He takes a deep breath, screaming
Birth.
Kicking, crying, claiming the air
Life.
Hands clenching at nothing, and everything within
Reach.
Feet kicking, pushing at air and obstacle
Movement.
His face turns left, then right seeking
Suckle.
Eyelids opening then closing, pinching against
Sleep.
New mother holds her human deep and breathing
Relax.
Her work complete
Rest.
A beautiful intro to the morning. Nothing makes me feel more thankful than seeing the moon and the sun share the sky together.
As I struggle these days with consistency and clarity, I feel so grateful for these moments given to me in grace. How beautiful are the heavens. How grateful I am for another day to try again in every endeavor; faith, family and fortitude.
It was Sunday. Maddie awoke to give her son his seizure medicine and couldn’t sleep. She sat at the east window and watched the sun rise. First the glow of grey turned into yellow, then the bright white. She got up and started the coffee. She should sleep but she can’t. Too many shortened nights of sleep made her feel like she had to keep going.
The house was quiet. She liked these moments best. It gave her peace. It made her feel like she could do what she wanted. She pulled out a book she had been reading for weeks. Her library let her borrow it again and again. She was close to finishing. She opened the book and began to read.
A distant beeping cut through her concentration. The pulse oximeter sounded, beeping through her pleasure. She waited. It continued. She blinked slowly, closed her book and walked to her son’s bedroom.
He was sitting up, facing the door when his body dropped into the bed as if he lost consciousness, then sat up again and laughed. Maddie checked her watch and began timing the seizure. He was having clustered seizures and began trembling, first on the right side of his body and moving onto the rest of his body. She grabbed the magnet to magically end this torrent. Nothing changed. His body continued trembling. She reached for his other medicine, her heart rate increased. She looked at her watch and noted the time. She tore the package and put the nasal spray inside his nostril and squeezed the contents.
His body stopped moving. His eyes closed and he remained peaceful. She looked at the clock again. She began to feel the tears climb. She let them come quiet down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes, then took a deep breath. She slumped into the rocking chair, closed her eyes and listened to the house noise.
Nothing. No one but herself was awake. Everyone slept. Alone again, she slept.
He sat at the piano for the full length of bars and rested in his composition so that the audience could experience the amazing music in our surroundings. His composition was a form of meditation. Have you ever sat still, closed your eyes, and listened?
Try it. I dare you. I tried it and found myself feeling restless. I couldn’t feel comfortable with the silence within me. It seemed like it had no direction. I felt guilty sitting in silence. My mind drifted to many places.
Kitchen places, bedroom places, cleaning places, laundry places; then I pushed those thoughts away and went to my creative place. It seemed empty at first. A piece of paper. A pencil. A figure. Movement. It comes in puffs and spurts. As long as I linger, more comes. Just like the composition of John Cage, I start to hear the creativity of me and that around me. I feel encouraged. I can do it.
The clouds moved in causing the sky to look milky-gray. Then I hear a rumble. I run outside looked to the east, hoped for a bright flame burning through the clouds, but there was nothing. I heard the rumble, louder than before and looked to the northwest part of the sky. Nothing, but a deeper rumble. I look at my weather map app, reds, yellows, greens, but they are more than two hours away. I think about my teen son who has epilepsy. His VNS will be sending more charges because of the increased electricity in the air. Thunderstorms do that to him.
I return inside, thinking how the weather keeps us guessing. I pour myself a feel-good, wake-me-up-kind-of-coffee.
Then I sit down to write. Sometimes it comes easy. Sometimes it doesn’t come at all. Everything is a work in progress.
I’ve started reading Be, Awake, Create by Rebekah Younger, MFA. I was put in an awesome state of encouragement. She started her book with a story about John Cage. I never knew who John Cage was because he was influential before I was born. The story goes like this: He created a controversial work in 1952 called 4’33”, which was written as bars of rest. When he played it for the first time at Woodstock, the crowd became angry because they didn’t hear the composition. The clever man made the boldest statement about silence.
He sat at the piano for the full length of bars and rested in his composition so that the audience could experience the amazing music in our surroundings. His composition was a form of meditation. Have you ever sat still, closed your eyes, and listened?
Try it. I dare you. I tried it and found myself feeling restless. I couldn’t feel comfortable with the silence within me. It seemed like it had no direction. I felt guilty sitting in silence. My mind drifted to many places.
Kitchen places, bedroom places, cleaning places, laundry places; then I pushed those thoughts away and went to my creative place. It seemed empty at first. A piece of paper. A pencil. A figure. Movement. It comes in puffs and spurts. As long as I linger, more comes. Just like the composition of John Cage, I start to hear the creativity of me and that around me. I feel encouraged. I can do it. It didn’t rain.
She pushed herself on a daily basis, not knowing how much more she could do for him. His condition limits quality of life for all who surround him. The routines felt numbing at times, their predictability endless. She wanted to earn her money from her efforts, but as a caregiver, there isn’t compensation. She’s told to take care of herself, but she isn’t paid for her services. How can she spend the money to care for herself when or take a nap or exercise if she is the caregiver?
bible.com/bible/116/php.4.13.NLT
No matter how foggy my brain can be, I will continue to work on my goals; improving my writing, teaching and learning. Creating is essential to growth. As hard as seizing the time to sit and write may be some days. Each moment that I put pen to paper and shut my critic off, I make progress. Be content in the struggle.
I noticed that my fingers are sore in my right hand. This is the hand I write with , but for some reason the bones in that hand are acting as if the are healing again. Or as if they were broken again and needed to be reset.
It’s very painful. It may be due to my using one finger to type with because the rest of the fingers aren’t in a natural position, like when typing.
All I know is that my right hand cramps up terrible to the point of pain when I have a spoon or knife in that hand. I was making supper for the boys and when I released the knife, putting it down on the counter, I had a pain stab through my hand.
The words and ideas keep jumping in my mind. Sometimes I respond to their demand for acknowledgment. Each time I do, there is a release of joy, purpose, satisfaction for the creativity on the page. I like it. It feels good. My mind forgets the pain in my hand, and I feel redeemed.
Reflecting on the memories; I’m skipping along the dirt road where the speed limit couldn’t be any more than 5 mph because the bumps, dips, and rocks slowed any vehicle trying to travel faster with terrible shock repairs afterward. The trees seemed tall and grand. The brook talked playfully as the dragonflies dipped and soared around, catching food unseen. The sun would peek through the pines, warming my skin as I climbed the rocks to cross the brook, pretending to be an explorer in a strange land. I loved being outside, the air expanding my lungs and making them feel bigger than the usual breaths in the city.
Every weekend, I stayed with my grandparents, was a treasure to keep and sear in my mind forever. Mom had to work, so Mem and Pep stepped in to keep us safe and captivated in the surroundings they chose to use as their legacy. Like surrogate parents, they taught me and my brother all the responsibilities to share in a family. They loved to be outside. Sun Valley gave them the opportunity to establish solid memories and great times of fun and teaching with the element of laughter whenever warranted.
Campfires were one-of-a-kind because Harvey had a way with fire that called neighbors to come enjoy some fresh popcorn, beer and a game of cards on a chilly nights when the sun went to sleep. Watching him build each fire was like peeking into the process of a highly crafted artist, each stick and log in a specific place so that the oxygen could flow and give the fire its immense breath. How incredible! The colors he could bring out of the fire, made it seem like a rainbow with lots of reds, yellows and orange, then blues, purples and greens as the embers could still kick up a burst if prompted in the right way.
Just like the fire’s smells and colors, the days and nights spent in Sun Valley held our attention and our youth. These memories help me to see how camping and living with Mem and Pep on weekends, or whenever my mom had to work, pulled and formed me to become who I am and the pleasurable moments being outside can do.
Creatively
Awakening
New
Discoveries
Intuitively
Deployed
“I hold to the wonders he has done, his miracles, and the judgements he pronounced. ” (Paraphrased from Psalm 105:5) I find this to be the most incredible coincidence….or not.
My son is attending school after four years of rehabilitation through the advocacy of his mother. While he attends a medically fragile classroom, he shows eagerness and joy to move closer and closer to his teacher’s classroom door where his friends are looking forward to seeing him. It’s 2018! Wow! He is shining. He is smiling. He is so happy to be.
His miracle reminds me it’s okay to be. Take the time to “smell life”, to cheer when the sun glistens on the river, bursting brilliant rays that chase the chill of the night.
lynettevillegas 