Seeing Clearly: Hump Day

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Hump Day

Hello, all,
I woke up at five am with my eye hurting and stumbled in to the den where Jon was crashed out on the aerobed. He got me meds and rubbed my temples til I went back to sleep. I realized that my two eyes are moving in tandem, and of course, it is hard to even be conscious of your eyes moving, but wow, my new eye is just getting the hang of it.
Dr. Aaberg implanted a new orb where my eyeball used to be. It is made of a porous material that allows the muscles of my eye to grow right into it. This part of the prosthesis, Dr. Aaberg said, will become " a part of my body". Imagine that! It makes me think of a rattan matt that I put at the bottom of the deck steps a few years ago. I have watched it turn into the ground. It is now hard to see where the matt stops and the grass roots begin. I like to think of the inside of my eye as a beautiful organic thing that is busily healing itself and creatively putting itself back together.
The trouble this morning seemed to be that, without the big sturdy pressure patch, it felt very fragile, like someone forgot to put the packing material in the box and things were rattling around a little. So, I remembered the patches that Carolyn and Stephanie made me. I put on the on with rhinestone shooting stars on it. It pushed gently against my new orb and made it feel safe and snug. I have been wearing it all day and it feels so great.
My eye looks like I got in a big fight and I have quite a shiner continuing to evolve under my eye-the blood is pooling, but not much swelling. My eyelid is mostly shut, and I have to use a cotton ball and this nice eyewash that Debbie found to clean it off during the day because it is still kind of weepy. There is a shiny contact lens thingie in my eye that is protecting the shape of my eyelid, so it looks like my old eye is still in there a little. It isn't creepy like I was afraid it would be. It is just, as Carolyn would say, " the new normal."
I have been able to back off on the pain meds today, which is good, and I am a little less sleepy and stoned as a result...also getting my appetite back, which is also aaided by the fact that there is a ton of yummy food in this house thanks to my loved ones....tonight, Jane Lowe made me delicious vegetarian bean soup-so colorful and spicy with delicious whole whear rolls. The Sheldon Woods staff sent us an edible fruit bouquet with pineapple flowers that was just fabulous (and how artistic can you get?) Thank you, wonderful and kind people. I also got notes and pictures from student artists that are delightful and make me anxious to get back to work.

I found out today that my Uncle John had a stroke that affected Broca's area- the part that controls speech. He is expected to improve, but he and his wife Marilyn and kids must be worried for him and scared to death. For those of you who don't know, My Uncle John is an amzaing man, a brilliant orthopedic surgeon who was a hero in World War II. He still had a full surgical schedule at 82 and only recently retired. I hope that some of that Hayes resilience will stay with me and I am proud to be his neice.

My vision is sometimes so clear and full that it makes me laugh. How can this be, I wonder? I can just see. What an adventure.
I love you guys. Thanks and sleep tight tonight.

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The Journey

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

© Mary Oliver.

a poem from TRAVELING MERCIES by Annie Lamott

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feeling we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

--w.s. merwin

from Kabir, Indian mystic poet

Friend, hope for the truth while you are alive.

Jump into experience while you are alive!...

What you call "salvation" belongs to the time before death.

If you don't break your ropes while you are alive,

do you think ghosts will do it after?

The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic

just because the body is rotten--

that is all fantasy.

What is found now is found then.

If you find nothing now, you will simply end up with

an empty apartment in the City of Death.

If you make love with the divine now, in the next life you will have the face of satisfied desire.

Night Letter to theReader by Billy Collins

Night Letter to the Reader

I get up from the tangled bed and go outside,

a bird leaving the nest,

a snail taking a holiday from its shell,

but only to stand on the lawn,

an ordinary insomniac

amid the growth systems of garden and woods.

If I were younger, I might be thinking

about something I heard at a party,

about an unusual car,

or the press of Saturday night,

but as it is, I am simply conscious,

an animal in pajamas,

sensing only the pale humidity

of the night and the slight zephyrs

that stir the tops of the trees.

The dog has followed me out

and stands a little ahead,

her nose lifted as if she were inhaling

the tall white flowers,

visible tonight in the darkened garden,

and there was something else I wanted to tell you,

something about the warm orange light

in the windows of the house,

but now I am wondering if you were even listening

and why I bother to tell you these things

that will never make a difference,

flecks of ash, tiny chips of ice.

but this is what I want to do--

tell you that up in the woods

a few night birds were calling,

the grass was cold and wet on my bare feet,

and that at one point, the moon,

looking like the top of Shakespeare's

famous forehead,

appeared, quite unexpectedly,

illuminating a band of moving clouds.

This poem does what all good art does-it makes my heart fill as I recognize myself in it, and I say, "yes! that is exactly it!" and I realize once again that I need to tell you so many things. I feel inspired. Alive.

There are not enough hours.

a note from Kevin Griffin, author and spritual leader from Shambhala