the lusty month of May?

I hadn't realized how long I've been away from this blog. Every day in Albuquerque, starting in March, I marked an X on the calender, April came and went, I flipped to May and gradually those empty squares began to fill up. Ron's treatments were moving along and he was approaching the last hit of radiation. Full spring came to Albuquerque and I began to wear sandals and lighter clothes on my walks. Roses are blooming and trees are thick with leaves down there. Treatment over for now, I packed the car and we arrived home in Taos after seven and half weeks in Albuquerque. The driveway was flooded with icy irrigation water and I didn't realize how deep until I stepped into four inches of very cold water in my sandaled bare feet! That was the first test.

spring thwarted

It's mid-May now, we've been home for six days. The driveway situation was corrected: "the water jumped the ditch," and I spent the next two blustery cold days hauling stuff from the car to the house, up the stairs, put things away, while Ron rested. After one lovely 66 degree sunny day and a day of all-weather, hail, sun, rain, light snow, we awakened to this morning's blizzard:

Taos weather, especially up here at 7500 feet elevation, is schizophrenic, but this is blowing my mind - as well as blowing snow horizontally from northeast to west. Yesterday I noticed the lilac bushes filled with flower buds and imagined those brief days of fragrance, purple beauty, bouquets in the house. Their future is uncertain now.

"bella patina" (#2139)
I'm happy that I finished a new pair of wool socks just before arriving home. After searching for a few days, I found them in the corner of a box of books last night. As I worked on the hand-dyed yarn (Schoppel Wunderklecks, Germany), the colors reminded me of lakes, mountains, oceans I've seen. I'm going to wear them today.

The experience of something that has been thwarted is surely matched on the other side by something that has been unexpectedly fulfilled.
         (Rainer Maria Rilke)

displaced person seeking solitude

One hundred and one years ago, Rilke wrote these words in a letter to Lou Andreas-Salome:

"...there is never any hospitable room around me and I find no window through which I can gaze on something calm...I have no undisturbed place of my own."

I might have written those words this week, or last week, or anytime in the last five weeks! I am grateful for this comfortable, clean, inexpensive residency on the north UNM campus, in the midst of a huge sprawling medical and university complex, but....there is no place for solitude or contemplation. Even the miles of walking paths that meander all around and beyond a golf course overlooking the city of Albuquerque, are alive with panting, sweating runners. I tend to walk the paths in early evening around the same time as the runners and dog walkers.

The dining room of this Casa is the only place to pick up a strong wi fi signal and it's usually buzzing with cooks at one or more of the four kitchenettes, the TV is on or (as at this moment), classic country music on the radio, turned way up. There are kids and loud families. As I write, a couple of tables are filled with loud-talking groups and no one is listening to the music blasting in the background. However, if I turn it off (as I did one day to the TV) someone will say (with a look), "did you turn that off?" So I come in here on early mornings and late nights to find a half hour or so of peace and quiet, maybe have a quiet phone conversation with a friend and try to sustain the peace long enough to write a blog post (not very successful, as you may note from the long stretches between). And I do understand that everyone here is connected to someone with cancer. Maybe the music and TV are about life and energy. In the kitchen, I met a painfully thin older woman around my age who wears the same loose grey cotton house dress every day, with sandals on her bare calloused feet that sparkle with hundreds of rhinestones. She told me, through the four teeth left in her mouth after radiation, that she weighted 328 pounds when she was diagnosed two years ago. But she is, as of this time, free of cancer and on "maintenance" treatment now.

The two small rooms we live in are fairly quiet, but this place has thin walls. Ron doesn't feel well enough to leave except for his treatments at the nearby Cancer Center and an occasional trip to the organic market when I drive there. We are in close proximity all of the time and I often feel that all I can do is jot words in notebooks and watch movies with him (which he mostly dozes through) and knit. But we are two-thirds through treatment. He's had some dark and rough times, and today a hint of improvement. We thought we'd be leaving next weekend, but it seems we have two weeks to go. We haven't been home in weeks and it begins to weigh us down. I look forward to taking a few solitary retreat days sometime next month. Not sure yet where I'll go, but it will be quiet and peaceful!

For now, I'll channel Rilke again:

As my words grow more numerous "the disturbances that reached [me] become less frequent; for all noises broke off when they came in contact with the realities that surrounded [me]."

quests & journeys

It's just the imprint of a shoe's heel in the sandy soil near the path I've been walking almost every day until my back started hurting. The last time I walked it felt like there should be an ocean nearby, the wind was warm and it sounded similar to surf (why does everything remind me of something else?). The swirls in this imprint resemble archetypal designs that show up in so many cultures and with so many meanings. I really don't know what meaning this shoe sole has for me.

It's spring down here in Albuquerque. Very dry though, just like the rest of the state, perhaps worse than in Taos. Water levels are critical in the southern part of the state. The wind blows soil and grit around and it feels very desert-like. I don't know if snow melt has begun in Taos. I'll miss the sound of the rushing rivers when it does begin. I heard it snowed the other day.

And, of course, Albuquerque is a high desert.

the journey
We spend our weekdays going from one radiation treatment to another, chemo, blood work. It's the same each day, but is hardly routine. I am simply the driver and companion, Ron has to endure it all and it gets worse each week as side effects have begun to kick in. But I remind him, once you make the decision to live, you have to go through hell to get there. It's like the obstacles in stories and fairy tales: the three-headed monster, Scylla and Charybdis, Harry Potter's horcruxes, even Dorothy trying to get to Oz and home again (mythical and fictional quests help keep things in perspective). One step at a time, one day at a time. Sometimes, one hour at a time. It is a worthy quest and the difficulties only make the outcome more compelling.

This desert is beautiful once one gets past the six lanes of traffic and the congestion. At least the place we are staying is sheltered from city noises. And, hey, as I've said before, this ain't New York City! It's generally quieter and slower and easier to drive (in spite of several lefts when I should have made rights. We are each on our journeys and sometimes mine gets derailed temporarily. 

Note: I've tried to write and send posts at least three times recently but the wi-fi connection where I'm staying is unreliable and cuts out just when I'm ready to hit send. So, for all of you who regularly read this blog, thanks for hanging in there with me.

a mad world

It's been a difficult time,  a long time, since I wrote anything on this blog. And when I do, now, I'm influenced by the incredible imagination of Frida Kahlo who suffered a great deal in her life. All I did was take a foaming lavender bath the night I was alone, when Ron was in hospital being cared for.

Candles, incense, a glass of wine. I am not suffering in any way as she did, but I am watching the suffering of others. We are living here in Albuquerque in a comfortable place called Casa Esperanza (House of Hope) which helps cancer patients and their families from out of town to not have to spent their life savings on lodging. We certainly can't commute 280 miles round trip from Taos every day and we can't stay in a hotel for six weeks, so we settle in at the Casa. This is a city. Not Manhattan, not San Francisco, not Chicago, but a city nevertheless, with an airport from which you can go everywhere (and I wish I were heading east).

A couple of weeks ago a wise friend asked, "what are you supposed to learn from this experience? What is your journey?" What I have learned in a little over a week is that everyone I encounter is kind and helpful.  I've also learned not to judge. I hadn't realized how judgmental I really was. We're all in this together and we are all human beings, whether we're from Mexico and don't speak English, or from Colorado or Ohio. We are all equal in every way. I knew this intellectually, but now I know it from my heart. I think I have part of the answer now, or at least the direction in which it lies.

I try to find the beauty around me. It is spring here, many weeks before spring hits Taos. Trees and flowers are in bloom. The air is gentle, the wind sympathetic. I try to walk the path that begins just a few steps outside of our room. A roadrunner accompanies me but won't let me take a photograph - it zips away. My daughter asks: does he go "beep-beep"? The hilltop path overlooks part of this city, young runners whoosh by (the university is near), I don't know enough yet about this location to know what it overlooks. I know it is a city, but so different from the New York I grew up in. This is a desert city. There are mountains! And people who are not rushing about. The university is a big influence and I hope to get there before this is over. A reading, a performance, just a few hours in the library with my notebook. This may be, as Richard Hugo wrote, my triggering town. We'll see.

Pigeons rapidly strut in front of me on the path, don't fly away, at least a dozen at a time, as if I'm herding them. Little Bo Peep and her herd of pigeons!

And that pile of rocks deliberately placed. A cairn? Who knows? I just take each day at a time now, allow for magic or pain, and X them off the calender. A path of X's that will lead to the end of this situation we're in now and into new territory.

Outside tonight the mountains are hazy with dust. 
A child crying runs through the hallway outside my door. 
Her family speaks only Mexican Spanish. 
Her cries are fluent in all languages.

 

age defying

Sometimes a little joy and laughter can come from unexpected places. Like yesterday when old friend Ted drove up from Santa Fe in his new car, to visit with us.

Since he and Ron are car guys there was a lot of admiring, and sitting in this car's interior that smells (as it's owner says) like a Gucci loafer. Yes. I have to agree the smell of that leather interior was special and, of course, they went out driving for awhile. I sat in the driver's seat and although it adjusts about 18 different ways, I'm just too short for a luxury sports car. Oh well. There are worse things in life, which we are quickly learning about.

Ron was pleased to have this car sitting in his driveway and now he's considering his own Bucket List and how he might fulfill his long-standing Porsche desire.

This morning I read this quote from Dr. Kelly Flanagan (clinical psychologist) that turns around fashion magazines' meaningless and superficial headlines into something else. He took some of the headlines on the covers of those mags and wrote about each one to his young daughter (check out his blog). This is one I especially like:

Age Defying: Your skin will wrinkle and your youth will fade, but your soul is ageless. It will always know how to play and how to enjoy and how to revel in this one-chance life. May you always defiantly resist the aging of your spirit.

Both car guys are in their 70's (as I am) and they still revel in driving along a desert highway at high speed. As for me, I know there is joy and new life to live, no matter one's age.

mingled by one wind

from the vast
Just another ordinary day dawns in northern New Mexico. I couldn't figure out which direction to shoot with my little camera, so once again I was out in the 35 degree temp (not bad for the hour), on the deck (wearing shoes this time) -- slowly I turned.... Days' beginnings and endings are mostly spectacular here and in more than two decades I've never quite taken them for granted. Each one holds its own enchantment or drama and I continue to relentlessly try to capture it with a small camera lens. I am a possessive type. Want to own the sunrise and the moon and flowers, keep them in my knapsack like Basho did -- his within his poems -- mine within my camera (and poems).

Those are the big dramas of our planet in one small location in the Southwest. The aurora borealis is lighting up the skies in another place and I hope someday I can see that, too. But for today, I'm here and the clouds are swollen with moisture that we all hope and pray falls upon our so dry land. NM is in its worst drought since 1898 or so.

to the small

These feathers were part of what looked like a bird slaughter in the park. There was no body, only many feathers, beautiful and sad at the same time. Just like the short video posted on facebook that I watched this morning. It shows a gorgeous Midway Island in the Pacific: seagulls, ocean, mist, hatching birds on the beach being fed by the adult birds. And then we see another reality, dead and dying birds, bellies slit open to reveal the detritis of humanity. Plastic rings, pieces of metal, pencils, bottle caps...I don't need to go on...you can see it for yourself at www.trulymind.com. Please check it out. I don't know what can be done to stop this destruction of nature. What will be left for our great grandchildren if this continues, except pictures in books and displays in museums. Also, please read Moby-Duck: The True Story of 28,000 Bath Toys Lost at Sea, by Donovan Hohn. There are groups of people trying to clean up the seas, but it's a huge task and needs to start at the corporation and consumption level--what are the odds for that?

I certainly never expected to join the crew 
of a fifty-one-foot catamaran captained 
by a charismatic environmentalist, 
the Ahab of plastic hunters...
         Donovan Hohn (from Epigraph (Moby Duck...)

control? lol

Due to the warmish (and very dry) weather we've had recently, I'm back to walking in the park almost every day and I never know what I'll run into. Like the child's sock hanging from the branch of a bush resembling an alien spring flower in the otherwise umber foliage. I long for color and in many ways it comes to me. The pairs of angora blend hand warmers that I knitted and sent to two very special daughters. Mine and a friend's. The yarn is Rowan's Angora Haze. Sumptuous! (the one on the right is actually a warm olive, not gray as picked up by the camera).

my excuse
Because I've been away from this blog for so long and so many friends check in regularly, I feel I'd like to tell you some of what's happening in my life at this time. My husband has been diagnosed with a rare cancer called nasopharengeal. It strikes about 1 in 100,000 people in the USA and is more prevalent in China and Africa and people of those ancestries (Ron is Sicilian-American!). He has been told the condition is treatable and is taking steps to prepare for it. Because the cancer is located in a very difficult place to get to, surgery isn't possible and he will have to endure specifically targeted chemo and radiation. He is not a young man and the preparation itself has been difficult. As in all diagnoses of this kind, both of our lives have turned upside down. New obstacles have been thrown in our paths. I have not been able to work on my book(s) and he has certainly not been able to work on steel sculpture in his studio. We have many supporters out there who care, send positive energy, prayers, and offer help. Our family is far away and that makes things a bit more complicated for all of us. But we endure and find ways to help each other. What other choice is there? I'm working on letting go when things get overwhelming. Meltdowns aren't pretty. I came upon this great, simple, quote recently and it's become my mantra:

As for color, I thank a dear friend for coming by with cheerful flowers to brighten up our lives for a brief time.