Category: nonfiction

Part I: Tales of a Surprising Knee Surgery (Back from Another Brink)

Never did I think this would come to pass, me being a hearty hiker and not so terribly old: now an owner of a fantastic titanium knee. What a marvel! It may nudge me to minor super woman status, even if only in my own mind.

On second thought, not yet. Not even close. I know of many who’ve had knee replacement surgery and after a couple of months are pleased with the result. They get out and about and insist pain is minimal and they look forward to doing more than ever before. I am in awe of such unbridled optimism and growing ese.

But my story is not that story. My story has been harrowing at worst, mildly encouraging at best. A doorway that has led me into territory disturbing and amazing and not fully comprehended. I still am not sure who I was the last couple of months; it was as if I took leave of myself entirely some days. And I am putting myslef back together, still uncertain who this woman is becoming now.

I couldn’t write of it before. There were no concise words, and no will to consider it closely and put it into a structured viewpoint that made sense. It is still a complicated experience that demands new skills and not always appreciated actions of me. Recently there has been a gradual easing of difficulties. It isn’t at all over, but I feel stronger, and am able to clear mind and spirit enough for a pale brightness seep through the veils of darkness, more often than not. And writing enables me to define the path traversed since late January. It assuages a little of the grief and pain as I move through an arduous recovery.

I’m sure there are those who have had worse outcomes of knee replacement surgey. But this has been enough. To even breathe more normally again–literally, symbolically–is a fine gift. And there have been others presented recently.

It has been almost two months since I was thrust from the ordinary world intp another iteration of my life. The commonplace dawn of one early morning when I entered an outpatient surgical center gave way to a miasma of deeply foreign felings and states, then sent me through maze-like passages I had feared but hoped to never know. I am still making my way.

All this for a total knee replacement for a worn out, cranky and unstable right knee. It’s more common that I knew, especially for older persons or driven athletes or those who’ve endured accidents. Many people have confidence in their surgeons, then heal well and move on. But I wasn’t sure til the last moment I even wanted to do this. I asked myself: Why am I doing this? I don’t even want to do it. My body felt so resistant as I took daily walks, as usual, though my right knee sparked with pain off and on. Then I talked myself into it. I determined I need to enjoy many more years of outdoor adventures. As in: until truly decrepit. There has been quite a need for a stronger, more functional knee joint– that, or risk more injury and weakening. I would get it finished, be on beautiful trails by spring.

It usually is worth it for recipients of this elective but major surgery. I tamped down the fear, uncertainty. Yet how would I fare with relentless pain I’d been warned about, and some new medicines? I am known by my doctors as one who has side effects few people get, some bad enough to make me seriously ill. And I don’t do well with opioids for pain control. Plus, I am in recovery, as well.

It was to be a partial knee replacement, that was the good news, so it would be easier to heal. Surprise number one: there was much more damage to cartilage and bone than first assessed, so it became a full one as the surgical team, including a robot, poked around. This was the first thing I heard when coming out of anesthesia. I thought I had misheard the nurse but my husband, Marc, stated it was a fact, both of us stunned.

Above and below my knee are the blurred star-shaped scars left by robotic-assist with surgery. They’re still burgundy red. They carry a smudge of memory as if holding onto the violent action I blissfully missed while afloat far below normal consciousness. The knee scar itself is remarkably better that when first viewed, when the skin was heavily bunched then stapled closed under a very long bandage. Just as if a Frankenstein experiment took place and this was the evidence to be reckoned with from now on. But skin tends to heal fairly quickly. The hard ridge running over my kneecap–is it mine, still, really?–has flattened and faded already. The scar will fade but remain. Vanity is irrelevant; it is what it is.

That early morning it was as if I was yanked from the known world and set spinning away to a place I could not longer navigate. When I surfaced, the air I breathed was shaped by a rough breathlessness, my being and flesh so raw it was shocking. I was imbued with a sensation of earth having tried to pry me from gravity, that I was just hanging on at a distant blue curvature. I was not of myself, nor in myself, not fully within or outside flesh and spirit. Yet I knew my life would never be the same. I felt it hover, sink, gasp, many voices meaningless, the light too harsh, my head spinning with vertigo that would settle in for days, even with medication.

In those first hours as medical staff monitored and aided me, then helped me move from one space to another as was necessary, I just fell into their arms and expertise. My heart went into A-fib, an arrythmia that can become deadly but this time it was not. The nausea and blurriness was central to all. I thought: it is worse than I feared. I vaguely wondered: perhaps death will come, perhaps I will be free of this, but the children will be hurt irrevocably, so must live. Searing pain demanded release as anesthesia wore off despite a spinal and a knee nerve block. But how to banish it? No, it was settling in right in tissue-deep, bone-deep, mind-deep.

I cannot take most pain medicines due to side effects (as I would discover again fully, soon). Not even ibuprophen which my cardiologist forbids. I was lifted up and moved by my armpits, tried to walk to use the bathhoom and demonstrate I was awake and able to take steps. It seemed mad that I’d nbe commanded to get up andstep onto those legs beneath me despite the havoc wrought on my right limb only a couple hours earlier. I did not do well. I was kept there as late as possible at the outpatient surgical center, folded into the car seat.

So as darkness descended, home I went. The post-surgery experience was in earnest, and would become protracted. Unexpected. Despite understanding it was major surgery, the result was nowhere near what had been explained to me.

Then, on the ride home, my husband Marc was so distressed and worried that I had to remind him how to get there, pointing, babbling directions. And I heard my son’s voice in my mind the last time I saw him: Is this the right option for you, Mama? I’d looked at him closely. He felt it, too, the intense reluctance, his own intuition flaring. I said, “I’ll get through it.” But we both somehow knew that something very hard was soon to come.

How could I know for sure that there would be relentless nausea for the first few days and then the gastrointestinal impact of round the clock use for several days of opioid medication (causes constipation). I’d insisted on taking a milder one, tramadol rather than than oxycodone than most patients use. It eased pain just a bit but ultimately left my in great misery until resolved–real life stuff here– with emergency intervention of marathon laxative ingestion. That period the first week, still unable to walk much, was its own sort of hell. I lost 6 pounds in 10 days as I could barely eat even soft foods. I weakened, and using a necessary walker was arduous. How could I know that many events a surgeon hopes will not happen to a patient were still ahead for me? GI troubles were in the end the least of it.

We each have a visceral knowing that brings a strong sense of things. I ignored mine, which tends to lead to unhappiness. I was swept along on a medically informed trajectory that told me: this will lead to a good difference. I needed to surrender and believe it was best so I did. Like a car that is broken down enters a repair shop so it can be made anew–I had to do it. Ten more years to climb the rainforest heights and descend its root-bound paths with security and vitality–this was all I longed to happen.

I had prayed for clarity. I prayed for success of the surgeon and his team and my knee’s willingness to be remade. Body of blood and light, hold me up and carry me on. Mind, heart and spirit, surrender to big change, to even pain, to a healing process that is largely unknown.

One major insight discovered was that post-operative suffering can reach limits not imagined or understood. It can rob your sense of self, alter your perspective of many aspects of life, demand mammoth effort at a big price. It can slash hope and drive a person to anguish that cannot even be voiced. It can wake you up in the night and force you to look at yourself and what you see may be disturbing, even foreign. For powerlessness is frightening. Unless one can give up a bare semblance of control to God and whoever else can help in the smallest ways. And I can tell you my husband was there as never before, attending to me without ceasing, missing work for three weeks, coming to my side when I felt I could not bear another moment. (This sort of dependence on him, which I’d rarely if ever had to experience, strips bare and alters a relationship. More on that later.) I wanted to be braver. But there are moments that bravery is a sham. You simply hang on.

It was just a routine, major surgery. A needed bridge to a reasonably strong and secure stride back into the world–and forests, beaches, wetlands and meadows and mountains. To greater joy in movement. Does this story have a good outcome? Each hurdle has presented itself and has had to be faced. I began to believe I could not only stay alive but find ways to retrieve my own self for the cave of despair and become more whole. It was a goal that wasn’t always clear. But as long as I get through each day, it has been possible to imagine.

Because I have not been truly alone with all this: family, friends and God’s constancy have carried me, do carry me still, as ever. It’s not the first time I have had to call on others for great aid. Trauma has been no stranger to me and it leaves its imprint even as healing occurs. But this is a quite different physical event than I’ve known before. Who seeks out a physically invasive procedure that can help, yes– yet has great risks? Sometimes there seems to be no other decent choice.

Have you, dear readers, ever had a knee replacement, or other joint surgery? Was it successful or are you still struggling? Then you know it is harder than you could anticipate. And if there are surprises that take you to your knees, it is something you cannot even respond to rationally at first. I think of you as I write this. My heart opens to your suffering, wants to make things better for you even if only by saying I care. And utilizing honest words to share my own perspective as I experience this long recovery. None of it is meant to discourage others form getting knee replacements. It is only my offering up of where I’ve been, what I’ve thought over these weeks.

Stay with me and I will share how it has come to be that I can finally begin to walk, if inelegantly, the knee usually resisting, though sometimes agreeing it is time to get much better. Still, accompanied by deep aches and shooting pains of ongoing nerve regeneration. I have a long way to go. But I am making peace with this experience and even expect better times at some point; a hike in seaside forests or the Columbia Gorge; a power walk along our many beautiful rivers; normal playtimes with my twin granddaughters; laughter and love shared with family and friends without wincing or excusing myself for a long rest or quick release of private tears.

I see the daffodils, cherry blossoms, forsythia and more opening to the warmth and grace of spring’s early sunshine. My swollen knee will get better than this. Will it not? I will turn my face upward, too, and hope that my best may come forth.

Saturday’s Musings: One Year to the Next

12/22/22

The wind is showing off it’s strange power again, slinging ice and tiny snowflakes, singing the trees, shaking and pressing whatever it can. The windows creak, perhaps even bend. I am listening, thinking of different snowstorms in my life…the glittering white stoles hugging earth and houses, so bright upon my shoulders as my wood and metal sled carves grooves behind me. Explorer and dreamer…hearty and tender: children learn much by crossing paths with winds-but winter wind! That brittle cold smarting faces, eyes streaming from the sting of it, and happiness shimmying through the blood. I am a wintered child who fell in love with all the seasons. But even now as I listen to the tossing of maples and oaks and impossibly tall pines, and the night lengthens in a landscape glazed with treachery of ice—even tonight, winter’s spirit lingers within me like a dear old friend sipping cocoa and telling stories, her eyes glistening, her hair a crown of icicles.

I imagine if I saw my reflection in a still river, an iced river, there’d be snow flowers around my face, my eyes a wintered blue, my lips red as holly berries, my cheeks creased with age and happiness.

12/25/22

The sleet and snow slip away, leaving tuneful riverlets of water. And all the care, time, hopes and decor so merry soon merge, but then become an unexpected experience. One daughter cancels flights due to the spector of illness; my son fulfills lengthy last minute obligations. Another daughter is split between too-tender memories seeded in loss, a tradition shared with the lost one…and us parents who wait with a holding-close and many gifts. My sister arrives, then waits with her shaggy dog on her broad lap. She cannot easily– for long– suss out the meaning of Russian teacakes and fancy chocolates, of jubilant carols and a dressy tree winking in waning day’s gloom. Does she wait for the ghost of her partner or for one more explanation of why we are here? Both, both. I lean into her, tossle her white waves. We sing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” Every word is remembered in her soft alto.

But there comes the youngest daughter hauling bags of goodies and family through the colder dusk. We plunge into laughter, eat too many Christmas tacos, and the little twins’ exclamations and giggles rustle the air like spangles of light tossed high. They are electric energy given flesh and soul. Love can be a net of sweet burning stars like this. Love, too, the rippling echoes between our words. And Love is Christ born with nothing but Light, helpless and bawling in a manger next to the cows and sheep, with hardship and power awaiting him. Such creatures and Divinity meeting up…I have not fogotten.

But my family looks small around the oak table this year. Longing stirs a depth with few limits… for a moment. How can I seek more when abundance is so great? I take hands closest to me and squeeze lightly. And return squeezes pulse through the circle. I am inexplicably gifted with this. Too many are not.

And then there are none inhabiting the day but the two of us, husband, such an old friend, and me.

The house draws into itself; a multitude of candles flicker yellow and bright, cast dancing halos onto the table, walls. They soften the over-full mind and rich air. A heater that masquerades as woodstove emits more warmth as I watch through windows. Gathering night is opaque until a distant glimmer spreads, coloring a distance beyond the mountains. The bird seed on our balcony overlooking more pines has been pecked and eaten.Where do the hummingbirds go as arctic wind sweeps the tree branches? They will return in the morning, hungry, knowing they’ll be fed.

Nothing nurtures more wholeness than simply living a life– in a constancy of faith, in expectancy of more affection given and received, in small amazements, a wonder that circulates in breath and blood. I am a being known and cared for; I was given a name that someone calls out even if I am not listening well. I have to do nothing important, only stay true to what resonates within me, practice kindess and courage. Keep on.

12/31/22

And so it is the eve of an impending new year. I imagine it’s causing a hullabaloo in far-flung locations even now. Here? A cooling mocha in hand, anticipation of leftover linguini piccata, the oddness and satisfaction of words welcomed and released, a design across blankness. A practice of intention made more meaningful.

Yes, of course, the calendar flips soon. Yet the art of leaving anything or anyone is not so hard, anymore. I remember years of intense farewells, savoring each goodbye to the previous year–relationships and projects, places and accomplishments, false starts, worn out or satiated desires, and wounds too stubborn–but it’s like gazing backward down a too-long hallway. There I went, offering roses and asking forgiveness as if it mattered so much. Was I so impressed with my life that I had to mourn and memorialize a year’s transition? As if it was a mighty ship disappearing while passing an incoming vessel that brought—well, what? One never knew. That was the tricky thing, no matter my resolve to do this or that. That part is not different than happened before: life, the great surprise as it reveals itself. Before then, we can only imagine.

I find it easier as I get older to let go of the year that is fleeing. All the sore spots and balms of pleasure; the people well or poorly loved; the dramas and inconsequential hours, and goals that ended in a heap. Why cover events again? It takes too much and means so little, in the end.

I’d rather consider traversing interior and exterior landscapes. Variations of light and shadow play tag in my mind. The moss and ferns and rocks and waters. And moving among birds: Coopers hawks sskin-tingling calls, waiting for the eagle pair to hunt. The hummers that have hovered long and steady right before my eyes, one of which greets me daily. The secret lives of so many bugs. The slinky worms and shy butterflies. You know–this prowess of nature right beyond the door.

Three new friends were discovered this year!– just as we each needed. As I had longed for during the loneliest bits. Now, coffee and croissants; river walks; book and music and a spattering of health talk. Sharing as if we knew each other longer, better. The plain wisdom of trust. We jump in because it feels worth it.

The, too, helping create countless pictures with glue, glitter and sparkly pipe cleaners and markers: the genius of two 3 and 1/2 year olds’ ingenuity, what a joy. The relief of their lack of self-judgment or of others. They are at one with their feelings, and I marvel at it. My legs have been tugged and ringed with hugs as I cannot now get down on my knees–until one is fixed.

There have been stunning heartbreaks that have changed my very thoughts and actions; I pray them back to God. The wild and curated beauty have pulled me into sudden revelations, warmed my soul until all was bright once more. Human healing never quite ends whether body or spirit. And how fortunate that is so–we are made to utilize restorative processes, some unconscious.

But wait, I am beginning to fall prey to taking stock when I would rather move on. So this is a simple goodbye to this year as it slips into another, per the calendar. And it’s anybody’s guess what it will bring.

This year’s map for me is a schemata in pencil: there are notable events in January, particularly, but I can erase and alter to an extent. Right now it points to The Knee Surgery to fix a three-times-torn meniscus plus surprising if moderate arthritic wear and tear. And the work toward recovery, then hearty pain-free walking and hiking, once again–at last. I keep telling myself that so much cannot hinge on a right knee repair, yet it does. I am a restless person. Moving at will is central to many delights and fulfillment. I have not given up the hope of more ice skating, even a lazy circle around a rink. Of climbing a gnarly path a good seven to ten miles, wherever I choose to go. An enthusiatic wiggle and pivot and shuffle with snappy fingers to rhythmic music. Surrendering to this circumstance has been a struggle over the last twelve months. It is surprising how one’s deeper personal power can be accessed with less ranting and thrashing about.

The wind spirit is almost quiet tonight, as if letting the rest of nature recover. The chilling winter rains have swollen our rivers so that a few slip over impotent banks. Sodden earth has unhinged many trees, branches strewn artlessly. I am so tied to rains here that, even when it falls, I listen to it on an “app”–which states that rainstorms recorded at Stonehenge. Well, whatever it is, such downpours soothe me as I sink and rise in dreams.

This is not the winter of my greater dreams, nor of my childhood. It is the winter of this moment. I do reside within it like a welcome visitor. I smooth a worn, woolen gold-woven throw over my lap and sip the sweet and slightly bitter mocha. Let the world celebrate tonight if it can. I no longer feel an urge to dance madly in the streets; that already happened a few times– it may happen again. But tonight I will be listening to Villa-Lobos’ “Bachianas Brasileiras No. 5”. It is gorgeous, enigmatic, goes right to the heart. Then a few pages of a new murder mystery set in Tuscany. Another inconsequential episode of daily life, a good night–no matter which year it is. After all, much of what we see is what we are looking for, isn’t it? I am searching for more goodness and illumination.

I send to all my good wishes for a more peaceful New Year. May your worries be far less than your wonderment.

Cynthia

Monday’s Meander on Tuesday: Stunning Red Rock State Park (Plus, My Surprise)

As you can see, I am leading with a blurry but happy photo of me taken when visiting Red Rock State Park, the last part of our trip to Central Oregon. Not because I think the picture is special. Rather, because my admitted self-image does not currently match up with X-rays and MRIs. I must have thought I could bypass various aspects of this qging body; I might have had rose colored glasses on too often.

Sitting on the fence that day three weeks ago, I didn’t feel like someone with a major knee issue. I was a little tired and very thirsty–that sun was nearly scorching my skin. But I wasn’t fending off bothersome pain after a nice walkabout. Those who’ve read my blog are aware I had a medial tear of a meniscus (right knee) in January and have been working with that ever since. To little avail, though a cortisone shot diminished the worst pain after two months’ physical therapy. Which I had to quit as it was the wrong thing to pursue, it turns out. I managed increasingly better after the injection (but it made my face and neck beet red and was itchy several days). I have from the start kept up with daily walks if possible –but after that they were faster and farther and even on hilly terrain with just a tad lingering soreness.

I know this sort of injury is common for lots of active people and so wasn’t that concerned; I had another tear 4 years ago and it healed up. But then came further consults with orthopedic surgeons about that jagged tear. I had the second one yesterday. The first doctor did not inform enough or clarify a timeline for a plan so I sought another’s opinion. I learned I have some degenerative arthritis on part of the knee in addition to a difficult-to-fix tear at the root of the injured meniscus. Bottom line is I will– this year, likely– need a partial knee replacement. I so appreciate the second surgeon being clear and frank about things. And we will talk again in awhile unless things go south faster than hoped.

But–what? Hang on a minute– I didn’t even know I had any, much less significant, arthritis! Sure, a crunch here and there, sometimes a sudden pain. But nothing impossible. I push to override discomfort, anyway, then go my merry way, whether that’s good or not. So this was a shocking reveal. (I still don’t know what will happen with the irregular tear–that procedure didn’t sound so nice/simple. Partial knee replacement with that repair may occur at same time.)

Ok, maybe a little discomfort in the semi-lame knee….enough walking for one day. (And where’s the iced tea? Just snap the pic, will ya?)

I can’t quite sort out or elucidate feelings about it; this isn’t a creative nonfiction piece, and I have to sit with the information awhile. I ponder this: I felt strong and well before this last injury. I have dealt with pain alright, overall, tried to take care of myself and looked forward to an effective treatment plan. Well, reality is what it is. And any fix that will help me stay active outdoors and for longer is the better news. I am grateful for what all I do not have and am counting on more healing, in time.

On to the good stuff: Smith Rock State Park, which spreads out at 3200 feet above sea level. (We met our granddaughter and friend and also her mother there for a last visit.) It is renowned for sport rock climbing of all sorts and levels. Made of volcanic rock–basalt and tuff– the peaks are intriguing colors and shapes. Hard to imagine the upheaval and profound alterations that occurred with the eruption(s).

I regret I wasn’t able to descend into Crooked River valley to hike those miles of trails, nor climb among rocky abuttments this time. You can spot in the distance a few rock climbers and hikers. Paths wind all about below, which I plan to revisit–it’s an exhilarating hike!

The trail you see above travels up and then down and around the river’s length. I am zoomed in here. The shot below gives more perspective on the descent, as well as height of pinnacles. If you look closely, you can see one person walking at far left on the trail by the river; there are a few others barely visible on far right end of trail that are mere specks.

Below, there is a rock climber inside a crevasse farther at right side of the rocks. Look for a white shirt half in shadow. Hard to spot–I did have a telephoto lens–in the car!…

Fanily insert shows Granddaughter Avery, Marc and me; Avery and her friend on an upper trail; people at right looking down toward river valley, left of shot.

I love the textures, shapes, colors of the high desert. And the sweet-sharp fragrances everywhere.

The afternoon began to melt away in the heat and beauty. We had four hours to drive. After saying a fond farewell to our Avery we started back home. Here are a few parting shots from along the road.

We passed through Warm Springs Reservation on the way to the Cascades. Whenever I do, I think of the clients I counselled while working in addictions/mental health treatment. I was once employed by a Native American organization and it was an experience that changed me, meeting people from multiple tribes, witnessing the palpable suffering and learning about their survival; learning a few of many traditions, hearing their music, and feeling their great desire for wholeness. I still have some beadwork sliped into my hands by some women clients who completed treatment succesfully. I was given a beautiful painting by a well known Native artist…but couselors shoould not take such gifts. The director decided to keep it since I wasn’t American Indian, anyway– and it was valuable. That hurt a bit, but I wonder how the male artist fared once back home.

This rugged land–and all the rest– was once theirs. The lossses were and are grave; the Native peoples are traumatized and it carries forward generationally. I ponder it even now–our country too often seems to not consider the impact of all this. And we cannot forget.

This trip–about which I have posted for four weeks– was only three days but stuffed with interesting experiences and fun hours. Marc and I will be getting away more this summer. Actually, we are off to the beach on Sun. so I won’t be posting next “Monday’s Meander.” But the following week: some choice Pacific Ocean stories and shots!

Mondays’ Meander: En Route to High Desert Country

We started south from Portland but in a short while turned off I-5 toward the Santiam Pass in the Cascade Range. We were embarking on a three day weekend trip in Central Oregon. I was looking forward to the drive toward the 4,817 ft. high pass situated betwween volcanic peaks of Three-Fingered Jack and Mount Washington.

The weather was cloudy and roads were fine, with a spatter of rain now and then, and plenty of white snowy banks and forest floors at highest elevations. But soon we had to pass through countless charred remains of coniferous trees and through Detroit, a tourist town of 231 which sits alongside Detroit lake and Detroit Lake State Park. The infamous Santiam Fire in August 2020 began as three separate fires due to lightning strikes, merging into one horrific fire spurred on by 50 mph winds. It finally burned 402, 274 acres. We recall it well; it spread to four counties including a part of ours. Under fire watch for weeks, we remained indoors for ten days due to gathering thick smoke and gusts of high winds; bags were readied for an evacuation order. We didn’t get one, but thousands of others did. It was an unprecendented monster fire as it began to creep closer to Portland. I already had a healthy fear of fire; I tend to be very careful even when using candles. The smoke lingered for a very long while; there were many fires trhoughout Oregon that summer and fall.

And this was our first time in this particularly damaged Cascades Range area since then. And as we drove closer to the areas impacted, I had a window partically down–I could still smell the entrenched odor of old burned wood.

As we climbed, we began to see the black tree trunks and stumps. It was unnerving to drive from lushly green Willamette Valley into fire-eaten landscape.

Above, a view taken by Detroit lake which does show some greening of the forests; the darker and somewhat sparse areas of the mountains are not the worst damage, it seemd, but it was still apparent. Marc captured subdued feelings as I scanned blackened parts of trees beyond the camera, as I tried to imagine what it was like for residents to scramble for their lives amid an inferno…Any charred remains looked worse with each mile travelled. Five people died in the wide ranging fire. And all homes in Detroit were destroyed.

We continued into and past Detroit, gazed quietly at remnants of fire’s path–as well as hopeful rebuilding of homes and mercifully greener spots. Forest habitats heal and even can flourish, finally.

(Apologies for some poorer shots–I was shooting from a moving car mostly during this part.)

Below, a part of Detroit Lake with a view of Black Butte, left.

We began to reach the summit and then to descend.

Before long, we were entering the rain shadow side of the mountains–and into Sisters, OR.

Well-known for its touristy Western-themed atmosphere and shops, there are many reasons to visit, including hiking, fishing, horseback riding (lots of ranches in this area), mountain biking, skiing–as well as enjoying the Sisters Rodeo, a Quilt Show and the Sisters Folk Fesitival. Here are a few shots taken as we drove, then walked a little downtown. But it was very windy and cold and we wanted to get to Bend by late afternoon.

Then we were off and into sprawling high desert, a whole other experience and one of my favorite kinds– despite being a rainforest sort of gal…For one thing, the different types and fragrances of plants and the rocky, dry earth are fascinating, really lovely. And sunlight shines hotter; my skin’s rosiness after three days attests to it. And everywhere around the flatter landscape–easily seen mountains!

A sculptural group of wild horses.

It was just the start of a fun and relaxing trip. See you soon for upcoming posts–I have many more pictures from this Central Oregon trip! Next up: the bustling small city of attractive Bend and more of the surrounding environs.

Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: Library Week! The Countless Words To Guide Us

Photo by Rafael Cosquiere on Pexels.com

To imagine a world without books is impossibly hard. As I look around my home I can see I never intend to do so. I haven’t once bothered–or dared–to count them. I have sorted, passed on and re-sold physical books numerous times, have bought new volumes (and read a few online). I often buy books for gifts and rarely turn down a good freebie in a streetside Little Free Library or languishing in a cardboard box by trash receptacles. It’s not that I will read anything at all…we do have our preferences…but, then again, if there was nothing at hand but an ancient census report, I would gladly read that. And read it again. I am definitely one of those who reads fine print on packaging, randomly peruses dictionaries and reads every sign that catches my fancy on a road trip. So one might conclude it is the basic act of noting letters, then reading them that “rings my bell”. Perhaps that’s partly true–it lights up that language portion of human brain instantly–but only a small part of the story.

I like to learn about almost anything. To be gathered into another’s life or informed of another culture or to ride the wave of an epic tale. I like to find the path in storyland and follow it with mind and arms open, whether fact or fiction. Books, books, books. They are friends and teachers, distractors and challengers, quiet partners in my life.

And I write of this as it is National Library Week in the USA; School Librarian Day was April 4th. And April 16 is National Librarian Day. A time to consider how fortunate we are to have books at our fingertips–or not far away. Library books are a blessing shared by the community with ever changing and diverse residents. Hopefully, this week even more people, young and older, will take advantage of it.

I have much to consider when I consider how books have helped shape and even transform my life. Nancy Drew and Cherry Ames, R.N. kept me up late with my flashlight as a 9 year old. I devoured books for fun, but I was also reading because I also was writing my own stories and plays and poems by then…I was learning by osmosis, perhaps. But later I read a variety of works by poets Denise Levertov, ee cummings, Theodore Roethke, William Wordsworth and Kahlil Gibran– as well as wide ranging writers as Hermann Hesse, Dag Hammarskjold, or Pearl Buck and John Steinbeck, for a few examples. They each strongly impacted me both as a young writer and spiritual seeeker. Books and their libraries were good escapes, yet also a deeper balm for the troubled youth I was. Reading provided me with greater perspective and stimulated more hope. More than a few times, what I sought and discovered helped me keep my head above water. They still can have the same power for children and youth.

I read as a hungry creature grazes in a field of delectable offerings, often and with excitement. I most often read not what any class reading lists recommended… and have not ever been in a book club. But I’ve made it a weekly, even daily, habit to study multiple book reviews or simply wandered through libraries and bookstores, on the lookout for the next fitting volume.

Recommendations, anyone? Let’s talk it over–I’d give it good thought. I do enjoy swapping personal preferences, such as with my neighbor today.

Public and school libraries have been particularly important because they require only a library card and my time and respect. They are ubiquitous in this country–and free! I like them so much that when we travel, Marc and I often seek out local libraries. And any ole bokstore, of course. To see what there is on offer, to experience the electric yet cocooning, amiable energy the presence of books in hands perpetuates. I’ve visited tiny, dusty libraries that have perhaps not purchased new books for years yet offer many gems. And light-dappled, multi-storied, shiny buildings I could move into with sleeping bag to spend a year or more. (The stalled novel I wrote features a country library in several scenes, so that tells me something.)

In elementary school I anticipated library hour as much or more than most other things in the school week. I lingered as long as feasible, content with browsing then slipping a book from its cozy place within the company of like-minded books. The librarians–rarely stern ones, the mythical library policers of the stacks– were eager to help aid me. And they seemed to know everything, or could find out in a flash. Best yet, I was often pointed toward resources to find out my own answers. Patient and appreciative of young, inquisitive minds, librarians were congenial and supportive watchers over children as we strove to enlargen our minds, stoke imaginations. On the way home, I hugged my “find” close, eager to get reading if only between other activites until bedtime. –It is this way even now.

I grew up in a city that was fortunate to have wonderful arts, sciences and other educational facilities. Our public library was one designed by Alden B. Dow, a protege of Frank Loyd Wright. It opened in 1955 and was contemporary by common standards, with its angularity and stark elegance and turquoise trim (or perhaps a wide flashing) right below the roof edge. It had floor to ceiling windows that overlooked lush landscaping. It had a big study space that was open to a second floor mezzanine with more rooms: more books. The smells and colors and shapes… I was transported being there.

As a kid, I made myself comfortable in the children’s ample room with a pile at my feet. Later on, I sat huddled over books read for academic needs or pleasure, soaking up the hush of a place that harbored readers and those who researched. The wooden drawers of card catalogs held more than I could begin to think of; I took my time thumbing through them, as one thing led to another. Among the aisles between tall shelving I found nonfiction sections as fascinating as fiction or poetry sections. How could there be that much to investigate? Awe, perplexity, and pleasure flooded my being.

It was a pleasure to enter the high-ceilinged two-story building and so difficult to leave. Time evaprotated. A visit might also be a ruse for meeting friends (or a boyfriend), during which we’d surround oursleves with tomes then whisper intently back and forth or write furious notes. But more often visiting the library meant a treasure trove to delve into, plus a pause from life’s ordeals and uncertainties. I felt at home in the grand but often undefined scheme of things more than in most places. The library: sanctuary, a repository of wide-ranging wisdom, a safe place for bookish entertainment, a haven for those who thirsted after curious places and peoples which lay beyond those sturdy walls.

Of course, there were magazines as well, and music, then movies and over the years surprising things (we can check out all sorts of odd and useful items at our present library). Most of which I don’t utilize, I’m afraid. My priority has remained simple book hunting.

The greatest feature: all the public is welcome. Everyone can be sparked by the thrill of learning, nourished by engaging or challenging tales. Or a quiet nook with a comfy chair within which one may doze, reading material in hand. The word library means simply a collection of books or bookshop; in Old English etymology it is a “book hoard.” Makes sense to me.

One view of part of my childhood’s Grace A. Dow Memorial Library, Midland, MI-–in this shot, magazines take front and center, as does the view. Ahhh…

When Covid-19 roared into our lives and many public places became inacessible, I turned to online offerings of local libraries (and virtual bookstores). Though I greatly missed prowling the stacks of our smaller city branch, I was glad to browse and put “on hold” many titles to later pick up. In fact, I chose more books than I might have otherwise; it became a meditative experience to search and find. I read a wider variety as there was more time than ever. (I also read more and differently to further inspire my own writing; the more I read the more I always learn.) But I also enjoyed lining up with other people to get the choices in hand. We began to converse as we waited for the librarian to bring out our orders to an outdoor shelving unit. It was a pleasant ritual in otherwise worrisome months… then more months.

When our actual library doors opened again, only 5 people were allowed in fifteen minutes at a time. But what surprising happiness! I could see it in everyone as they browsed and fingered books and other items: a sense of contented relief, just for a brief spell. I am certain that those who visited libraries online or in person have felt that this has been a favored event. Perhaps it was even a lifesaver, emotionally. When all else was fraught with fear or loneliness, health issues–that loss of bearings in society at large–we could still, thank goodness, generously welcome books into our ives.

I recall once during that time that I searched for a certain novel, reportedly available, within my fifteen minutes. To no avail. So I asked a librarian if she knew the author and if the book was misplaced. She did; the author was a respected, long deceased one not often checked out, anymore. She searched further. Failing to locate the one I wanted, she announced she’d purchase the book–and two more by that author–so that I and others could have access to his work. This was said with a triumphant smile. I was flabberghasted. She was, as she noted, “here to support our patrons and provide great materials whenever I can.” And she did, and she always has done so.

So, here is to libraries and librarians. Here’s to the hours of work put in for us (work we often do not see or think about), and to their patient, knowledgeable and kindly assistance. The countless books and other materials kept track of and then offed to us have given me, for one, more freedom to roam far reaches of mind, heart and soul, to critically consider diverse notions and gather quite useful information. Books give good medicine as well as good direction more often than not.

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