Sabbath #151

Radical Sanctuary

For the last week and several days I’ve been on sabbatical from working due to an unexpected surgery. I’ve taken to my bed and I find that it is difficult to remove myself even to go downstairs to eat the meager meals my stomach can tolerate. I have a night stand by my side of the bed which holds a lamp, photographs of loved ones and a stack of books. Upon returning from the hospital, my husband intuited that I might need an extra table. So he retrieved one from the kitchen and placed it by the bed. A live gerber daisy, bright orange. My phone and iPad. Magazines: Vogue, People, Vanity Fair,Consumer Report, Fortune. That”s how it began. The novel, The Illuminaries by Elaeanor Catton, winner of the 2013 Booker Prize, my journal, G. Lalo notepaper and envelopes, my good fountain pen, mug of…

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Sabbath #151

For the last week and several days I’ve been on sabbatical from working due to an unexpected surgery. I’ve taken to my bed and I find that it is difficult to remove myself even to go downstairs to eat the meager meals my stomach can tolerate. I have a night stand by my side of the bed which holds a lamp, photographs of loved ones and a stack of books. Upon returning from the hospital, my husband intuited that I might need an extra table. So he retrieved one from the kitchen and placed it by the bed. A live gerber daisy, bright orange. My phone and iPad. Magazines: Vogue, People, Vanity Fair, Consumer Report, Fortune. That”s how it began. The novel, The Illuminaries by Elaeanor Catton, winner of the 2013 Booker Prize, my journal, G. Lalo notepaper and envelopes, my good fountain pen, mug of tea, half full. And Dog Songs by Mary Oliver, gift from friends at  the field where our dogs run free very morning. I do miss them. And my calendar and list of 30 something clients and writing students I had to contact to reschedule their appointments. A life on a table. Today, some items torn from the Sunday NYT: a picture and a poem, a review of Flannery O’Conner’s Prayer Journal. Someone last week wrote you must have needed “forced rest.” And I did. For the first time in my life, because of varied circumstances like NO SICK LEAVE, compelled me to work regardless of condition. But not this time. I’ve taken to my bed ceremoniously. At first the rest was drug induced but that stopped days ago. Never a napper, I find myself napping, morning and afternoon. And ready to turn out the lights at night around 8:30pm. The doctor warned me of fatigue. And indeed I have it. What’s missing is adrenaline. Before I was released from my short stay at the hospital, my husband and family pleaded with me to stop for at least two weeks. “Be still,” they said. “Use this as a spiritual retreat.” “Meditate twice a day.” “Read.” “Write.” I heard their pleas for me to take care of myself. I needed to accept and receive the help my physical body dictated. Inadvertently, I relieved the stress of loved ones. Graciously, I am still learning to receive. It doesn’t come naturally to me. So for these few weeks, resting and receiving are my practice. That’s all. I’ve deemed all other suggestions as work. 

An adjacent avenue for this sabbatical: walking. So when I’m not in bed, I began walking, slowly. First laps around the house, then laps around our circular driveway, then around the block, extending a block each day. Yesterday, my longest walk, one hour: cross the street, by the filed at the old school, around the neighborhood, Mt. Prospect, and back. This time accompanied by my husband and out dog. The red maple leaves, the creek unmoving except for the tide, houses decorated for the fall season: pumpkins and pansies.

How lucky I feel to posses this luxury of time even if it was forced, unplanned. if I let myself, I could feel sadness creeping in. Why so late, this lesson? Or does it even matter? We learn what we need to learn when we can. More acceptance, not so much of my limitations as what it means to honor ones body and spirit.  

 

Sabbath # 150

My days, so steeped in variance and variety. Today it’s the preacher’s wife, serving communion along side her husband at the eleven o’clock service. The Blood of Christ shed for you. Seriously. Everyday I wear the buddhist prayer beads from Petaluma. A gift from my daughter. Yesterday it was poetry, ED and Lucie Brock Broide. The Writer’s Studio poets reviewing poems, reading  round robin in my small office. The one with the wicker furniture. O’Keefe, Bonnard, and an original by D. Short on the walls. We always have good pastries from The Corner Bakery, grapes and apples. Coffee from Janet’s.  The day before yesterday, client consultations via phone. And of course, my on-going work with the Writing Seminars which presently is consumed with reunion planning and social media. And this week, six poems taken for publication, a record for one week. And work on the manuscript of poems, revising ordering, the collected and uncollected. And my haiku practice matching my husband’s stunning photography. The new printer arrived in the rain. It’s still sitting on the floor of my study. And everyday the dog and I venture to the field to play ball. I’m still working on Come when he’s distracted. I didn’t get to see my grandchildren’s halloween costumes (via FaceTime) and that sent me into two days of not despair but certainly disappointment which translates into moping around the house feeling the immense 3,000 miles between us all. I too have a place for everything but am constantly forgetting where I put things, like the links for my new watch. This morning at breakfast my husband made fun at my exuberance expressed when finally arriving at the bed to sleep for the night. Oh, how I love my bed and the way it pulls me in and then holds me through the night. Yes, I’m exhausted, but not bone weary of years ago. Dare I say a good exhaustion? This morning he said, ” You need to go to the Monastery. Let me know when you mark off four days. I’ll make the arrangement.” Yes, I need silence. I need to be still. I need to listen to the leaves falling shortly before winter. I need to limit distractions. I need to walk down that long farm road and watch for eagles by the river. I need to sit by a window with the book I am presently reading and read, nap, read. In the sunlight. By the lamplight. I need to not be afraid of disturbing anyone. I remind myself that these are indeed first world problems. The temperature dropped last night. I’m ready for winter, hibernation. A hot fire. Gingerbread. Brunswick Stew and my brother Tim’s, oysters. I’m hoping the wind dies down on the creek this afternoon. Dark clouds are rolling in and the sun shines and then does not. The church bells ring, announcing the conclusion of the first service.