Rooted in eternity
Sensei of patience
Indoor Fukien Tea bonsai – Note its tiny flowers
Rooted in eternity
Sensei of patience
Indoor Fukien Tea bonsai – Note its tiny flowers
Let her rest a few more minutes
while the rest of us live our lives
and pause for an afternoon moment
to glance and smile her way.
For when she fully blossoms
she shall unwittingly discover
that her entire being has been cast
for the pleasure of others.
Two and a half months ago, I broke my ankle. It was a dark 5:30 AM and the first time in many months that we were taking all three dogs for a walk at the same time. Richard had Titus and Sahara. I was with Koa, who was recovering from major knee surgery where a metal plate was inserted to correct his torn anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, in his left leg.
A runner in dark clothing appeared out of nowhere and triggered Koa’s characteristic reactions. He noisily barked and strained with all his might to join the intruder. I had to forcefully navigate him into the adjacent yard and turn his head away from the runner. He calmed as the runner passed, and we proceeded to join Richard and the other dogs.
I stepped from wet St. Augustine grass onto slick driveway pavement and down I went. When I tried to stand, my foot twisted in a grotesque angle. Although I sprained my ankle a few times, those were relatively minor injuries. Some swelling, no fractures. In fact, I have never broken a bone.
This fall was serious. The ankle bone fractured, and a ligament was involved. The other side of the ankle was swollen and sore. The fracture could have long-term effects if the ligament was not secured. The orthopedist recommended surgery that would stabilize the ankle by screwing in a plate along the broken bone on the left side and tying the ankle together with twine, or fishline, or whatever. A screw on the right side of the ankle would hold it all together.
The doctor ordered no weight-loading activity on my left foot for six to eight weeks. Initially, I wore a heavy therapy boot to stabilize a very swollen and tender ankle. I slowly moved around using a knee scooter that was cumbersome with a limited turning radius. Accessing our sunken living and family rooms were initially impossible; our second floor and bedrooms were off limits. Graduating to a walking stick and foot brace was a big accomplishment.
With physical therapy, I continue to heal. Walking aids and braces are stored. I can walk, albeit slowly, to the park and back. I can do some yoga stands. Happily, I now sleep in our bed.
There were highs and lows throughout this healing time, and before I am fully recovered, I share three important lessons that have changed how I think.
Lesson 1: Dependency breeds humility and affords gratitude
I like to think I am not just self-reliant, but am pretty good at helping others. Being a superhero means controlling situations and outcomes. I confess I am a control freak.
This injury changed everything. I depended on Richard for simple activities, like moving a pot of water to the stove while I am cooking. And setting the table and serving meals. I needed him to stand by while I sat in the shower and slowly bathed. He had to bring me clothes, toiletries and earrings from our upstairs bedroom and do all my laundry because our washer and dryer are upstairs. I could not get in and out of the car without him. He drove everywhere and shopped while I sat in the car.
For the record, Richard anticipated well and took good care of me. Nevertheless, I needed to ask him, not because he didn’t think about what I needed when, but because I did not want to expect him to do things based on hints and exaggerated helplessness. That is passive aggressive. I did not want to play that game.
This dependency was very humbling. Fortunately, I came to learn that every act of kindness, of thoughtfulness, was an act of grace. Richard extended me grace constantly, and just the ability to sit with our dogs became evidence of grace. I became keenly aware of gratitude, and that awareness itself is a gift of grace.
Lesson 2: Motivation is an inside job
I am not prone to doing hard things. Right after the surgery, it was nice to lie around and enjoy my meds. But by day four, I voluntarily got off woozy pain killers and took an anti-inflammatory med for two more days. By the end of the first week, I was restless with the lack of physical activity. It was time to move.
I scoured YouTube for low-activity exercises that never mentioned “seniors.” I found chair yoga, chair Pilates, chair abs, chair weights and, my favorite, chair aerobics. I enjoyed chair aerobics because of the sprite instructor and upbeat music. I repeated her posted two sessions almost daily for five weeks and topped off each session off with abs and weights. I was determined to make the most of this healing time and perhaps even improve my pre-injury health.
I weaned off chair exercises when I started physical therapy five weeks after surgery. In my twice-a-week PT sessions, I was determined to accelerate progress. More reps, longer holding times, and, between sessions, weights, limited yoga and short slow walks. I wanted to get rid of the scooter and walking stick as soon as possible, get myself up and down the stairs, drive and shop alone and get back to walking, the gym and full yoga. I pushed the envelope and there were, and still are, many nights of icing an overworked foot.
While I appreciated encouragement from others, I learned that my motivation to heal is internal. If I wanted to heal and improve, I had to do it for me and not to impress or please others. I learned to use this drive to get off my butt and do the work.
Lesson 3: Intention requires mindfulness
For every action there is a reaction. I was obsessed with avoiding two types of actions that could bring undesired consequences. First, I did not want to cause accidents. Household accidents meant cleaning up and wasting time fixing something that could have been avoided. Second, I did not want physical setbacks. If I hurt my foot again, or any other part of my body, I would spend more time recuperating and reconstructing.
I tried to avoid typical household accidents that would result in broken glass and dishes, spilt coffee, food the floor and fallen fragile objects. I was pretty much one-legged and one-handed much of the time. I needed two hands to maneuver the scooter, and, later, one hand to hold the cane and use counters, walls and railings for stability.
I had to plan ahead and allow enough time to do the simplest of tasks. When I used the scooter, I figured out what I needed from various parts of the house, whether it was a meal, toiletries, a laptop or ipad. I loaded up the scooter with non-liquids during my rounds. I then made several trips to transport the spillable stuff like a cup of coffee or glass of water, a bowl of soup, and other liquids in open containers. When I used a walking stick, my trips doubled because I was one-handed.
Physical activity also required strategy. I was constantly aware that tripping or a fall could potentially worsen the fracture and cause a setback. Getting on and off a toilet was a challenge especially in the middle of the night. Going up and down the two steps to our living and family rooms meant sitting down, hauling the scooter, and bracing myself to get back on the scooter. When the scooter was gone, I held on to walls and railings. Getting in and out of the car added several minutes to each trip.
Thus, I, a proud multi-tasker, learned practical mindfulness. I learned how to focus on just one task a time, while figuring out the role of one activity in a string of tasks. I learned to be mindful of each moment, of my surroundings and abilities, of possible options of single actions. I also learned to adapt to consequences I may not have intended.
Come with me to a place
just around the bend
Where an old oak bides her time
though she is cold, wrinkled and bare
She obeys winter’s command
of silent anticipation of another time
She longs for the company of he
whose name is whispered in the winds
and carved in her soul
and imbued in roots secured by earth
Come with me to a place
where your kindred spirit awaits you
For Richard on Valentines Day 2019
Photograph taken by Richard on a trail run near our home
Child, you still see through eyes
unobstructed by experiences
of failures and hopelessness
of people lost and love betrayed
Your eyes shall witness a future
that Time herself has yet to conjure
as divinity and humanity wage war
to protect the heights and depths of Life itself
A Time . . .
of countries sundered by evil despots
of inventions that unify global families
of weapons perfected for genocide
of medicines that promise immortality
of streams, glaciers, birds sacrificed by human greed
of Mother Earth embracing warriors who protect Her domain
of portending words of gloom spewed from costly pulpits
of whispers of faith and goodness by those pure of heart
of demons who worship banners of religion and nation
of saints who fight for justice, protection, righteousness
Child, allow me to join your sojourn to the future
for just a Time and a half a Time
to share with you my crumbs of crusty wisdom
to see visions of promise through your eyes
For grandson Roman. Inspired by his mother’s (Megan) keen photographer eyes.
How she longs for the deep slumber of eons past
so she can dream of a simpler existence
when she swam in the cool waters of a lake of her creation
whose green waters merged Pacific Ocean brine
with rainwater swirling in earthen veins deep in the island belly.
Where she emerges refreshed and baptized yet again,
her raven hair flowing over her wide shoulders and draping her brown breasts
her flesh caressed by cool tradewinds whispering her name.
But she could no sooner retreat behind this memory
than she could delay the birth of this child
conceived by a fiery seed before time was invented
when there was yet no one to worship the gods
whose only destiny was to shape all that was forthcoming.
No doula was present to relieve the cadence of her quickening.
And though she has birthed many, she is not prepared for this new one.
Its strength and persistence demand existence
with a greedy hunger for all in its path.
Her guttural moans spew fire and rock and ash and vapor.
Her contractions cause deep fissures in the earth’s crusty skin.
The heat of her pains scorch villages and forests.
Her precious lake evaporates when she exhales in fury.
Her sweat steams the sea.
Yet even as she begs the heavens to let this birth be done,
her child continues to come forth and, with impish audacity,
consumes homes and playgrounds of mere humans
and imposes its presence on the ocean most vast.
Photo from U.S. Geological Survey photos on the Kilauea Volcano
Every morning, a couple of hours after dawn
a wispy yellow butterfly
leaves her sanctuary of tall dry grass and discarded afterthoughts
to sit for a moment
on moist Pahala black sand
polished by the Pacific Ocean’s insistent caresses
and seasoned with salt as old as time.
She performs this daily ritual