Thirsty Girl

Thirsty Girl

I light my candle, from my neighbor whom I can no longer see.  I pour myself a portion of my allotted water allowance for the day.   It tastes so good that I realize I am now drinking as an act of prayer.  Water. Life. Taste. Joy.

But the water is never enough to slake my thirst.  And it won’t be. This is now my life and I must come to bear thirst.  I am not so self absorbed that I do not recognize that I am blessed to have a supply of clean water.  The water is here. It is my body that cannot tolerate the water. What a strange, strange time.  

I cannot be with water as I used to.  And I love water. I love to drink it.  I love to be in it. I lived on an island for many years, surrounded by the sea; In those days, I pushed the season of swimming (both lake and ocean), trying to get into the water from the end of May to the first of October.  Six hours north of Boston, this was quite a feat. My first novel was entitled, “Water All Around Me.” I always had a tall glass of water or green tea beside me. Coffee each morning. Water, water, water.  

But, no more.

Also No More is life as we knew it.  We are inside, save for walking the dog.  (Thank heavens for the dog; he and his kind are perhaps the sole beneficiaries of people staying home.)

I have been startled by how difficult this time is for me.  I’ve been isolating longer than others, yes. So that could be part of it.  Yet, I am trying to figure out the rest of it.

A couple of weeks ago or so, I gave up my morning coffee; to benefit my kidneys, I switched to water only.  I missed it. It had been my morning ritual for so long, albeit decaf since heart trouble began. No problem.  But when I had to stop seeing my coffee-drinking-writing-compassionate-intelligent neighbor, that hurt. I told her:  turns out I can give up coffee, but not you. We now take short walks, six feet apart. It’s better than nothing, but it is also akin to my water allotment:  it is never enough; it does not slake my thirst for connection. I miss the rest of her family, too.

And then there is the behemoth of my loss:  I miss my grandson and my granddaughter. My Grandson is an infant.  At least I can content myself that he doesn’t know I’m not there (though surely he does know when I am).  But I miss his smiles. Oh I do. My granddaughter is old enough to miss me and to ask for me. She is not, however, old enough to understand why I’m not there.  She asks for me. She longs for me. As I do, her.

The only reason I don’t go see those children is that I want to be there for the long haul.  Otherwise, I would risk all for them in a heartbeat.

So there’s that.  Reason enough to be handling this isolation with difficulty.  But, there are many grandparents who don’t live near their grandkids, and they find a way.  I know this. What’s really going on here?

I think what might be happening is that I was already employing all of my coping mechanisms to contend with my illness.  As my physical illness has worsened, I’ve been really skilled at adapting and finding joy. I guess I mistakenly assumed that I had an unlimited reservoir of coping.  A reservoir. There’s that water imagery again. It now appears that my coping reservoir, like my water allotment has shrunk. I was dipping into it time and again; now there is not enough left to slake my thirst.  

I must learn to be thirsty, emotionally and physically.

Back to the basics I go.  Counting my joys and there still are many.  My steadfast husband, my great love. My dog.  My water allotment. Walking six feet apart from my neighbor.

I will weather this, I think.  But I am not at all sure.

Balancing on a Pin

balance is as elusive in heart failure as it is in life and in our world.  I have to listen carefully for it. There isn’t any margin for error, such as I  had when younger, healthier. I can’t overextend and make it up. I need to think about the sodium in everything I eat.  I must measure how much fluid I consume in my coffee cup, my yogurt, my water glass. My doctors handle the complex meds, made more difficult by my very low blood  pressure. The rest is up to me.

I think about things like how to live the life I have fully.  There are subtle but powerful notes of Grace in this contracted life that heart failure offers.  I’ve written before about mindfulness as an accessible adjunct to HF. I have time to watch the trees sway in the wind today, to watch the raindrops cluster on my twinkle lights, to scratch the ears of my labrador when he nudges my hand as I write. I love love love reading near my husband in quiet companionship.  We put our books down to sing along with a favorite song on Pandora: Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey. Truthfully, there aren’t enough hours in my day to notice all that there is in my contracted world. Yet I know that contracture can turn into an arid space. I don’t want to just whittle down my life.

I love the word abundance.  Think about how much a mindset of scarcity impacts our world and our lives.  I-don’t-have-enough-thinking leads to a posture of drawing in, protecting our borders and shutting out others.  So what can I do? How can I create an abundance mindset? Coffee ends up being a good place to start. I have a morning coffee ritual (decaf) that is dear to me.  I buy good beans and grind them fresh. I add a touch of cocoa powder and cream. I love it. Even more, I share this ritual with my neighbor, who is my dear friend.  Coffee, then, has also become connection for me: Vital on many levels.

The first thing I did was to measure  out the amount of water I use to make my giant cup of coffee.  I’ll admit I was a bit shocked by how much water this entails. I’m allowed two liters daily, and that includes any beverage or wet food such as yogurt, jello, cooked oatmeal, soup.  It goes quickly. But my coffee is JOY, first thing in the day, before that awful lasix hits, before I dissolve my potassium pills into my yogurt, before my HF pills knock down my blood pressure again.  I decide to reserve the water for coffee. Can’t put a price on Joy.  

The second thing I do is to measure my remaining water (after factoring in the yogurt), into two cups, one of which I put away for the afternoon/evening.  I’m seeking the abundant feeling of a big glass of water, minus the dreaded feeling of knowing my fluid allotment is dwindling. I accomplish this by splitting my water into those two cups.  I feel luxurious sipping my water.

Of course, I can’t figure out all of this stuff out on my own.  I hum the Beatles lyrics “I get by with a little help from my friends” as if it is my mantra.  My brilliant coffee drinking neighbor came up with the idea of asking the doctor for permission to take in a few more cups of fluid a week so that we can go out to our favorite coffee shop and indulge. I love that idea:  An indulgence instead of a failure to follow rules. More abundance thinking.

Meanwhile, my friend’s husband, who loves to cook, has been figuring out meals for me.  In truth, he’s just straight up shopping and cooking for me. Even more, I can see now that he has been teaching me abundance.  I’m not just cutting out salt, I’m adding in wonderful foods. My first thought had been to order from a medical meal service. I was so tired.  I didn’t think I could cook. He just knew. The pre-packaged meals were depressingly bad. Without his help, I would have just sucked those down.  My poor hubby would’ve been stuck with lean cuisine. Bit by bit, my neighbor is teaching me that the investment of time and energy in cooking is worth it; that he’s there to help me with meal ideas; that cooking can be entertaining even now, even when I thought I couldn’t manage. Also, cooking is now filled with connection. Now it’s true that I haven’t really cooked yet. He’s done it for me.  For instance, he made a gorgeous crockpot full of meat and veggies that I will turn on tomorrow. It should last for two or three meals. My miracle is that my husband and I have made a grocery list/ plan for the meal after that. I feel like it’s possible. What could be more abundant thinking than that?

I do still worry that this is all too much on my friends and family and that I will tire them by accepting help.  I don’t know what to do about that fear. I’m sure it stems from my longstanding tendency to overexert myself in tending to others.  I guess I have to have faith that others know their limits? Still working on that.

Speaking of limits, my daughter is bringing dinner for us tonight.  Honestly, I tried to tell her not to do this. She’s nine months pregnant with my second grandbaby.  I think about my daughter all the time, so pregnant, working full time, with a husband that travels. I wish so much that I were the one helping her.  Also, I’m complicated; bringing food to me requires such forethought. She’s got this, she says. My amazing, grown up girl.  

Meanwhile, things are always changing.  I had a good experience last night with a difficult medication.  I guess I thought that today, then, might be easier. It’s not. I’ve had to up my oxygen to 4 liters.  I can’t do a thing today. My grandbaby will be coming over in a little bit. I know I have to learn to just BE with her, rather than doing.  I won’t scoop her up. I’ll sit on the couch and let her come to me. I’m sure there’s Grace in learning this too. Being vs. doing and all that.  I’ve got to experience that one to get it, though.   

Balance.  My meds. My needs.  Depending on others. Reconfiguring how I relate.  All those pills and restrictions. Do I want to balance on the head of a pin?  Not really. But I want to be here, with my husband, my family and my friends. I want to notice all that joy that is accessible to me still.  I want to learn.

What Have We Here?

Yellow dog breathing beside me.  A special friend who knows me well enough to clear the way forward for me.  The sound of my dear husband’s squeaky chair as he writes. My Nora Jones Pandora station playing Clapton’s “If I Could Change the World.” My Candle flickering beside me.  Floor to ceiling windows allowing me to be outdoors on my inside day. My red hummingbird feeder, signaling my hopes that one or two little wonders will choose to stay with me over the winter.

Mindfulness comes a little more easily to those of us with heart failure.  We slow down. Our world contracts. We are more at home and more with ourselves.  

Over the past two years, my new specialized pacemaker has allowed my world to widen.  I’ve done things I never thought I could do again: walking downtown, eating out, paddling around a bit in the pool.  I stopped counting salt and water. I ate what I wanted.  

The shining glory and gold of this time was that I was able to be a grandmother to my  first grandbaby and to grow closer to my daughter and son-in-law. I can honestly say I took not one moment of my time with my granddaughter for granted. Not one moment. 

I did, however, begin to think that I was past heart failure; that perhaps my myriad other heart and health issues were all that was on my plate; that I could be the grandmother I wanted to be to Sam, that I could see my daughter and son-in-law through this next family transition, that I could, I could, I could…..

Instead, I’ve come home again.  My heart failure is back. And my Grandson is due to be born in November.

The timing is not at all what I wanted.  

And it all does break my heart, just a little.   

Back I go to noticing things in my small world.  I hear my dog sigh as he settles near me. I see the blues and pinks in my dining room.  I overhear my husband talking to a student who says: I always feel like a bother when I need help.  Indeed. Indeed.

I need help.

I let those words stand alone because, if I say them at all, I hurry past them.  I always feel like a bother when I need help, this young man admits. Hmmm. Turns out I do too.  But lucky me, I have people in my life who figure that out about me and who are so gracious, so kind and so much fun, that accepting help feels like the Blessing that it is.  These are some of the wonders that will stay with me over this winter of mine. How did I get so lucky?  

Maybe I’m finally going to learn to receive.  Imagine how much more I will have to give then.  Imagine what another period of mindfulness will teach me.  Imagine a world in which we all help one another, as we are able, and that what we can give without depleting ourselves is, most wonderfully, enough.

Imagine growing wise.  

tea pots, tea pots, tea pots

I’m thinking about tea pots all the time.  Why?  No doubt, my recent visit to “Perspectives: Georgia Pottery Invitational,” has a lot to do with it.  There I had the opportunity to attend Akira Satake’s amazing two day workshop on the beauty of imperfection.  I watched him make tea cups, tea pots and Chawans with the skill of the master that he is.  I listened to his philosophy, which is so very akin to to the heart of what and why I have my hands in clay every day.  Couple that with the one piece in the Perspectives Gallery that really spoke to me, a diminuitive and primitive ancient chinese tea pot, and I can begin to see how I came to be steeped in ideas that are now manifesting as these pots.  My challenge?  As ever, to stay true to how the clay speaks to me in my hands.  This means balancing as much  tactile-spiritual clay work as I feel is imperitive to my soul with as much technique as I feel gives me paths to form.

Let me explore this a bit more.  There are plenty of classes, lessons and utubes to show me point by point how to construct a ceramic tea pot.  There are numerous variations of handbuilt tea pots, from which I could choose ( or adapt) a pattern to make my vessel.  But my goal has never been to follow a pattern and achieve precise results.  My goal, really, is to find how the clay and my soul best spend time together, and, at the same time, to learn as many techniques with clay as I can, to throw both of these eneavors into, say, a tea pot, to simer and steep, and then to see what happens.  It is a mysterious process.  To some degree, it reminds me of how  yoga poses can elicit emotional and spiritual growth.  Yet, you do the work of learning and practicing the poses without really knowing exactly how your soul work will be accomplished.  You practice without aim.  You practice because it feel right to you to do so.  It calls to you.

Clay has become my yoga.  My meditation.  My spiritual practice.  My connection to the earth.

There is also the ongoing, primary thread of deeply honoring the beauty inherent in how imperfectly we live as incarnated beings.  I don’t try to make my tea pots as perfectly tea pot-like as I can.  That’s not me.  Those of you who know me know my simultaneously deep, painful and ultimately joyful experience of imperfection and my commitment to self expression.  So these tea pots i make are one of a kind, a bit odd, unusual, and (at least this is my intent and my experience of them), sweet.

I call these pots:  sweet tea

Imperfect Vessels

As I have aged, I have become more appreciative of the vessel that is my body.  As time and illness and injury have each taken its toll on my physical vessel, I have come to regard my body as an imperfect, wonderous miracle.   It is with kinder eyes that I see myself now: lumps, bumps, bulges.  I can feel how hard my heart works, scarred though it is, to supply enough oxygen rich blood to get me up a short set of stairs or across the street.   It is an effort.  I notice that.  I appreciate it.  I’m thankful for it.

Conversely, as a young woman, I led a busy and very physical life.  Working.  Raising children.  Engaging in my favorite spiritual  past times:  hiking, swimming, kayaking, walking.  The list goes on and on.  I enjoyed using my body and I demanded a lot of it.  In significant ways, I took my youth, my beauty and my health for granted.  I was far to busy to THINK about it.  When I was still, I was in nature, thinking about oneness and connection.  I felt a great kinship with the land, the sea and the sky.  That meant a lot to me.  But I did not fully appreciate the vessel that allowed me to BE.

I imagine that my son and my husband, both of whom have had to contend with severe physical challenges, have long been more aware of their vessels.  Imperfection, physical imperfection, was and is something that they have to confront in every instance that they live and breathe in this world.  I will venture to say that I bet they never take their bodies for granted.  But those of us with fully functional  bodies usually do.  Until we age or until something goes wrong.

Rumi says there are a hundred ways to kiss the ground.   My way is through clay.  I make clay vessels, one of a kind, unique.  Each is meant to be a meditation on the beauty inherent in imperfection.   Invite me into your story and let me make a vessel in honor of your beauty.