Holding Hands

Dear Fern and Rose,

     Yesterday started out as another day of  third grade and kindergarten for you;  folders of completed  homework in your backpacks,  you counted the days until Christmas break.  Laughter, songs and last minute instructions filled the car as your traveled to school. 

      Shortly after you arrived, four hundred miles away, kids and adults died by  the hands of a murderer, in a school similar to yours.  

E P and Clara Fern Moore
my grandparents

     How do we all get through this?  "I want everyone I love within my eyesight, with my arms around you"... I wrote on my Facebook page a few hours afterward.  My first reaction was to want to  gather up everyone precious to me and retreat behind protective walls.  I especially  wanted to protect you, my dear grand-daughters.

     Is that the best I can do for you?   

     When I was a young girl, my grandmother protected me.  She did not build walls around me, but instead encouraged me to venture out into a world bigger than anything she had experienced  herself.   

     She protected my with her presence.  She was available;  I knew I could talk to her about anything---first love, nursing school, marriage, parenthood, moving  away,  divorce, traveling to Africa, my sister's death....and she would listen without judgment.    

      She protected me by embracing the changing world--not running from it.   The world may be more violent than when she grew up, but she managed to survive hardships I can't imagine--- a third grade education, serious illnesses,  the death of her mother when she was still a child, marriage at age fourteen, poverty, economic depression, the dust bowl, sending  her two sons to war and living off the land as farmers.  

     She protected me by offering me a real, authentic relationship.  She celebrated my victories, comforted me when I failed, walked with me through loss, encouraged me to stretch and take advantage of opportunities. 


     What does all of this mean to you?

     We mourn for the tragedy yesterday.  Violence  does not make sense and never will.  One of the surviving children said he was  told to close his eyes and hold hands, to avoid seeing the carnage.  Wonderful advice for the moment.  

     Today, I acknowledge that danger is unavoidable, but living a restricted life based on fear does not allow me to see the needs of others, the possibility of wonder, the magic of relationships. 

      We need each other--the merging of youth and life experience. Together the possibilities are endless.

     With our eyes open wide, holding hands--with each other, friends and strangers--we will change the world, one touch at a time.  

     You are my sunshine.

                                                                   Love Always....Gram

     



      


    


   

Protection

I questioned my ability to care for burn patients as I drove to work, when the only thing I could recall from anatomy lectures seemed utterly trivial:  The skin is the bodies’ largest organ. Its main function is to shield and protect.

The sting of betadine, alcohol and floor polish saluted me when I entered the restricted Burn Treatment ICU.  Overhead lights illuminated the nursing station like a night-time road construction zone.  I introduced myself to the charge nurse, as the nurse from the supplemental staffing agency.   An advantage to employment as an independent contractor is being able to choose the place and time to work.  But that perk was overridden earlier in the day when the staffing coordinator called.

“I don’t do ICU assignments,” I told her.  “Check my profile: no ICU, no ER, and no pediatrics.  I don’t like trauma; especially fresh, serious suffering.  And, I don’t like seeing kids sick enough to be hospitalized. It’s hard enough to keep my own daughter healthy.” 

“How bad could it be?”  She asked.  “Just one evening shift in the burn unit, OK?  They really need a nurse there tonight. Finish making those cupcakes and get your nurse groove going.  You’ll be home by midnight.”

The timing of the shift worked.   John and I juggled schedules to reduce childcare needs for Sara, our five year old daughter.    When an overlap was necessary I took her to a neighbor’s house for a couple of hours. Our recent move, from co-op housing in a risky neighborhood to a ranch house on a quiet street, reflected our shift from a counter culture life to mainstream living; all efforts to keep Sara safe.

“Mom, please don’t ask to see my cards during the party”, Sara requested as we decorated Valentine treats.  She was fine with my role as the kindergarten parent helper, but wanted me at a reasonable distance in the classroom tomorrow.  Cornrow braids of long blond hair framed her face. Her green eyes searched mine.   The delicate balance of protector mother versus promoter of independence was already a daily dance.

I brushed flour from her face; it clung to her smooth, moist skin. I pinched her cheeks the way my grandfather used to do mine.  “Sure.  But if a boy tries to kiss you I will break his knees”, I called as she ran away squealing.

“You’ll l have two patients this evening.  Molly, age six, fell into a campfire—burns on her back and arms.   Amanda, age 7, burned her face and chest when her dress caught fire at a birthday party” the charge nurse said.

She pointed across the unit to two small, bandaged bodies in adult-sized beds.  Molly’s mother was reading Winnie the Pooh.  Amanda’s mother knitted while her daughter slept.   Valentines and red streamers dangled from the bed frames.  Both mothers looked exhausted and sad.

 Children?  Young girls?  I expected the patients to be adults. My mouth went dry and my hands shook.

 “Where were their parents?  How could that happen?”     

“The parents were there. Just not close enough.” She explained the circumstances: normal, everyday events that just turned out wrong. 

Memories of Sara around fires flashed in my head:  my parents’ fireplace, fireworks, barbeques….

I donned the required isolation gown, mask and gloves and immediately felt hot, stuffy and clumsy. The incessant monitor alarms seemed to shout these lives were forever changed by one fleeting, unlucky moment, when parents were not able to keep their children safe.

The evening seemed to last for days.  Each painful bandage change, request for pain medication and tears of frustration and fear, pierced my heart so deeply that I still hear their cries  and see the crimson, wet and tender skin.  

The house smelled like chocolate cake when I walked in the front door, well past midnight.  I sat in the quiet kitchen and read the Valentines Sara had created with her dad. The cupcakes, sporting heart-shaped candy, were lined up in neat rows in a cardboard box, ready for the class party.

I knelt by Sara’s bed, swept long, loose hair away from her prefect skin, stroked her face and whispered, I am the largest presence in your life.  My main function is to shield and protect.

 Video made for Sara, Mother's Day 2011

Birth Stories

What is your earliest memory? Mine is not my birth, but I have a sense of what it was like from the family stories I have heard.  It seems important to have a sense of the surroundings, who was present, what the weather was like, the phase of the moon, current events. In other words, what the world was like when we arrived.

I was fortunate to be present at Fern's birth--my first grand-daughter; which was also my birthday. My son-in-law coached my  daughter for several hours.  Fern was not in the ideal position for delivery--face-up, which causes painful back labor.  When she was born the doctor said  "A stargazer girl!...that's what we call these baby who arrive face up".

Fern is eight now.  For the past five years she has waited for me to write her a bedtime song.  Every time I tuck her in and sing "You Are My Sunshine", she reminds me that I always sang that one to her mother. She wants her own song now.

The ceiling above her bed is a starry night sky.   She is a StarGazer Girl.

What is your birth story?  Has it shaped you? Informed you?  If you don't know what was happening in the world when you arrived, go on a search. Celebrate your arrival and the ways the world welcomed you.

Without You

I was alone on a cruise ship in a foreign country and found a leather-bound book of poems on a table.  In the lower corner of the soft red cover, I read the author’s name, in faint gold script.

The gilded pages felt fragile and sacred. Silently I touched the columns of short poems and noticed each poem contained the words "without you", in bold print.  My tears dropped onto the pages and the dark ink began to run and smear the words.  

“This poet has the same name as my sister. How can that be?”  I asked.

“She is well-known in this world” a voice answered.

I woke up crying; my empty hands clinging to the book of poems.  It had been a long time since I wept for my sister and it felt right to surrender to the sorrow and let my tears continue to flow.  I don’t think of her every day now, but when I hear Love Me Tender, catch a whiff of Channel No. 5, or when she visits me in a dream, I am reminded that she still lives  in my heart and in my life. 

I recorded the dream by candlelight and encouraged the pleasant feeling of being together again to linger.  Thanks for stopping by Kat I whispered. What does “without you” mean?  What am I supposed to do with that? Did you write poetry in this life that I didn’t know about?  Does time have any meaning where you are?  I continued to pose questions and wait for responses from somewhere in the darkness.  I struggled to visualize her before cancer:  clear, dark brown eyes; long, curly dark hair; devilish smile; perfectly manicured nails; flawless make-up.  The healthy image of her faded, replaced by the night she died, small and frail.

When she took her last breath twelve years ago, I struggled to breathe for the first time in my life without her in my world, as I held her lifeless hand. 

During the year of her illness, my multiple roles—researcher, caregiver, organizer, listener—swallowed me whole.  If I just worked harder, maybe the inevitable would go away.    After she died I attempted to resume other roles—daughter, sister, wife, mother-- and promptly discovered I felt vulnerable to lose every precious relationship in my world.  I wanted everyone I loved to be within my eyesight.

I was paralyzed by exhaustion, fear and anxiety; all normal reactions to loss. 

When I left Missouri and returned to my home in Michigan, the harsh winter added to my sadness.  I curled up beside the wood-burning stove and didn’t leave our farm house willingly until the earth began to warm again.  

Each spring Kathe, Kristy, Kelli and I watched for dandelions to surface, shining like miniature suns.  A fistful was usually the first bouquet of the season we picked for our mother.

When dandelions appeared in the spring after Kathe’s death, I sat on the grass in the backyard wrapped in an old wool blanket, and asked the sun warm my heart and soul.  I picked a bouquet of four flowers and spread them in front of me; the stems joined to create a pinwheel.  

My naturalist daughter taught me each part of the dandelion is edible and useful.  During its life cycle-- from seeds sprouting to seeds flying free— it is both a fetching spring flower and a gangly weed. Each stage is valuable in different ways; each stage is necessary.

When the expression of grief is rushed, emotional well-being and the journey back to wholeness is short-changed.  A three day funeral leave provides an opportunity to participate in death related rituals, but does not allow time to grieve.    Well-intentioned friends often encourage returning to usual activities immediately.

Klara, Kelli, Luci (mother), Kristy, Kathe
Thanksgiving 1999....one month before Kat's death

Unexpressed grief—even years after a loss--can become the force behind disabling depression. 

Healthy grieving takes time and patience.  Acceptance that it is essential and the willingness to abandon notions that it is a linear event helps.   

The raw, overwhelming ache of loss lasted only a few moments after the dream. Followed by peaceful memories and new insights.

I am always grateful when you when you return to remind of  the stages of life, death and grief.

Without you…I am whole, though forever changed by your life and your death.

  

There's No Place Like Home

We got back to Sweetwater Lodge less than 24 hours after my emergency appendectomy. 

Sweetwater Lodge Porch

Peter and I were both exhausted, but so happy to be home.  We have slept on the screened porch all summer, so after the confining hospital environment, it seemed an especially perfect spot. The north breeze from Lake Huron—strong enough to move the ceiling fan blades-- made us add a couple of extra cotton blankets as we crawled into bed.

The pain from traveling home—by car, ferry and rugged gravel road—was pretty intense, so I took two of the prescribed pain pills.   

“You're so sensitive to pain meds, I hope you aren’t taking too much.  Sweet dreams.”  Peter said, and immediately fell asleep.

The pain subsided, but I was wide awake…listening to the water and the rustling of the trees;  catching glimpses of the night sky as the stars started to appear.  Ahh….so good to be home.  

Then I felt something move under the sheets.

“There is something crawling on my legs!”  I screamed and jumped out of bed, tangled in layers of blankets.

Peter sprang out of bed, assumed the warrior pose—nude—and did his best to protect me from what he assumed was a drug induced hallucination.

“Oh Sweetie, there’s nothing, just look at your bare legs. Nothing. Calm down. It’s the drugs you took”.

“No!  There was a mouse in the bed.  It just went under the bookcase.”

Peter hunts two things  passionately:  mushrooms and mice. Neither gets away when he is around.

Sunrise today...from the porch

Within seconds, he grabbed a baited trap from across the porch and set it in front of the bookcase.   The mouse walked out, not able to resist Peter’s special treat, and SNAP…another notch on Peter’s belt.

We both fell into bed laughing like school kids on a playground.

I winced and clutched my bruised and bandaged belly. I considered taking more pain meds.

Instead I cuddled up to my warrior/hunter, kissed him good night and slept until sunrise.

Love and laughter.  Take two at bedtime.  Repeat as needed.

Fear Not...

"Excuse me,  I hate to bother you.  I just need someone to talk to and you look like...well...like maybe you won't say no."    The twenty-something man approached me in the parking lot between a store and my car.  The mid-morning sun was already blistering the pavement as he brushed his sweat-soaked brown hair from his forehead.  A fluorescent  green stud pierced his lower lip.  His blue eyes searched mine.  


Had his instinct about me been right?  

 I don't need directions" he smiled; reserved. 


Was it written on my face that I hate to give directions? 


"But, I do have a favor to ask.  I just got off work and am trying to get my medications refilled.  I am really embarrassed to ask, but  I am three dollars short."   

It's a well worn line.  Much like, I am out of gas...my kid is sick....my boyfriend stole my wallet. 

My position on helping strangers who ask for money is an ever-shifting one.  If I feel like I am being hustled, I walk away. If I am feeling light-hearted, I tend to be more generous.  If I am cranky,you would be smart to  just step aside.  When I don't want to figure out  how I feel,  I avoid eye contact. 


I woke up before sunrise  this morning, feeling raw and sad about  the mass shooting in Aurora, Colorado a couple of days ago. I sat in the darkness and wanted everyone I care about to be within my eye sight. The sun appeared, as it always does, but the darkness of fear and pain lingered.  

I had just shopped  for my daughter's birthday gifts--soft pajamas, because I want to cradle her in my arms, like when she was a child. I cried in the store because I  won't  see her on her birthday, which reminds me of how much I love her.   She is a busy young wife/mother/massage therapist/community leader; doing a wonderful job. We will spend time together soon, a couple of weeks after her birthday, when we travel to Pennsylvania.  

"I have an anxiety disorder, and depression.  I don't have any family here, but my mother is coming to visit in a couple of weeks.  I'm so excited about that.  I'll be out of the shelter by then and  have my own place.  She is going to stay with me.  After two years, I will finally see her."  


He filled  me on details of some of the hardships and triumphs he has experienced lately; from homelessness and injury, to employment and reconnection with his mother.  

Have you had breakfast?"  I asked.  His thin frame made me wonder if he had adequate food available. 

"A granola bar" he answered.

"I can cover the three dollars for your meds, but how about joining me for a bagel?"

Conversation flowed easily between us in the coffee shop.  He dreams of becoming a writer, wants to try  alternative treatments his illness and hopes  to finish college. 

"Thank you so much for talking to me.  I miss my mother so much.   The anxiety is so hard to live with.  I really just needed someone to listen".

Random violence is scary,and my reaction to it can can immobilize me.  His physical description is much like the Colorado shooter.  Why didn't I walk away? I am not sure.  There was something in his eyes and voice that drew me in.  I believe I listened to my heart, instead of my fears. 


Random connections can shed light into that lingering darkness.Synchronicity--that magical exchange that can happen when I don't get in the way--enriches my life every time I take the chance to embrace it.    


We exchanged contact information and talked about getting together again. He left to catch a bus.  Will I ever hear from him? I hope so, but it doesn't matter.


I smiled as I walked to my car, in the bright light of the day, and in my heart. 


He was right, he didn't need directions. 

I did.

Slow Down and Live

On muggy  Missouri summer nights, when it was too hot to be inside, my sisters and  I played our favorite game.   Kathe may have invented it. As the oldest she liked to organize us.  It might have been my idea since I remember being influenced by my Dad's tendency to do things slowly and  intentionally. If  Kristy made it up there would have been singing involved.  Kelli watched  from her playpen.   

We would hide behind the big rock near the end of driveway and wait for a car to come by, while lightening bugs danced above the field grass and  illuminated the dust hanging in the air.  To pass the time we told  scary stories:  An old woman lived alone and found a stranger in her  attic...    Late one night there was a knock at the door and a man covered with blood...      

When we  heard the  crunch of tires approaching, we  crouched behind the rock, grabbed hands...quietly counted...1..2..3..then jumped up and shouted, 

"Slow Down and Live!"

Our game ended when an elderly neighbor claimed he nearly had a heart attack and did not  want to die in front of the Dannar girls.   Our apology to him included a basket of cherry tomatoes  from our garden and a promise not to do it again.

That gravel road is now a fast-paced street, with a constant flow of traffic. Car lights and street lights pierce the night sky, making lightening bugs invisible. The open fields were divided, subdivided and parceled into tiny yards.  Air-conditioning results in closed windows in cars and houses.  

Slow Down and Live resurfaced after forty years when my sister Kathe was diagnosed with terminal cancer.   As adults we all returned home frequently to spend time together again.   During the year of her illness we reminisced about our rural upbringing and wondered why we felt driven to deliver that message, when our life was so slow-paced and simple. 

Life is noisy and  fast-paced;often chaotic and too stimulating.  A quiet, peaceful spot may not be right outside your door.  But, it is out there somewhere, waiting for you to claim it as yours. 

My daughter, Sara, enjoying a quiet moment

My current favorite spot to reflect, meditate and drink in nature is a strip of desert near our home in Tucson.  I often walk there early in the morning, repeating my mantra....

Slow down and live.