Betty of the Butterflies

In every room of her house, butterflies.

Embroidered on pillows, crocheted into blankets, embraced by frames, and depicted in gold pins placed perfectly on lapels.  Butterflies.

At ninety-seven, back bent into a C, hearing gone, skin tired and looking like the ripples of sand left after a desert downpour, Betty appears to be heading into a cocoon where she will transform into... what?  Does the caterpillar have any idea what comes next after she crawls into the sleeping bag of chrysalisness?

Betty recently fell, and her back has been painful ever since.  She asks me to come and give her a massage every week.  I go to her house, and help her onto her left side in her four-postered bed.  I crawl in with her, behind her, and my thumb rubs back and forth along an almost bone-like muscle. I patiently pay attention, to see if it wants to soften, to give Betty peace. 

I don't know what needs to happen here.  Betty is weaker, more quiet, more reliant on her walker and the help of her family.  Does she need this discomfort to help her to let go into her metamorphosis?  Or will pain relief renew her energy so that she is more self-reliant once again?  These questions are not useful.  I sing to her in my mind as I lightly knead her soft and perfect skin.  Just being here right now.  Just loving.

Today when I had finished massaging Betty's back, I let her relax awhile before helping her to sit up and get out of bed.  While she rested, I picked up a prayer book, one of a few dusty books tucked into a woven basket resting on the floor.  Written by someone from the Episcopal church in Little Rock, Arkansas, it was last updated in 1977.  Old but still useful, like everything in this house.  In silence, I read the prayers to Betty.

Prayers with gratitude.  Prayers of petition.  Thank you, God, for sending your Son to show us the way.  Please, God, give us your peace.  Please heal us as Jesus healed the blind, the lepers, the crippled.  I know this is Betty's language and faith - she doesn't tell me this, she lives it in the most beautiful way.

All around us, butterflies hang on walls, rest on chairs, and drape over couches. 

A caterpillar knows how to become a butterfly. 

I have faith in that.

A little painting I gave Betty years ago - it hangs in her kitchen.

The Five This's and the Ten Thats

Have they gotten you yet?  The Five This's and the Ten Thats?  They are both epidemics, so watch out!  There are also other This's and Thats that are almost as virulent, using almost every number, except maybe the number one, to confuse the innocent reader into thinking that he or she is safe.  But beware.  It is only a matter of time before no article - on the web or on paper - that includes a number will be safe to read.

Here are a few examples of the too many to count strains of Five This's and Ten Thats:

Dieting:

The Five #1 Diet Rules for Fat Loss
10 Unbelievable Diet Rules Backed by Science

Finance:

5 Personal Finance Rules You Might Have to Break
10 Rules to Guide You Through a Lifetime of Financial Decisions

Sex:

5 Rules for a Satisfying Sex in Marriage
The Top Ten Sex Rules for 2015

As a means to inhibit the spreading of these virulent strains, I did not read the articles that followed the titles above, and for your protection, I did not link to them.

(Well, okay, I did check out the Top Ten Sex rules for 2015.  Number one:  Let the Women Rule. Yes!)

As a public service, I am warning everyone to avoid these highly contagious and virulent diseases by avoiding contact with any article that offers a list that could make your life better.  Don't buy in to the idea that these sneaky little germs can't infect you with the feeling that if only you would let them inhabit your mind and body, you will finally be good enough.

Trust me.  YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH RIGHT NOW!

You're welcome.

Silent Healing

  A huge, gray cloud hangs low as I drive toward downtown Denver in the 5:30 cold morning darkness to meet Arnie for our silent walk.  The cloud is quite heavy.  And loquacious. It is full of its ideas:  I could be home writing; I am behind on some jobs, and I don't have time to create something by tomorrow; No time to even think about my book; Oncologist appointment will take up the afternoon; And be a waste of time. No time.  No time.  No time.

  At still-dark-o'clock, I park on the street, walk down an alley, and find Arnie.  We decide to head south, on the east side of the river - the side that passes a sleeping amusement park.  To do that we first walk the bridge across the river.  Water freefalls and tumbles over rocks below us. 

  I step off the bridge onto the sidewalk, notice a little cottontail come toward me then hop away, and five steps later, I become aware of the sidewalk under my feet.  Instantly, my mind travels to the men who created it.  They may have wished that they could have been home with their babies or their wives, writing their manuscript, creating something from inside of them, instead of creating something decreed by others.  But build it, they did.  Most likely in order to earn money to feed themselves, their children, their wives, maybe their mothers.

  My heart is touched.  Tears mimic the river, tumbling over my cheeks, freefalling off my chin. 

  Ducks fly beside us, gossiping loudly as they pass.  Then up ahead, splash!, feathers meet water.  I feel that I am walking on holy ground. 

  Did those sidewalk creators know that while they were working for money, possibly putting aside what they thought they really wanted to do, they were building a path of bliss on which unknown numbers of people would walk, some realizing the holiness like I finally did today?

  Oh, the high rises.  Those, too.  Humans creating homes for others.  And the amusement park beside us, quiet now, with floodlights casting ghostly shadows on the roller coaster.  Man, I loved the roller coaster when I was thirteen.  Riding it over and over, stoking my love of altered states.  People built this place where eight year olds go wild with excitement, young teens find freedom from parents, and teenagers work their first jobs.  All holy, holy. 

  Halfway through our hour of silent walking, Arnie and I turn back.  Though it's not even March yet, songbirds sing the sun up over the skyline. 

  As we near our meeting place where we end our walk with a cup of tea (well, Arnie will have coffee), a muskrat swims toward us, her tail barely under the water swishing back and forth, propelling her forward until she dives down, not to be seen by us again this day.

  After hot tea and coffee, and conversation about Hafiz and cancer, I drive home in the car that many people spent their days creating.  Gas from deep within the holy, holy earth propels me forward.  And I notice that I need my sunglasses.  The gray cloud is gone.