The Unexpected

“Most people want to be circled by safety, not by the unexpected. The unexpected can take you out. But the unexpected can also take you over and change your life. Put a heart in your body where a stone used to be.”   ~  Ron Hall


When I'm traveling to other parts of the country and tell people that I live in Maine, I usually get the same reaction. It's one part "I'm so sorry...you poor thing!", and another part "How pretty it must be there in July!". These comments generally drift into an anguished sympathy asking how I can possibly function with 'all that snow'. To the outsider, living on the coast of Maine year round seems as if we residents go into a 'bubble' from October to June. These folks imagine that we're mole people, tunneling our way underground to have an entire civilization away from the cold. No one can fathom that we lead completely normal lives. Kids go to school. Adults go to work. We go to the market, to the movies and to restaurants. We don't hibernate. In fact, for many of us, winter is pretty nice because the crowds are less and the gatherings are more intimate in the places we socialize. Yes, it snows. But, we deal with it. We have the occasional snow days (to much laughter and joyful dancing). We have to shovel. But, it's life...and frankly, we're just used to it. It's simply not a big deal. It's the expected, and it generally begins after Thanksgiving and before Christmas.


Halloween has always been our last 'outside' blast of fun. In our little town of Camden, there are a couple of streets that get all the Trick Or Treat traffic. There are police blockades set up so those little Fairy Princesses and miniature Supermen can walk safely without cars. For teens, the village green has become a 'somewhat' sanctioned location for the annual shaving cream fight. It can get a bit rowdy, but in general, Halloween in our Maine town is akin to a small version of Mardi Gras. It's all in good fun. There are always a few 'bad apples' who try to ruin it, but it's a traditional night of merriment and joviality.  The big storm that hit the northeast was a huge surprise! We've lived in Maine for twenty years and, not once during that time, did we ever have a "white Halloween". It definitely put a damper on what many people, especially young people, were planning for their holiday. Will tiny Ladybugs or petite Firefighters have to wear snowsuits over their costumes? Will the shaving cream turn into a snow ball fight? We just don't know. Jack O'Lanterns are buried all over New England right now. 


This snow storm has really struck me as incredibly metaphorical for the challenges I'm facing in my life right now. I do have a diagnosis. I do have some answers. I don't have a way to fix the broken problems with my body right now, here at home. I'm nervous about how to repair my terrified spirit. I'm constantly waiting for the 'other shoe to fall' once again. An October snowstorm sums up, quite neatly actually, the way I feel about my life. I had expected lighthearted joy and received unforeseen melancholy. 


What the "October Snowstorm" metaphor  has taught me is to find the eye of the hurricane, and to rest in that bright spot as much as possible. In between some dreadfully painful and invasive neurological tests, I was able to go out to my favorite restaurants with my mother and 'aunties'. While my husband has been looking for a new career, we've had the luxury of wonderful time spent just the two of us. The unexpected is terrible. But, it's taught me another lesson: I've learned to never get too 'comfortable' in any situation. Why? Because that comfort can easily turn into complacency. We can be so satisfied in our current circumstances that we allow contentment to override the possibility great changes. We can also become dreadfully set in our ways. "October Snowstorms" teach us to remain open to new situations, and also to learn to react effectively when massive changes hit. Most of all, the unexpected can be a drill in living in the moment and a reminder not to take our current lives for granted.


One of the pleasant parts of my recent health complications was my trip to Arizona, where I was blessed to find a doctor who could diagnose my problems. However, this exceptional woman wasn't the doctor I had flown 3000 miles to see. The expected neurologist was great...not only was he a nice man, but he was a premier doctor at the most highly rated neurological center in the country. And, he was completely stumped by my case. He felt it was "just one of those things that might go away on its own". This didn't help me with my pain level or ability to walk. The doctor who ultimately aided me was recommended by one of my mother's best friends. The doctor is an MD, a Princeton educated doctor no less, who also has studied Eastern medicine.  She a tiny office in a tiny town in Arizona. She was the first person to ask me when my ability to walk became a problem, listened to the results of all the traditional tests I'd had (which she'd assured me that she would have ordered) and then proceeded to help me using acupuncture, chiropractic work and other 'alternative' methods. Had I not flown to Arizona, I never would seen this doctor...and she wasn't the health care professional I'd expected to help me. I still have to find 'help' here in Maine, but just having the diagnosis of a compressed spine has made a huge difference.


October Snowstorms come out of the blue. We don't expect them, and we certainly don't feel, when we're in the midst of one, that we can learn anything by the blows we're dealt. And yet, these 'come out of nowhere' experiences also have blessing of pushing us out of our comfortable territory and into exploring new horizons. My mother has a great illustration for this: "Make plans, but always have your running shoes by the door."  I get that now. I appreciate that now. I live by that now. The only difference is that I make my plans, but keep my Uggs by the door. I think the same concept works.

Balloons

As I sit in the tranquil, zen-inspired-by-way-of-Tuscany, courtyard of my mother's house, it's easy to slow down, breathe and count my blessings. The past month has been a hectic, frenetic blur. From one doctor's appointment to the next, then dealing with health insurance and still trying to barrel my way through pain...it's been overwhelming.

I have felt a bit like the girl holding a giant number of balloons. The balloons lift her up off the ground and she's completely stuck: if she releases the balloons, she will plummet to the ground. If she keeps holding on, she is letting those balloons carry her further away. Additionally, the winds are dictating where she will wind up. The girl has no voice in her journey. She is, quite literally, along for the ride. None of her options have happy endings.

However, I've slowly been coming to discover another outcome...one that doesn't involve a crash into the side of a mountain. If I think of each of the trials, tests, struggles and roadblocks as balloons, I can release them one at a time. I'm able to create the image of a Cerulean blue balloon as the vast amount of radiology I've had. I can then imagine it in my hand...and can then simply let it go. It's gone and I don't have to worry about it anymore. I can do the same with the shimmering teal balloon that may be my surgeries, the deep burgundy for the loss of my yoga career and the pearl grey one for my heaviness of heart.

One by one, I can let them go. It's not all at once. I am not dropping my hand without making sure that I'm able to watch each individual concern float away. It's just a way to allow myself to
come down from this worrisome, unknown place slowly, gracefully and at my own pace.

But for now, all balloons are on hold, so to speak. I have my feet planted on Terra Firma. My arms were getting tired from holding onto all those strings. It's good to rest. I can pick them back up later.

Indian Summer

"I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don't notice it."  Alice Walker "The Color Purple" 


One of the greatest joys of living in New England is the change of seasons. I look forward to the magic that each new time of year brings. In part, I think this isn't so much of a case of disliking the current time as it is an eagerness for what comes next. It's great fun to pull out my sweaters every Fall...just as it's a great relief to put them away every summer.


My father, a lifelong Northeast resident, enjoyed our move to California...up to a point. The first few years, I think he managed to "suffer through" being a Santa Barbara resident. However, the bloom was off the Banksia rose (and the orange blossoms, hyacinth and nasturtium), when he bought (and wore) a t-shirt that said "Just another sh%*^y day in Paradise". Other people might have found that statement to be witty and ironic. Dad was dead serious. He missed the snow. He daydreamed about Autumn leaves, Nor'easters and waking up to the crunch of first frost on the lawn.


This year, however, I'm soaking up every bit of the glorious Indian Summer weather. I'm basking in the glow of hazy, breezy afternoon sun. I'm finding incredible peace in just celebrating October temperatures in the 70's. Why? There is just so much unknown on the horizon. In less than one week I'll be in Arizona, consulting with a new neurological specialist. I've run through my meager medical options here and must head to a center that can offer me help, answers and a plan of action. So, I find myself with a lack of enthusiasm for the changing seasons this year. I still love Fall. But I just want to hang onto the present, pleasant days I'm having now.


As exciting as it is to take out that box of warm clothes, I realize how much time I've wasted looking too far ahead. For now, I'm content to just remain utterly thankful for Indian Summer. It's as if I've been given a reminder to stop and notice "the color purple"...especially if that color comes with a glass of iced tea next to the hammock.

Awake

A brahmin once asked The Blessed One:
"Are you a God?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"Are you a saint?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"Are you a magician?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"What are you then?"
"I am awake."
~ Zen Lesson


While I was lying prone in bed last week, I came upon this lesson former yoga teacher training books. I'd first read the quote about 8 years ago, just as I was beginning my R.Y.T. program. I found it to be enlightening, encouraging, helpful and compelling. I was excited to become a yoga teacher! I knew that I'd be "living what I love" in my new career. The extraordinary concept that I could actually get paid to practice yoga, and to share it with others, was still a novel concept to me at that time. I studied the wisdom words by everyone from Moses to the Buddha to Thomas Merton. My program of study was especially wide ranging. Not only did I learn an incredible amount about anatomy, but I also apprenticed in the 15 most common forms of yoga practice. It was both overwhelming and edifying, and unnerving and revitalizing. I had phenomenal teachers and surprisingly nasty ones. I met lifelong friends in my classes, as well those who took competition (in a 'supposed to be non-competitive' atmosphere) far too seriously. Through all of these lessons, over my 8 months of study and practice, I kept coming back to this first lesson: I asked myself if I was "awake". I felt, at that time, that I was. Every cell in my body told me that I was finally waking up from my lifelong trance-like slumber.


Now that I'm older, more jaded and, hopefully, a bit wiser, I've learned how unconscious I am most of the time. My thoughts of being awake, 8 years ago, are laughable in their innocence. What I had envisioned to be a "one time alarm clock moment", even a 'born again' experience, was simply not the case. I think that, regardless of one's religious beliefs or personal practices, the art of being awake isn't a singular event: it's a lifelong goal for which to strive. I can't possible undo decades of absent minded and heedless practice overnight. In our culture of repetition and unconscious habit, it's tough to remain mindful in everyday life. I seem to operate on auto-pilot through much of my day. Before I'm even aware of it, I'd gotten up, made breakfast, gotten the kids to school, taken the dogs for walks, done the errands, paid the bills and even taught a yoga class, all without consciously being aware of these actions. Living mindfully aware, in the present moment, requires a great deal of practice, I've discovered. I tend to get so caught up in daily routine that my sense of being 'awake' slinks into the background.


I'm no longer a yoga instructor. Unfortunately, my surgery last December made that career impossible to continue. However, I have discovered a bit of a tough lesson: even being a yoga teacher did not make me immune to falling into daily amnesia. I often taught six classes per week, in addition to my other 'jobs' as mother and wife and committee member and volunteer. My daily practice and classes simply were added to my 'to do' list. 


It's my hope to find a bit of time each day to "wake up". I'd like to have my reflections and prayers become more than my 'wish list' of 'wants'. I would to get out of bed each morning not just stumbling towards coffee, but as a conscious experience of the new day being the precious gift it is. I truly understand my ignorance of 8 years ago as a wistful enthusiasm. I just hope I can poke that same hopeful, eager, but exhausted woman I was back then. Perhaps in my gentle (or even forceful) nudges to my psyche, I can revivify that former earnestness, but temper it with cautious awareness.


The alarm clock has gone off! I'm awake!  But I'm learning that waking up is easy. It's staying awake that's much more challenging.

Too much of a good thing

"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?" ~ William Shakespeare, "As You Like It", Act IV, Scene 1


There are very few things in life I like more than curling up in bed. A cup of coffee by my side in the morning, or tea in the evening, my book, my snuggly dogs, a rainy day and my Netflix account....it just all makes for sheer bliss for me. No amount of temptation can lure me away from the coziness that is my favorite space. To quote my cousin Lori, "I love my bed so much I could marry it." 


However, I have learned that even a sloth like myself has limits. Last week I had a lumbar puncture. The old fashioned way of referring to this procedure is a "spinal tap". Dear sweet heavenly radishes, but it was dreadful. After being reassured countless times about how simple, and painless, a maneuver like
 this was nowadays, it did not go well for me. Apparently (and in the 'who knew?' category), I do not have easy access to my spinal column. This is in part just how my body works. It's also thanks to my badonkadonk, which gives me a sway back. Regardless, a ten minute job turned into at least half an hour. And, I was left with a Post Lumbar Puncture Headache. This isn't a lousy "let me take some aspirin" headache. Oh, no. This is a "could someone be so kind as to remove my head from my body?" headache.


In order to avoid more invasive hospital cures, I was advised (even ordered) to take to my bed. I needed to lie completely prone (i.e., no beautiful, elegant pillows propping me up) for a couple of days. I was also advised that caffeine would be beneficial. Despite my pain level, I thought, "Hallelujah! I can do this! Lying in my bed all day long drinking coffee! That's my skill set at last!".  I mused, "Finally! A treatment I was born to do!". 


However, I quickly learned that this activity is, well, just awful. Not only am I used to sitting up while drinking said my caffeine sources, but I'm also accustomed to being able to move about when I feel like it. Despite my marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth, I did have nagging feelings about all the things I wasn't doing. The laundry was getting done! The kitchen hadn't been wiped down! If I forgot something at the other end of the house, it was a "no soup for me" moment.The dogs might be able to go outside through the dog door, but the pitiful way they kept bringing me their leashes showed me that their imprisonment wasn't any more fun than mine. While I did have my friend introduce me to "Dr. Who" on Netflix (a fabulous distraction), I really wanted to go into town. Even though my neighbor went to the farmer's market for me and brought me fresh vegetables, I wished I'd been able to go with her. I missed being with my family in southern New England. In short, the bloom was off the rose. My bed no longer represented a delicious sanctuary. It had become a prison with lovely pillows....pillows I could not use, by the way.


I'm up once more. It's slow and gingerly movement. I'm keeping an eye on the headache from hell. I have to monitor my time up and my periods of rest. I now find myself daydreaming about doing things like climbing mountains in Tibet or a safari in Africa. Just like the child who, when caught eating cake when she wasn't supposed to, and then being told to eat the whole thing, I have find I've lost my appetite for cake. Or, in my case, lying in my bed.


But, the hammock is looking positively captivating.

Nobility and Humility

"Whatever comes," she said, "cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it.  ~ "A Little Princess", Frances Hodgson Burnett


We have had a challenging month or two. My health has gone from adequately recovering from my December cancer surgery to being in debilitating pain. I have suffered through complex neurological issues that have not only taken all my strength to muddle through, but my dignity, as well. My husband, who has always been a hard working provider for our family, has lost his career. We went from looking forward to spending an extraordinary year planning out our next steps as recent "empty nesters" to just worrying about what the next day will bring. I wait from moment to moment, terrified when, and where, my next bout of seething pain will strike. I am deeply concerned about the unpredictability of our financial situation. There are times I want to be impatient, snappish, angry, bitter, jealous and downright mean spirited. I want to smack the hands of the nurses who can't start my IV's (after three tries). I want to kick the shins of the doctors who don't meet my eyes while telling me "We just don't know" about my medical saga's answers. I am seething when I see less qualified, and less competent, people who are still working in their same positions...and who want to buy bigger houses...when I worry about how we're even going to pay to heat ours.These are not thoughts I'm particularly proud of. In fact, I'm ashamed to be such a grumpy, churlish shrew. For better or worse, I'm exhausted. I'm too worn out from pain, from worry and from fear to be concerned about the social niceties.


Yet, when I think of the woman I want to be "when I grow up", this is not she. The woman I want to imbue is not a despicable harpy. She is a noble, kind, humble, loving gentlewoman. The "fully realized" Ellen of my imagination is about as far as I can travel from my current state of resentful harridan. Somehow, I need to make this transition from one of angry terror to one of gracious acceptance. It isn't easy. If I'm not physically in pain, I'm emotionally distraught. I do realize, however, that it's up to me to rise above these present circumstances and move into being the woman I choose to be. One of my mother's favorites quotes, from St. John of the Cross, keeps coming to my mind again and again: "I am not made, or unmade, by the circumstances in my life, but by my reactions to them".  If I judge myself in this light, I am thoroughly abashed. I have allowed myself to be 'made' by the circumstances in my life...both the good and the bad. I have taken pride in areas which were really no more than good fortune. I have basked in the glory of praise. Because I allowed myself to get caught up in believing I was 'made' by the good circumstances, I know that it's no wonder that I have been 'unmade' by the poor ones. I am ashamed.  Mea culpa.


I believe that this is my chance to grow up at last.I need to let go of letting my situation dictate how I feel. I must "put the ways of childhood" behind me and move into adulthood. The inspiration for desired transformation, ironically, is from my one of my favorite children's books, "A little Princess" by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The protagonist, Sara Crewe, shows exceptional courage and strength as layer, by layer, her carefree, beautiful life is stripped away from her. She's left with nothing, quite literally. And yet, her angelic, compassionate, noble soul shines through. It doesn't matter if she's wearing the latest fashions from Paris, or the rags of a street urchin. Sara Crewe, even as a fictional character in a child's book, embodies the woman I hope to be. She is unfailingly kind. She is loving to those who are wretched to her.  She is generous with what little she has. She is altruistic, accepting, satisfied and humane. 


Therefore, I've set my goal: I want to be a princess. Not the spoiled, nasty type that one sees on "reality television"...no, I want to be a princess 'on the inside'.  I may be in pain. I may be embarrassed. I may be frightened. I may be living with an unspeakable number of unknowns. But, I can be kind. I can be loving. I can remember that if I behave in a way that shows strength, courage, gratitude, peacefulness, acceptance and joy, perhaps that will come true. As Sara Crewe pointed out: it's easy to be noble when everyone knows it. The challenge comes in creating that gentle nobility within myself that is immovable regardless of what happens to me. 


I won't be wearing a tiara. I have never owned a pair of Manolo Blahnik's. My wedding did not take place at Westminster Abbey. Yet, I can be a princess all the time. Perhaps, if I think about how a princess should behave, when confronted with adversity, it will be reminder to emulate one.

The End of Innocence

Somewhere back there in the dust, that same small town in each of us. I need to remember this. So, baby give me just one kiss. And let me take a long last look, before we say goodbye. Just lay your head back on the ground. And let your hair fall all around me. Offer up your best defense. This is end of the innocence. ~ Don Henley and Bruce Hornsby "The End of Innocence


September 11, 2001 began as a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The leaves on our large Maple tree were just beginning to turn. We could see the brilliant yellows and reds outside our kitchen window. I was still homeschooling my children, who were 9 and not quite 7 years old respectively. We were curled up on the couch in our family room, reading "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe". Josh and Caroline begged me to postpone their math lessons to just allow for one more chapter. "Aslan is on the move, Mom! We can't stop now!", they said. I realize that those two sets of beautiful brown eyes were both serious in their earnest request for more reading. I also knew it was partly a ploy to postpone multiplication tables. I was okay with that.




The phone rang just after 9:00 am. It was my friend, and fellow homeschool mother, Jennifer asking if I had the television on. Jen wasn't any more likely to be watching TV on a school day than I was. We took our jobs as homeschool teachers seriously. But, I heard the tone in her voice, and still couldn't comprehend what she was telling me. How in the world could a plane have crashed into one of the Twin Towers? It was with horror that the children and I watched the events unfold. What we thought must surely have been a terrible accident initially, clearly took on much larger meaning for the entire world.


It was the end of innocence for our nation, I've heard it said. No longer were terrorist attacks limited to unfathomable bombs going off in Israel or India. Our oceans to the west and east couldn't protect us with their natural barrier. We were no longer the citizens of a country who had to travel to foreign lands to protect ourselves. We needed protection here at home. Europe bears the scars of war from within the last 60 years. So does most of Asia. We had now joined the unwanted society of countries at war.


Because I'm not a politician, or journalist, or in the military, I can't speak for a world perspective. I didn't see the carnage first hand. I didn't lose a loved one or a colleague on September 11th. But, as a mother, I know what our family lost: its innocence. Until that time, my family flew several times a year with ease. My biggest concern was having enough items in my carry on bag to entertain Josh and Caroline for our trips. My only fear was that we'd run out of things to do and someone would melt down in public. After September 11th, our trips changed in tone. My children saw me pulled out of line and searched almost every time we flew. I explained that it was for all of our safety that folks were searched randomly. "Is it so that we don't hit a big building, too?", my daughter asked the first time this happened, "Don't they know you're a Mommy?". I tried to think about how to illustrate the concepts of fairness, equity and impartiality. It was hard to do when my children just wanted to go visit their Nana, and were afraid to fly.


As it turns out September 11, 2001 was an end of innocence for our family in other ways...in aspects that had nothing to do with the terrible events of that day. This was, ultimately, the last year I would homeschool the children. They both went on to doing extremely well in school. They loved their peers and were successful in their classes. They gained independence by leaps and bounds every year. I am exceptionally proud of both of them for their diligence and leadership, both in the classroom and outside of it. But, I still missed the sweet quality our days together had once had. It was the last year before I was diagnosed with cancer the first time. My life was never the same after my first cancer digagnosis. I would find myself revisiting this chapter time and again. I would come to the understanding that no matter how well I take of my body, it can betray me with illness. My husband was working in a job he loved, with people he admired, during this time. Although his career would take another decade to end, I look back on 2001 as the time in which my husband was working in a capacity he most enjoyed. 


Obviously, things haven't been all bad since that September 11th. We've continued to travel, to grow, to learn, to laugh, to cry and to explore. We have had outstanding years and utterly dreadful ones. We have known profound joy. We have experienced deep sorrow. Ten years is a long time, but it's also the blink of an eye. I am thankful for every day I've had since the terrible tragedy occurred. If nothing else, the terrorist attacks taught me to appreciate life all the more, to hold my children a little closer, to hug my husband every day before he leaves for work, to call my mom and tell her how much I love her.


Back on the homeschool couch, on September 11th, I used the remote to turn the TV off. I pulled a blanket over Josh, Caroline and me, and we read another chapter from the Chronicles of Narnia. Then, we read the chapter after that. And on, and on, until we finished the book. We may have skipped math that day, but I believe that time spent reading was vital. After all, Aslan was on the move.