A Little Nibble

Last week I referred to my book.  Well, here is a taste of the Prologue.  

I run my fingers through the lace curtains as they flutter against my bedroom wall and watch their shadows play with the sunbeams streaming through the window. A family of crows perches on the old fir tree outside, talking over each other in a cacophony of calls. Pots and pans clink downstairs as Mom and my two sisters make dinner.

I lie there in my bed, listening to the sounds of my own raucous family—six kids between the ages of five and thirteen. Dad and my oldest brother, Kevin, are in the yard just below my second-floor window, working on their usual Saturday afternoon project, their voices a back-and-forth hum, familiar. My two youngest brothers, Matthew and David, come barreling around the corner of our well-kept colonial, their little feet slapping the concrete, yelling about some slight one did to the other. Dad’s voice is placating but firm. Matt and David are always at each other. I roll my eyes, but inwardly I find their bickering somehow sweet and secure. Maybe it’s because we all did it, all six of us kids. We’d jab at each other, literally and emotionally, always trying to rile up the other, but it was generally good-natured ribbing. We did it knowing that even if we crossed the line, we’d be forgiven, no questions asked.

“Hey, Colleen!” Mom yells from downstairs, “it’s time to set the table.” I’m nine years old and this is one of my chores this week. We all pitch in and help; we have to. Running a household of eight people takes a lot of work.

I roll over on my bed, allowing the curtains to skim my back as I get to my feet. The crows caw again, and I sense they want to talk to me. I turn back and look out the window. I make a pretty good attempt at calling back. They stop and stare at me, cock their heads. I count eight of them, just like my family. We have the perfect family, I think to myself, three girls, three boys, and a mom and a dad. I know I can’t determine gender when I have children, but if I could have my way, I’d have the exact same family I have now: not too big, like some of the other families in our parish, and not too small. My best friend, Patty, has four kids in her family and her house is just too quiet.

I go downstairs and set the table, weaving between my sisters and Mom as they finish dinner preparations. When everyone’s seated at the table, we fold our hands in prayer and say our before-dinner blessing.

Waking Up

Living in the Pacific Northwest, with a climate similar to that of Ireland, I follow the Celtic wheel of the year.  This past week, on February 2^nd, was Imbolc.  Imbolc and three other points on the wheel of the year, are known as “cross-quarterly” holidays, each six weeks after a Solstice or an Equinox.  These cross-quarterly holidays are the transitions between one season and the next.  Imbolc is the time of the year when we stand on the threshold between winter and spring. For many, February 2^nd may seem too early for spring’s return, but I see the subtle changes that whisper the suggestion of the shift.  I take notice of the small but sturdy - and ever-repeating signs - of the earth’s return: the slight swell of buds on trees, the new slant of the sun, the clearness of the birds’ song.  I liken this time of year to the earth awakening from her winter slumber.  Perhaps she’ll hit the snooze button with another dump of snow.  Perhaps she’ll wake up quickly.  Time will tell.  But wake up she will and come summer she will regale us with her brilliance.

Standing at these thresholds of the seasons serves as a metaphor for me to look at my own life and the doors I am currently walking through.  As I stand at the threshold of spring, I am aware of the ways I am waking up to my true nature.  I don’t want to be like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day -- remember? (Not a coincidence that that date is February 2^nd, as well).  He had to walk through the day over and over until he realized he is a loving creature.  It was only then that his life could move on.

One of the thresholds on which I now stand is as the author of my own book.  I have felt like Bill Murray during the long, arduous process of writing my book.  I have left and come back to this project numerous times until I could feel secure that I have something to say.  I actually finished the book in December, 2010 and then I left it alone for a year.  I only recently returned to it and finally decided to have someone edit it, which I started last month.  I anticipate that the editing process will be finished by the end of March.  Then it will be time to find an agent and a publishing house.

The changing of the seasons is a gradual process, the shift doesn't happen overnight. Nor do books get published overnight.  I’ll be patient with the process as I am in waiting for summer’s return, and just as full of excitement.

All the World's a Stage.....

This week my son spent three afternoons auditioning for the school musical at his high school.  Each night when he came home, I was eager to hear all about what happened.  He acted fairly casual about the whole affair, giving me fewer details than I was clamoring for. Whether he’s nervous or not, I owned up to the fact that I was bringing all my high school angst, excitement, and giddiness about being in the school play to our conversations. I was involved in every play in high school, either on or off stage.  The cast and crew created a family during each show, as did the Drama department in general, which gave me a connection to school and friendships I’ll never forget.

My acting career ended the spring of my senior year.  I actually didn’t think I was going to be able to be in that play.  I had landed the part of Mrs. Strakosh, an old New York Jewish lady, in Funny Girl just before Christmas break.  It was just after Christmas break that I was in the accident in which I lost my leg.  One of my first thoughts after the accident– this is how important the plays were to me - was that Mrs. Strakosh was lost to me forever.  But ten days later my drama teacher was in my hospital room handing me my script.

But being in Funny Girl wasn’t nearly as fun as the plays I was in before I lost my leg.  It wasn’t that I wasn’t supported or accepted back into the fold.  My friends were as amazing as high school friends can be.  But my accident was like someone has ripped a hole in the fabric of my connections – to friends, to the plays, to school – and no amount of support could quickly mend that.  I was frayed around the edges.

At the curtain call on opening night, squinting past the fourth wall and looking into the audience, I knew the thunderous applause was, in part, for me and not just the girl who played Fanny Brice.  A slice of me loved the attention and acknowledgement, but a bigger part of me was transformed by it.  I fully understood that I was being applauded for surviving the accident, not my acting.  In that moment, I knew that I was just at the beginning of playing the biggest role of my life – the amputee who survived.

The only problem was, there wasn’t a script.  I had to ad lib for years, figuring out my new part.  I spent the first half of my twenties being the athletic and adventurous amputee and the second half being the spiritual amputee.  Both physical adventures and spirituality helped me learn what I was made of.

In my mid-thirties, my role changed.  I wasn’t just an amputee anymore, I became a mother.  The most sacred role I’ve ever played.  But now my kids are growing older, as have I.  In another blink of an eye my kids will be out on their own.

I wonder what my next role will be, or if I need to even play a role at all.  The hole that was ripped out of the fabric of my life has mended and then some.  There has been so much more weft and weave added to my fabric.  Perhaps, in my future role, I can wrap that round me in comfort, knowing that each role I’ve played has led up to this, to now, to just being me.  I am beyond needing to prove myself or impress anyone.

Aaahhhh, perhaps the role of my lifetime is just that:  Me.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me

Age is a beautiful teacher. It’s taken me years to understand that I hold resentment in my body, to my body, about my body.  Those resentments are deep and old.  In grade school, my appendix had to be removed, a bone in my foot had to be taken out because it was growing erratically and we found that my right eye has amblyopia, lazy eye – which couldn’t be corrected so my vision is impaired.   None of these physical issues were life threatening, but how I made sense of them as a child was to understand that my body is flawed.  Not right.  Broken.  Add to that the amputation of my leg to cement the assumption: I cannot count on my body.

Ever since my accident, my body and mind have had an understanding.  Mind to body:  let me do what I want and you do all you can to accommodate (which meant: keep me healthy, keep me safe, keep me going).  Body to mind:  whatever you say, boss.  My mind didn’t really care what the body needed, just so long as I kept moving forward, literally and figuratively. I’ve been able to rationalize everything I’ve done to my body because I held onto the belief that I am invincible for much longer than most folks.  They say when there’s trauma in your life as a child, part of your brain stays stuck in that developmental stage.  I was seventeen years old when I lost my leg – and survived – the quintessential age when we defy death.

I have felt betrayed by my body my whole life.  My body has held me back from doing so many things.  My mind has pushed my body to its limits, but gets so angry that those physical limits are there at all.

Respect is a two-way street.  I haven’t respected my body because I didn’t feel it respected me.  But lately I’ve challenged that assumption.  The animosity I’ve felt toward my body – is it warranted?  Looking at this situation from another perspective I wonder: has my body, in fact, been absolutely remarkable?  It told me, through gut-wrenching pain, that something was wrong with my appendix.  Instead of a burst appendix, the doctors had enough time to surgically remove it.  My left eye’s vision has compensated for the lazy eye and has been 20/15 most of my life.  And the accident?  I survived, in spite of lying on the highway for twenty minutes after being hit.  I did walk again.  My legs, yes, both of them – long and short – have carried me up a mountain with a backpack and down a mountain on skis. Perhaps my body has been respecting my wishes all along.

So, one of my New Year’s intentions is to take better care of my body.  I’m old enough now to understand that I’ll never be able to chew much if I take too big a bite, so I am starting slowly.  I am taking my vitamins everyday.  I am doing my exercises every morning.  I am being more mindful of the food I eat.  Even when it’s sugar.

Mind to body: Thank You.

What's possible?

“Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." ~ the Queen of Hearts

Yesterday I saw The Way, a movie about four people walking the nearly 500 mile pilgrimage of The Camino de Santiago in Spain.

Tears fell frequently during this movie.  Sometimes I cried when I felt the father’s grief, sometimes when a character was subtly raw and revealing, and sometimes when I acknowledged that I want to make this pilgrimage.  The tears were because I probably can’t walk 500 miles.

Or could I?

When do we tell ourselves that something is impossible?  When are the words, “I can’t” true?  What would it take for me to make this pilgrimage?  Do I have what it takes?

My husband suggested many other walks throughout Europe that we could consider, walks that aren’t as long.  But I dismissed his ideas.  Part of the allure of the Camino de Santiago is to walk the same path thousands of other people have walked, to step on the same road as all those other stories.  Thousands of hopes, dreams, challenges and joys deposited with each step on the walk.  The sacredness of this path is not from the layer of Catholicism draped over the history of this pilgrimage, but from the pilgrims themselves.  I want to walk a sacred path.

This morning, on my daily labyrinth walk, I realized that, with each step I take in my labyrinth, I am creating my own sacred path.  A pope hasn’t blessed this miniscule corner of the earth, in fact no one but me has said that this is sacred ground.  I am making it sacred by walking with intention, honesty and an open heart.  I put one foot in front of the other, trusting the way.  I don’t always know where I am in the labyrinth; I trust I am where I need to be.  The path takes me to the center and back again, allowing me to focus on my meditation.

I don’t know if walking the pilgrimage in Spain is possible, but I do know what is possible.  Each morning I can wake up and create a sacred path, a path filled with my own story.

The Thaw

They say that a baby can melt our hearts.  That certainly was true for me, especially during my first pregnancy.  From his inception, my first born, my son - just his “becoming” - dissolved the block of ice that held my grief and sadness for so many years. This week, as I acknowledged the 34^th anniversary of my accident, I remembered being in the hospital the night after surgery, emerging from the anesthetic, the memory of the accident flooding back, the pain in my legs consuming me.  What struck me about that memory was the hardness that surrounded my heart.

That hardness stayed with me for 18 years after I lost my leg.  Until I was pregnant, I had never completely lost it.  Never did I crumple to the ground in despair.  I was in control, I held my emotions in check.  Yes, I cried and certainly I was angry.  I went to therapist after therapist to try and get in touch with the grief, but it was shoved to the back of the freezer of my heart, as inaccessible as a credit card surrounded in a block of ice. I was so afraid that the grief would consume me, like a monster in a bad “B” movie from the 1950’s.  I thought if I allowed myself to feel the sadness that I would never feel anything but the sadness.

And then I became pregnant.  Was it the hormones?  The quick loss of physical function due to the weight gain?  For whatever reasons, when I was pregnant with my son, it was like my frozen feelings were laying on a black roadway in the desert with the sun beating down.

What I found was that I wasn’t consumed by the sadness at all.  It was like the ice that surrounded the grief melted into a deep ocean.  I took a long swim in that water.  I dived deep into the sorrow and explored it.  I finally uttered the words, “Why me?”  I allowed myself to be weak.  I dived so deep that all I could see was the darkness of despair.

And then I emerged again.  I wasn’t consumed, as I had feared.  Ironically, it was only in surrendering to my grief that I was free from the undercurrent of sadness that always threatened to suck me in.

So this year, I want to look at other ways that fear – of my emotions, of possibilities, of failure and of success – plays out in my life.  I’d like to take a nice long swim in the ocean of peace this year.  And while I’d like to pretend that fear can’t touch me, what seems more reasonable is to make peace with my fears, to befriend them instead of ostracize them to the freezer.

Perhaps I can swim with my fears in a playful way, the way people do with the dolphins.

A Sweet Mile

My second 100 miles in 100 days walking campaign is coming to an end.  This Saturday I will walk my 100th mile at the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation's Walk-a-thon. Looking back on the past three and a half months, I've experienced some wonderful walks.  I've enjoyed walking and talking with my husband about our respective days, listening to my daughter talk about what she's excited about in life and learning how to walk more efficiently at Carol Frazey's Fit School for Women classes.  But there's one walk that stands out as special.

About three weeks ago I received a late night phone call from Harvey.  My regular readers will remember that Harvey is the man  who I was in my accident with, the man who hit me, causing the loss of my leg.  Harvey and I reconciled about fifteen years ago and have seen each other sporadically since then.  Three weeks ago Harvey was driving through town on his way home to Victoria.  He asked if he could walk my mile with me the next morning.

So at 6:30 the next morning Harvey pulled into my driveway.  I hopped in his car and we drove down to the a park near the water to take our walk.  Since we hadn't seen each other for nearly a year, we spent the walk catching up on each other's lives.  Harvey looked great.  He started attending boot camp in January and had lost 40 pounds.

The last time we saw each other was last September at my local bookstore. I was giving a reading of my first published essay in the anthology, The Spirit of a Woman, Stories to Empower and Inspire, edited by Terry Laszlo-Gopadze.  This is the story my reconciliation with Harvey.

After our walk, we went to a coffee shop for a cuppa and reminisced about that night last September.  Harvey talked about how healing it was for him.  I've only seen Harvey five or six times in my life and this was the first time he didn't offer to give me his leg or otherwise try to make it all better.  This time there was no furrow to his brow.  This time, he looked  peaceful and happy. That brought joy to my heart.

Harvey and I remind each other how important and powerful the gift of forgiveness is.  That fateful snowy winter day on the freeway nearly thirty four years ago could have ruined each of our lives.  We could have each remained angry, bitter and resentful.  The accident and all that resulted from it changed our lives forever,  but neither one of us let it ruin us.

Harvey posted recently on Facebook, "Make peace with your past so it doesn't screw up the present." Amen to that, Harvey!

Going with the Flow

Last week my husband and I took our children white water rafting on the Tieton River in Central Washington, one of the fastest rivers in the state. Before we got on the boat, as we were stuffing ourselves into our wetsuits and pulling on our life jackets, I told my kids how running the river is a lot like life:  you have to learn to go with the flow.  Yes, it was trite.  Yes, they rolled their eyes.

I wore my water leg – a leg that looks much like a pirate’s peg leg but made out of metal instead of wood.  I listened intently as our guide told us how paddle and when it was time to get in the boat, I placed myself on the right side so my long leg could keep me stabilized.

I had forgotten how gorgeous Central Washington is.  The brown, rolling hills looking soft as a pillow, the fragrant pine trees and the tubular rock formations created a postcard view as we paddled down the river.  The water in the river was still low making it a technical trip as our guide navigated around the many rocks.

About a third of the way down the river we came to a cluster of rocks.  The boat ahead of us was stuck and to avoid hitting them our guide told us to paddle forward, right into the rocks.  Just as he said, “This is going to get tricky,” I saw the rocks slowly rise up to meet me.  Though it felt like it happened in slow motion, I was suddenly in the water.  As my head bobbed to the surface, I realized that our guide was in the water with me; he looked shocked.

Though shallow enough that I could have stood up and only been about chest high in water, the river was powerful.  There was no standing up. I barely had the ability to turn myself over.  I tried to remember the instructions the guide gave us if we fell in the water, but I was too confused.  I was trying to avoid feeling like an out-of-control ping pong ball bouncing over the rocks.

I finally was able to grab hold of the line on the raft and was pulled into the boat.  After we parked in an eddy, I scooted back to my seat and started to assess my body.    My guide kept asking if I was okay. “I’m fine.” I assured him.  But my hand was shaking and each fingertip felt like it had been smashed.  I knew my hips had bounced over a few rocks and anticipated that, within a few days, I’d be black and blue.

After about ten minutes I stopped the internal shaking that comes from sudden shock and was able to enjoy the incredible landscape as we finished our trip.

When we arrived back at our hotel, I talked about walking to the restaurant for dinner so I could walk my mile.  I’m glad my husband had the good sense to say we’d drive.  I didn’t argue.  By the time we arrived at the restaurant I felt nauseous, fatigued and out-of-sorts.  Eating helped, but I was simply exhausted.

When I awoke the next morning I felt like I had been run over by a truck.  My upper back hurt, my arms ached and my hips were sore.  Except for the walking we did at the Kittitas County Fair, before heading over to the rodeo, I didn’t walk that day either.

Going with the flow meant that I had to re-prioritize without beating myself up (the river took care of that!).   I’m learning to be okay with not meeting my own expectations or meeting them differently than I first anticipated.  Yes, I thought I’d walk one mile everyday for 100 days, but sometimes life has gotten in the way, just like those rocks in the river, but I figure out a way to make up the miles.  Going with the flow doesn’t mean I don’t stay on track.  It just means that the track may meander a bit before I get where I want to go.

Personal Best

Last Thursday was my last day at Carol Frazey’s Fit School for Women. I walked onto the track that morning knowing that we were going to be timed as we pushed ourselves four times around the track – 1 mile.  The first day of class six weeks ago we did the same thing  - so there was a time to beat. I told myself it didn’t matter, that going faster is not my goal, that I’m not in this to win anything or to prove anything to anyone.  I’m simply doing this class to get fit and be healthy.

What amazes me about runners is that they do it.  When I was a girl with two legs, running was always hard for me. Within a block I had a splitting side ache and my lungs felt like they were on fire. Even if I still had my leg, I doubt that running would be my thing.  There was one woman in the group who clearly loves to run.  Each time she passed me I heard her breath, heavy and steady.  Little puffs of morning air escaped, like she was a small dragon-lady.  Her gait was fresh and light; her ponytail bouncing behind her like it was swishing flies from her back.  It’s not that she was fast; it was that she was determined.  She probably was my opposite, wanting the beat her time from the first day of class, wanting to see improvement.

She kind of rubbed off on me.  All the women walking and running that morning did.  After my first lap, I realized that it I did want to I improve my time.  I acknowledged that how fast I walk is directly related to increased fitness.  By increasing my pace I increase the benefits of the workout.  So I kept walking, despite the muscle cramps in my residual limb.

On my third lap I remembered how hard it was six weeks ago to join this group of able-bodied women who seemed so comfortable in their bodies, who could run if and when they wanted to.  I remembered stifling back the tears, feeling like the odd girl out again, just like after I lost my leg.

But this wasn’t about them, this was about me.  This was about doing my personal best.  And that one runner who ran laps around me inspired me to do my personal best just by doing hers.  I decided that this does matter.  I did want to improve my pace.  I did want to prove to myself – not to anyone else – that I can get better at walking.  Even if my fastest walking pace is still slower than everyone else on that track, it was better than when I started.

I am proud to say that I rocked!  I finished my mile  2 1/2 minutes faster than 6 weeks prior.  I came in at 18 minutes, 41 seconds.

Maybe I’ll sign up for Carol’s next session.  Who knows what my personal best can be.

Half Way There!

On Friday I walked my 50th mile in my 100 mile walking campaign. This year my campaign has had a completely different feel to it.  Last year I was challenged on so many levels  and at times wondered if I could really walk 100 miles, if I could really raise money for the POF to enable them to live out their mission to help the developing world walk again.

I came to this year's campaign with last year's success behind me, spurring me on, assuring me that I will be able to walk the 100 miles.  In fact, there are days when I walk more than a mile.  Taking Carol Frazey's Fit School for Women has helped me become more efficient with my walking and often makes that my mile go a little faster.

This year I also approached local businesses to get corporate sponsorships but, for whatever reasons, that wasn't successful.  I've also contacted the media to do interviews, but to no avail.

So, here I am, letting you know that, if you were considering supporting my efforts, here is a link to donate to the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation.

If you'd like to walk my 100th mile with me, come on down to the 2nd annual Prosthetics Outreach Foundation's walk-a-thon at Marymoor park in Redmond, WA on September 24th.

To find out more about the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation (POF), my walking campaign or the walk-a-thon, visit their website.