The Cleared Path

Every other week for the last two and a half years, my friend Arnie and I have gotten together to do an hour-long silent walk.  Afterwards, we stop for coffee and tea, and we talk about the most recent book that we are reading together.  Over the years, we have walked through cancer diagnoses, birthdays and the anniversaries of our parents' deaths.  While walking, we pass wildlife of various forms - those who live in expensive condos, those who sleep in sleeping bags under overpasses, many winged varieties, runners, bikers, and the show of constantly changing plant life.  Our walks feed me more than any food.  Thank you, Arnie, for being my walkin' buddy!

I wrote this about yesterday's walk: 

The Cleared Path

'Twas the day after Christmas and all through the city, 
cold snow and slick streets made driving a pity.
My alarm went off late, I had risen and eaten
For holidays, sleeping in can't be beaten.

Most people were snuggled all warm in their homes
but I had gone out into cold that chilled bones
for it was a Friday, the day of my walk, 
a time for being, with no need to talk.

When I arrived in the snow that slept by the river
I watched white-dusted geese, and my spine felt a shiver.
I looked through the trees, and what did I see
but my friend Arnie, here to walk with me.

We took off on sidewalks that were shiny with ice,
sliding this way and that way, it was fun and nice.
In silence we walked on a path that was cleared.
I thought to myself, "Whoever does this is dear!"

Then what to our wandering eyes did appear
but an unwalkable woman in a scooter she steered,
and running beside her with unfathomable glee
a beagle, so cute!, on a hare finding spree.

I know that at one time I'd have been sad to know
that the city was digging and cementing just so
in order to make a path 'long the creek, 
tearing up land, messing with animals so meek.

But this day after Christmas, watching woman and dog,
I let go of judgments, wishes, and fog,
and inside my head, in the place without fear,
to the woman, her dog, and path-makers I cheered.

2014 Carol Barrow

The Boogeyman Has No Clothes

Can someone really do what Michael is trying to do - heal cancer through these various weird things?"

Throughout the day, I write my thoughts on straggly pieces of paper.  They sit by my plate at the dinner table, next to the keyboard on my desk, and on the nightstand next to my pillow.  Most of them eventually get typed into Evernote as fodder for my exploration of life and as ideas to explore in the memoir that may get written some year.

Tuesday night I wrote this to the Knower of All Things Cancer,

Can someone really do what Michael is trying to do - heal cancer through these various weird things? I realize that both the possible yes and the possible no answers blow my mind.  If the answer is "No, he can't", he could die from this, and that knocks my feet out from under me.  If the answer is yes, and there will be a time that Michael is cancer-free due to his daily jumping on a mini-tramp, his hot baths, and many pills and powders (among other things), then my brain will explode from the shift in reality. Gravity might as well quit working, and the sun can rise in the west.  No matter the answer to my questions, I fear they will undo me.

Four days later, I saw my note on the table, and I suddenly let go of the need for answers.  It has taken a long time to be able to witness with the eyes of an outsider this crazy-making thought pattern that took over my head when Michael decided to choose his way of dealing with cancer. What a mean trap - to think I need to know where this is all going.  Ha! We never know where life is going.  Why should I be the person who finally knows the future?  And would I be at peace if I did know?

No worrying, controlling, getting angry, or wanting to know will change the outcome.  And putting out so much energy to control now (a useless endeavor) in hopes for peace later is absolutely insane.

I remember all of the years that I felt compelled to run up the basement stairs as though my life depended on it.  It wasn't the speed up the stairs that got my heart racing, but the knowledge that I had to outrun the boogeyman who was following me.  At some point - maybe about the time I turned forty-five - okay, maybe I was nineteen - I admitted what I had always known somewhere deep down: there was no boogeyman in the basement.  I was safe, and I had always been safe.

Well, I have been running away from the boogeyman of cancer and loss for over two years now. As of this past Saturday night, it is done.  Put down.  Life is not a boogeyman.  I see its benevolence everywhere.  It's all okay, even when we think it isn't.  We can do this thing called Life, no matter what it brings.  And right now, it's bringing me two dogs who are staring at me as if they want some attention or something.  I can handle that.

Ten Dekaaz at Christmas Time

Dekaaz is a new form of poetry using the format of:

Two syllables

Three syllables

Five syllables.

Dekaaz is supposed to be spoken out loud after it is created.  Pretend you hear me speaking out loud when you read the poem below.  

I have created ten Dekaaz that all go together into one poem for this holiday season.  You can also find a message in it by reading only the first lines of each Dekaaz.

Ten Dekaaz at Christmas Time

during

Christmas time

our hearts might soften.

these days,

as light dims

we think of others.

we send

peace and joy

to all humankind.

loving

seems easy

this time of the year.

kindness

magnifies

in our hearts and minds.

may we

continue

to love like Jesus

always

forever

may peace dwell on earth.

know that

all is well

each precious moment.

life gives

all we need:

love, a lush planet.

rich gifts

are not bought

but found in each breath.

2014 Carol Barrow

What We Can Afford

In a past life, I bartended.  I bartended in a neighborhood bar, and most of my customers were regulars.  If  anyone, regular or just passing through, apologized for not having the cash for a tip, a man named Dave who came in daily - and who happened to be about six foot one hundred inches tall and at least 300 pounds - would boom out, "I figure if I can't afford to tip, I can't afford to drink."

Yesterday, as I was showering, I really took the time to massage my head.  I had applied conditioner to my hair when I flashed back to the wonderful scalp and neck massage I had received before my last haircut.  The memory of that blissful feeling inspired me to take some time nurtuturing myself.  I don't always do that.

I have now realized the immense life wisdom of Dave's philosophy.  If I can't afford the time and energy to massage my scalp, I can't afford the time and energy to shower.

This could apply to everything.  It would slow us down so that we might only do a few things in a day - but they would be done well.

If I can't afford the time to create a healthy meal, I don't have the time to eat.  What a great weight-loss plan for Americans!  If I can't afford the time and energy to research the facts on things, do I have the time to speak my opinions on them?

Interesting to ponder all of this while living in a fast paced world where depth is not valued much.  On my deathbed, I think I will want memories of really being present to the experiences of my life.  To remember the softness of my dogs' ears, the confidence of my daughter's voice, the blue of my son's eyes, the strength of Michael's hands.  Those will soothe me more than knowing I rushed through many experiences that I only remember as fleeting stories.

Last week, I flew to Seattle to hear talks given by the man I call my teacher.  I am glad I did.  Still, teachers are everywhere.  Right here, right now.  Sometimes they show up as a little Vietnamese monk and sometimes they appear as a giant American in a bar.

Stay Sweet

Last month I flew to Florida to attend the funeral of my ex-mother-in-law.  I have not been married to her son since 1986 or so, but I have stayed in touch with her and her husband since the day I met them.  Some years we sent many letters and a Christmas gift.  Other years, only a letter here and there, and a card at Christmas.  I rarely saw them after the divorce.  Until the funeral, I had not been back to the farm since the separation.  But Jean and Claud came to Colorado a few times, and we always got together. I loved them.

Yesterday, a month and a half after Jean's death, Claud died.  He had experienced two strokes this year, and they had left him with pretty serious dementia.  As long as I knew him, he was a good and kind man.  It appeared that the stroke purified him even more, leaving him in a state of easy happiness.  While spending time with him after Jean's funeral, I would look at him, and he would mumble something unintelligible to me.  I would respond with "It sure is!" and then we would laugh.  We don't always have to understand another's language in order to share love and happiness.

As I hugged Claud goodbye last month, he said something he has said often:  "Stay sweet."

Okay, Claud, I will do my best.  I promise.

Claud and Jean with my daughter at two weeks old

Pierced

A piece I wrote today, inspired by an on-line workshop assignment to use the word, "pierced":



piercing is violent,
fierce.
it doesn't gently penetrate,
but instead,
it punctures without permission.
words into closed minds,
needle into unsuspecting skin.
painful, strong.  it can be
good medicine.

it wakes you up,
shakes you up,

if you let it.

jesus' bleeding palms
when crucified,
track marks on the skin
of someone high,
the harvest moon
intruding ebony sky,

and words of truth
gently stated,
yet splitting wide
the mind's eye.

piercing is violent,
fierce.
it doesn't gently penetrate,
but instead,
it punctures without permission.
it changes the landscapes of
our earth, our hearts, our skin
it can be
good medicine.
if it wakes us up,
shakes us up.

if we let it.


2014 Carol Barrow