On Solid Ground

My hysterectomy is now an event two weeks in the past. I am starting the third week of my recovery. Surprisingly, I only feel the need for a physical recovery. I honestly thought I would have more "baggage" with this process, but it seems that any emotional attachment went out with the uterus, the ovaries, and the adhesions that had them all glued to the rest of my insides.

So... what have I learned the last couple of weeks? Ironically, I realize I have turned into my father. During the last few years of Dad's life, we saw how he turned into a shadow of his former self. Dad walked very slowly and deliberately, touching or grasping nearby furniture or walls to give him a sense of balance and direction and control. Every step was carefully orchestrated. I feel that I am shuffling in his slippers right now.

In the quest for peace and the elimination of stress, we may often hear experts tell us of the need for mindful awareness or mindfulness. Surprisingly, I am discovering that state with each careful motion. I cannot afford to let my mind wander. My abdominal incision requires my utmost attention and intention with each action, from rising to walking to sitting. My doctor has me on blood thinner to prevent clots, so cuts and bruises must be avoided. Each movement requires planning and determination. I am amazed how formerly simple actions that might only take a moment become a slow dance that can fill the day.

Frequently, people become lost in their mindless pursuits-- emails, texts, calls, appointments, social networks, reality television. We are lost in a bombardment of information, communication, and entertainment. Surrounded by hordes of other humans through every possible medium, we feel small and alone. We want to matter and want to know who we are and why we are here.

Let me offer this-- before you try to identify who you are, get a grasp on where you are. Slow down. Stop and feel your feet planted firmly on the ground. Notice the air upon your skin. Listen as your breaths enter and leave your nose, airway, and lungs. Sense your hand upon a stair rail. Defy the effect of gravity against muscle as your thighs, legs, and feet carry you up the stairs. Watch your feet on each step. As you walk across the room, pay attention to the nearness of the furniture and other objects to your feet, your sides, your swinging arms. Know where you are. When you realize that you are a body as well as a mind, you may begin to sense the reality of you. This precious life is not for spectators.

Be the zebra on solid ground. Eat the grasses. Taste the waters. Feel the sunshine absorb into your black bands and reflect off the white stripes. Feel the energy of your legs carry you to peaceful plains.

Who will clean up after you?

My husband and I went to brunch on Sunday morning. We found a little diner where everyone seemed to know each other, except us. It almost felt like we were intruding on their private party. We watched the incoming and outgoing tides of hand shakes, shoulder slaps, and waves.

In a nearby booth sat a woman with two children. A small toddler sat in a high chair, smiling at everyone and feeding scrambled egg to the furniture and floor around her rather than to herself. An older girl (maybe 10) sat quietly eating her breakfast, paging through an "American Girl Doll" catalog, and watching all the customers stop to coo at the baby girl. I eyed the woman a few times, trying to determine if she were a young grandmother or a mature mother.

When their breakfast had ended, the older girl got out of their booth. I never heard the lady ask the older girl to do anything. I suppose her actions were her own. The big sister started using her hands to sweep up the scrambled egg that her baby sister had pushed to the floor. Gently and thoroughly she gathered the pieces and piled them on the dirty dishes. I watched her and wondered. Most children that age would probably have had a fit if someone had asked them to clean up after someone else. Most children would not have thought to do it at all without being asked by someone. It was such a simple act, but I realized she was not only cleaning up after her little sister, but also making less work for the staff during a busy breakfast shift.

I had already planned my Sunday activity for my return home. We have a new headboard arriving soon for our master bedroom. (This will be installed so I can have something on which to lean while recovering after surgery.) In order for the new furniture to fit our small room, we have to rearrange furniture. This meant cleaning and sorting 15 years worth of clothing and collectibles and clutter. I spent hours looking at things and having to decide whether to keep, donate, or trash each piece. With my pending hysterectomy, I know that I am the person who has to decide the fate of my belongings. There will be no heirs to have that assignment in years to come.

My childhood home still sits unoccupied in my old hometown. Dad has been gone since February of this year. My siblings and I are gradually clearing out old belongings. (There is no rush to sell in such a bad housing market.) Our family was in that house since 1957. So much of what we found in the attic had been boxed up years before and moved from other ancestral homes. Without my mother around to tell us the history or sentimental value of things, we can only guess what might have a story. We have to make decisions.

What about you? What surrounds you and steals your peace? Is it something that someone else threw down mindlessly? Were you asked to clean it up? Did you choose to take it on without being asked? Should you clear it away to do yourself a favor? Must you take action because it is your turn? Sometimes we find ourselves in a place where we do not want to be the ones to make things right. We would rather close our eyes and wish the clutter away.

Make a decision. You shall find greater peace when you are not surrounded.

Mama Zebra

I know I can find my inner zebra because I am certain that my mother must have had stripes. Dad was a worrier. Mom was not. I often remind myself that I have genes from both of them so there is no sense in worrying all the time. As long as I am methodical like my Mama, then I know I have done all I can do, so there is no sense in fretting about things. Life will happen, but it does not have to happen all over me.

In under two weeks, I will be having major surgery. It won't be the first time, but hopefully it will be the ultimate surgery for my "girl stuff." I remember back in 1992, there were some days leading up to yet another surgery for endometriosis that were quite focused. I was much younger then, and I tried to be very adult about the whole process. I was living alone and had to plan for the groceries and food and supplies I would need once I came home from the hospital. I knew from previous surgeries that I would be too tired to do much of anything, let alone cook. I would not be able to lift anything heavy. By the time my big event arrived, I had done what I needed to do. The house would be ready for my return. Of course, back then, I still had Mom around to take care of me and the first part of my recovery would be at my parents' home.

This time, I have my husband. His sister will also help out. I have been getting my holiday shopping done early. The tasks at the office are getting pulled together or passed over or delegated in anticipation of my lengthy absence. I am thinking about what I will be able to wear home from the hospital and while I'm recovering. Soon, I will shop for the food I think I will be able to tolerate. Everything is coming together. If it isn't ready, so be it. There is no sense in fretting. My surgery is in the hands of a skilled physician. My recovery is in the hands of my loving family. Mama Zebra is no longer around, but I know she makes up half of me. Worry is not an option on this peaceful plain.

This week, I am starting a menstrual cycle. Now, that may not be a topic of interest for many folks, but let me explain. As a target of endometriosis since my teens, I have the sense of menstrual cycles as bouts of personal terrorism. Menstruation causes havoc and pain for many endo suffers, not only during the periods but in the time between periods. For decades, I was on "the pill" continuously so I would not have regular periods and, theoretically, not suffer the consequences. That worked a lot, but obviously not enough in my life. Now, I face a hysterectomy in less than two weeks. Imagine my gradual awakening as I realized that this period will be my last. That is a very big deal for someone who has feared every cycle, wondering how much pain and how much torment might be in store.

Thinking about my last menstrual cycle made me think about the first one. I was twelve years old. I knew all about the physiology of menstruation, but theory and reality are never the same. When the moment actually hit me for the very first time, I was at home and hollered for my mother. I cried. I told her, "I don't want it." My mother just calmly listened to me, then looked me in the eye and said, "Well, honey, we can't send it back."

Of course, I had no idea that day that menstruation would torment me so in the decades to come. And here I am, thirty-plus years later. When I realized that this would be my last period ever, I almost started to shed a tear because my mother is not here to help me through this surgery and recovery. She also is not here for me to celebrate the end of this saga. Mom is not here to make me laugh. Or is she? I remembered that first time and what she said to me, and I smiled. "Yes, Mom. I can. I CAN send it back, and I am going to very soon!" I laughed out loud. I suspect she did too, wherever she is.

I have shed enough tears for my first menstrual cycle and so many of them afterwards in the pain that is endometriosis. I shed tears for our eventual decision not to try to have children because the likelihood of success was very slim. Enough tears for the things I could not control. Now, I will laugh and relax. I am making plans and preparing myself and the rest will fall into place. Yes, I can send it back.

There are no lions here today. I drink from the watering hole in peace. I am content.

Hot Tea for Me

Tea time is a ritual for me. It has been as far back as I can remember. When my sister and I would return home from school, Mom was always there to put the water on to boil. She would make a pot of tea and the three of us would gather to talk about the day. It was our oasis, our energy boost. Dad would be home later, but until then, it was just the girls.

I am convinced that our daily tea parties cemented our relationships. I hear tales of women who fight with their sisters and mothers and daughters. They do not find comfort in each others' presence. They do not re-live their days with drama and understanding and laughter.

My sister used to make tea for her daughters and herself when they returned home from school. The tradition continued in their household and their tight-knit family shows the results.

We have no children of our own in our lives, but my husband and I are both tea drinkers. When one or both of us have the urge for tea, the production begins. Choose a cup or mug to fit your mood. Select the tea. Boil the water (only on the stove, not the microwave!). Watch the steam rise as you pour the water. Wait. Add the sugar and the milk. It is a ritual every day that we cherish. We are bonded by the blend.

Even when I have a moment to myself and tea time arrives (which can really be any time), I honor my heritage and do not rush the ritual. When my cup is full, I find some small corner of the world, and I gently relax into memories of my mother, my sister, my nieces, my husband, my Grandfather Great Spirit. I am never alone when I sip a cup of hot tea.

Waves of Wisdom

Have you ever known something so well and so intimately that you wished you didn't? If you have experienced the death of someone close to you, the pain can feel almost unbearable at first. In time, with great caring from others and from yourself, you can move on. You never get over it. Why would anyone want to push the loss completely out of mind anyway? It seems, though, that you join a club that you never thought about until then.

When my mother died, I felt as if my heart would ache forever. I still have moments when the bitter reality crosses my mind. She isn't at her house. She isn't at the store. She will never make my phone ring again. Dad's death a few years later was tough, but expected. Mom's finality was sudden and never even imagined. The first and closest loss seems like a painful practice.

Two people at my office have suddenly surrendered their mothers in the last few weeks. I want to offer comfort or advice or wisdom, but I know that I cannot possibly lead them through this dark pass. They must feel their own ways through. I know what it is to be without my mother. I have no clue what it is like in their corners of the world to be without each of their moms. This undesired wisdom makes my heart ache for them. I know they hurt. I know they will heal. I just don't know how.

I can feel this wisdom growing like a tiny seed, expanding way down deep. When someone loses a special person, I sense that healing is within reach, although I know I can't tell them that initially, or maybe ever. When we faced the death of a co-worker earlier this year, I mourned the passing, but I did not feel surprised that our herd of humans would not be constant. I am starting to recognize that the others whom we welcome to our watering holes are much like ripples and waves greeting the land. These comings and goings are the only constant. We cannot keep all the waves coming ashore without some of them returning. There must be a balance. This, I know well and intimately.

Zebras Don't Plan

Yesterday, I had one of those chaotic days that humans still find surprising. I rushed back from an out-of-town meeting, stopped at home to dump my luggage and don some jeans, and intended to drop off the agency vehicle, check email at the office, then bum a ride home. Instead, I got a call en route before turning in the vehicle. I needed to attend to a dispute at an adult education classroom where our students seem to have forgotten--or have yet to learn-- that they are adults. Instead of making my teachers the "heavies," I agreed to sweep in as the hard-hearted administrator who would lay down the law-- in jeans, of all things. Geez, how I wished I were still wearing the dress clothes and pumps from my earlier meeting. The afternoon progressed and as I finally made my way back to return the agency vehicle, I said aloud to myself, "This is not the afternoon I planned."

This morning, I fixed my cup of tea and tried to wake up my brain for the Saturday duties of housework and homework (online graduate class). I glanced out the window in time to see that our dog had not simply gone out to do his duty and return, but had decided to trot down the gravel road to make sure the neighbor dog (his best buddy) knew that a new day had dawned and frolicking was in order. I put down my unsipped tea, threw on yesterday's clothes, grabbed the leash, and stuffed dog yummies in my pockets. I walked down the lane, allowed the neighbor buddies to play a bit, then walked back with my worn-out pooch. As we walked, I thought to myself, "This is not the morning I planned."

This afternoon, I was reading some paperwork from my gynecologist's office. I had forms to complete in anticipation of surgery two months from now. It will be a hysterectomy, which I have actually expected for twenty-four years, since my first surgery for endometriosis. This ultimate surgery shall be a physical relief, yet an emotional challenge. Suddenly, the realization of my age is upon me. We never had children because we concluded that my warped parts would not welcome that attempt. I always held a prayer that if God envisioned us as parents, He would circumvent my treatment methods (birth control pills) and make it happen. So, at 44 years of age, I know that I'm too tired anyway for that Mom role, but I still think about what will never be. As if the anticipation of a hysterectomy were not challenging enough, my doctor is sending me for a CA-125 blood screening to make sure that the cysts showing and growing rapidly on my ovaries are only endometriosis rather than ovarian cancer. I looked at myself in the mirror this afternoon and saw the same girl I see every day-- the one who can't believe she's whatever age she is that day-- and I said aloud, "This isn't the death I planned." Then, I smiled.

Zebras don't plan. They don't make a "to do" list for the day. They don't wonder what will bring them down tomorrow. Most zebras don't die of old age. I think it is very easy for humans to become frustrated by the littlest thing that sends us off our agenda. It's a control thing. Making lists is how we take control of the things we want or need to do. Of course, most of us don't include time for distractions or challenges on our schedules. I made myself laugh when I thought of my own mortality today because I realized that I haven't really thought about it and really have not been bothered by the ever-present reality that we will all die someday. I realize that many people are mortified by this reality. They seek lotions, potions, surgeries, and myths to somehow appear young or healthy or invincible. I just haven't been bothered by my own mortality-- because I know it will happen. It is a certainty. I can have faith in it. Instead of fearing or vainly trying to avoid death, I prefer to embrace its dependability. Grandfather Great Spirit knows when and how, so I may proceed with my life unafraid, knowing that he is in control. When I said that ovarian cancer was not the death I planned, I was teasing myself. I probably don't have that particular disease, but I will not waste time worrying with dis-ease. My inner zebra is telling me that my own mortality is not a thing with which to concern myself. Death is all under control.

Paradise Lost

Why do we say when someone dies that we have "lost" them? "Losing someone" almost sounds as if we set them in the outer pocket of a backpack or on the roof of the car and then went along our merry way only to discover later that the person is no longer where we left him or her. The expression seems to make us irresponsible somehow, as if the fault is ours.

Dad died in February 2010. Mom died five years and a week before Dad, in February, 2005. I am pretty sure that I did not lose them. I knew right where they were in each case. They were at home. Mom died on the couch in the TV room while Dad pleaded with her not to go. Dad died sitting at the base of the staircase near the front door, as if he were waiting for someone. They were not lost.

Did I have the same reaction to their deaths as I would have when I lose something dear or important? Not at all. When I lose something, I try to retrace my last steps and to look in all the logical places where the item should be. I expect to find the object. I often get frustrated with myself for not being more mindful of my actions. Sometimes I laugh at myself when I find the thing where it shouldn't have been, or where it was right in front of my eyes each time I looked. If I really can't find the object, I have to move on, knowing that I will either get another one or simply do without.

That is not the feeling I had when Mom died quickly and unexpectedly. That is not the feeling I had when Dad died slowly and anticipated. No, I did not lose my parents. I also would not say that they "left me" (which sounds like they abandoned me on purpose) or "passed away" (as if they were boats that were left untied and which drifted out to sea).

Mom died. Dad died. That stark reality actually gives me comfort. I am now beginning to understand that life happens. It is as it should be. That is not to say that life is always what we want or hope. It is as it should be. There is a recurring flow of the seasons, the tides, and to our lives. We should not be amazed or shocked or saddened because death occurs. We may grieve because we no longer enjoy the company of the people we love, but we cannot believe it would not come. As surely as the autumn leaves change color and the hummingbirds fly south, so too will the people in our lives follow their own patterns. They are not lost; nor will we be.

It's Not the Things

It's not the things that I love
of the things that I love;
Rather it's the love behind
the things that I love
that I love.

That is a poem that I wrote long ago, but which came back in a flash when my dog stole and destroyed a trinket that had belonged to my mother, who is now deceased. After I threw a tantrum, which the dog did not understand, I had to find my peace. I love my dog more than anything he can destroy... except my cats, of course. My mother is not the things she left behind. My dog cannot destroy my memories. The things only hold meaning to me; only my memories give them life. We are in the process of cleaning out my parents' home, now that they have passed on. The house is full of objects whose meaning and memory faded away with my parents. The objects in my home have no life of their own without me. When I have passed on, someone will stand and gaze at these things and wonder if any bit is an heirloom, a treasure, or a trinket. When I am gone, they will have no value to me. While I am here, do they really hold any value? 'Tis a gift to be simple.

"Wake Up" Thump

From time to time, I think of my guardian angel. I have nicknamed him "Thumper," because I don't really know if he/she/it has a name (if he/she/it exists at all). The nickname obviously comes from the little bunny that is featured in the Walt Disney film, "Bambi." My use of the name came about the first time I realized that my guardian angel (or the Holy Spirit, or Grandfather Great Spirit, or someone much wiser than myself) had very clearly whispered to me to do something, then took matters into his/her/its own wings when I ignored him/her/it because I did not believe he/she/it would ever be so direct.

Why do I bring this up now? Usually, I have conversations with Grandfather Great Spirit whenever we have some time to ourselves. Today, however, I was in the middle of a conversation with another human zebra, and I felt Thumper's presence, like a "Wake Up" thump in my chest. (Often, Thumper hits me upside the head, but this was different.) I had been contemplating a life choice for several weeks, trying to talk myself into which option suited me, which option I could live with, and perhaps even trying to weasel myself out of the road less traveled. As I chewed the Savannah grasses with my companion (who was completely oblivious to my personal dilemma), he shared some information that Thumped me right in the mid-section. WHAM! I believe I even smiled, although his revelation was not a pleasant one. Immediately and assuredly, I knew that the road less traveled would be the right choice should I cross that path soon.

The zebra cannot see his own stripes. He is too close to get the full picture. Sometimes, he needs to draw closer to the water's edge to catch a glimpse of the stripes of that hide in plain site. At other times, he needs another zebra to give him a little "wake up" kick in the grass.

Stay awhile, and I shall find You.
You have lost yourself in the business of the world,
and have lost You in the busyness of the whirl.
Return to the hills, the meadow, the forest, the sea.
I shall find You, and, therein, You shall find Me.

(from B.A.B., as inspired during a Friends' Meeting, 6/20/10)

Just Laugh

A fly in your watering hole? Mud on your hoof? A typo in your cover letter? Minor inconveniences crop up whether you are zebra or human. It's part of life. Believe it or not, you are not in control-- so stop trying to seize control or being surprised at the unexpected. When you realize that change is constant, you will begin to relax. The unbending tree breaks in the wind while the flexible tree enjoys the breeze.

Just laugh.

Complete Silence

Zebras don't bray or bark unnecessarily. Humans could learn a lot from the silence of the zebras. Why are we so uncomfortable with quiet? If there is a momentary pause in a conversation, someone rushes in to fill it. Music or television may fill every room of a house. Look around and you will find people with earbuds in their ears or cell phones seemingly attached to their ears. Even our worship services are often so overly choreographed with music, greetings, readings, and responses, that we barely have time to hear whether any Word from above had descended upon us. What is wrong with silence?

Silence is not an emptiness waiting to be filled; silence is a fullness in danger of being emptied. We can learn from every peaceful moment if we let it surround us like the air of a cool breeze or the water of a warm bath. Quiet can envelope us, permeate us, and deliver us.

When we perceive silence as a void that must be filled, we demand a great push of energy from ourselves. If we attempt to carry a load on our backs and carry on a conversation while walking uphill, we become winded, tired, and drained. Talking too much or otherwise keeping the silence at bay can use up our resources.

We should take the time-- even a few minutes a day-- to recognize that complete silence is a gift and a special moment to be savored. Just stop and listen. Hear the clock on the wall. Notice the birds chirping outside. Listen to the sound of your heart beating in your chest. Be still and know that you are complete without making a noise. Just listen, and quiet the noise in your head.

When you are really starting to enjoy the brief glimmers of peacefulness, lengthen your quiet time by a few minutes until that becomes comfortable. On one bold day, you may even choose to leave the electronics off. It is time to connect with yourself in the completeness of silence.

Zebra Trust is Black & White

How is it that zebras can find serenity when lions could be circling? It really is very black and white for zebras. Everything is life and death-- but mostly life.

Life is a daily occurrence. For that matter, life is a constant. Breathe. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Do other things that zebras have to do. The things needed for life are always important.

Death is a once in a lifetime occurrence. It will come, but it is not every moment. Zebras do not spend time and energy trying to outrun death unless it is truly at the heels (or hooves).

Zebras must stay alert, but they do not have to worry. The lion may be trusted. I do not suggest that the lion and zebra would ever defy nature and be friends (except in animated films). What I mean by saying that the lion may be trusted is that the zebra may always trust the lion to think and act like a lion. Experiencing a sense of calmness of spirit in the presence of others depends on trust. If the zebra and lion come into one another's presence, each knows the other's nature, can anticipate certain actions and reactions, and may focus on one's own needs in the situation.

Humans are not always able to stay calm in the presence of one another because the nature of each person is not predictable. We imagine how our interactions will affect one another. We have certain expectations of behavior. Unfortunately, we also get disappointed, hurt, shocked, even angry when the other people think and act as they do. Whether the actions and reactions occur within a household or office or classroom or on a first date, we are usually surprised or even dumbfounded by the other person's individuality.

What can people learn from the zebra? Learn to trust in the nature of others. Do not waste time trying to anticipate motivations and possibilities. Stay calm and use your God-given senses. If the other is a lion-- run. If the other is a zebra-- keep munching. If human-- be alert. The nature of the human is unpredictable. That, you may trust.

Secretary Bird

Life is not always what you expect on the Serengeti plains. Similarities to the workplace can be striking.

According to www.answers.com/topic/secretary-bird, "Secretary birds kill snakes (their main prey) by stamping on them, flailing them against the ground, or dropping them from aloft."

If you are a snake, don't cross the path of any secretaries!

Creating peace at the office

If the boss suddenly calls a meeting of only select employees, scheduled for a few days hence, it feels rather like the zebra herd on the plains have all just heard rustling in the grasses. Freeze. Heads up. Scan the horizon. Ears pricked and flicked to capture every direction. Listen.

In the past, I have been the one to panic early. Every breeze that rustles the grasses could be something moving in there. Run!

Not this time. Stay still. Don't speak. Wait. Listen. Take notes even if just mental notes, but don't give yourself away with braying or grunting or scattering the herd. Safety in numbers. Just wait.

If the lion seems near, let it show itself. It might just be a baby lion. Maybe it's just a dandelion after all.

Classroom Learning 2.0

The inspiration behind creating this blog came from my experiences on Classroom Learning 2.0 from the California School Library Association. The self-paced guide for educators is located at http://classroomlearning2.csla.net/.

Welcome to the Peaceful Plains

Welcome to the Peaceful Plains. This site is actually more of a quest than a destination. In the chaos and craziness of real life, we often forget to slow down and look out at the gentle horizon to find our peace.

Inner Zebra (as the blogspot name references) is a nod to Robert M. Sapolsky, Professor of Biology and Neurology, who wrote Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers. After reading his book in an effort to understand why some of us have overactions to stress, I have found myself trying to enjoy more peace by searching for my inner zebra. Zebras only react to real and present lions. Zebras don't think about yesterday's lion or tomorrow's lion or a possible lion in the bushes up ahead. Humans can learn a lot from their inner zebras.

Take a deep, cleansing breath. That's the only thing that you really have to get done at any given moment-- Breathe!