Birds, Glorious Birds!

The diversity of birds that have graced our outdoor space just seems vaster this year: an oriole; a rose breasted grosbeak (who we even got to see take a bath!); cardinals so brilliant and robins galore; sparrows and nuthatches and birds that we don't know the names of yet (one of which did a mating dance right before our eyes!)

The other night while lying in bed I had this delightful thought that maybe the birds were being drawn to the yard by my hair.  I know.  I don't have any, but we did put remnants of my hair in our three braided birdhouses tied to our Japanese Maple a month or two ago ("we" meaning Matt here.)  Karen, who cut my hair, saved some just for this purpose.  As she was sweeping it up off of her wooden floor on a late October afternoon she thought, "oh, well the birds just might love this stuff for their nests!"  So she gifted my hair back to me and when some space cleared in our bodies and minds and hearts, we remembered.  And we acted.  

Now, I surely do not know if there are actually more birds in the yard or, if indeed there are, if it is because they were drawn to fragments of my past hair, but I don't think it really matters.  What does matter is that my eyes feel more wide open and my heart more curious.  And perhaps it is the soul of me that is utterly delighted to sense and consider that the birds flew in for my hair.  

What kind of dance will it be?

I wrote this poem as I prepared to have my hair cut and shaved in, when was it?, October?  Oddly, after all was said and done at that point, this poem did not resonate with me.  Getting my haircut and shaved happened to be quite a peaceful and even fun experience.  My friend Karen did the cutting outside with mountain views all around us and the shaving inside while we listened to beautiful music.  She even served me healthy snacks!  

But I have been thinking of this poem more recently.  As I enter back into health (did I ever leave "health?"  Another blog altogether), not having hair feels more troublesome than when I first had it cut.  My reflection in the mirror does not reflect with how I feel inside.  Goodness me, am I learning patience.  

Now I know that there is no answer to the question posed in the title; that the dance will be one thing one day, and another entirely the next.  The idea is: keep moving.  Move through the pain and the heartache; through the ease and the grace - the fierce and the gentle.  And dance when you can.  

What kind of dance will it be?

This morning

the leaves

fell from

the trees

with soft

grace; a

slow dance

with the

gentle rain

and mindful

wind and

I thought,

"may my hair fall from my head like the leaves are falling: with ease and grace."

This afternoon

the leaves

fall with

a fierceness;

a primal

dance with

the sideways

rain and

the forceful

wind and

I think,

"well, perhaps it will be more like that."

Ryan McLean Tobin

What grace.  I have become an aunt three times over in the past nine months.  The most recent birth happened about three weeks ago.  It was an arduous birth to say they least, but Kristy and Keith's strength and patience helped bring this new light into the world.

At the same time that Ryan emerged into the world, I happened to be at Kripalu having a kind of "re-birth" of my own.  I was in a class called Journey Dance and the Kripalu drummers where so on!  I stayed on the edges at the beginning of the class; like a high schooler at her fist dance.  But the music (and the amazing teacher, Toni) drew me in and there was no turning back.  When I found out the time of Ryan's birth (which was the same time that I was in this class), this poem was born from my top bunk at Kripalu.  

A Poem for Ryan McLean Tobin

Like the ancient

Beat of a 

Drum, you came

Into the world.

A gift for

Us all, you 

Brought with you

Pure innocence and 

Goodness that helps

Remind us of

The tenderness in

Each of our hearts.

And your birth

On this 25th

Day of March 

Guides us to,

In our core,

Remember our own

Precious birth and 

The sacredness of

Our presence here 

on this beating 

heart called home.

Hazel Grace

I had the great fortune to become an aunt again this past November.  Because of some life twists and turns, I just got to meet this sweet angel a couple of weeks ago and was it bliss!  I am honored to be your aunt, Hazel.  And here is your first poem.  

Hazel Grace

You are made

Of the same

Love that the

Stars are made

Of.  The same

Patience of the

Trees.  Your heart

Is a flame

That is already

Bringing a deep

And necessary light

To the world.

Your dreams will

Come and go

But the embers

Of goodness that 

Are your heart

Will never fade.

The Last Drip

I wrote this poem the day after my last infusion which was exactly two weeks ago.  I am called to post it for its honesty and presence and for all of the people...patients, friends, caregivers, nurses, doctors, volunteers who have spent time in this interesting place.  

The last drip

In that final

Clear drip from

The bag contained 

The entirety of

My experience in

This infusion room.

This ground that,

At times felt

Carnal and, at

Times felt full

Of life.  The

Man and his 

Son talking about 

Stocks and my 

Interpretation of these

Beings working so

Hard to find

Normalcy and common

Ground and this 

Same man, I 

Saw him a 

Number of times,

Deteriorating before my

Eyes and my

Own fear, "am

I too?  No, no

I am not

Sick."  The denial

Or perhaps the

Deepest truth or

Somehow both in

This room where

The nurses are

Sometimes nearly giddy 

As they walk

Briskly with large

Bags of chemicals

For humans; sometimes

Were they dancing?

I fell in 

Love with some

Of these nurses,

You know the

Kind of love

I mean perhaps.  

A closeness that

Seems to come 

From thin air

But that undoubtedly

Comes from the 

Core human longing 

For connection wherever

We find ourselves.

I remember looking 

Into the eyes 

Of one of 

These nurses as

She pumped medicine

Into my body-

A three minute journey-

And I saw 

That she was 

Also my dear 

Friend; that her

Eyes were the 

Eyes of everyone 

And, don't get 

Me wrong, Jimmy

Fallon helped me

Laugh and Natalie

Merchant brought me

Peace and inspiration 

And my dear

Matt sitting across 

From me, well, 

He gave me 

Perhaps the ultimate

Gift of stick-

With-it-ness

And the volunteers

In their bright 

Red coats floating

Through the crowded 

Recliners softly offering

Massages and Reiki

Never did I

Decline these opportunities

For human touch

And healing, doing 

My best to 

Open to their 

Love and tenderness

And the woman

And her daughter 

And the man

And his friend 

All there around 

Me.  All there 

In this the

Final sacred drip.  

Through the Feet

I was struggling with something called anticipitory nausea.  Its a thing.  Maybe you have had it.  This is how it rolled out for me: when a thought of the hospital; the infusion room; a smell would come into my mind I would get nauseous.  I knew it had gotten a little out of control when I was driving down a country road and a nurse (with whom I had had such lovely conversations and was so grateful for) came into my head and I thought I was going to vomit out my car window.

So I brought it to my therapist.  (side note: I don't usually give direct instructions, but here is one: never ever feel ashamed to seek out, visit, call a therapist.  For anything.  These people are rare gems.)  After some tears, she invited me to get in touch with the nausea in my body.  At first I resisted, but I knew I wanted to work with this feeling.  I was still in the middle of the forest after all and I wanted to be free of this added burden and, because I could see in technicolor the direct link between the mind and body with this one, I went for it.  So I got in touch.  It began in my belly.  Uppp, then it kind of moved around to my back.  Oh, there is my sacrum.  Feel it there.  She asked me to see if it had any quality or color to it.  All that I could come up with was that it felt like weakness.  Did it move?  It sure did.  Right up into my sternum and into my arms.  Weakness.  Fragility.  Yuck.

And then, and I can't even remember how we got to this, but I thought, "well, I think I can have it travel down my legs instead.  Down my legs and out my feet perhaps."

I could picture myself standing to help with the downward movement.  We both got excited about this and she affirmed that this seemed like a good direction because the legs are strong and have much more muscle to tolerate this kind of feeling.  And for me it felt like the feet were open to having this feeling move right through them and out into the receiving ground.  And the ground, as forgiving and generous and vast as it is, would hardly even notice.

So I left the office lighter and with the hope that comes with revived purpose of practice.  I started visualizing grounding yoga poses and consulted with some yoga friends.  Their language supported my practice which was more often in my mind than on an actual mat.  And, of course, I practiced when the thoughts came.  Thoughts are so sneaky; how you can be at the kitchen sink and although you are smelling lavender dish soap, the thought/smell of rubbing alcohol comes into your mind and BOOM!  But now it was an opportunity to practice.

Then the big day came when I actually had to practice right there at the hospital.  My mantra became: through the feet; through the feet.  I stood instead of sitting in the waiting rooms.  I repeated the mantra.  And I can't tell you that I didn't have any nausea bubble up, but I had the confidence that comes from some sense of control.  I knew that I could redirect the feeling if I needed to and it would pass more quickly.  And oh how grateful I felt for my dear legs and feet.  In some sense, I had become disconnected from these parts of my body through this; so much emphasis on healing my chest and arm.

Through this winding journey of discomfort, I began to link my body back together.

A Poem for You, Sweet Ellie

It is quite a miracle to become an aunt and I was blessed to become one again this week.  The birth of Elisabeth Gail Tobin and the great journey that her beloved parents went on to bring her into this world have inspired great love and, yes, poetry.

Here is your poem, sweet Ellie.  Your very own "Dear One."  I love your heart and soul; your toes and your nose.

Dear One,

Last night

I gazed

At the

Opening clouds

With awe

And I

Sensed your

Coming into

The world

And my

Whole being

Was abuzz

With delight

Oh, sweet

Child - what

A gift

You already

Are to

This world -

Your presence

Inspiring a

Deeper opening

For us

All.