Earth Full of Butterflies

Last week I was again giving massage to my ninety-seven-year-old client, and as I moved my thumb across muscle fibers, I realized that the piece I wrote about her and the butterflies which surround her was very much in alignment with my thoughts and feelings about our dear Earth.  So I took the Betty of the Butterflies piece and changed it to reflect my love for our planet.  Here is what came of that:

Earth Full of Butterflies

On every continent of the planet, butterflies.

Migrating to Mexico, flying flower to flower, embroidered on pillows, crocheted into blankets, captured in mason jars, bred in museums, and depicted in gold pins placed perfectly on lapels.  Butterflies.

At almost five billion years old, seas and air no longer vibrant, land nearly depleted, our sweet Earth appears to be heading into a cocoon where it will transform into... what?  Does the caterpillar have any idea what comes next after she crawls into the sleeping bag of chrysalisness?

The Earth recently suffered from radiation poisoning after a meltdown of nuclear reactors at Fukushima, the dumping of millions of barrels of crude oil into the Gulf of Mexico, not to mention the ongoing mountain top removal, deforestation, and the continued dumping of plastics into its seas.  It asks me to love it and care for it every day.  I reduce, reuse, and recycle.  I patiently listen to find out what more I can do to bring health and peace.

I don't know what needs to happen here.  The Earth keeps getting sicker, more polluted, and more reliant on us to change our ways.  Does it need all of this damage to help it transform in its metamorphosis?  Or can we turn things around so that it is healthy once again?  These questions may be useful - I don't know.  Most of all, I want to be here with the Earth and the life on it.  Right here, right now.  Just loving.

Today when I had finished watching a red-tailed hawk and pulling dandelions that neighbors don't appreciate, but bees do, I picked up The Earth Prayers book. Edited in 1991 by my teacher, Elias Amidon, and his wife before the above mentioned ecological catastrophes, but after many others, it is still relevant.  In silence, I read the prayers to the Earth.

Prayers with gratitude.  Prayers of petition. "In this moment, each moment, I give thanks."  "Help us to protect these waters, these wild lands you open on; instill in us the powers to contain the ooze of mines, the excrement of need."  I know this is my language and faith - and I want to live it more.

All over the Earth, butterflies drink nectar, fly freely, bring joy to our eyes.

A caterpillar knows how to become a butterfly; the Earth knows how to heal.

I have faith in these things.


 Carol
April, 2015

Bunny Meditation

bunny sits frozen on desert sand,       

then suddenly jumps and darts

zig-zaggy up the hill.

sun kisses evening sky

goodnight and

slowly shuts its eyes.

from evening stillness, coyotes sing,

the chorus serenades

orion, the hunter.

as dark sky turns gold,

and warmth returns,

coyote crests hilltop,

small, limp, furry legs

ooze out between his jaws.

four rabbits' feet; good luck.

at what point does bunny become coyote? 

when its blood runs warm in the

carnivore's pores?  or

at the moment jaws clamp

death?  maybe the fateful

moment when hunger meets irresistible,

wild grass shoot.  possibly

before the kit is even born.

rabbit, sand, sun, sky, coyote

coyote, rain, root, rat, feces

feces, bug, breath, bone, human

human, wind, worm, wound, planet

planet, gene, god, grace, heaven

i am

  you are

    it is

      beginningless

        endless

          nothingness

            allness

              never and forever

                 beyond the beyond

bunny sits frozen on desert sand

Carol Barrow

April 18, 2015

Taking Care

I recently completed an on-line memoir writing course.  I ended the course feeling pretty good about my writing - that I have the potential to write a fairly well-written and interesting memoir.  To further my work, I signed up for six sessions of coaching from the instructor.

Last month, I met with the instructor on Skype, and we spoke about dialog and description, then I said that I wanted to talk about a short essay that I had sent her a few days before.  The first words out of the instructor's mouth were, "Is Elizabeth going to have a big part in this?", to which I answered that no, she wasn't.  "Then why do you start off the piece mentioning her?"

BECAUSE TO SHOW AN EMAIL THAT I SENT TO HER AT THE TIME IS THE BEST, MOST INTERESTING AND SUCCINCT WAY TO GIVE SOME BACKGROUND TO BEGIN THIS PIECE!  CAN'T YOU SEE THAT???

That's what was in my mind, but not what I said.  If I learned anything growing up, it was to be a nice girl.

My piece was about a trip to a beautiful island that I was preparing to take (I would be staying with Elizabeth), but life changed and Michael's diagnosis socked us in the head less than a month before I was to leave.  I ended up canceling my flights.

The instructor asked me to tell her the reasons for my trip.

I could spend time with someone I considered a mentor.
I could do nothing but rest on warm beaches.
I could take a break from the intensity of the situation with my parents - my dad in a nursing home with advanced dementia, my mom so needy, all life was getting sucked out of me.
I could dive into a good book.

To summarize what I had said, my instructor gave me this sentence:  "So, it was about self-care."

That is when I lost it.  The first time I had ever met my instructor "in person", the first time I had been "face to face" with this woman (throughout the course I had taken with her, it was all done in an on-line forum), I bawled.

I fell apart because it had never entered my mind that my trip, two weeks on an island in the Caribbean, was about self-care.  Besides that, I never made up for that loss.  After Michael's diagnosis, I just wanted to die.  When I finally emerged out of the wanting to die mindset, I vowed that I would spend as little money as possible on Carol because Michael was spending so much on trying to heal the cancer, and I didn't want to be old with no money, no home.  An old woman, living on the streets.

For some reason, I have lived SIX DECADES like a plant poking up through a small crack in the concrete.  When the nurturing rains have fallen, they have run off the sidewalk leaving me thirsty.  At the time of my trip, I doubt beaches and naps would have supported life in this body and mind because the nurturing would not have been able to penetrate the cement whose basic ingredient was "You shouldn't be enjoying yourself while your mom and dad are _________ (in this case, while my dad was in a nursing home, and Mom was struggling to deal with the lot life had brought her).

The conversation with my writing coach was a gift.  I am now aware of the floor supporting me, the abundant air filling my lungs with life, and each time I go to the chiropractor or the dentist, I now know that I am doing self-care.  Before now, these things were just necessary acts.

I used to think that "We must love ourselves before we can love another" was a nice, yet untrue saying.  Now I get it.  This is where it all begins.  The first holy act is to love our own body, mind, and heart.  What generous gifts we are given.

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.