Just Keep Swimming…

“Exercise – a more powerful drug cannot be prescribed.”

exercise-anti-depressant

I honestly would not have survived these last three years without exercise and working out.  It has been one of my most loyal allies, getting me through the days that I had no choice but to just get through.

It was while running, three months after my wife’s death, that I found my first glimmer of hope that life could, indeed, go on – maybe even with joy again. It was in the weight room at 5:30 a.m., even on the mornings after a sleepless night, where I found the strength to get through the next day, or the next task, or the next hour. It was running at midnight – to clear my head, to avoid a meltdown, or because I didn’t know what else to do – that I avoided making many a situation worse. Sometimes I just needed to run away for a bit. Often times the only benefit was just being too tired to worry about things until the next day. In fact, physical exhaustion from working out was often times the only way I could experience any sleep at all, in the early stages of grief.

I also believe exercise is what prevented me from slipping into chronic depression. The blues are a normal part of the grieving process, but my daily dose of natural endorphins are what staved off a trip to the doctor’s for anti-depressants.

Exercise combats depression by enhancing our natural endorphins, chemicals that act like morphine and other painkillers. There’s also a theory that aerobic activity boosts norepinephrine, a neurotransmitter that plays a role in mood. And exercise helps the brain grow new neurons. I didn’t know this at the time I was grieving; I just knew it made me feel better.

exercise marathon-background1

We are triumvirate beings – body, mind and spirit must all be cared for.  The body is often forgotten in times of grief and depression, but it can carry us through the lows if given the proper opportunity. The body has wonderful rejuvenative capabilities, and often times it can lead the mind and spirit to follow.

Life isn’t always easy, loss and stress can overwhelm. Not doing anything about it can lead to chronic depression and loss of will. Regular exercise can lead you back. Yes it takes effort, you may not feel like it, especially at first, but stick with it, develop a routine. Just Do It, to quote Nike.

Here is some professional advice on exercising while grieving and dealing with loss, from Dr. Mercola:

You needn’t get bogged down with the details… simply get moving. Any activity that appeals to you is worth it – hiking, swimming, yoga, group classes, dancing, bicycling… whatever will get you moving is great. Once you have begun to heal, however, I recommend incorporating the following types of exercise into your program in order to truly optimize your results:

1. Avoid Sitting for More Than 15 Minutes. I usually set a timer for 15 minutes or so while sitting, and then stand up and do one-legged squats, jump squats or lunges when the timer goes off. The key is that you need to be moving all day long, even in non-exercise, or as I now like to call them, intermittent movement activities.

2. High-Intensity Interval Training (HIIT): Compelling and ever-mounting research shows that the ideal form of exercise is short bursts of high-intensity exercise that I call Peak Fitness. Not only does it beat conventional cardio as the most effective and efficient form of exercise, it also provides health benefits you simply cannot get from regular aerobics, such as a tremendous boost in human growth hormone (HGH), aka the “fitness hormone.”

3.Core Exercises: Your body has 29 core muscles located mostly in your back, abdomen, and pelvis. This group of muscles provides the foundation for movement throughout your entire body, and strengthening them can help protect and support your back, make your spine and body less prone to injury, and help you gain greater balance and stability.

4. Stretching: My favorite type of stretching is active isolated stretches developed by Aaron Mattes. With Active Isolated Stretching, you hold each stretch for only two seconds, which works with your body’s natural physiological makeup to improve circulation and increase the elasticity of muscle joints. This technique also allows your body to repair itself and prepare for daily activity. You can also use devices like the Power Plate to help you stretch.

5. Strength Training: Rounding out your exercise program with a one-set strength training routine will ensure that you’re really optimizing the possible health benefits of a regular exercise program. You can also “up” the intensity by slowing it down. For more information about using super slow weight training as a form of high intensity interval exercise, please see my interview with Dr. Doug McGuff.

A Smile Set in Stone…

photo (16)

Pause, stranger, when you pass me by,
For as you are, so once was I.
As I am now, so will you be.

It’s a bright, sunny day, even a bit warm, the first nice day we have had in a long, long time, following a long nasty winter.  Is it coincidence that Debbie’s marker is finally installed today?

It has been a long and meandering journey for this stone, so far now from it’s quarry.  It’s traveled two oceans and two continents, sat for months in an unheated shop, too cold to carve.  This color stone, a warm reddish that cuts pink, comes only from the other side of the world, and had to be custom cut in India before beginning its journey to its final resting place.  The angel design is custom and proprietary, too.   And there were hours spent sorting through thousands of images and pictures – and tears – to find just the right one.

It has been six months since it was designed and ordered.  It is important to get it right.  I think I did.

But there are few things in life harder than getting a tombstone for your spouse…

The sun was warm on my face this afternoon, the day as bright as Debbie’s smile.  And her smile, now etched in stone, still makes me happy.

And that is a good thing.  The memories, they bring smiles now, not tears, rememberance of the warmth and sunshine of so many good times, so many big smiles and laughs shared.  The tears will still crop up too, I suppose, but like making it through a long hard winter, I have paid my dues, I have done my grief homework, and I choose now to enjoy the sunshine with a smile of my own…

God bless you, Debbie.  Love you always and forever.

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photo (17)

To Live Again…

“A widow’s refusal of a lover is seldom so explicit as to exclude hope.”  – Samuel Richardson

italian_dinner

I’m sure it looks like any other normal family dinner at a nice Italian restaurant – a mom and a dad with four kids, two girls and two boys, enjoying a fantastic dinner of pasta and salads and steak (and of course pizza for the little guy!)  There is laughter and sharing and lively chatter and smiles.

But the guest of honor at this special table tonight is Gratitude; for a normal family meal did not seem possible even a few short months ago…

Nothing is taken for granted anymore by this hodgepodge group – for there are two empty chairs at the table tonight.  These chairs can never be filled; forever there will be an important piece missing from every family meal, from every milestone celebration, from every family vacation and from every one of those times where you just want to share with your best friend, where you need the guidance and comfort of mom or dad, when you’ve just had an impossible day, when you just want to be a normal, complete family again.

Cancer is a terrible disease.  It can and does strike anyone, even those who least deserve it, indiscriminately cutting short brilliant, loving lives, and robbing their families of so much more.  Those left behind are befuddled, staggered, angry and confused, lonely, and afraid.  What do we do now?  How do we carry on without mom, without dad?  Who will take care of us?

It has been over one year now for the Brunson family, who lost John, age 48, on July 3, 2012, leaving behind Kimberly, and children Claire and Emily; and over one year also for the Walko family, who lost Debbie, age 45, on July 8, 2012, leaving behind Joe, and children Jake and Trevor.

This past year has been numb, terrifying, sad, sometimes hopeless…  How are we supposed to carry on?!?!

But you do carry on, because you must.  You do begin to work through the sadness, through the tears that at first seem like they will never stop, through the heaviness that threatens to crush you at any moment.  You work through it mostly because you have no other choice.

And you work through it because life is still good, so very good, even when the sunset is watched alone, through swollen, wet eyes.  Deep down you still know this, it has just been buried recently by the grief.

And you work through it because these young people, they need you, they need hope, they have so much love and so many good things to experience, as Debbie and John certainly knew, and as they so would want their children to know.

And you work through it because so many people care.  There are rides to school functions when mom is stuck at work, there’s someone to cheer on the boys at football and baseball games and take them out for ice cream after, someone to watch the kids when mom or dad just needs a break.  There is a box of school supplies delivered anonymously on the front porch, gift cards in the mailbox, little notes to let you know others are thinking and praying for you, fantastic dinners cooked for us on busy days.

And tonight, complete strangers at an Italian restaurant share the gift of a great meal that no one has to cook, that no one has to clean up from, and that all enjoy – it warms my heart when it has been broken for so long.  It’s a homemade chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven, stringy chocolate sticking to the plate, the kind mom always made when I came home bruised and battered…

I think back to the incredible events that led us here…

The phone call last Saturday was unexpected; patrons at the Olive Garden in Monroeville, PA read my blog, and passed on to the staff at the restaurant the story.  The staff, in particular Chris Painter, wanted to do something nice for us, and offered me a meal for up to 8 people.  Of course I immediately thought of the Brunson family, who are in just as much need as the Walko’s. 

After my wife’s death I was compelled to start this blog, despite having never done something like this before, despite having never written with purpose before, to express and share my feelings, to heal, and maybe to help others through the sharing.  “Grief shared is grief diminished”, I quoted.

 A friend of Debbie’s from her church was reading this blog, and also knew about John, and thought that maybe Kim might benefit in some way from our shared experiences.  Through mutual friends, my blog and email address were exchanged…

I did not know that Kimberly, who also lives in my community but whom I had never met,  was reading my blog, and was feeling the same emotions I was in dealing with the loss of a spouse and the challenges of single parenthood and the running of a household and desperately trying to hold onto a full time job and keep the grass mowed and bill collectors at bay and the laundry pile manageable.

 She read to herself for a while, but eventually had the courage to reach out to me, and we started communicating electronically.  We actually met a few months later in a grief counseling group through the Hospice organization at Forbes Hospital. 

It is amazing how much common ground we share and how much we have helped each other and our families through this tough time…

And our meeting certainly seems guided by a Higher Power, much  like these “random” acts of kindness, like this beautiful meal.  

And perhaps it is just simply Destiny – for our deceased spouses met before we did – they are buried right next to each other at Plum Creek Cemetery, plots 22 and 24 in Section 24, picked out long before our paths ever crossed…

I have this vision, clear as day, a vision of Debbie and John, young and in their prime, big hair and even bigger smiles as they introduce each other and share conversation and a beer or  two,  sitting on that beautiful hillside above Plum Creek, between the dogwoods and below the towering oaks.  Bathed in The Light and The Love, they are whole, they are happy, they are aglow; laughter and honesty are exchanged easily.

But they also still so love their families, and don’t want to leave for their sake.  As they look down at our pain, at our struggles, which they now understand is necessary for our growth, they still want to help, as was both their nature.

So they concoct a plan, to guide us, to help us to help each other, to help our children.  The signs are so obvious that even two headstrong survivors, hearts shattered, souls torn and  frayed and splayed open to the universe, and heads finally empty, pay attention.

And help it does; healing begins …

Debbie and John are certainly filling those empty chairs tonight, and they too, are most thankful for this generosity and further confirmation in taking care of those that they love tonight.

And right now, at this table, immersed in the smells of warm bread and steaming pasta, the tastes of rich sauces and red wines, amidst the clatter of dishes and the laughter of our children, captured in the knowing glances Kim and I share across the table, and in the tears of our wonderful  server Cory (Cordell Smith, who stayed two hours after his regular shift, just to wait on us) when we tell him this story, I can’t help but think that maybe things will be okay.

Things happen that weren’t expected, and people drop into your life from outer space, bringing their special gifts, right when you need it the most.  And you meet others who are going through the same thing, who have the same hurts and the same struggles and who truly feel your pain; and the sharing lessens the hurt, and it brings hope, it brings strength and renewal.

And I am grateful.  So grateful…

Grateful for the small victories amidst the larger “tragedy”, grateful for getting through each day, grateful for those so willing to help, grateful for people like Chris Painter and Cory and the Olive Garden staff.

Grateful to the family and friends who have been by our sides through thick and thin.

Grateful to the special strangers who enter your life because they are supposed to.

And mostly tonight, so grateful for just a normal family dinner, something that never seemed possible ever again a year ago…

It makes you start to believe you can carry on; maybe even thrive again; dare, even love again…

And you do.

Grief and sadness knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger than common joys.

– Alphonse de Lamartine

Dirt and Sky, Part II

Give up the feeling of responsibility, let go your hold, resign the care of your destiny to higher powers, be genuinely indifferent as to what becomes of it all and you will find not only that you gain a perfect inward relief, but often also, in addition, the particular goods you sincerely thought you were renouncing. -William James (1842-1910)

sunbeams-through-trees

Okay, I am back this morning, finally…

Yesterday I let myself be dragged down into the depths of worry and despair.  A depressing conversation about my health insurance options, a similar discussion about my life insurance, the realization that there are a ton of legal obstacles standing between what I want to say and actually saying it in a book, and a mild case of writer’s block.  Sigh, poor, poor pitiful me, and isn’t the world in a terrible place?

That attitude carried over into my personal relationships yesterday, leaving a sour taste, and before I went to bed I realized that the joy that had been so profound recently… was gone.

And that truly is a reason to sigh.

I recognized instantly my fear – fear of the uncertainties in front of me, fear of not having a well laid plan, fear of the unknown – all of my usual fears, built up and made worse than they actually are by years of habit, years of not trusting myself, and I so easily  slipped right back into those patterns yesterday.

In this past year, grief has forced me to confront so many of my fears, to look them straight in the eye.  Death was always one of my greatest fears, and the fear of losing a loved one seemed insurmountable.  So I chose not to look at it.  I gave it power by avoiding it and not letting myself recognize that it was only my fear, and that others, like Debbie, didn’t have it.

Fear is the opposite of joy, the opposite of love, and fears come in all shapes and sizes, some bigger than others.  But if death can be reckoned with by some folks, certainly figuring out life insurance and how to write again is surmountable.

And I know now, in my heart, that I want to live joyfully.  Like I have been these past couple of weeks; not fearfully, like I had for so many years.

So I decided I wanted my joy back.  I didn’t know how right then, and I was too tired to try at that point anyway, but I threw out a prayer for a joyful return, and then went to sleep…

And sleep I did, right through my normal 5 a.m. wakeup time.  Hmmm, that’s weird, I know I set my alarm, but the clock is flashing and three hours slow, like the power went out.  But no other clock in the house is doing that…

I was kicking around possibly sleeping in anyway, so I guess that has been decided for me, and now it is too late to get my run in before the kids need up and readied for school.  But to be honest the extra sleep felt really really good – maybe I needed it.  I certainly handle things better when well rested.  So I will run later after the bus picks up Trevor.

Running always calms me, always resets me, always slows me down, especially my racing mind; maybe someday I will actually be able to outrace my mind!  But that is not necessary today, I just need to feel my muscles moving and my heart pumping and my lungs filling deeply.

And the endorphins kick in, and I settle into a meditative pace.  And I leave the subdivision to run through the woods of a local park.  The grass is still wet with morning dew, and the bright sunshine on this clear crisp day is a long way from burning the moistness off; it seeps through my shoes and socks.

The sensation awakens me.  I notice the dampness, I appreciate the slightly chilled air, the golden sunshine, the birdsong.  And then it hits me like a ton of bricks – I hadn’t noticed it before…

I have been up for a couple hours, mindless going through my routine, getting the kids ready, small talk at the bus stop, making plans for the rest of my day, not really feeling anything, like watching a movie.  I didn’t even notice this gorgeous day…

Tell me, what is more joyful than a morning like today?  Bright sunshine, no humidity, white puffy clouds and the energy of fall migration in the air, the promise of colorful leaves and campfire smores, the slowing down of fall?  How many times had I driven to work the past 25 years longing to do what I am doing today, walking my boys to the bus stop and then going for a run?  How is it that I am so wrapped up in my thoughts and worries as to not recognize the gift of this morning before this?  I am ashamed…

But I forgive myself quickly, for the day is too bright, the joy is too real.  I can feel the water enveloping my feet, my breathes are fresh and clear, and the blood courses vibrantly through my body.   I am alive!

I strikes me now that there really is only one true “sin”, the sin of not really living, of just blindly running through it.  And sin is not the right word because it is really just a forgetting – forgetting that simply living our joy every day is enough.  It is so easy to get distracted, so easy to get caught up in our worries and fears.  But this comes with a steep price – you might not notice the sheer joy of the moment.

I grew up near the woods I am now running through, and I pass a clump of sumacs in a field.  I remember as a boy climbing into a similar clump of small trees, and just sitting there.  I had entered a new world, a world that completely changed its perspective from the wide open fields around it.  This world was bounded by the tangles of stems and trunks, and formed a green universe unto itself.  I entered by worming through a portal at the base of two of the larger trees, and then I was just still, taking it all in.  Soon this new universe accepted me, and it came alive with its own presents.  The sounds in here were different, filtered by the leaves, and the light more muted with no direct sunlight, and it had different insects and vegetation.

It was peaceful, too, self contained, and I was filled with the anticipation of new discoveries.  And as I was still, just observing, just being with this new universe, a common yellowthroat entered too.  Since I was now a part of this world, it did not mind my presence, and flitted through the undergrowth, its natural habitat, right up to me.

What a handsome bird, bright yellow breast and leaf green back, broken by a jet black mask from bill to wings!  And so alive, a bundle of energy, always moving, its aliveness brilliant as it stared into my eyes from only a couple feet away.   And we connected, this tiny creature and I, and I felt his aliveness, and I felt his joy, innate joy, in being alive…

I feel it again, right now.  And no kidding, as I round a bend on my path in the woods, the sunbeams burst through the canopy, the diagonal white translucent spears piecing the morning fog from cloud to earth, the perfect picture of God and joy and sunshine and renewal and Jesus laughing and common yellowthroats and dew on the grass and fresh air in my lungs.  I run into the sunbeams.  And I laugh, I laugh out loud, and I raise my hands in joy, pure joy!

I am back, back to my place of joy, back to where I asked to be last night.  And the worries are put in their place, they will be taken care of when the time is right.  And the words flow freely this morning.  And I wonder, how did my clock get messed up?   For had I run at my normal time, well before dawn, I would have missed the sunbeams…

 Common Yellowthroat

Live Laugh Love

Life is short, so live it.  Love is rare, so grab it.  Fear controls you, so face it.  Memories are precious, so cherish them.  We only get one life, so live it!

dance naked

My neighbor passed away today, unexpectedly.  She was 70, and had experienced some health problem recently, but it was still a shock to hear the news; I just talked to her walking her dog yesterday.

Her husband was out of town, and called a neighbor to check on her when she didn’t answer his calls.  My other neighbor, 88 years old, made the terrible discovery and had to be the bearer of such halting news.   He was clearly upset when I ran into him, just an hour or two after, and before the authorities had even arrived.  88, health problems of his own, his own mortality now thrust front and center, visibly distraught.

I always thought that when you reached his age, you had already made your peace with your own demise, without any effort, like hair turning gray.  Clearly that is not the case.  We must all struggle with the inevitable, and age has nothing to do with it.  Some of us are forced to confront this much earlier than others, but even living a good long life doesn’t mean you ever want to let go; life is good, and there is so much beauty, even in the struggle.

But our bodies have limits, and the rules of biology and physics must be honored, and life and death is the realm of the gods, not us mere mortals.

What is up to us is how we react to these limits.  Once again I am humbled and awed by the courage and acceptance that Debbie displayed when faced with these inevitabilities…

I stopped down tonight to visit my distraught neighbor, his first night joining me in the Gibralter Drive Widowers Club.  The house will be quiet tonight, too quiet; it will feel like everything is wrong.  And it is; you just don’t spend 90% of your years with someone and then suddenly adjust to their absence.  It won’t feel real; he will be trapped somewhere between a bad dream and disbelief; we always think we have one more day.  There is not much that needs said at this time, because we both know what it feels like; and sometimes you just need to sit with those feelings for a while.  So we embrace and I honor his wishes to be alone tonight, and I certainly understand that, too, as memories of my first night alone flood back…

I stop in to see how my other neighbors are doing, too – you just don’t live next door to someone for 41 years and not feel the loss, too.  He and his wife graciously welcome me into their home, clearly happy for the company tonight.  We talk; about our neighbor and his wife, all the good times they shared, all the changes they have seen over the years.  We share a beer and memories, the memories of what makes life special – pride in 59 years of being married to your sweetheart (and a big 60th anniversary coming up in December!), pride in raising their two boys, pride in their hard work and accomplishments throughout their working careers, pride in their neighborhood and their humble house full of love.

Stories.  They are what make us human, what makes us unique.  In the end, it is all that we have; but it is all that we need, if we have written ours in full, if we have truly lived.  I am honored to have shared tonight in my neighbors’ stories, and the spark in their eyes recounting these cherished memories does not go unnoticed.  Indeed, it burns as bright in the eyes of someone who is 88 as it did the days they were made.

I can’t help but imagine a time much earlier, bodies young and muscular and functioning perfectly, hearing and eyesight still good, the new lime green carpeting in a brand new house full of dreams lit up in the hopes and dreams of an evening sunset streaming through the front picture window, just like tonight’s…big smile.

Life is precious, even if you are 88.

And life is short.

So write your story, everyday.  Visit your elderly neighbors and relatives while you can, while they are still here to share their hard-earned wisdom.  Comfort those who need a shoulder, if you have a shoulder to give.  Enjoy every sunset, especially the ones that light your dreams and memories.  Smile until your face hurts, cry when tears need shed.  If you are lucky enough to love someone, tell them.  And when times are good, sing out loud, no matter how off key, and dance, dance naked and rejoice!

Live, laugh, love…

Rain

When faced by any loss, there’s no point in trying to recover what has been; it’s best to take advantage of the large space that opens up before us and fill it with something new.” – Paulo Coelho

Lightning flashes light up the woods and rocks in an eerie electric blue, but only for a second, the pitch darkness quickly returning like a thick heavy wet blanket, the thunder rolling through the hills and up my spine until the hair on my neck stands straight up in perfect posture.  The leaves scream in collective protest, like the roar of a crowd building and fading with each gust.  The wind tosses the trees, stretching them to their breaking point, and in the far off distance snaps and cracks tell of those pushed too far.  I am alone and small, just like the leaves, just like the animals that cower for shelter wherever they can.  We dig in, and steel ourselves to the storm as best we can…

And it passes.  Every storm runs out of rain, eventually…

After the storm, with the lighting and thunder receding into the distance far up the valley, visible and audible but no longer threatening, a light gentle rain settles over camp.  It creates a mesmerizing white noise, interspersed by the tick-tocking of larger drops as they collect on the leaves of the now-stilled trees and fall to the saturated earth with a plop when their gathering burden can no longer resist gravity.  Adrenaline is replaced by calm, even a weird serenity, that comes from weathering the storm.  I will be able to sleep now…

The gentle rain continues through the night, and into the morning, and the song played on the tent walls is the sweetest lullaby; true refreshment greets the gray light of morning.  Emerging from the tent, I am met by a whole new world of lush, lush wet, and green of every hue, a jungle bowing down to the life giving moisture.

The birdsong is charged this morning too.  It is not the joy and spark of a sunny day, but the confidence of survival, a confidence that banishes any vocal wavers and cracks to passing adolescence, replaced by the maturity of graduating the storm’s test.

These tiny creatures, with only lightweight feathers for protection, many weighing no more than a dime, tossed and turned in the tempest last night like the leaves and reeds, surely they are even more joyous than I for surviving the storm.  And this sense of gratitude permeates the entire forest, and it flows through me without effort, like the fog that connects the earth and the sky now…

Mystique is the main character this morning, accompanied by possibility.  Creation is possible, dreams are refreshed, life is renewed, life is gloriously alive, and we are here to take part one more day.  And for now it is calm, and I go forward with cautious confidence into the beauty and mystery and storms that lie in wait down that foggy, wooded path…

Cedars

“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness.”

They drop out of the sky, unexpected, descending on the grapevines and berry patches; where did they come from?  Why are they here, in my backyard, at this moment, when they have not been here most of the year?  What brought them here at this particular time, at the same time that I am here?

How do they decide where to go, and when they get there, how do they decide how long to stay?  How do they decide where to go next?  Do they have a plan?  Or do they just take to their wings and trust in the Creator to provide for them, to guide them to the next berry patch?  What if the next berry patch is days away, do they worry about that?

So strange, the events of my life over this past year; the people that have dropped in, the ones who have dropped out.  Where did some of these people come from, where did others go, what of the ones who are here now?  How is it that I have gotten through some of these things, the days and weeks between berry patches?  How has the right person place or thing always been there exactly when I needed it the most?

What a striking, handsome bird, smooth feathers of brown-yellow silk, tails dipped in thick, still wet yellow paint, inner primaries dripping with red wax, the more so if they have been provided for well.  A black mask adds mystery and intrigue, maybe even a bit of mischief, especially when the subtle, flowing crest is raised in excitement – a pirate swashbuckler.

The Cedar Waxwing cuts a striking, dashing profile, James Bond entering a cocktail party in tailored suit, jaw squared and eyebrow raised – everyone notices the entrance.  They descend in numbers, creating a buzz, an excitement, swarming the grape vines and fruit trees, gorging on the fruit.  They are called “irruptive”, meaning they don’t fit the nice clean map lines and home ranges of other birds; sometimes they are here, when the conditions are right; sometimes they are not.  They are not defined by maps and expectations, but by their needs and minimum wants.  I envy their freedom.

I can’t help but stop and stare, their acrobatics are fascinating.  They reach out from the tiniest branch, stretching to the farthest off berry.  They hang upside down, by one foot, if they must, or they hover just off the grape raceme, or pluck a grape in a midflight dive.  There is a grace about all their movements, as if they are built for this role, as if this is the role for which they were made – and it is.

I think of my own acrobatics today, hanging from a ladder to patch the siding on a house that weighs me down with its maintenance and upkeep.  There was no grace whatsoever in my chores, just doing what needs done.  I think of the acrobatics in my life now, the constant juggling and hovering and diving and hanging by my toes most days just to get through.

It was overwhelming at first – I’ve always had a plan.  All my plans have been trashed, everything in my life seems uncertain.  But it is okay, I’m learning to wing it, and things are not falling apart; in fact they most often work out better than I could have planned.  Maybe I need to be more irruptive; maybe I’m in good company now, at least as judged by these beautiful creatures.

What a perfect day, sunny and warm!  I sit cross-legged in the green moss, in the warm sunshine, and watch the cedars, bringing them closer through high powered optics.  They are truly gorgeous creatures, the avian epitome of grace here in the comfort of all they need.  Most have stopped feeding, and are simply perched, preening, at the top of the trees, aglow in their majesty in the low late afternoon light.  Content, the Cedars, me…I don’t recall the last time I allowed myself the luxury of just sitting in the sun with such good company.

Of course nothing is static, for how would we learn and grow?  We must all adapt when the winds change.  I am distracted by a request from duty and when I return, the cedars are gone.  Where did they go?  Will they be back?  Will they cross my path again in the future, in the past?  Perhaps their gift is only the present, and I don’t regret their leaving.  I am not paralyzed by their loss, nor fearful that they won’t return, but I look forward to their re-acquaintance when the time is right, whether in this lifetime or the next…