October 2020 – micheleplumbstowell.org

165. A Difficult Topic

If you can reach out to an aunt or friend, send a note, have a five minute text conversation, drop off a muffin… then do it again next week and the next and the next, you may be surprised at how your heart can grow.

There are lots of hard subjects when it comes to illness and death. I could make the title a twelve part series without blinking. One of the hardest is “caring enough” without “caring too much”, using the verb form of the word.

From watching others and my journey, when there is a diagnosis or an onset, people pour out of the woodwork with compassion and assistance. Cards, flowers, food, check ins, they get overwhelming and maybe even annoying. It’s wonderful to hear the words of love and appreciation, but at some point it becomes exhausting. Different people are going to need different levels of interference and assistance when they are ill.

When Grandma F went into a nursing home, I was less than 30 with two children under two years old. I still feel the fury I had for people she cared for, who called her every day for support and love, who pronounced their undying dedication. She needed them and they did not reciprocate. Of course they didn’t. It was not malicious, I see now, but a statement on their emotional stability. It certainly was not fair! Grandma would have loved calls and visits, but who teaches people to have a one sided conversation, or to balance the dynamics of love when they are feeling their own sadness and loss?

Dad is still in a Memory Care facility. When he entered, there were people that he recognized. He was conversational. His wife Jan has always been gifted at “being there” for people, and she is still by his side when he does not speak coherently or recognize any of us. Dad was also a huge support to many. And they were unable to support him, even in the best of his difficult moments.

There are a couple of people in my life that endure Chronic Fatigue, which spreads out into a vast variety of pain. I can’t imagine how difficult it is to be in that position, or to have the role of partner/caregiver. But how do we support the emotional needs of the people behind the pain?

I’ve done a pretty thorough job of shifting this topic away from myself, but being in the depths of a chemo cycle, this is frightening. I can see that emotional needs and distress cut deeply into those in the caregiving roles. I can see that the people we have loved and who have loved us move away rather than toward the situation. I can see the helplessness from both sides of the coin.

Magic. I wish there was a magic wand and an instant remedy. No one should lose themselves forever in a life overwhelmed by care for another. Yet, I feel like we need to accept some responsibility for loving the people around us, even in the worst of circumstances. Balance, again. If you can reach out to an aunt or friend, send a note, have a five minute text conversation, drop off a muffin… then do it again next week and the next and the next, you may be surprised at how your heart can grow. Like the classic tale of the Grinch, like Tonglen meditation, the goal of life is experiencing an enormous heart, Universal Love.

164. Situational Interpretations

I am choosing the way I interpret the signs. Or, maybe I am just watching. The body is separate from the mind. The mind is separate from the watching. My perception checks the angles. I don’t want to control the path. I just want to see and experience the journey. The body is not at war with the cancer. It is cooperating with the chemotherapy.

I woke up several times. It seems like a pattern in the first half of a chemo cycle. When I am asleep, and then not, I perceive more directly. I feel the bubbling, tingling sensation running through my abdomen, a tightness in my lower back and intestines, that neuropathy is oddly down the center segments of my fingers rather than at the ends.

Cycle 4, Day 5. I am choosing the way I interpret the signs. Or, maybe I am just watching. The body is separate from the mind. The mind is separate from the watching. My perception checks the angles. I don’t want to control the path. I just want to see and experience the journey. The body is not at war with the cancer. It is cooperating with the chemotherapy.

In the last dream of the night, there was a baby opossum nested in the hair behind my neck. I was busy, and figured I would deal with that later. I was talking to someone about hair dye, and walked out the back door into the dark to grab the bleaching kit, then turned to see that the door locked. Someone zipped by on a bicycle, and I felt tension, a threat, but it was gone as quickly as the bike moved. I fumbled with a key, and opened the outer door into a glass sided mudroom. The space was closing in, Wonderland style, but I moved through it, into the house.

A woman opening a door with a key. — “I fumbled with a key, and opened the outer door”

I figure the Eternal knows where to lead us for dream interpretation. I have a book that makes me laugh as often as it actually helps. The quick bottom line: I feel threatened by something that I am going through, but it passes quickly. I am moving through a tight spot, but not stuck there. I have the key. There is something (something?) that is a deception, but will clear, and shift color.

Well, for that last line, I wasn’t going to bleach the possum, but that seems related none the less.

I am choosing my interpretations. It does seem strange, like a side line to manifestation without the directive nature of control. The mind is not fond of it. But the noticing seems more “in tune”… like there is less pressure and more merging with the Whole. Like opening the eyes, then opening them again.

163. Through A Dog’s Eye, Quality and Quantity

Quality and quantity of life are a rugged conundrum. Every day is a new chance to face the adventure. Every day there are well made choices. And when I speak for myself, everyday there are choices I wish I would have done differently.

There is this strange phenomenon that is happening because of Internet awareness. Some people are supporting the rescue of meat dogs, revoltingly “raised” in other countries. A meat dog is not a pet dog. But we are fooled by their outward appearance and suffering. (The way we raise egg and food chickens here is similar. But few are rushing in to save the poultry.)

These dogs have no longevity, no “consciousness” that is created through lineage of cooperation with humans. They are not dogs in the way that the American mind thinks of the word. Yet they get purchased and imported by our empathy money, and then they are tortured here, fully because of our confusion with their original role in the universe.

Iron cage with rescued dogs. — .Rescued meat dogs

Nyasha’s workplace is a dog daycare, dog boarding space, with a side story in dog rescue.

Nyasha’s company does not import or support the import of these animals. But they do end up picking up the pieces. The dogs become sick and stray. They run from good homes. People who try to adopt them go to their wits end, trying to convert the meat animals into pet animals, with little success. They end up in rescue status.

One dog that the group is caring for now is in constant physical distress. It cannot eat properly, and gets pneumonia repeatedly from aspirating its food. The vet said he will die. Soon. Another meat dog rescue has white cell crashes. Very young dogs, designed to be edible, not for life. What a mess!

These are the “luckier” examples (although the dogs might prefer a quick injection to leave this miserable existence). They are lucky because they, through unpleasant pathways, ended up at Nyasha’s workplace.

The business owner goes to great lengths to balance their quality and quantity of life. The standard vet sees the first dog as currently terminal. But Terry takes the dogs for acupuncture, learns what medical massage will help, works with a naturopath and dog dietician. I would love to be adopted by Terry, because she buys the organic foods, the supplements, and ensures the best care. She cooks for them! That dog eats emu meatballs, rotating proteins.

Do we do this for ourselves, care for ourselves, give ourselves the best food, the best caregivers and supplements? Do we, can we afford to, give the time to, sacrifice for the best of all forms of care?

159. No Spoilers, Finishing the Good Place

“It turns out life isn’t a puzzle that can be solved one time and it’s done. You wake up every day, and you solve it again.” (Chidi Anagonye, The Good Place

I literally sobbed my way through the last episode of the sitcom. As a nation bereft of spiritual understanding (no offense), the entire premise of the Good Place has exposed us to religion, philosophy, and spirituality. Fear not. I am fairly certain that you can watch all four seasons and miss that entirely, or slide through and avoid rethinking your mortality.

When I opened my computer this morning, a picture of the forest in Earth Sanctuary randomly popped up on the screen. Randomly. There is no random. Ever. I pondered, then looked closely, and truly observed the picture.

The forest in the Earth Sanctuary, and the forest through the arbor in the show resonate as particularly similar! I suppose evergreen forests tend to have dirt floors, ferns, and a variety of trees, so they all share a certain ambiance. It is my mind that is illuminating the similarities to make a point.

In life, and in death, we walk the path. We saunter through the garden arches, and into the varying levels of existence.

I am facing another arch. Tomorrow, I restart the journey down the path of chemotherapy. I don’t remember how to do this. Last time, three sessions led to a traumatic emergency surgery. It also elevated me to a “no masses” resolution.

Tension. Fear. Mortality. Urgency. Resolve. Acceptance. They are all here, cluttering the mind, waking me for predawn rambling.

“It turns out life isn’t a puzzle that can be solved one time and it’s done. You wake up every day, and you solve it again.” (Chidi Anagonye, The Good Place)

158. Chocolate

With all of the expectations of social distancing and separation of family, facing the holidays, the medicinal qualities of chocolate are in high demand.

When the kids were five and six, I panicked. It was written that people who are not exposed to a second language in the first part of their lives would be incapable of becoming bilingual. I didn’t want Nyasha and Shante’s synapses to freeze.

A young woman in Lake Stevens was teaching Spanish to a small group of young ones. (In Spanish), “Chocolate, chocolate, bate bate el chocolate.” I hear that song. It’s actually about stirring Mexican hot chocolate, rather than eating the firm candy equivalent, but it is still going round and round in my head.

Back in mid September, NPR played a report that claimed that Halloween candy sales were up 25 percent. Personally, I don’t consider September a month to make such claims. No one who buys candy in early fall plans to keep it around long term, certainly not until the end of October, and especially since many communities are skipping the open door adventure of Trick or Treating.

Candy sales are up. One online claim is that there has been a 12 percent increase in chocolate sales in the last six months. No surprise.

We are living in a pandemic. Few of us missed the Harry Potter series. Madam Pomfrey had to stockpile chocolate in the hospital wing, “loads” to cure Harry and Ron alone. With all of the expectations of social distancing and separation of family, facing the holidays, the medicinal qualities of chocolate are in high demand.

Nyasha and I were laughing about the Halloween candy aisle. When it comes down on November 1, there had better be a Christmas candy aisle at the ready. (Wink. I think there already is.)

157. The Last Sort

It begs that I leave things better than the ones before me, that I start a new wave of personal follow through, that I acknowledge that my descendants and the ones who love me should not have to clean up my mess.

I cracked the prayer book. The page title read “Seed of Prosperity”. My eyes went directly to the line “Look at your possessions. As you observe each one, ask yourself, ‘Do I feel thankful for this?'”

Carol Bridges next bullet point: “Immediately get rid of everything for which you are not thankful.” Marie Kondo was five years old when Carol’s book hit the shelves. There is a striking similarity in their premises.

I have been through my drawers and closet two or three times this year. I could do it again, but there isn’t much left to sort. Everything fits. I’m slowly working my way through accumulated shampoos, soaps and lotions. I have a large collection of art, and gifts I’ve received, but if I still own it, it has meaning.

This page in the Inner Guidebook pops up again and again. I want to blame it on overuse, a crease in the spine of the book, some sort of physical deformation of the pages. That just is not true.

What waits? Photos. Files. Boxes of family memorabilia. The hard stuff. The tedious and tiny.

What keeps me from the task? From finishing my personal sorting, not to mention sorting out the last of my Mom and Dad’s stuff (the memorabilia, the even older photos)?

When it comes to facing that my days on the planet are numbered, whether it be in the neighborhood of a hundred, or 10,000, it is difficult to prioritize the tedious. I actually struggle with any prioritization whatsoever.

If I am going to die this week, do I care what I eat? No. Do I want to deal with the monotonous? No. But what if there are a few years left? Then the answers shift to “Maybe yes,” and “Sigh, probably.”

The easiest thing to do is nothing. I do not feel guilty. I do not feel motivated. But there is a pushy little angel behind my spine that cares. It cares about my kids and my family.

That’s big. It goes far beyond the personal possessions, and into the mind and repeating patterns of society. Time to get to work!

156. Honoring our Creations

The world is sacred. What we make in it is sacred. Perhaps the meals that we cook and the clothes that we wash and the pet hair that we sweep should be seen the same way

An Indigenous tattoo artist told Nyasha that he refused to pen dream catchers on the skin. He wondered who would want the negative to be caught on the surface of their body, anyway.

But the messages call to us. I see dream catchers at the dollar store, and I can hear the longing and see the beauty. But they are not personal, and not spiritual.

(You can make anything shine with the Eternal when giving your love and appreciation to it, however. So if you are super attracted to the hot pink feathers and white, machine cut lacing on a dream catcher at the fair, it will be your love and your higher self that transport that “Made in China” version into something of internal significance.)

I feel so honored to craft dream catchers for the people in my life. But oddly, I also have a bit of guilt for burdening the unsuspecting with something they may “have to store or hang” just because it is a gift.

If you have a handmade or spiritual gift from someone that needs to move along, think of a way to create a prayer or honor the item in its transformation. Especially if it is worn, instead of throwing it away, you could hang it in the wind outdoors, or bury it in the ground ceremoniously. Think of it like Tibetan prayer flags, sending the love out around the planet… or like Indigenous prayer ties, sending the prayers up to the Creator.

If it is in good condition, you could re-home it with someone who loves it or recreate it into a piece of art of your own. Goodwill isn’t ideal here. I am trying to consider how I would feel about one of my creations landing at Goodwill. I would rather they were hanging in a tree at Earth Sanctuary or in a park. Maybe that is unique to me personally.

The world is sacred. What we make in it is sacred. Perhaps the meals that we cook and the clothes that we wash and the pet hair that we sweep should be seen the same way. How can we honor our own efforts and the devotion of others? That is a living prayer in itself.

155. Dream Catchers

The dream catcher is made by a grandmother figure, and the child takes it with them through the stages of life as a part of their “medicine”, their power in this lifetime.

We made dream catchers in Scouts and as crafts, but through my mentoring program, I learned about the spiritual representation. This is my story of understanding. Starfeather Marcy, who was taught by Pacific Northwest Cherokee Grandmother, White Horse Woman, retaught the careful steps of creating one.

The dream catcher is made by a grandmother figure, and the child takes it with them through the stages of life as a part of their “medicine”, their power in this lifetime.

The time and energy devoted in creating the Dream Catcher is part of its beauty and energy. There is a lot of love involved in making the sacred gift.

I usually begin with a handmade cedar ring from trees in the yard. The cedar is the sacred wood of the Pacific Northwest, used for housing, clothing, canoes, nets and many other life sustaining purposes by the original Indigenous people. Cedar is special; well, every tree is special. Cedar smudge is used to represent and send messages to the North, the elders and teachers, Buddha, Jesus, White Buffalo Calf Woman, your ancestors and more.

Leather lacing is also about the people in your lineage. Think of each strand as a grandmother and grandfather, a great grandmother and grandfather, on back to the beginning of man. The lacing is cut by hand, and is not a simple task. The time and concentration put into it are love incarnate. Most of the leather for sacred dream catchers in the Pacific Northwest are gifted from deer or elk. The animals evoke connection and stories from people individually, but I see them universally as symbols of abundance, peace, and our intertwined existence with nature.

Right now, we are visiting Ocean Shores for a week. Deer literally roam the streets. Shante counted more than thirty on a trip from town to the condo. So for us, the deer leather could be a reminder of joy with our family, or time at the ocean, or the tranquility that comes from a visit to the area. You have your own stories and can look for the individual meaning in a dream catcher.

Numbers have meaning. Groups of three convey the trinity, or three stages of being, Father/son/spirit (divine Mother/daughter/spirit). Four is the four directions, North, South, East, and West, the balance in the medicine wheel, the cycles in all existence. Seven is also about the medicine wheel, adding Earth, Sky and Creator to the four. Eleven is both. Count the beads. Count the strands of leather. There is meaning. You may notice a number on one strand in particular. You can use the internet to check for hints from the spirit.

The feathers are gifts from the birds. The particular bird might have meaning to the family, could be a spirit animal coming with messages, and most certainly adds a characteristic beauty. Sometimes, feather quantities can convey meaning too.

Colors also share representation. White is purity, innocence, and spiritual elevation. Purple can be the highest self, fulfillment, alignment with the whole universe. Blue is another representation of high level self, fluid like the water, evoking clear and truthful communication. Brown is nurturing, earth connection, peace and stability. Green can be seen as growth, hope, harmony, and life. There are so many possible connections.

The center is created of threads or artificial sinew. It is woven to catch the negative “dreams”, or the negatives in the life journey. The beads in the weaving are where the negatives are caught and transmuted, sent back out into existence as beauty and light.

The hole in the center of the web is important. When I see a dream catcher without a gap in the middle, I am truly confused. The center is a sacred space where the good dreams, the positives, travel through the dream catcher, down a leather or sinew strand, and pass to the dreamer through the feather at the end.

I am honored to have learned the spiritual messaging, and so grateful to Starfeather, White Horse Woman, and the ancestors of the art. A dream catcher delivers beauty and hope to our lives.

154. A World of Challenges

The contents were also infinite. This was not my basket to hold, but mine to carry to the Eternal, to present to God for healing, compassion, comprehension, resolve. Peace.

This morning, I sat on the couch for meditation. My mind unfocused. There was an intangible basket in my lap.

I looked around at the people in my life, to the entire world. I collected the challenges, and placed them solemnly into the basket.

Injuries and pain. Hospitalization. Relationship turmoil. Money conundrums. Feeling unheard. They all went in.

Children. Education in Covid times. Dis-ease. Unemployment. Overtime in employment. Civil unrest. Hopelessness. Separation from loved ones. Death. That was the second layer.

A nation divided. Tears and frustration. Legal arguments. Destruction of the planet. Caring for babies. Physical challenges and inability. Genocide and war… How big was this basket anyway?

A brown basket with pieces of paper with prayer requests. — Prayer basket

Infinite.

The contents were also infinite. This was not my basket to hold, but mine to carry to the Eternal, to present to God for healing, compassion, comprehension, resolve. Peace.

No one is untouched. Each of us has a reason to cry. Our moments are daunting and enormous. If that goes unrecognized, the shift will be more difficult. We need to sit with our individual baskets, put in the elements of our grief. Face it, feel it.

And let it go.
Let the basket go.
Tie it to balloons and send it up.
Step through the reeds and let it float down.
Hand it to an ancestor, and watch her carry it to God.
Let it go.

We are too small, too incapable, too powerless. Face it. Feel it. Let it go.

153. Ask It, Ask for It

And when death happens, the people you live with may do very strange things, very strange indeed. You never know what might happen to your wedding ring or the cross you wear every day. It could be very twisted. People in mourning are not themselves

I think about all of the things I would want to ask if I had an hour with my grandma or with my mom. The edges of stories have become unclear. The family medical histories. The feelings and interpretations of stages of death are always a mystery that I would like to comprehend. But Mom and Grandma are on to greater things, already up.

These things that I write are saved in the computer as “On my way up…” We are all on our way. Up.

When I woke today, I was thinking about the blessed time with family.

When there are moments, people should ask their questions. If they are pertinent questions, you may want to note the answers somewhere! You will forget. The lines will blur.

If you were never going to see someone again, never going to hear their voice, what would you want to know? What would you want to say to them? Stay on top of these things. Life doesn’t have guarantees.

A strange little twist to that topic can be solid representations. Claim them. Ask for post its. Put your name behind or under that wall hanging or glass bird. Even as we live, we send things away that might mean something to someone.

Be straight. Talk about my words. Just say, “When I look at that glass bird, I think of you. Can I claim it?” You could even ask for a piece of paper to write “Jane gets the glass bird”, and have the person pop it in their file with the will.

Mom wore a cross around her neck for years, even a decade. It meant a lot to her, connected her to Dad who wore one to match. That piece of jewelry should have gone to my sister in law, Helaine. She and Mom shared daily walks, talks about religion and politics, a strength and connection that was palpable. To Helaine, it would have represented memories, heart, soul, a living prayer.

But Mom didn’t leave notes about her personal wishes. Even with lots of time for notes, there was no list. I have no list.

Mom’s cross went to a family friend, not someone particularly close to mom, certainly not a daily companion or relative. And her ring? It was converted into a new engagement ring for a woman Dad dated briefly. At least she had been someone who loved mom dearly. But it did not land where Mom would have wanted it to go. I know she doesn’t care now.

Don’t be shy. It’s an honor that you want to know the answers, want to hold the memories.