Wildness

This past weekend I was up on Great Pond in the Belgrade Lakes area.  This time of year the Loons are nesting and talking with each other.  I can never quite get a handle on whether these birds are nocturnal creatures or prefer sunlight; they seem to call to each all night long and yet are ever present on the surface of the lake during the day.

That call ... it always hits me in the solar plexus ... it stirs the imagination and, like the octave jumping of the wolf's moan, the loons song also speaks of wildness.  Unlike the mournful wah-hoo of the Mourning Dove or the sharp, static, conversations of the Crow, you must go to the quieter fresh water areas of our world to hear the Loon's song.

I have never had the gift of hearing a wolf cry into the night.  I know that it would raise the hair on the back of my neck as well as have me burst into a smile from ear to ear.  It's a sound I truly hope to hear some day before I leave this place.  But I have heard the yip and yowl of the coyote while on a cattle drive in Wyoming.  Being hearing impaired I'm never sure what range an animals voice will be in and whether I'll actually be able to hear it.  So, while on this cattle drive so many years ago, I had asked those with us that if they heard coyotes singing to let me know so I might focus all my attention to that one sound and grasp that bit of mountain wilderness.

One evening, while sitting around the nightly campfire, one of the wranglers came out of the darkness into the small circle of light and motioned to me to join him.  I jumped up and followed him into the blackness away from the fire.  The stars were brilliant above us with a tiny sliver of a moon just beginning to hang over the distant rounded shape of a mountain.  Buck looked at me and simply said, "listen" as he walked away.

Buck had a little black and white cattle dog, Lily, who was one of the most unfriendly dogs I have ever met.  She tolerated people but she had big boundaries.  If you walked too close to her she would lower her head and, like the rattler of the rattle snake, she would give a low menacing growl to warn you to back off.  You knew she meant it and you also knew that she would never back down, she always expected you to find a broader track around her!

So as I stood there this night, under that brilliant star-pricked sky with the sage brush dotting the landscape, I closed my eyes and turned towards the coyotes singing ... and I stood stalk still, willing that mournful, ancient howl to drift over that dry land to my compromised ears.  Just as I heard the first high carooning song I felt the lightest touch of little feet on my thigh.  I stood still, listening with my eyes closed to the yipping of a distant pack, fully aware that Lily was standing upright with her small front feet on my leg listening intently with me.  After many seconds I heard Buck in the distance say, "Well, I never!  Never saw her do that with anyone but me!"  I felt her little feet disappear from my leg and as I opened my eyes I watched her wiggle and wag her way over to Buck.

Buck looked at me and just shook his head with a big grin on his face, "not sure what you were doing but Lily was pretty attracted to it."  I'm not sure what I was doing either, accept trying to connect with my own wildness, trying to block out the campfire behind me with a small group of people gathered around it, who couldn't see the stars through that brighter fire light and who weren't needing to listen so intently for the song of the coyote.  Perhaps Lily was connecting to her wildness with me.  I don't know, but she went right back to being a little bitch who wanted nothing to do with me!

I'm getting ready to return to a wilder place than where I live now.  Ready to claim a larger piece of land and turn that earth into my own herb and vegetable garden and turn away from the GMO's that everyone is screaming about these days.  Ready to live where the Loons call, the coyotes yip and the stars offer enough light to see the trail without a single back porch lamp lighting the night.

Lobster Lake

I'm ready to join this man of mine whose wild heart matches my own and who has woken me in the middle of the night while in our tent and whispered, "listen" ... and I turn my full attention to that lonesome wail from across the lake.

Loving you all back,
Mary

The Mystery

"We don't know what's going on here ....
Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf ... "
Annie Dillard

Jerry passed on May 23rd.  He was in hospice about 30 hours.  To say he was ready and willing is an understatement.  As he lay on that bed there were moments when he seemed awake and aware, other moments he was deep.  I would sit beside him and watch his slow, shallow breath and wonder where he was, what was going on inside his mind, what was he seeing?  I whispered to him, 'you're going to learn all the mysteries before me aren't you?  How I wish you could share them all!'

I believe it was Jerry's deep faith that had him pass through the Kubler-Ross stages so quickly.  He spent very little time in the denial stage, seemingly going straight to acceptance ... and then he embraced it.  He knew there was no fighting this.   As he had said,  "I feel I'm being chopped down by the master woodsman" .. and indeed, he was.  But he took this card he was dealt and turned it into a dance.  He went with grace and dignity.  He was actually looking forward to this next adventure ... that great beyond.

Those with near death experiences tell us there is something beyond this earth; it is stunningly beautiful and euphoric.  I like to believe it is pure Love.  The BIG Love, the one that is ever lasting, it exists in all beings, in all hearts, leafs, rocks, wind, sky and earth.  I think Jerry believed this too and he gave in and embraced it's coming.

Oh, that I might go with as much of an adventurous spirit as this man did!

Oh that I might live on this earth with this adventurous spirit and take each day as a gift and not squander my time, aware and awake to the mystery that presents itself to me; the small, red cardinal singing so loud from the roof next door,  a spiders web, the birth of a child with perfectly formed little hands and feet, the caterpillar emerging as a butterfly ... such mystery!

The morning of the 23rd Dave and I got the call in the wee hours of the morning.  We dressed and headed to my sisters house where her daughters and our niece had gathered after dealing with the final stages at hospice.  I planned to stay with Karmo for the remainder of the morning/day, going to bed in the spare bedroom at about the time I usually get up for my first cup of coffee, 4:30 a.m.  As I lay in bed, with tears streaming down my face I felt something.  I wiped the tears away and realized I was laying there smiling for I was feeling pure joy ... real joy.  And this joy was coming from the presence of two beings in the room with me; Jerry Sanders and Jim Daniels were there and informing me that all was fine.

At first I thought I might be hallucinating since I had only gotten three hours of sleep and had been up most of the night/day at this point.  But I was wide awake, I was lucid and I got a knowing that was deep and true ... this was real.  I had been asking Jim to come down to the veil, to come close for all of us, to be there to greet Jerry when he passed .... and by God, I believe he was!

Later in that day I shared this experience with the family that began to gather.  With tears in our eyes but smiles on our faces we all began to enjoy the thought of Jerry and Jim together again laughing their assess off and doing just fine.

It's us who must remain here, who have to soldier on without these loved ones with us, who suffer.

And who knows if any of this is true or not.  But if this thought helps any of us to get up tomorrow and get on with life .... then there is no harm in this belief.

But I remain a believer in The Mystery.  I want to be open, awake and aware to those moments. For this mystery exists all around us.

Loving you all back,
Mary

May Hill

Many of you reading this may know that Jerry has laid down the gauntlet and chosen the fast track to ascending from this world.  He has stopped eating and drinking.  We are counting days now, verses months.

Bleeding Heart

Monday the family gathered and there was a bit of magic sparkling for all of us.  Jerry was having an incredible day.  Many of us canceled all appointments on this Monday and gathered, the grandchildren were brought over and filled the day with laughter as they played on the swing that Jerry and Dave had built last spring.  Jerry was up and engaged all day.  It was, simply, a wonderful day.   

Someone reminded me of this saying, "God only gives you as much as you can handle" ... I say really?  Then God is running things a little heavy handed lately!  And "if it doesn't kill you it will only make you stronger", right?

I could probably take on Atlas by the end of all this then.

This really is a bit too much for one family, I feel.  And yet, there is grace and there is joy and there are some really wonderful family dynamics starting to bloom that had felt like they might never flower again.  This is a bit of what Anne Lamott calls in her book,  Traveling Mercies, the miracles in the everyday.  

And I guess it is this God that I acknowledge and can turn to.   The one that still offers these miracles in the everyday, the tiny little moments of joy out of all this grief.  With this too-large bag of shit comes the smaller gifts that one can feel and recognize because the breast bone feels cracked open and the heart feels unguarded and vulnerable .... but wide, wide open. 

It is this moments that grief is turned to joy ... and back again.

Jerry was sitting in the sun in a hammock on Monday with his morphine pump always with him now.  It was just he and I there for a brief moment and he looked at me and said with a smile, "if it wasn't for this cancer I'd feel pretty good".  We both laughed and I replied, "if it wasn't for your cancer I'd feel pretty good too".  He looked over and smiled a knowing smile at me.

"Laughter and crying,

you know it's the same release... "

Joni Mitchell

My dad died in May.  Jim died in May.  My friend Reg also died in May.  And now Jerry.  My sister, Sara, reminded me of "May Hill".  There is an old wise tale that if you are sick, weak and/or elderly if you can make it over May hill you will have a bit more time on this earth.  My dad had said, he wasn't going to make it over that hill.  Jerry said the same thing to me on Monday, "May hill .. I'm not going to get over that hill".  

As the world blooms, the earth warms and softens, it calls those who are weak and tired home .... I guess.

The tears offered, again, this May are enough to water the emerging flowers.

Loving you all back,

Mary

Jerry

Karmo and Jerry in Alaska

I first met Jerry when I was thirteen years old.  My sister, Karmo (a.k.a. Martha), who is six years older than me, had left the small town of Norway, Maine for the wild land of Oklahoma to go to college.  She returned with a long, lanky, slow talking man, Jerry Sanders.

Jerry brought a whole new world into the Lello family with his knowledge of horses, open range, big sky country and how the Oklahoma wind would blow.  Jerry seemed to do everything slow, his accent is  a western slow drawl, and he walks by throwing one long leg out in front of him, planting it firmly before throwing the other one out ...  and he takes it slow.  Back then I commented to Karmo that he even drank water slow!

One of my very first memories of Jerry was when mom served chocolate cake with white frosting for desert.  Jerry got up from the table and sauntered to the cabinet, pulled out a big glass and filled it half full with milk.  When he returned to the table he sat down and picked up that wedge of cake that was on his plate and jammed it into the glass of milk and proceeded to eat it from the glass with a spoon.  I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the dining table, but mom grabbed my arm in warning.  I looked at her with eyes popping out of my head ready to say something and she gave me a look that said "NO!"  In my family you didn't say "ew" or wrinkle your nose up at food, you just said "no thank you" to it.  And you didn't comment on how other folks ate their food.  But this move of Jerry's, well, it took the cake!

Of course, days later, I tried this method before that cake was all gone.  It's really good.  And his two daughters have done it since they were small.  And, yes, we're seeing the grandchildren do it now too.  It's an Oklahoma thing and I find it incredibly endearing now.

Jerry speaks about one of his first memories of meeting my youngest sister, Sara.  When he walked up to our summer house in Scarborough Sara was tied to a rope that was tied to the porch post.  Karmo gave a little nervous laugh and spoke to Sara between clenched teeth, "Sara, get up!"  Sara barked at her and started to pant.  Sara, at 6 years old, wanted a dog so badly that she decided she would just be a dog since she couldn't convince the folks to get another one.  So frequently we found Sara tied to the porch barking and panting.  Karmo pointed at her little sister who was on her hands and knees with her tongue hanging out and said, "Jerry, this is my little sister, Sara."  Jerry walked by, patted her head and said, "good dog" on his way into the house.  Sara wiggled her butt ... er ... wagged her tail and barked again.

Jerry was exotic with a huge beard, long hair and the ability to play almost any instrument he picked up.  He'd sit at our piano in the front room in Norway and compose amazing music.  We were use to hearing the scales or chop sticks coming from this old stand-up piano, but when Jerry sat down to it there were whole new melodies to be heard and not one sheet of music in front of him.  He plays the guitar and the drums, the spoons and the harmonica and just about anything else that will create a good sound that you put in front of him.  He composes wonderful songs for the kids to dance to.  I guess I grew up hearing all this music and watching my nieces dance all around the kitchen.  There are new songs now for the grandchildren to wiggle and hop to.  So many original songs.  So much wonderful music composed by this man including the score of a musical that he and Karmo wrote together and was professionally performed in Anchorage, Alaska in June 2012.

Jerry is also a gifted healer.  It was Jerry who introduced me to a system, or rather, an intelligence, twenty years ago that assists me in my acupuncture practice now.  When Jim was so sick Jerry came two times a week to do his healing work for Jim.  The magic of Jerry may have contributed to the fact that Jim survived twice as long as predicted.

Jerry singing with Jim and two other friends

Jerry has a calm, quiet presence about him that  has everyone in his aura relax a little bit.  During the 18 months of Jim's illness any kind of function, family or otherwise, that Jim and I would attend  I found that if Jerry was around I could relax knowing that he had stepped in.  Jerry would take such good, attentive care of Jim and would stay with him and help him with whatever was needed ... and I was allowed a little bit of breathing space.  When we discovered that Jim could sing songs perfectly, even though he couldn't talk, Jerry practiced Bob Marley's song with Jim, I Can See Clearly Now ... and the two of them sang this song at a fundraiser event put on for Jim and I.  I can't hear that song without tearing up anymore.

Jerry has always moved beautifully.  He studied Mime under Tony Montero in South Paris, Maine.  He has taken that discipline and become a dancer, participating in, as well as conducting his own, dance classes in the Portland area.  He's a gorgeous dancer.  One of my favorite images is of Jerry and his daughter, Jennywren, at her wedding reception dancing on the lawn that spread down to the beach.  Someone handed Jerry a fedora hat and he suddenly became Fred Astaire as Jenny hiked up her wedding gown and she and her dad circled and twirled around each other using all that open space as their dance floor. We all just stood back and watched, smiling and clapping.  This father and daughter dance was unique and wonderful!

When my family wigged out a little bit over this new love I have found ... well, Dave and I have moved very fast as we both have just known from that first meeting that this was incredibly special .... it was Jerry who looked at me and said, "I have one word to say to you Mary ... Joy!"  And that is the one word I have clung to as friends, and some of my family, questioned my relationship with this new guy earlier on.  Joy.  Jerry understood.  Jerry got it.   Jerry saw a lot of what went on in my world while Jim was so horribly sick and dying.  Jerry saw how I slowly caved in and lost the sparkle of my being.  And Jerry saw how that sparkle returned the moment I met Dave.  Joy.  Only Jerry could see it so clearly and sum it up in one word.

Jerry in Alaska

And now my family must again dance this cancer dance as Jerry was diagnosed only a month or so ago with stage 4 colon cancer that has metastasized to his liver and lungs.  None of us can imagine what our world will be like without him.  It is this man, the rock of stability for this Lello clan, the calm, gentle force of his own growing family, who we must accept losing.

How the hell does this happen?

And I know, too well, how terrified Karmo feels.  And there's nothing I can do to help her really.  We can all tell her how we are here, and will always be here for her, but the fact is, she does have to go through this alone.

And my heart just breaks for my nieces and those four gorgeous grandchildren who will lose their Beepa and his music to dance by.


We all are losing his music ... to dance by.

This is Jerry, and a few of my memories that I share with him now, while he's still here to know of them and to tell him ...

... I love you man,
Mary

I'm hoping you can click on this link below and see Jerry singing one of his many songs.  Karmo and Jerry hope to have time enough to get his songs recorded and put onto CD's that can be bought in the very near future.  Enjoy!  And go ahead and dance!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaRbfc3HrRQ&feature=share

It's April ... once again.

Since 2011 April has proved to be a very difficult month; that ol' cellular memory kicks in sometime during the showers and the May flowers.  This month the beast started to show its' fin a full month prior to Jim's anniversary.  Still catches me by surprise too;  I can't really explain why I feel cranky and irritable, or get caught staring into space or have tears flowing down my cheeks for what seems like no reason.

What?  Really?  Oh, sorry, not sure what's wrong with me.

And then it begins to dawn ... oh, right, it's April.  It's weeks before May 7th.   It's April ... once again.

And this April the beast has practically crawled into the boat with me and tried to swamp my entire vessel.  My brother-in-law has been diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer.  My entire family has been brought to our knees .... once again.  Another very fast train with no luxury of preparing.  There are treatment options but we all know that these will simply kill you slower and what's left of this sweet life will go down the toilet too.   Not much of an option at all.

And the beast circles.

Some days it just nips at the achilles and I falter in my step for a moment, regaining my balance quickly so that most don't even notice.   This past Sunday it grabbed me and dragged me deep.  I was expecting it.  I've learned to just ride it down, close my eyes, keep breathing, sink into that darkness before bobbing back up to the surface a little worse for wear.

And this whole cancer dance is too familiar.  My sister tells me she is exhausted.   They had family from his side visiting at their house.  People gather to just be together and, perhaps, to say good-bye. She tells me, "It's wonderful, it's all good but... and it's ...  exhausting."

 I know.

I know.

And I'm back to walking outside and looking to my crows and the morning sunrise and asking why?  Even though there is no answer, there is no comprehension of this, nothing that my little Being can grasp.  I hope there is a bigger plan than I can ever understand.  It is this belief that allows me to keep resurfacing  ... once again.

 "I've learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow."  Maya Angelou

I guess I've learned this too.  But sometimes that "better tomorrow" feels like forever.

And it's April ... once again.

Loving you all back,
Mary

"My year of bad behavior"

March 19th and we're in the middle of another Nor'easter with blowing snow and an expected foot or more of this white stuff covering the tiny crocus's I saw poking through the earth over the weekend.  It's not an easy pill to swallow for those of us ready for spring in Maine.

My year has felt a bit like this crazy weather we've been having ... storms blowing in and out with some calms between the storms ... on the emotional front anyway.  A lot of these storms have come from unexpected people.  Change is not an easy thing for anyone and there has been tremendous changes in my life!

From December 2008 this train of mine has been moving pretty fast.  Five years since Jim's diagnosis, three years since his death, over a year and a half with Dave ... if you didn't get on this train you've been left at the station.  I understand this has been hard for folks.  Me too.

But the fact is, there is good in my life now and I have found happiness again.  And yet, there has been some real hard lessons and difficult interactions with a few people of my world.   I've had some time to reflect on this a little bit.  I was talking with my good friend, Kristine, about some of these interactions and she said to me, "Mary, just remember the year after Jim passed you were still deeply in grief and this can bring out the worst in people.  Allow yourself some space around the fact that you may have been a little difficult to be around at that time."

Oh.  I didn't understand this.

Another very good friend, T, who also lost her spouse to cancer told me, "Mary, I call that year after E died 'my year of bad behavior!'"

OH!  It isn't just me?

I have ruminated and looked deeply into some of the behaviors that a friend called me out on.  Yup, I went into some shame around this too.  But after hearing from these other two women I've started to give myself a break .... and yes, there was a period of "bad behavior" from me.  But maybe it's part of the grieving process.

So why do I share this?  Because this was new information for me.  If you are recently grieving the loss of someone in your life you might need to understand that you may not respond to situations in your normal way.  Perhaps you've gone a little deeper into yourself and come across as selfish to others.  Well, maybe you are and maybe you should be.  You need to go deep, there's some healing in that place for you.  No need for shame around this at all!

And if you are a friend to someone who is in this place, I share this so that you may understand that your friend may not be quite like themselves for awhile ... a long while.  Be patient with them, come to understand that they will resurface at some point in time.  But during this time of "bad behavior" just let some things roll off your back.

It's not an easy place, for the one grieving or for the friends of that person.  But, a little understanding goes a long way.

Loving you all back,

Mary

Do You Believe in Magic?

Mount Katadhin

If you're going to live in Maine, and stay here through the winter, than you might as well embrace these months of cold, snow and ice.  This past weekend is exactly what myself and thirteen other people did as we headed into Maine's biggest state park, Baxter ... home of Maine's tallest mountain, Mt. Katadhin.

A friend, Alice,  put out an email asking about interest in doing a trek into the Katadhin Lake Camps months ago.  She proceeded to make all the needed inquiries and reservations in advance to secure the  number of cabins necessary to house all those who planned on going.

Getting to this lake is no walk in the park mind you!  We all needed to be prepared to ski the 14.2 miles into the cabins on Katadhin lake bringing all our winter clothing and gear,  our own food and beverages and any other needed winter recreational apparatus, i.e., snowshoes or climbing spikes.  We were offered the choice of hauling our own stuff - done by hauling sleds behind you, much like a Draft horse pulls the plow - or have the owners of the camp take our stuff in with their ski sleds for a very minimal fee.  Hmmm ... let's see ... what-to-do ... all of us opted to have our gear transported for us!

The plan was to ski in on Friday morning, leaving early enough that even the slowest skier would be able to make it to the camps with light still in the sky.  This entails getting out of Portland and being in the tiny town of Millinocket on Thursday night in order to be up at the gate to the park by 9:00 a.m.

On Thursday I saw a few clients in the morning and Dave and I planned a 3:00 p.m. get-out-of-Dodge departure time.  This would put us at the hotel in Millinocket by 7:00.  Thursday, while at work, I couldn't seem to get warm and found myself actually shivering at times.  And my stomach was a bit upset, I had a little, tiny headache and .. uh oh, my whole body ached!  Is this the flu?  Really?  After all these months and months of planning, all the people I treated all winter long who were sick and I did not catch one virus ... now?  I was going to get sick NOW?!

I got home and explained my symptoms to Dave.  He felt my forehead and said, "you have a fever.  Mary, what do you want to do?" I said, "I want to drive up there".  His eyebrows went up in a severe question.  "What if I wake up Friday feeling just fine?  I want to be up there to decide on Friday morning how I feel."  Dave thought I was crazy but he agreed to go.  He also agreed to drive the entire way to allow me to sleep, which I did, nestled and shivering under a big-guns down jacket that a friend was lending me for this trip.  I gave myself a couple little mini-acupuncture treatments on the drive up and went straight to bed when we got to the hotel.  No dinner and socializing with the crew as they arrived for this gal!

Now, on the drive up I had said to Dave that I thought he should go on this trip regardless of how I might feel on Friday morning;  I could drive home alone and he could hitch a ride with someone on Monday.  His response was, "Yes, I think I probably will!"  I admit, this was not the response I had been hoping for!  I almost broke down in tears at that point.  But instead, I resolved to get better.   I thought about Jim; who had the will of ... of ... I don't know what of, but his will was so, incredibly strong.  I saw this when he was sick and crippled, but still he would push himself to do things that no one ever thought he'd be capable of in his condition.   I witnessed this will of his countless times over our years together.  He would not let much stop him if he had his mind and heart set on something. After a pretty severe cycling crash,  that cracked a couple ribs and turned his thigh into hamburg, he still wanted to make a four hour drive to see our God-daughter graduate from Smith College.  Oh, and he drove the entire way too; as long as he didn't sneeze or laugh he felt OK.

 So I thought about this as I shivered under that down jacket.  I thought about how Jim Daniels would have decided to go, even if he was sick.  He would put his head down and not complain and just do what he could regardless.

At 6:00 a.m. Friday morning Dave woke me and asked, "how do you feel?" The fever had broken in the night, the body no longer ached, my stomach needed food but I didn't feel sick.  "I feel pretty good! I'm doing this trip!"

Some of the crew and most of our gear

I don't know what the magic pill was that had me beat the flu within twelve hours; acupuncture?  Maybe.  Latching onto a bit of the Jim Daniels will?  Maybe.  My own resolve and my own will to just do it?  Maybe.  I honestly don't know.

What I do know is it was an amazing weekend with good friends.  The wildness in me needs to be out under stars unadulterated by any kind of electrical lights.  It needs to look at a mountain and watch the clouds swirl around the peak.  It needs to connect with the wildness of my world and get recharged.  So I'm grateful for whatever magic there was for me that allowed me to be healthy enough to get out there and connect once again.


I believe in magic!

Loving you all back,
Mary