Post Date: November 30th, 2016

 

He wore a dark suit over a pale blue shirt with blue paisley tie, and she a sleeveless flowered dress. In heels, she came up to the top of his ear. Together they entered the United States Courthouse in Milwaukee.

It is a long way from Sydney, Australia, to College Park, Maryland. But no distance at all on the internet. They met playing World of Warcraft online – he a warlock and she a priestess healer. They began a pattern of privately messaging one another while they played. Their friendship flourished. They became more attracted when they talked by phone via Skype and viewed each other’s photo. After ten months, she flew Down Under to meet him. True love confirmed.

On the wall to the left was a portrait of President Barack Obama. On the right was one of “Grandpa Joe” Biden. Below the Vice President’s picture were the metal detectors. After clearance, they took the elevator up to the hallway outside a third floor courtroom.

She spent the next summer with him in Sydney, and moved there after she graduated college. Three years later he proposed. A wedding date was set for the following July in the gardens of her Wisconsin home.

The family members filed into the gallery to observe the proceedings. The candidates slowly funneled one by one into the front of the wood-paneled courtroom, each taking a seat on one of the black padded folding chairs.

But immigration is tricky. They had decided to move to America so she could finish her professional studies here, but the timing of his being able to obtain a fiancé’s visa was entirely unpredictable. He could come in for the wedding on a tourist’s visa but that would delay his being able to apply for permanent residency. So in short order they planned a February wedding in Sydney under a large, spreading tree in a park across the harbor from the Opera House. She wore lavender and he a tux with lavender accoutrements. The sweetness of their love was nearly palpable.

When all candidates were seated, there were fifty faces, fifty skin tones, fifty eager immigrants. The thing was, the group looked like America.

Her Australian student visa expired, so she had to come back to America after the Australian wedding. Meanwhile, he applied for a spousal visa that would allow him to immigrate to America with a “green card.” They worked hard to provide documentation that would convince immigration officials that their marriage was not an immigration scam. Among the items they submitted was an album of photographs depicting them together over the span of their courtship – her hair in different lengths – to show the longevity of their relationship.

Instructions were given by a member of the clerk’s office as the families dutifully snapped pictures. The candidates removed the card with an oath on it from their large white envelope of materials. 

Their American wedding was magical, their laughter and love filling the expansive tent. After a honeymoon, he had to return to Australia until his application for a spousal visa was processed and approved. After months of waiting, he was granted an interview at the American Consulate in Sydney. But remarkably, the final yay or nay for the visa was entrusted to the admitting immigration officer at the airport. Exhausted from a 15-hour flight, he felt a frisson of concern as he awaited the officer’s decision. After receiving the imprimatur for a “conditional” green card he happily looked for his connecting flight.

The judge entered the courtroom through a door behind the bench as the bailiff commanded everyone to stand. Once seated the judge explained that he was pleased to preside at this ceremony because, rather than one party winning and another losing, today everyone would leave the courtroom feeling happy.

Two years later, after more fingerprints and more documentation, the conditions on his green card were removed. He finally had “permanent” residency with a 10-year green card.

A member of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services made a motion to admit the fifty immigrants to American citizenship, averring that all had passed the vetting process and were of good moral character. The judge granted the motion and gave welcoming remarks.

It was his avid interest in current events that fueled his desire for the right to vote, so he decided to pursue American citizenship. He started in January in order to be able to vote in the November presidential election. Again, fingerprints. And more documentation: her birth certificate, their marriage license, proof that they lived under the same roof during the past few years, copies of joint bank accounts and a mortgage held in common for their Greendale home. Another meeting with the Department of Homeland Security. Finally a test on American government and the constitution. 

And so it came to be that on September 8, 2016, my son-in-law and 49 other immigrants were asked to stand and raise their right hands. Together they swiftly repeated a complicated oath by which they abjured allegiance to their home country and promised to bear arms in defense of their new country. Thus they became American citizens with the right to vote and to the pursuit of happiness.

Then, like the hard working American he is, he returned to work for the rest of the day.

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: July 31st, 2016

 

The thermometer has dropped from 90 degrees, and it is nice to have breezy fresh air circulating through the house. But as darkness settles in, the humidity is too challenging for sleep, so I close up the house and put on the central air.

Immediately I feel the protection of my home and its lovely, sturdy spirit. And I luxuriate in the deep quiet. I reflect, contemplate, and pray.

I think about aging now that I’m 65. I’ve spent my adult life actualizing my emotional, intellectual and spiritual selves, and that will continue for all my years. I never thought, however, about actualizing my physical self.

Eight months ago I finally followed a dear friend’s encouragement to work with a personal trainer. A particular personal trainer. One who is emotionally and spiritually mature. She is profoundly nonjudgmental, a gift to everyone, especially women and elders, with whom she works. She is a former ballet dancer, so has spent her adult life actualizing her body through dance, running and working out.

With her guidance and support I have grown in strength from a pathetically low level to being able to bench press 30 lbs. and do bicep curls with 12.5 lbs. in each hand (I’m closing in on 15). My muscles have developed some definition and I’ve improved my posture. I feel physically confident and, not to be trite, empowered: more capable, not easily daunted.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed that my energy is not what it used to be. And I sleep long hours. But to be growing stronger against the effects of physical aging pleases me.

I am not pleased to see the bulges beneath my eyes and gravity’s downward pull on my neck. Yet I’m becoming all that I can be physically at my age, just as I am in the other realms of self.

I think that is the great adventure of aging. With retirement, one has time to concentrate on oneself, to develop oneself in ways that aren’t possible with the full giving of a career. There are more spaces in a day, which some find challenging. But these spaces are liberating to the spirit and allow movement toward even more integration of one’s whole self. I’m grateful for growth.

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: February 28th, 2016

 

Sixty degrees on the penultimate day of February. What a day for a long walk in the neighborhood! No hat, no gloves, spring jacket.

Strong gusts of southwesterly winds pushing forcefully against forward progress. The sun peeping out of clouds as cardinals sing out. Thin shelves of snow dripping into gutters then tumbling down sewers. Branches from trees littering soft, wet, marshy lawns. Neighbors out and about.

Energizing signs of spring amid meteorological winter.

Just two weeks ago, it was a different scene.

The thermometer read 10 degrees without factoring in the wind chill. What a day for a short walk in the neighborhood! Two pairs of pants, a heavy fleece under a wool coat, hat, gloves and a wool scarf. (Norwegian adage: There is no bad weather, just bad clothes.)

The sun beaming down brightly from a cloudless sky. Lawns piled with snow under hard icy coverings. Blacktop roads with patches of ice. Biting wind against cheekbones. Not a person in sight.

And yet, an exhilarating experience.

After all, to move in nature is to partake of her pharmacopeia. Antidepressants, anti-anxiety agents, anti-hypertensives, antidotes, amelioratives. Ancient remedies for modern people.

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: January 3rd, 2016

 

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions, but this year I have five.

1.  To accept all opportunities to more fully manifest Spirit (hat tip to Gretchen Mead).

2.  To speak truth.

3.  To pray for political power to be used in a statesmanlike manner for the greater good.

4.  To live simply, locally and sustainably.

5.  To lovingly care for myself, my husband, our children, and our elders.

 

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: October 22nd, 2015

 

On a cool October morning I walk down into the village. I cross through the cathedral that is the small forest where an old gnarled tree marks the fork in the path. The crisp, clear air carries the sound of squirrels scurrying through fallen leaves.

I amble onto sidewalks thick with maple leaves whipped off trees by yesterday’s windy gusts. I feel childlike glee at the crackly crunch when stepping on these dry wonders. As I turn the corner I see neighbors raking their lawns near flaming red burning bushes. Despite the weekend frost, rose bushes still hold their blooms.

Leaves flutter around me as I wend my way. Most drop from maples, oaks and locusts, but a few ashes and elms contribute to the mix. I pass an area where boulders flank a copse of redbud trees with clinging yellow-brown foliage. Around the bend I step into the golden chapel formed by the sun-drenched canopy of a Norway maple. Down the lane is a thicket of tall green bushes with yellow grapevine leaves winding through them. 

I reach the destination of my daughter and son-in-law’s home where I feed my grandbunnies and cuddle my grandkitties to minimize their loneliness while the vacationers enjoy Australia. Then I unsheathe the unread Sunday newspaper and take the plastic bag for the journey back home.

In it I collect chromatic leaves – tawny, yellow, peach, orange, cranberry, burgundy – that grace the ground I walk on. As I lose myself in the leaves I reflect on how vibrant the process of dying is. Or perhaps it is the process of putting to sleep, tucking in, crawling under.

I melt wax in a small pan on the stove when I get home, the same wax I’ve used for years and store away for the next autumn. Each leaf is dipped then cooled to preserve its form, color and lie. I spread them in little clusters on surfaces in the kitchen and living room, bringing the season inside and reminding me to batten down the hatches in anticipation of a more muted time.

Now a mug of warm apple cider with cinnamon stick in my favorite chair.

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: September 30th, 2015

 

Prelude

As the Grand Canyon weigh-in deadline loomed, I realized even stronger action was required, so I began one-mile morning walks in addition to the 2+ miles in the evening, and resolved to eat even less. I admit feeling on edge at the check-in desk as the moment to step on the scale arrived. Victory: five pounds under the limit fully clothed! This achievement was so sweet I cried.

Getting Started

A mule is sired by a donkey, the ancient Middle Eastern pack animal. It is birthed by a horse which gives the mule its height. We first gazed upon 12 of these tall, sturdy, 1000-pound animals at 6:45 on a cool Saturday morning as they were led into a small stone corral at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. We were dressed as required: long-sleeved cotton shirts, long pants and wide-brimmed hats. Each of the ten riders was assigned a mule. Mine was named Truman, who, it turned out, breathed new life into the term “stubborn mule.”

We were each given a small leather riding crop that the head wrangler called a “mule motivator.” The goal was to keep our mule nose-to-tail with the mule in front of it because if it lagged behind, as Truman was wont to do, it would eventually catch up by running, a startling event for the rider as well as riders on the mules behind who would follow suit. The remedy? Motivate a dawdling mule by hitting its rear flank with the crop. It wouldn’t hurt the mule, we were assured. They didn’t mention that it might hurt us. The animals were so large that trying to turn to give a good motivational whack sometimes resulted instead in self-flagellation.

The lead wrangler told us they would stop the mule train after ten minutes and give a full refund to any rider who felt she couldn’t continue. This relieved the abject terror of some of my travel companions. I wasn’t afraid before the ride or when I mounted, but starting down the nearly eight-mile trail replete with switchbacks aroused my anxiety. The trail was rockier than I anticipated. I expected dusty, but the trail had gravel in some spots, rocks the size you could pick up and throw in other spots, still larger rocks that you’d use in a fire pit, and sometimes slabs of rock. Mule hoofs on rock is not a reassuring sound.

The Downward Ride

The wranglers said that going down the canyon would be the hardest for the riders, but we never imagined the degree of mental and physical stress of a five-hour down-trail mule ride. Two of our mules liked to graze on the flora. Pulling a mule up from the forbidden act of bending over to eat vegetation required the muscles of a blacksmith.

We were constantly vigilant as the mules picked their way on narrow paths, walking within an inch or two of the outer edge as they turned on the switchbacks. One of the two wranglers told us, “You can talk, you know.” “About what?” was our communal thought. We were concentrating so hard on the process and also afraid to turn our heads to communicate with one another. We were told not to lean, so we focused on sitting upright, faced forward, heels down in the stirrups, leaning back in the saddle for the benefit of the mules traveling downward, and pathetically trying to motivate wayward mules.

We encountered hikers on the trail who were plastered against the inner wall to let the mule train pass. One of them asked if we were having fun. Fun? Not the first word that leapt into our minds. “Um, kind of.” But we began engaging with the hikers, greeting them, introducing our mules to them, wishing them well on their hikes, and thereby enjoyed ourselves more.

When we stopped on a couple of occasions to dismount and use restrooms, we had to get our “land legs” back. We could barely walk. We read before coming to Arizona that one of the wranglers tells his groups that in two hours they’ll be “crippled.” We understood that now.

Other times we merely stopped on the trail and turned our mules sideways on the pathway to face the canyon. If they were turned inward toward the rock wall, they might accidentally step backwards and fall down the canyon, but mules have a strong self-preservation instinct and will not go headfirst into the canyon.

We slowly began to appreciate the sites: vast canyon vistas; tiny yellow angelita daisies and red firecracker flowers; rock formations like The Guardian; pictograms on an overhanging ledge; the remainder of a granary where Natives stored beans, squash and corn (the “three sisters”); and, unexpectedly, butterflies.

While there was a fair amount of September shade on the top portion of the trail, we endured The Furnace for two hours on the bottom part. We were encouraged to keep hydrated with water from our wine skins which they refilled with iced water carried down on the mules. We braved a particularly difficult part of the trail which culminated in the Jesus Corner, so named because “a lot of holy words are uttered at this place.”

Then there was the mighty, muddy Colorado River bisecting the canyon, and the black suspension bridge across it preceded by a cool, dark tunnel with a low ceiling. Fifteen minutes later we arrived at Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the canyon.

Some riders make it this far and then collapse upon dismounting, so demanding is the ride down. The ranch therefore provides plenty of ice-cold, electrolyte-filled water for rejuvenation as soon as riders can walk on their land legs to the shaded picnic tables. This was fortunate for one of my traveling companions who was nearly done in. She drank gobs of that water before crumpling onto a bunk in our cabin for the better part of the next 15 hours.

That evening we were treated to a steak dinner which we chowed down. Then a hot but peaceful time until we turned into our bunks for the night.

Back to the Rim

Because of Truman’s penchant for eating on the trail he was muzzled for the ride back up. We took a shorter trail back, but because climbing is harder on the mules than descending, we stopped on the trail, facing the mules toward the canyon, every ten minutes to rest them.

Truman didn’t just lag behind now; at times he came to a complete standstill. Initially I was able to get him going again by hitting into his belly with the soft but firm heels of my walking shoes and saying “Come on, Truman, let’s go.” When this didn’t work the back wrangler yelled up, “Step up, Truman, step up.” He did. But the stalling continued as did his heavy sweating and stentorian breathing.

During one stop the back wrangler came up and loosened the muzzle to allow him to breathe freely. The stalling continued, though, and one of my travel mates called up from the rear in a clear, authoritative voice, “Step up, Truman!” He obeyed! She did that on several more occasions. Teamwork.

A few stops later the wrangler removed the muzzle completely, a relief to both Truman and me as his breathing immediately eased. The wrangler took this opportunity to demonstrate how to properly motivate a mule: cross your dominant arm over your other arm and reach all the way up, around and back in a half-moon gesture, landing the crop on the hind flank. The gesture builds momentum for a good thwack, and because a mule can see on both sides and to the back, it is motivated just by seeing the swinging crop coming from one side up and over to its destination. The thwacking sounds also helps. Straightaway I became an expert motivator, much to my shoulder’s eventual distress. But Truman responded well, and I only wished the demonstration had come the day before when Truman, with a mind of his own, often straggled and several times launched into a running trot to catch up.

The ride up was indeed easier on the riders. We were more confident and able to appreciate fantastic vistas in the canyon on both sides of the trail. “Grand and grander,” commented one of my travel mates. We appreciated seeing prickly pear cactuses as well as sacred Datura which reminded us of the moonflowers one of us grows. The higher we climbed the more we looked back on what appeared to be moss on the lower canyon structures. We saw Heaven’s Eye as well as Heaven’s Gate. We also passed Poison Peak – “one drop and you’re dead.” We were happier and more talkative.

Aftermath

We were awarded muleskinner certificates for having completed the trip. Some of us had muleskinner tans – brown hands from exposure to the sun but white arms since they were covered by long sleeves. All of us suffered significant soreness to our knees, hips and sitting bones, and a degree of trauma from the brutality of the experience. But we also were exhilarated as a group of 62-70 year-olds at having conquered such a harrowing challenge.

And the awe of great, ageless matter (Mater) that is canyon carved from mountain will linger with us. For “what are men to rocks and mountains?” -Jane Austen

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: July 17th, 2015

 

So my triglycerides were stubbornly elevated and unresponsive to fish oil. My cardiologist leveled with me: the remaining option was weight loss: Eat less, and exercise at least 45 minutes 3-4 times a week.

She had to be kidding. My idea of exercise was tapping on a keyboard and getting up from a chair.

That was about the time my GirlieMates (a name we adopted when we first traveled together to Ireland) made reservations for the six of us to see the Grand Canyon by way of a mule ride down to the bottom where we’d stay at a ranch, and ride back up to the rim the next day. A September adventure!

Then the brochure came in the mail. All I saw was the weight limit (yes, they weigh you!) for riding a mule. I was well over it.

I didn’t expect this conspiracy between the mules and my cardiologist. Still, in spite of myself, I made 10 pounds of progress. My triglycerides took a dive.

I got a dietician’s advice in April by way of editing her creative 12-month calendar of healthy eating tips. It was clear my devil was not sugary drinks or eating out too often. It was portion size.

So unfair! When food is so delicious, why must I eat less of it?

I shed five more pounds the next month, including half a pound lost during a 12-day vacation. (Zounds!) My triglycerides tumbled down to a nearly normal level.

But still 18 pounds too much for the mules. Those stubborn mules. I mean, pounds.

The clock is now ticking loudly as the Canyon escapade draws nearer. Five more pounds are gone (yay!) but still 13 to go (boo!). That’s because of the cushion I’ll need to allow for the clothing I’ll be wearing at the weigh in.

That much weight in nine weeks is doable, says my head. But it feels precarious. I’ve learned that summertime is as dicey as the holidays for weight loss with plentiful amounts of food at summer festivals, weddings, BBQs, parties.

The bathroom scale is both friend and enemy. It records my losses but once in a while shocks me by showing I’ve gained or stayed the same. Discouraging vicissitudes.

At least my cardiologist’s push to exercise has developed more easily. I mapped out a one-mile route last fall and huffed and puffed my way through it. This spring I pushed it up and did things like walking the mile down to the village post office to mail a letter rather than twenty steps to my mailbox. Of course that meant another mile right back home up the inclines that are Greendale.

And now I walk 2¼ miles 3-4 times a week. I walk in the evening so that when the inevitable hunger arises two hours later, I’m – befitting my age – in bed.

Walking, yoga and wall sitting have made me stronger and fitter than I’ve been in 10 years. Last Saturday in preparation for the mule ride my GirlieMates and I took a horseback riding lesson. I did yoga ahead of time and didn’t hurt at all afterwards.

But they didn’t weigh me.

The push is on. In the end, it is the thought of sleeping in the car while my friends are riding into the Canyon that keeps me at it.

The journey on those mules will be a whole lot easier than the journey to them.

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: May 19th, 2015

 

I don’t know the temperature but I can see my breath. A brisk wind flaps a Norwegian flag on the back of the ferry. The sun warms our heads and shoulders as we sit in the stern on plastic chairs. When the ferry powers away from the dock it turns so that we view the fjords and mountains as they quietly recede from us.

The sights along the fjords that are noteworthy are unchanging, so the announcements pointing them out are pre-recorded in a variety of languages. The crew custom selects the languages for today’s ride after asking boarding passengers their country of origin. I’m intrigued to hear the announcements in Norwegian, English, Dutch, French, Italian, Japanese and Chinese.

Notable, the voices on the loudspeaker tell us, are a small village with a church that seats 40 built in the 1100s, a tiny village accessible only by water, and another attributing its residents’ longevity to the pure drinking water. While some villages are nestled into the mountainside at water level, another is so high it was accessible only by ladders “in the olden days.”

Most remarkable, though, is the simple beauty of the fjords with their surrounding mountains and waterfalls. We glide along them in their serenity, their majesty, their ancient steadfastness. While a few other tours motor past us at higher speeds, our ferry gives this terrain its due by taking fully two hours to journey through a horseshoe of fjords. Mountainside after mountainside impresses itself upon our retinas and our souls. We relax in this grace.

After we disembark, we enjoy pan-fried salmon in the local restaurant, then hop on an old tram to a railroad station where we board a train for the five-hour ride back to Oslo. As it trundles over mountains, the train stops for skiers to board. Rain is falling when we arrive in Oslo, but the city center is alive with nightclubs and the young. We pass them en route to our tiny bedroom in a fourth-floor apartment. There we slumber contentedly.

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: April 24th, 2015

 

I am quiet. Like a cat.

Indeed, both my cats sit by the bay window while I indulge in my morning routine of reading the paper and working the crossword puzzle while sipping two mugs of coffee. All is quiet.

The daffodils and hyacinths are quiet. Today’s snow flurries are quiet. Yesterday’s wind is quiet. I read in quiet. I eat in quiet. There is no music, no television, no phone calls. I hear only tapping on the keyboard as I write and the sounds of birds, my breathing and footsteps as I walk.

As an introvert I’m usually content with solitude and quiet. But I feel unsettled. I am in some kind of in-between space where quiet is called for, where quiet is the measure of the expanse. But what lays across the expanse? On this side it is bookended with my time as a public official. While I don’t miss the daily grind of work, I do miss being a public official, a woman of influence in the larger world.

I wonder where this space I’m in will lead. What is it that awaits my involvement? As broth on the stove simmers quietly, so does the broth of my soul. If only I could discover what broth my soul is making.

The bubbles of this internal broth disquiet me. The ambiguity disconcerts me. I contemplate but am uninspired.

I conclude that nothing can be done but bear it until it resolves.

Posted in Uncategorized |

Post Date: February 21st, 2015

 

The temperatures are below freezing and it is snowing again, as it does in the deep of winter. While welcome before Christmas, it is tiresome at the end of February.

She is petite with dyed brown hair covering every scintilla of silver. She is not particularly frail but does look aged, although not her full ninety years. Were she not in the hospital her nails would be topped in red.

Days that are brilliant with sunshine take the edge off. The snow-covered lawns reflect and multiply the light. Still, people escape to southern sunshine and warmth.

She came in the early-morning, subzero cold and now reclines on a bed in hospital attire. Having lived alone for the past fifteen years, she soaks up the nurse’s pampering. 

Later morning rising or afternoon naps are endemic to the season for those at home. Dreams while hibernating help soul seeds to root within the psyche.

The neuroma inside her brain is benign, grows slowly. But this year’s MRI shows an expansion more deeply into the brain, threatening to touch her brain stem. Surgery is not an option.

Working crossword puzzles, cleaning things long neglected, indoor exercise, and reading – both serious and silly – plait a retiree’s winter waking hours. Contemplation fills the spaces in between.

She comes back to the room with a heavy, metal apparatus attached to her head at the forehead and base of her skull. The bottom of the apparatus rings her neck. Despite pain medicine, she gets a headache from the impingement and weight of it.

Daylight starts sooner and lasts longer. A breath of hope amidst long-enduring patience.

Finally it is her turn for ninety minutes of treatment. The headgear attaches to the machine so that her head is perfectly stationary as radiation precisely permeates her tumor.

Plans for spring and summer begin to emerge, as anticipation grows for new signs of life from the soil.

Although the procedure had been explained several times, fear of the unknown weighed on her as heavily as the headgear. Once the treatment is over and the apparatus removed, she flitters about in utter relief.

Posted in Uncategorized |