Specialist

Medical specialists are not always within a twenty kilometre driving distance, I've learned here in the Central Interior.

The one I was to see practiced in Kamloops, a three-hour trip to the South.  We left early on Sunday morning, intending to spend the night in a Motel for my appointment on Monday.

Again, I practiced taking photos out of the car window. Sunday morning was particularly cold...the temperatures were hovering near the -30C mark, when we left home. Quite often, steam from the exhausts of trucks and cars made visibility difficult, especially with blowing Snow as well.

I have learned, however, to take the weather in stride.

I don't like seeing doctors, let alone specialists.  I can't express myself, especially in the three second time span most specialists give one to answer a question.  

I prepared myself this time, having written out a list of medications and symptoms...precisely so I could discuss these with the Doctor. 

But she wasn't interested in what I had written...she wanted me to answer her questions.  Off the top.

Oh, oh.

The questioning began. I had only moments to reply. After three or four of those, had she asked me my name, I would have had difficulty answering correctly.

And then, there were the exercises, which were demonstrated with great speed by the Doctor. I was to follow along.  It was laughable.  She went so quickly I was still on the second one when she was finished. And I couldn't remember the rest of the movements.

Suffice it to say, after all was said and done, I came out of the appointment, with a sheaf of tests which required doing. And I hope those tests pinpoint the problem I was in for, since I know a diagnosis could not be made on the strength of any conversation I had with her.


Each appointment with this Doctor runs 45 minutes...no more,no less.  You would think, during this time span, I would be able to demonstrate or enunciate my difficulties with Arthritis.


But no.


My brain freezes up, when I try to explain.  There is nothing there...there are no words which will come out of my mouth. The worst moments are when I go blank and then start to giggle, which sometimes...morphs into deep guffaws! Oh dear!


Some Doctors have become offended, thinking my laughter was directed at them.  It never is; it is only my reaction to being blank-brained.


My favourite kind of medical specialist is the one who, on my arrival, will have the receptionist give me a list of questions to complete. This gives me time to remember my history, check my notes, and sometimes think deeply about some of the answers.

I will be fifty-eight soon, in February.  There is a lifetime of maladies to report, not all of them within easy reach of my middle-aged memory.

So here I am, today, answering all of her questions, in my head.  I am completely understandable, very verbal, with no signs of the nervousness which overtakes me...in my head.


I remember some of the answers I gave, some which were not completely right, when I spoke to the Doctor. And I wish I could answer those questions again, with more lucidity. But it is what it is.


And no amount of self-abuse will change it.


The weekend away was wonderful, even with evil appointments with specialists...well worth it. My perspective changes a little,for the better, when I visit a City I am not familiar with. Struggling with addresses and places unknown humbles me; but finally finding a place is cause for celebration, each time.


And going away...well, it makes coming home that much better!

Going South

For the last few days, a very warm South Wind has tenderly and gently blown off many of Aspen's golden Leaves, carpeting the ground in glory.


We have worked hard this summer; a South Wind blowing at this time of year in the Cariboo is a call...a soft whisper which reminds me it is time to visit the Coast.


Time to once again enter the realm of family and the stories of happenings in their lives...I want enough of those stories to last me until the next visit.


The dogs, sensing us leaving, followed me around with great anxiety...until Faye from the Urban Pooch Pet Sitting Service arrived. She reminded them of last time, when they went for long rambles through as yet undiscovered bush...and after a moment of recognition and a great deal of sniffing, they were ecstatic.

I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am Faye was sent to us, as we fumbled our way on a different path. She makes it easy for us to take overnight holidays or...a trip to the Coast.

Take a break from the incessant renovations and building and excavators...so says South Wind, in a sibilant whisper.


And so we will. 


Graham formed the concrete for the Woodworking Shop slab and contracted out the finishing. As he worked on this project, I built garden beds...everywhere.  There are empty beds wherever the eye rests...awaiting Hostas, Ferns, Columbines, and Lilac Trees.


As I built the beds, I took notice of the different faces on the Stones and Boulders I used for edging.  Some were very distinctive...dignified and mischievous, all at the same time. And some had definite gargoyle-like tendencies...but all fell into place neatly, looking very pleased with themselves.


I find very white Quartz Stones with veins of a dull, burnished gold running through them, as I search the construction area for Rocks who draw my attention.


One is very smooth and warm, in the shape of a ball cap. I have him sitting on the deck railing; to run one's hand over his back is to find instant peace. He is white, with the aforementioned veins...and he draws my attention, each time I pass.


There will be time to meditate with this Stone when I return. There are messages he wants to pass on.

I have a list of things-to-do, on my return.  As long as I can, I will work on those garden beds until the weather chases me indoors.


The master bedroom requires painting and new flooring, as does the rest of the house.  The scullery is still just the old kitchen...not yet ready for the work a scullery is known for.


And my office...yikes, my office!  It will take me a great deal of courage to tackle this room.  But I want to do it soon...I have not as yet grown accustomed to where everything is...and if items must be moved, it will be easier for me.  


The old memory not being what it once was, you understand.


I want to learn more about quilting.  I have a sewing machine now, courtesy of Graham's mother, and I intend to put it to good use during the long Winter days.

There are myriad other important items on the list.  They deserve my undivided attention, without the resentment that can simmer, when beautiful days are filled with hard work.


That resentment fades away, however, when I look up and see the golden Leaves fall, spinning lazily down to Mother Earth.


And when I listen to South Wind, who beckons so strongly from the Coast.

A Big City

We spent a few days in the City of Vancouver last week. After visiting family...a truly wondrous time,where we all reconnected our souls...business called for Graham.

We stayed at the Bayshore Inn, on the twentieth floor. The panoramic view of Stanley Park, the Yacht Club and marina, the Mountains and the Ocean were what my heart needed, after leaving the family. Parting from them is not easy for me...and I was in search of solace.

I had been away too long from Vancouver and its Spirit. I lived here in the sixties, and a very different City it was. My landmarks are no longer there, having met the wrecking ball long ago. The buildings that survive are swallowed up in the long, tunnel like streets of a very large and vibrant City.

But the energy I met, as I walked along Robson Street, is a hard, driving energy...a very materialistic one...and I noticed many, many tired people on the streets I visited. It is a jungle of people intent upon their next appointment, their next payment, their jobs...the practical and logical sides of their lives. I found the energy draining me as well, shielded though I was.

Whereas, years ago, when I was young, I found it enervating, bright and bubbly. On my own for the first time, I found the City liberating, exciting, with opportunities around every corner. And there were many like me, young adults recently emerging from the family cocoon. There was a sense of community, a sprightliness in our sure knowledge...the knowledge of the young...that we could change the World.

But time passes; change has inevitably and inexorably marched on, putting its mark on everything. Me, included.

So many glitzy things! Tourists, piling bags upon bags, buying yet more souvenirs or shirts, loved the Spirit of the place, which urged them on to buy more and more. Bored salespeople, who greeted with forced enthusiasm for every visit, watched with glazed eyes, their minds on the hour.

I wandered along, trying to find the sense of community I had once felt, in this area. I found some hideaways, tucked into the corners of lots or buildings, where I remembered gathering, so long ago. But the community I was once a part of seems distant, the doors closed to me now.

I found a bit of it in a Whole Foods Market. The people who shop and work there are genuinely passionate about the products offered. And I love that. At the end of a long day of walking amidst goods I had no need for, wandering in this store restored my spirits.

I bought tea and bread and licorice. The smell of the bakery/cafe was heavenly... the whole foods goodness baking in those ovens wafted everywhere. And the people, as young and cool as they were, were friendlier than their compatriots who struggled so hard to be just so...these young adults were already following a different path.

On the way home, I mused about the way I felt about Vancouver, today, at my age. I realize the Forest is my home...and always has been, even in the years I spent away from it. I find the same sense of community here in the Cariboo I once felt for a section of Vancouver.

People lived sustainable lives here, long before it became popular. Vegetables are grown, hunters hunt and fisherman fish, throughout the different seasons. Wildlife is abundant, berries of all kinds are found growing wild everywhere.

Life moves at a slower pace here in the Interior. The strong, competitive, driving force of energy I met on a Vancouver street is not usual here. People are extremely hospitable, going many miles further in their aid to each other than warranted. Even clerks in big chain stores have a smile and a story.

I believe I like that. I don't find the door closed here in the Cariboo.

When we arrived home, to relaxed, exercised dogs and a yard which had grown at least a foot of grass and weeds, to a Forest in which all the deciduous Leaves had opened fully, enclosing us in a curtain of green, I gave thanks to Spirit, who knew exactly what I needed, at this time in my life.

Can there be anything more awesome than Sun filtering through young, tender leaves, than hearing the rush of Wind moving through the soft greenery, making a sound like waves upon a shore? It is mesmerizing watching the Leaves dancing with Wind.

Mesmerizing and meditative. Perhaps this is why I have always found a Forest when I am in crisis. After the crisis has passed, I will seek Ocean to wash the garbage left behind away. But in the Forest, Trees listen, Shrubs shiver in sympathy, Wildflowers lift their heads intently, upon hearing my woes.

Nature, in a Forest, offers comfort...and solid grounding.

A City's competitive energy and drive can't match that.

Road Anarchy

Don't you just want to go, on some days deep in the heart of Winter, on a road trip, destin- ation unknown? There are many people I know who have the wanderlust spirit, taking trips here and there...mostly organized trips, over the Winter months. Cabin fever averted.

But I'm a homebody...one who usually finds comfort and peace in the rooms of my house. Long months away from where I am at my most tranquil would be difficult.

Every once in awhile, however, on the spur of the moment, I want to do what a hairdresser pal of mine once referred to as Road Anarchy. As he cut my hair, we discussed trips and vacations. I mentioned one of my favourite things to do is to leave everything behind, and drive where I am guided, or where the whim of the moment leads. Ungoverned and unfettered.

To turn left, off the beaten path...or right. To take a bumpy road, perhaps, one that doesn't look as if anyone has used it for a long time. Maybe, just over that steep, deeply runnelled hill that lies at the end of this road, there is a Stream that burbles over sunlit Pebbles.

And perhaps, there will be a large sun-kissed Boulder that cools his bottom in the singing Stream. I will sit, letting Bird Song rise and fall into my consciousness; letting the words from Wind filter in and out...

And I will listen to the stories from the Trees that cluster here, on the side of this Singing Stream. Stories of long ago, when they were seedlings...of awe and humbleness and gratefulness for each and every drop of Rain and shaft of Sunlight. Stories of wisdom and peace and stillness, when Winter Snow leaves a hush over the land.

If I am fortunate, I will meet wildlife I haven't met before and exchange greetings. Perhaps Deer or Grandfather Bear may meander to the Stream for a drink, and our eyes will meet, recognizing in the other a kindred soul.

Or Eagle may grace me with his presence, sending his message from Spirit. He will ride the Wind flow for long, long moments, dipping and balancing. I feel his eyes, keen as the point on a blade, search for mine, as he soars...at one with the silent currents of Air.

And after awhile of sitting on that Rock, I will become as One with all the elements that surround me...silent and still, but with so much to say...

I might wonder, at some point, where I am. But this is the beauty of taking a road trip of unknown destinations. It doesn't matter where I am, I just am.

And when I return, for I shall always return to the Home of my Heart...back down that previously unknown road, back the way I came...I will remember the stories I heard, the messages given to me, and the sorrows I gave to the Stream, who kindly washed them clean.

And I will remember how, for an afternoon, I became a peaceful road warrior, one who practiced anarchy, left sorrow behind and found beautiful, pacific moments... in the arms of Mother Nature.

Even if the anarchy only happened in my imagination.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Held back from visiting Mom in the hospital by the inclement weather, I decided to heed the insistent voice I kept hearing... the one that whispered, ever more frantically ...It's Christmas!

Not one single thing has been done in preparation, in our house. The unearthly Storms that have pummelled Qualicum Beach and the rest of the Island have effectively stopped any baking or travelling to shop for gifts, for a couple of weeks, as power outages continue.

And time goes by.

There is another storm in the forecast for this afternoon; I intend to attempt to travel through it anyway. It has been a long time without any contact with my mother.

On Tuesday, despite another Wind Storm, I travelled down this side of the Island, to Nanaimo. This highway, although strewn with branches, is safer; I do not have to travel over a mountain pass, or beside a lake, or through Cathedral Grove to get there.

But my little truck fought hard to stay in its lane, when enormous gusts of Wind howled down the highway. By any one's standards, this Storm was intent on doing damage.

There are Trees hanging over power lines everywhere. BC Hydro is out in full force, repairing downed lines and cutting Trees that have fallen over, or been sheared off, with giant, jagged shards of naked wood reaching for the sky.

The continuing Wind and strange weather patterns have seriously hampered the repair efforts... hydro crews from Alberta are being flown in to lend a helping hand.

When I reach the Mall, I am struck by how few people are out shopping. Where are the Christmas hordes? The Storms have kept people at home...those fortunate few that still have power. And I hear stories of generators flying off shelves, and I hear of the need for people to know how to use these aids they are suddenly acquiring. Generators are meant to be used outdoors; there have been stories of death amongst the uninitiated, who use them without ventilation.

It is the middle of winter. Houses without a method of heating besides using electricity are very cold...and some people have been without power for many days, with only a promise that power may be restored by the weekend. Huge freezers holding last summer's garden bounty, along with meats, are defrosting, bringing hardship to many. Children are cold...how does one keep a baby warm in temperatures like these?

I search the faces of the shoppers. There are not many who look as if they are enjoying themselves, it seems difficult for others to meet my eyes or return my smile. Careworn, anxious eyes meet my gaze. Everyone that waits in line-ups with me has a story to share, about the weather. Not many sound excited over the forthcoming holiday...most have cancelled plans already made.

There are so many Storms in the long range forecast.

But I notice a child, looking up at the adults that surround him. His mother is intent on telling her story about how long her family has been without electricity; her son's face was becoming more and more anxious. Finally he tugged on her jacket. She brushed him off, placing her hand on his head, continuing with her story. He would not be denied, however.

His mother excused herself, for a moment, and looked down at him, her eyebrows raised. What about Santa, her son whispered, how will he find us, without lights?

I watched the adults around him, shamefacedly assuring the anxious little boy that Santa would find him, telling him all sorts of different ways Santa had at his disposal.

It was as if this child brought this small group of people, waiting in line with furrowed brows, to their senses. Suddenly the Christmas music didn't sound so manic; there was laughter...stories shared of how each one of us worried Santa wouldn't find us, at some point or another, in our childhoods.

The child, who had appeared in our midst dragging his feet, his head down, walked away with his mother with a spring in his step. All was right in his world now...even if there were no lights!

As I wandered off in search of another gift, I mused over how quickly the atmosphere changed, when happy stories, joyful stories, were remembered and shared. How quickly positive energy replaced the negative thoughts, destroying the weighty cloud that hung over us.

How lucky I felt, to be standing behind this little boy, and hearing the stories of reassurance. I needed them, too.

And suddenly, to me, it began to look...and feel...a lot more like Christmas.

A Watery World

I took a walk around the garden in pouring Rain this morning; I sloshed through Water in Puddles and small Lakes and Rivers.

Water every- where. Sounds around me are full of swishes, drips, gurgles, bubbles...and the booming song of the waves upon the Beach.

I meditated as I wandered, scarcely noticing the pelting Rain. There is an unease to my spirit these days; this morning I pinpointed the cause.

The Holiday Season is upon me. I can no longer deny it. Everything seems to be decorated. There are decisions to make...dinners and such. And once again, I will face the anniversary of my daughter Katrina's death.

It will be ten years since she moved irrevocably on...without me, her mother, to help her along her way, on December 30th. The strong, piercing pain that once throbbed within me no longer darkens December days further than wintry skies alone.

But there is still an ache. A soft, gentle ache that closes my throat, making me swallow hard. A hard knot in my solar plexus and easy tears where my emotional body needs succor completes the picture.

I don't believe it will ever lessen further. The huge, crashing waves of emotion that used to swallow me entirely are no longer as large and overwhelming. Smaller, softer waves of longing and sadness now tickle my toes...just enough to keep me aware of that heavy ache Katrina's death left with me.

She was my child. There is a disorder...a twist... that happens when a child dies before the parent, even if she was twenty-three. Life is not supposed to happen this way. But it did. It just did.

And it happens to many of us parents. I wanted my child to be safe; I did everything I could to do that very thing that is such an important part of parenting. I know that. And I am grateful for the time that Creator allowed Katrina to be a part of my life.

As I sloshed through the Water...Water that tugged and pulled at my emotions...I remembered some of the things Katrina taught me. One lesson that is still with me, always, is when she told me that just because she didn't show her emotions didn't mean she didn't feel them.

And there were many more lessons...Katrina's patience was legendary. Her non-judgemental attitude taught me to let things go, to not obsess wildly about events I could do nothing about. Some of her lessons did not become apparent until after her death...it was her legacy.

But I find myself wondering, at times...what would Katrina do in a case like this? And always, always the answer comes. And I carry on, knowing our family has the greatest guardian there ever was.

Acceptance, after many years of anguish and sorrow and anger, has finally arrived. I used to think, in my youth, that after someone died, I would spend a day or two in sorrow...and then "put it behind me". I used to think I knew what acceptance was.

A watery world...in which my tears flowed, just as suddenly as the strange little Rivers that have forged their way through my backyard. It felt just as cleansing as the Earth did, after sheets of Rain and gusts from Wind showered her clean.

I need to have days like this...my spirit calls out for it. I need to weep...and so I do. These are different tears than angry or happy tears. There is no end to these. Sometimes the dam they're in needs to overflow.

And a watery world is just the place to let them.