, sometimes reading, sometimes just watching. Toby's red coat against the bright green of lawn, his marcelled ears on high alert, his plumed tail curled skyward. A Red-tailed Hawk wheeling overhead, or his Sharp-shinned cousin swooping through the feeders in search of a Junco or Chickadee lunch. The newly arrived Evening Grosbecks like oversized Goldfinches crowding the feeders and filling the air with their distinctive piercing chirps.<br />
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My favorite, however, is one particular hummingbird. Either a female, or more likely one of this year's fledglings, this bird has a singular buzz. More playing card on bicycle spokes than anything else. A much louder whirr-click than any of her counterparts. She is drab, with only the tiniest of hints of color at her throat. And she is fearless. She'll eat at the feeder to my left and then she'll move to the huge hanging fuchsia to my left, often stopping in the middle to study me. She hovers a few feet away and then moves closer, often getting close enough I could reach up to pet her without extending my arm. The first time she came to study me, I was nervous she'd get too close and I'd lose an eye. Over these last weeks I've relaxed. I pull my glasses down so we're looking directly at each other, eye to eye.<br />
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Even in a life that is now mostly savasana, where it's easy to be as open-eyed and open-hearted as my being is capable of, there are challenges that make me want to close my eyes. Both in denial and in an effort to cope. What's different now, just like in class, is that I am more willing to re-open my eyes and to face whatever is in front of me. I don't like being off-balance and dizzy, and I'd rather move through.<br />
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I'm in my third week back at yoga. I'm adjusting to the heat and the rigor and the routines. I'm learning to listen to my body and to push right up to the point where just right becomes too much. And perhaps unsurprisingly, I've begun to find savasana clarity in the middle of postures more and more. I stand before the mirror, body in correct form, breathing and concentrating. Eyes wide open. Heart wide open. Open to whatever comes next.Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-82124764875918552932015-09-13T07:13:00.000-07:002015-09-13T07:13:09.771-07:00Inspiration<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The tiniest sliver of moon and a few scattered stars provide the only light as I step out the door into the morning. I breath in air that holds both summer's warmth and autumn's promise. It's earlier even than if I were going to work, and being out at this hour is a surprising gift.<br />
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I'm on my way to a 6:00 AM Bikram Yoga class, the first time in over four years.<br />
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On the drive in I think about all that's happened in those years: I returned to teaching after a two year leave in which I intended to get my book published and become an income-earning writing, neither of which happened. I got a new hip, the old ruined one the reason I had to leave yoga. I taught for four more years and learned a lifetime's worth of new lessons, as much as I'd learned in all the years prior. I quit writing almost completely except for a random blog post and my daily journaling. I explored Belize, rafted the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, and toured Italy. I retired.<br />
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Finding the studio is easy. My beloved Pat whose buddy pass and gentle encouragement brought me here has given good directions. Plus I Google Mapped it, and read the directions on the website. I also read the entire website in the belief that the more I knew the easier the experience would be.<br />
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Few others are on the road this early and I arrive ten minutes earlier than I expect. That's on top of the ten minute cushion I gave myself - just in case. Only one other car is in the lot and I see a woman moving about the brightly lighted studio. I don't want to be the first one in, so I sit in my car and wait until more cars arrive.<br />
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I walk in behind two people who are clearly regulars, and introduce myself to Mica, the teacher and owner of the <a href="http://www.bikramyogahazeldell.com/">studio</a>. She is warm, friendly, welcoming. The place has a clean and vibrant energy. Pat arrives, we visit. Kay, who was our first Bikram instructor and now attends and teaches at this studio, gives me hug and we visit. And then it's time to move into the room.<br />
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The heat is a palpable force. 105 degrees. I tell myself that we had days hotter in the canyon last summer, but some inner voice responds that there is no 50 degree river to dip into here. The room is comfortably full of a variety of people. I realize I don't stand out one way or the other, and relax just a little. Mica welcomes us, tells us to stand with our feet together and bring our hands together and up to our throats. The words are familiar, and my body responds automatically. Or at least tries to.<br />
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Over the next 90 minutes and 26 postures my mind is kept busy monitoring my body. I attempt each posture and discover that parts of me have frozen stiff in the last four years. I also discover that I feel no sense of competition with my fellow yogis - a change from my previous experience. I am here for myself. I am patient with muscles that had decided on an early retirement without telling me. I breathe gently through waves of dizziness. I sweat, at first in annoying dribbles down my forehead into my eyes, and finally in one huge body-shaped film that covers me like a living being.<br />
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The final savasana comes as such a relief and with such a sense of accomplishment that I would dance if my body weren't a jellyfish blob on my mat. Just before Mica exits the room she offers us Namaste, which we return, a word and prayer that completes the sense of homecoming that has been building over the last couple of hours.<br />
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The lively and loud world beyond the studio door startles me and brings me out of myself. I breathe in the fresh morning air, pulling it deep through freshly cleared pathways. Something not fresh follows the morning into my lungs - acrid, thick, and familiar. The unique cleansing stench of a body purging poisons. The smell stays with me, even after a long shower, hovering like a malicious spirit.<br />
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I feel slightly ill the rest of the day, while at the same time feeling deeply relaxed. By the next morning I'm sore in places I've never been sore before: front neck muscles, upper back, triceps. But I'm also feeling a relief from other pains and tightness that have dogged me since my hip surgery. I feel alive in ways I haven't since last summer in the canyon.<br />
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That first class was on a Wednesday. I went back Friday. The second day was so much easier. Not the class itself. That will never be easier because there will always be another level to aspire to, another posture to attempt more depth with. And 105 degrees requires full attention and focus every time. But I did a little more, the time went a little faster, and the potency of the smell was diminished significantly. And I felt both vibrantly alive and deeply serene for the rest of the day. A feeling that lingers still.<br />
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I'll go again on Monday. My commitment to myself is three days a week, maybe even four. My gift to myself, this time and this immersion in body, spirit and breath. In-spiration that will provide the light and energy for the inspiration I seek to live this new life to the fullest.<br />
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<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323372985310307718.post-49486417660577113852015-09-07T07:40:00.000-07:002015-09-07T07:40:12.661-07:00Reality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Pompeii was on the itinerary for our second day in Italy. In the months leading up to the April trip, that was the one thing I looked forward to the most. I first discovered Pompeii as a child in the pages of old National Geographic magazines, and so had waited a lifetime to experience the reality of the place. <br />
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I can conjure the memory: I'm 10, or 8 or 12. It's a North Idaho winter and I'm home sick with pneumonia or mumps or the flu. While snow drifts down outside, or blizzards as it so often did, and ice frames the inside of the windows, I'm tucked in on the couch in the living room surrounded by old magazines and Readers Digest Condensed Books, all donated by customers from our milk route. Mom and Dad are out working the dairy, my brothers are at school, and I'm left alone with that bounty of print, and my imagination.<br />
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I would study the detailed and lifelike illustrations of Pompeii endlessly. I read enough of the text to understand the basics of what happened to the residents on August 24, 79 AD, but it was the pictures that captured me. Vesuvius loomed large in my mind, an evil force with the power to wipe out an entire town in a day. Herculaneum was mentioned, but it was the streets of Pompeii I walked during those long winter hours.<br />
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Two years of high school Latin cemented my fascination with that ancient city. In the years that followed I read everything I found about Pompeii and was determined I would walk those streets for real one day.<br />
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The morning of our Pompeii day dawned cold and blustery with the sun and clouds wrestling for possession of the sky. Still slightly jet-lagged from our arrival in Rome and then Sorento the day before, and buzzing with the excitement of a ten year old's dream finally coming true, I saw Vesuvius for the first time from the train carrying us to meet our guide for the day.<br />
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That was the first clash of imagination and reality. Not even close to evil looking, Vesuvius sat serenely in the distance, a soft green mound, and the only landform to break the flat horizon. While it grew larger as the train approached Herculaneum, our first stop, the gentle slopes became more appealing rather than less. I found myself wishing we had another day so I could hike the mountain's trails.<br />
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I hadn't cared that we were seeing Herculaneum, but looked forward to it as a part of the whole adventure. The first view as we entered the gates and proceeded across the bridge brought tears to my eyes. The reality of the ancient ruins exposed in the center of the towering apartment buildings of an active town overwhelmed everything my imagination had created.<br />
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As Pina, our amazing guide with two PhD's in Pompeii history, led us through the streets and the homes telling stories the whole time, I struggled to absorb both the information and the sensations. I was walking the same streets, standing in the same courtyards, viewing the same mosaics and frescoes as the people who perished centuries ago. I was in Italy, in Herculaneum, with a group of incredible women, falling in love with this little town. And Pompeii was next.<br />
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Where Herculaneum was small and intimate-feeling, with only a handful of other people present, Pompeii was a production. The lines to get in were long. The city was huge, the streets crowded enough our progress in was often slowed. It was much harder to imagine life during the time of the eruption, to find the city of my childhood dreams in the crowds and endless walls and streets of stone.<br />
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And so I released the dream and fully claimed the reality. A reality that included both ruts in the stone roads left by chariot and cart traffic and a tacky modern cafeteria/bathroom built smack in the middle of town. A reality that included plaster casts of bodies and litter on the streets. A reality that included seeing the actual Cave Canem mosaic with my own eyes and souvenir stands tucked in random corners.<br />
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I discovered that day following Pina through the streets of Pompeii that I no longer needed the dreams of childhood to sustain me. They had gotten me through unbearable realities. But I was, I am, no longer that powerless child. A child who found her power in the pages of books and magazines, in a past not her own, and in her imagination.<br />
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I am now a woman of a certain age, newly retired, just days into this new adventure. I didn't actually dream of retirement as a child, or even as a young adult. It was never my intention to live a conventional life, so retirement wouldn't have been a need. In the later years of my teaching career, in the midst of much more convention than I ever expected for myself, retirement became the light at the end of a very long tunnel. The dream of unlimited choices for my days, no schedule, and travel kept me going through some challenging times.<br />
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So here I am. With unlimited choices for my days. A schedule I set, or don't. More travel possibilities than I ever imagined possible. A dream come true. Yet I know, as was the case with Pompeii, that the reality will be both a bit disappointing and a far greater adventure than I can currently grasp. As I travel these new streets of my freed days, I will remember how the disappointment of the grit and crowds of Pompeii turned so quickly into wonder at what it meant to be standing in the sunshine on stone streets in the shadow of Vesuvius.<br />
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<br />Deb Shuckahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03439395710731341021noreply@blogger.com9