Happy St. Patrick's Day

Mine, taken in Killarney, County Kerry

It is that time of year again, when Americans think all Irish people are lazy drunkards who believe in wee people with orange hair. Time, usually, for my general 'get a clue, this is biased thinking' rant. Maybe later. For now, I am at peace with my knowing that one Irish lassie, me, is going to get to spend more time with her husband. More St. Patty's Days, more toasts, more life itself.

Sometimes, its the little things that really are the big things. Like living one more day, week, month. Like saying, 'See ya after work' or 'Meet me later' and believing it possible to do so. Like 'saming and saming and saming again /the same leg flung over mine for a decade of winter nights', as Danielle Steele wrote in her pre-novel poetry years. Sleeping 'back to cat, cat to back' under a quilt make threadbare by being used as tent by babies long grown.

My husband survived a cerebral bleed. He is here, with me, and I with him. More than ever.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day. See ya later.

I Hope You Dance

Google image

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder.
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger.
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean.
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens.
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance,
I hope you dance

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance.
Never settle for the path of least resistance.
Living might mean taking chances
But they're worth taking.
Lovin' might be a mistake
But it's worth making.
Don't let some hell bent heart
Leave you bitter.
When you come close to selling out,
Reconsider.
Give the heavens above
More than just a passing glance.

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance,
I hope you dance.

Time is a real and constant motion always

Rolling us along.
Tell me who
Wants to look back on their youth and wonder
Where those years have gone?

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance,
Dance.

Lyrics by Leann Womack

10% Per Cent Chance of Death, An Improvement

George is home from the hospital. His chances of dying from his subarachnoid bleed have gone from 45% to 10%, a risk that will remain for the next three to four weeks. That risk is due to the possibility of vasospasm in the brain.

We are rethinking our priorities and our lives. We are thinking that we should work less, play more, and celebrate our friends and family. We are planning more down time to spend together, just us.

We want to reap the joy in life. While it lasts.

Life, reloaded

My husband suffered a subarachnoid bleed last week. He was air lifted by helicopter to a nearby teaching hospital for treatment unavailable in our area. I had spent several sleepless nights helping him cope with his blinding intractable pain. By the time the helicopter lifted off, I was on overload.

I gave myself a few minutes to fall apart, then got in the truck to head the one hundred twenty miles to once again be by his side. Throughout it all, my children and their friends have been my support, my lifeline, my brains. They have taken care of me as I used to take care of them.

I will write more later. For now, I just want to rest and be grateful that I still have a husband.

Mother/Earth

Google images

The dry snow of the high Cascades slanted down softly, tiny dry flakes with miniscule ice crystals sprinkled within. They clung to the trees and the sage, millions piling up to soften the harsh dusty outlines of the high desert forest.

Any deer that I might see would appear as a ghostly gray image, as if far off and insubstantial, impossible for a mere mortal hunter to kill.

The sound was almost silent, a distant hushing interrupted by muffled crackles or thumps. An alone sound.

The air was so cold going into my body that my nose and lips burned, my lungs were clearly outlined within my body by the frigid sensation of icy air deep within. I snuggled my nose and mouth into the fleece at my neck. The fleece felt like a baby blanket to me, as soft and comforting as those I had tightened around my babies.

Just then, a tiny snowflake skittered over the surface of my cheek as it floated earthward. It was dry and fluttery, reminding me of a baby's eyelashes closing near my skin.

How profoundly the journey of motherhood has altered my perceptions of every aspect of life. I feel closer to the changes, the seasons, the tiny appreciations of the Earth. She and I brought forth life, nurtured and grew it, and now continue to support and nourish it with food and water and rest time and encouragement.

I do not find it incongruous or inappropriate that I am touching motherhood in my thoughts while engaged in predatory hunting. Like the wolf, the lioness, the bird, the bobcat, like mothers the world over in all biological strata, I harvest the food that will feed my family. I feel good that it is natural, lean, free of additives. I feel gratified for seeking and bringing it home. It is part of motherhood and of a nearly forgotten circle of food and life.