Why Snow in April is OK

It is April 23.  And there is more snow on the ground than there was in December.  For even the heartiest snow lovers, it is beginning to feel oppressive. I am proud of the fact that I learned to snow blow- out of duress,  but I'm done now.  As I started to feel mildly depressed, Monday came along and I received my weekly perspective check.

At Solvay last night, I found myself once again in room 204.  It's funny how a room can change so much based on who is in it. 204 was bright last night- full balloons and birthday cards.  Sitting up in a chair, eating what may have been spaghetti, was an elegant 95 year old lady full of smiles. I will call her Sense.  I did not want to interrupt her dinner but she waved me in and told me to have a seat.  It's hard to describe the sense of calm I felt upon sitting down, but it is as though it washed over me.  Sense looked at me and asked, 'Well, how are you?'  I smiled and told her I was fine- it's always hard to know exactly where our conversations are going to lead.

I asked her about the balloons, and she acknowledged that the day before was her birthday. She chuckled and then told me that she'd told her family to go back to their lives; that she was set, and didn't didn't need them to stick around.  Sense looked at me matter-of-factly and said, 'This is it for me. I've buried my husband, my sisters, my friends. I've sold my house, moved out of my apartment, and made the arrangements for my funeral. I'm here for end.'  Until January, she had been entirely independent. One trip to the dentist over a loose tooth change all- she was diagnosed with a fast growing mouth cancer resistant to treatment.  I sat for a moment, after she'd finished talking- maybe I looked uncomfortable. She said, 'Well it's just life, Dear. I lived long and I've lived well.'

She's right, of course.  So much is out of our control.  Bad things happen. Boston happens. Texas happens.  Life happens.  What are we left with? 

I asked Sense how she remained so strong for so many years. She smiled and said, 'I'm not strong at all. I just put one foot in front of the other...every day.' 

So that is what we are left with...moving forward one step at a time, appreciating life for all of its beauty- the happiness more profound because of the sadness, and light so much brighter because of the dark. 

It  seems that Sense was trying to tell me that life is what we make of it. Regardless of what happens, each day we have the opportunity to move forward, to control how we choose to act and who to be in spite of all that we can't control. 

So it's snowing in April. I suppose I need to bring my skis back up from the basement.

On Boston

I don't even know where to start.  So much has been said already, when truly, there really isn't anything that can be said to capture the horror of yesterday.  What is most appalling to me, is that a marathon is such a beautiful testament to belief in oneself and the power of a strong will.  Yes, it helps to get some miles in before you attempt such a feat, but ultimately, it comes down to the power of one's mind and the grit to keep going no matter what.

To qualify for and compete at Boston is often seen as the pinnacle achievement for marathoners.  It takes at least one marathon to get there, and another to finish.  The beauty is wrapped up in the goal and refusal to give up no matter how many times one tries.  The beauty is in the hope and belief in the power of the human will. Marathoners are often solitary beings- honoring the journey as much as the destination. I don't suppose any marathoner would tell you running a marathon is easy, no matter how many they have run. So why bother? Maybe it is for the sheer joy of setting a goal and reaching it. Or perhaps, it has to do with renewing faith in oneself, affirming that one is stronger than one thinks

I feel then, that to bomb  a marathon is to attack hope;  an assault on one of the greatest aspects of being human. Those that were finishing yesterday when the bombs went off would not have started with the first wave of runners. They were not elite runners- likely those who had spent years trying to get there. They would have been coming in a little after 4 hours of running, just to the point where they could allow their knees to buckle, just a little, because they finally knew they were going to make it. Their families were likely at the finish. 4 hours of suspense,  wondering whether the runner they took home would be the satisfied (finished) kind, or....the other kind...hope, hope, hoping that their own hope be able to supplement their runner's on one of the several 'heartbreak' hills (there are more than one). And the spectators. Those young and old, those who came to just to see, and bear witness to the strength of the human will.  These are the people that were killed.

Yesterday, as news came out about what happened, it seemed that everyone was concerned about their special someone...anyone they knew that happened to be in the area. It does make tragedy stab a little deeper when we are personally affected, but truth to be told, it really doesn't matter who was hurt,  because it was someone. It was someone's someone. Even if we don't know them, we can imagine what they are feeling; what happened when they asked the same question...Is ____ okay?...and learned that they were not.  Everyone is someone's someone.  I think about this sometimes when I'm in 'annoying' places, like waiting in line at a store, or even walking on a crowded street...all of the people- every one of them is someone's someone, and there is a person out there somewhere who would likely do anything to trade places with me...just to be near their someone for a few extra moments.  We never really know who we are with, or how long we have with them.  I guess we can only try to love as much as possible, no matter who we are with...even in the annoying places.

So, Boston attackers, my counter attack is to continue to love, to hope, and to run.  More than before...though maybe not the running part.

Time Passes

It's been a long time since I posted anything.  Please be advised, I DID make it home from India:) I was so sure that once I was home, I'd never want to go back.  But time passes, and so do (good?) ideas.  Anyway, I wouldn't mind going back again some day. Never as a tourist- I wouldn't feel right about it. What I saw in the villages visits me every day. I see it when I get frustrated with the inconveniences in my own life, and it adds perspective. My problems aren't that bad. First world problems- that's all.

I woke up this morning and my heart was heavy. I'd been meaning to start this blog again, and for some reason, I decided today was the day.  It is likely that no one will read it because it's been so long, but that's OK. By putting my thoughts into the world, it helps validate them, whether or not anyone else ever encounters them. I'm writing for me, then, I suppose.

Last night, I volunteered at hospice again- part of my Monday routine.  It rarely hits me in the moment, but I am quite certain it has some large part to do with my heavy heart this morning.  I wasn't planning on staying long last night- I was tired, so I'd even contemplated skipping the whole thing.  I went. It was very quiet, so I thought I'd make cookies and leave.  As I was collecting my things, one of the nurses asked if I wouldn't mind sitting in one of the patient rooms for awhile.  The man in room 204 was dying. This may sound silly because since it's hospice, everyone is dying.  But 204 was really dying.  His eyes were open and his breathing was heavy.  He had a yellow rosary wrapped in his hands. His arms were so thin, and I could see his shoulder blades...but he looked comfortable.  This was the first time I have sat with someone so close to death.  It's an odd experience, wondering who this person was, and why he is alone during his final hours. 
At the foot of his bed, there was a table holding a collection of things. 'Life' things. A phone, a wallet, a favorite hat. I am always struck by the power of the objects left behind.  They become so pointless. 

I started to talk, and then I started to sing...very softly. I don't sing. I don't know where it came from, but it seemed right.  I sang whatever came into my mind, largely relying on 9 years of Catholic grade school and hymms  lodged forever in my memory.  At one point, and I may have made it up, but I felt my had squeezed in return. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and probably because they had been open for so long, some tears escaped.  Or, maybe he saw something beautiful that moved his heart and made him cry. I don't know.  I just got to watch.

People ask me why I choose to spend time in hospice.  It's hard to explain.  Suffice it to say, I used to hear or read about these amazing people who had died. It made me so sad that I'd missed the opportunity to meet them while they were alive.  Hospice is kind of the last chance to meet these people.  It's one final chance to celebrate who they are, and honor their life by bearing witness to its end.  It also helps me to honor significance of life a little bit more.  I leave feeling thankful, and reminded to honor the people in my life every day I get to spend with them.

I don't know if the man in room 204 is still alive.  I will watch the paper, and return next week to start the process over again. My heart is heavy, but the heaviness is love, and that's ok.