Matisse's Scissors

Dedicated to my coompañeros on the road. (you know who you are)

One definition of irony: Most of my adult life I have worked with others with disabilities, limitations, pain and uncooperative body parts assisting them through massage, exercise and rehabilitation. Now, I live with disability, limitation, pain and uncooperative body parts... Irony... she's a good friend of mine. We know each other intimately.

On this "Surviving Life-threatening Illness Road" I've met some special compañeros; fellow travelers who also know the challenges of moving forward "by hook and by crook." An adaptation of my "work" has been to assist them without ever placing my hands on them; to help them in understanding pain and help translate it's messages, how to find relief and how to live beyond the "cage" that pain and limitation can bring. Little lessons I've learned along the way...

Tonight's Class:
Sounds as if things are going well with your observations. There's definitely a place for denial I believe. But then there's also a place for paying attention. Neutral observation. That's what I was implying with rating pain with a number (1-10) and naming it's qualities. You, the wordsmith could have some fun with that: naming the qualities of the moment, the nuances, the adjectives. Otherwise we get caught in this group hypnosis of ->PAIN<-. I name it that because people have a collective agreement and response to pain. !!!->PAIN<-!!! : !!!->OWWW!<-!!! With all it's spikey hurt and fear. And then the worry.... There is all this collective, group pain that is all too easy to tap into - and then others look upon you with their own fear, worry and concern that's a lot about them and how your situation scares the crap outta them! Their genuine concern for you is there also, but neither will help us move forward. And that's what it's about, yes? Moving forward - always forward, by hook and by crook... persevering... and when we run low on perseverance, then out of sheer stubbornness. When we name pain's qualities (sharp, stabbing, throbbing, dull, weak, burning, ad infinitum...) and get to know it's nuances, it begins to have less of a hold over us. That simple. We start to notice it isn't necessarily 3-alarm !!!->PAIN<-!!! all the time. It fluctuates, has a rhythm, moves like a tide rising and receding. With observation comes an objectifying of the pain. It isn't us. And we are not it. It's only a sidebar. Yep, there's the other stuff: the losses, limitations, being robbed of energy and ability, but what is most important is to keep all that stuff as a sidebar to my Life, my real Life, the stuff that makes me - me; the joys, passions, dreams and relationships along with all the "other" real life stuff - the challenges, the "crap", the chores, the relationships <------(they get to be on both lists! Rewarding and challenging as they are). The pain, the discomfort, the ache and frustration??? Heh!!!! Not gonna let it take me down if I can help it. So I remind myself about Matisse sitting in his wheelchair at the end of his life with his scissors, no longer able to stand, no longer able to paint the way he once did. Instead, cutting shapes of color that began climbing his walls from his bed, and around the corner and down the hallway to the other rooms - eventually this style of work becoming his final masterpieces. All born out of his "inability." I have a beautiful photo of him: barefoot, kinda Santa-chubby, sitting in a wheelchair, large scissors in his hands, focused on cutting the next shape, scraps of paper cuttings strewn at his feet all around the wheels of his chair. Working passionately into his eighties. By hook and by crook.

You're made of the same.

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"You see as I am obliged to remain often in bed because of the state of my health, I have made a little garden all around me where I can walk... There are leaves, fruits, a bird..." - Henri Matisse describing his bedroom/studio.

Adventures of Popeye

At 12 years old he decided he was going to sail on tall ships. Not that he "wanted to sail on tall ships," but that he was "going to sail on tall ships." You know, like 1800's style brigantines and schooners - a very tiny portion of the world he was determined to be a part of.

At 13 he began learning by doing in a small old-time slice of the world of bygone days where you can still learn through apprenticeship. Every summer since, he's sailed on the Great Lakes as part of a youth sail training program. Every winter he paid his dues sleeping weekends in an icy harbor in Lake Ontario while doing boat maintenance and repair. He worked his way up through the ranks until becoming first mate this past summer aboard "Playfair" of Toronto Brigantine Inc. Some of you know his story. It continues...

This fall he joined the crew of "Pride of Baltimore" and  sailed up the St. Lawrence, past Montreal, Quebec City, and out to the Atlantic Provinces. They continued sailing down the Atlantic coast as a hurricane threatened them as it moved up the coast toward them, its outer fringes pouring 5 inches of rain on them in one day. They danced around it as best they could and headed for safe harbor in New York City.

While at sea, there is no communicating with him. Our kid becomes reduced to a red dot on a maritime map that indicates where his ship is located at any given time. As his parent, that red dot affirms safety and security and the fact that despite any worries, the ship is still afloat. Helplessly, we watched it skirt the hurricane while we awaited the red dot's arrival in New York harbor.

Finally, one day the red dot arrived safely. Phew! Relief! Two days later he called. "We're in port. I can see the Statue of Liberty! Where the World Trade Center used to be is just up the street...  We're at the end of Wall Street!  It's bizarre!"

So there's my son, harbored where Wall St. meets the sea as the stock market plummets and endures a nightmare crash. Bizarre, indeed.

"What's it like there on Wall Street?" I asked.

"A bunch of crazy, angry people," he said.

There's my boy, now an adventuring 19 year old young man, sitting on the edge of America on a tall ship while the golden street turns to rust in an odd play of contrasts.

Two days later they sailed on, and a couple of days after that he called again. "I only have a minute to talk. I just wanted to tell you about the race! We just got into port a couple of hours ago."

They had just completed winning the "Great Chesapeake Bay Schooner Race." He was geeked and high on adrenaline, talking fast and excited: "We were neck and neck with the schooner Virginia for 14 hours! First we would take the lead and steal their wind and then they would take the lead... We were never more than a boat length apart for 14 hours! We were doing all sorts of sailing tricks - some of 'em kinda risky."

My knee-jerk parent response was: "Why were you guys doing risky tricks?"

"It was a race, Dad!"

"Oh, yeah...."  and once again I was reminded how powerless over the safety of our children, or anyone we love, we ever are.

Barely catching his breath he rushed on: "We were sailing hard when all of a sudden a big gust came up and snapped the main sail of the Virginia. We pulled out ahead of them and won the race!"

I could hear his crew-mates in the background talking excitedly. He was talking with them and then suddenly back to me saying, "I've gotta go. We've got the afternoon off. We're off to explore Portsmouth," and in a flash he was gone again...

I once heard someone say, "With the world the way it is now, if you're not living life on the edge, you're probably taking up too much room." Popeye is one who takes up little room. Sometimes I think some of the lessons learned in his teenage years through sailing and enduring storms, especially  the storm at home of having a suddenly seriously ill father, taught him about living life on the edge and how much each day counts. Really counts. A lot. Squeezing the most juice out of every single day, not taking up too much room, and living on that passionate edge, has carried him through many a storm, out the other side, and onto the next adventure.

As only a seasoned sailor can, he's reassured his fretful Pops many a time saying, "All storms pass, Dad" -- a helpful thing to remember when living life on the edge.

heh. guess you're not inside my mind....

It's been pointed out to me that I confused some folks with my Autumn Equinox Triptych. I'm sorry to have not been clearer. All is well with my health. It has been 3 years now since my first becoming ill and I needed to wrap that chapter up. It's been a journey, and markers like the Autumn Equinox are like a wrinkle in time. It seems like yesterday on some days; like a lifetime on others. One of my coping skills is to write my way through a challenge. Writing/ Paddling, one in the same. Must keep paddling forward. And I am. So I apologize if I caused any of you any concern.

These days my mind is filled with these words/thoughts/images:
Oases - as in planned resting places in my mind, week, routine;
Carrots - as in the kind I reach ahead for;
Will;
Intention;
Determine;
Persevere...

Good words, all. Any and all worth kicking around, mulling over and reflecting upon.

"The mind is the medicine." -Tlakaelel

As you see, I've come far since "surviving." I am fortunate. I'm sorry if I gave any other impression. Life is good. Very good.

A RECENT OASIS

Flowers for Mother Hubbard

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To fetch her poor dog a bone.
But when she got there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.

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Cupboards are hinting at getting bare. Folks are nervous, especially with the media loop-tape of “Be afraid… be very afraid,” that plays endlessly.

The back wall of our pantry has been painted for just such times as these: images and poetry. When the bread is low, we still have the roses; and especially in those times, we need the flower and song.