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.