Category: Personal essay

Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: Springtime Arias or Blues?

It is the time of year to be happy. When blossoms reveal their gorgeous hues and designs, offering their perfumes (and needed pollens if often human-irritants) to whomever passes by; when leafy trees and bushes are greenest, glowing in copious light; when the sky rids itself of the greyness of dense clouds and flaunts its blueness; when days seem longer, thus rife with possibilities. And the bird songs offered for listening ears–what pleasure lies there! All this signals potential fo extravagant ease and joy that was less available in wintered months. At least for those who enjoy warmer hikes, for one.

There is, as well, the springtime mating dance, full of theatrical displays enacted and repeated by countless creatures. The delightful new births that herald continuity and the hardiness of life. And courtships carried out by humans in various venues and ways, the glance to glance messages, an array of touches delicate and intense, and words that break barriers and open the heart’s gates, unlike other attempts made. Everyone and everything is making the most of the turn in weather, the radiance of more sunshine and scintillating skies.

In Oregon there is plenty to celebrate, not the least of which is a gradual cessation of near-constant, melodious, and sometimes onerous rains. There is the disappearance of colorless days and long shivery nights. One suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to vacate the comfort of an easy chair and seek out new (almost dry) forest trails and luxuriate on less windy ocean beaches where sunsets flash and glow, and rhythmic waves deposit new treasures. The very warming of air is a gift as one moves outdoors, hands lifted to a brilliance of sunshine (though our mole eyes squint at its strangeness). No wonder people used to consider the sun a god, that astounding powerhouse of the skies. No wonder spring brings out the glory of life and, thus, an inventive spirit, whch encourages fervor and industry that people are capable of feeling. We in the Northwest, after 5-6 months of moody rain, can again exhibit these and other spring-induced traits without restraint. (Such as overflowing all outdoor seating spaces for picnic areas at park, small cafes, fine retaurants, and communities of food trucks.)

There is good reason for more hope if the shadow of too little of it crept in during damaging ice or snow storms, making us wary of weather–even disbelieving of spring’s certifiable return.

And so, happiness, yes? It should and could be so, and usually is for most people. But for others, there lies a harder route to follow between the slowing of rainfall and sudden bloom of cherry blossoms, tulips regally dressed like princes and princesses, flocks of birds singing out and vying for attention, and the fluttering of butterflies still yet to come.

But sometimes people cannot face the beauty with open arms. Spring, I discovered as a clinician aiding those with anxiety, depression and addiction of all sorts, is often a time of turmoil and precariousness. What love? What certain hope? They came with empty hands and battered souls. Trials enervate all sorts of people, even those who may appear at ease in the world and reaping wordly success. And spring has a way of exacerbating feelings of loss, loneliness and exhaustion. Celebration is not what comes to mind to those who suffer.

Recently a friend shared that a family member is suicidal. She does all she can to help, to support. But not everyone can find the necessary will to go on, nor wants to be saved. The deepest desire is for that loved one to keep trying. To conjur enough hope amid the pull of depression. I can feel her pain, the intense fear and worry.

Death due to suicide is unimaginably sorrowful; I lost a nephew though not in spring. But I have noted before that a few family members passed away from other casues during this time of year. I acknowledge the sadness as this includes two of my siblings, both parents and a granddaughter. It’s a challenge to be thrilled to celebrate young twin granddaughters’ birthdays knowing our adult granddaughter died the same date. It still isn’t great to think of my mother being buried on Mother’s Day 23 years ago. But that I loved them–this is what sticks with me the most.

There was a period in my long ago past when spring found me on the verge of a more general unravelling. And then, too, unravelled. The robins’ relentless calls heralding end of winter in four-season-Michigan triggerd in me an anger that made me snap at the dawn. The array of gorgeous flowers made me weep. The long days seemed burdensome too often–give me the darkness in which to take refuge, to walk quiet streets alone with my thoughts, I mused.

I was during those times too tenderhearted to withstand such seasonal upheaval, so attuned was I to the erratic nature of weather. I felt swept up with it. Criss-crossed with longing and losses already, with passionate dreams and embarrassing failures, I was…so young and bewildered by life. I was seeking one fine, true love while also sure that God was the only one not to desert me.But then: just where was God when desperately needed? Gravely wounded, I was not anywhere close to being healed. When I became a bit older, I just hoped to live through another birthday. An April birthday. A birthday made of all the beauty one might one need, and yet that can feel as sharpness against a torn soul, a tired body and mind that can’t rest. There was such unpredictability in living.

Rebirth: I waited for it in my life, too. I half-reasoned that if spring is a brilliant explosion of the wonders, it can also beseige with indicators that pleasure and joy that just do not come. And they can arrive with fanfare, simply not to last. For too soon sweet blossoms will wither, grasses will grow more brittle with summer heat, and insects will flourish, crawl and fly and sting when one is not looking. While other seasons were admirable spring offered contradictions that seemed intolerable.

Of course, that was just one perspctive, but it was my own. As a teenager and a bit beyond, I felt that season overwhelmed with its promise, as well as the drama of thunderstorms, the routine horror of tornado sirens. It soon left me slogging through a hot steamy summer with more thunderous storms (yet a relief after spring’s madness). Then autumn would brighten the world and my mood only to dampen those wonders and bring somnabulance with hints of death as winter buried all again. But at least it wasn’t spring all year.

Pessimism took root. Why love something or someone if it would only disappoint or far worse? Beauty bleeds the broken heart, I wrote with an anguished flourish at sixteen. How could spring be a friend to me when all else seemed nearly lost? Everything looked amazing but life was mostly not, at its core. It was like pretending a lie was the truth–just as I was living my life externally, creating fine, successful enactment of better myself while shrivelling inside. But such lies have a way of collapsing. As it did. As I did. I spent a few springtime stints in psychiatric units while other kids were gallivating on vacations in Florida and beyond. Then, by summer, things were better in small ways despite the clinging heat and cicadas’ interminable buzzing. I could swim outdoors, laze by the shade of a tree with my book and notebook and pencil, visit the lovely lakes nearby, hang out with friends at the Circle drugstore lunch counter, line up dates for drive-in movies, travel a bit. I could breathe even as I sweated in sweltering July sunshine. I had again gotten through Spring.

I wonder how I rallied to keep moving during those nightmarish times. I am now so far from seasonal and generalized distress (and have been the bulk of a lifetime) that it is a muted memory. Now I understand that despair erupted not from seasonal change but from untreated PTSD, for in the 1960s psychologists may have accurately diagnosed soldiers, but not child sexual abuse victims and many others. There were only drugs to be given starting in my early teens, barbituates and benzodiazapines that caused tissue dependence as well as psychological dependence. I opted out of using those at the end of my teens when all substances (alcohol came much later, for a time) were found useless and dangerous. It was an-often lonely journey as I shaped a healthier life. The trauma did not end with those early days but followed me everywhere, and life visited upon me more assaults. And if one has been told all their lives that he or she doesn’t have what it takes to be well and strong, one might just believe it. I fought against that terrorizing untruth and, slowly, with help, won my right to stand tall and go forth into life with good work and greater love.

So, I had found the intensity of nature ramped up emotions and unresolved problems and spring somehow was the stage upon which I played them out. But as I recovered, ordinary life and the complex cycles of nature were again experienced as awesome design and order with far-reaching value, and a greater optimism and faith were in time restored to my thinking. It all taught me a few things about nature and emotional health.

For one, the potency of seasons provide nourishment and enliven and sustain us, or they can overwhelm and undo us if we are feelng unprotected, abandoned or grief sticken, fragile and worn out. In my opinion this is true even as climate change affects us more and more. We still witness the unfolding of miracles to instruct and nurture us, to remind us of our connectedness to earth and the universe we live within. For me, nature is a reflection and a testimony to God’s awesomeness. When we are unbalanced, we cannot recognize its saving graces without a refreshing and refocus of inner vision. Yet contradictorally, nature can be a powerful portion of a lifeline, for we are co-existent. We may need help to rediscover this incredible reality during short-sighted periods. We need to know every day nature is a healer.

Though I have control over my own emotions and thoughts, we cannot control seasonal changes. (No doubt even strictly controlled environments are affected sooner or later in various ways.) The seasons and their weather, though deeply intriguing, no longer have a much of a deleterious affect on me unless there is a dangerous event. I know, for example, we live in earthquake country; I have experienced only two small ones thus far. We live in zones where there are floods, landslides, rock slides, random ice storms and wildfires. I stayed in a hotel during ice storm weather, even then not having consistent power. I have lived in my home unable to step outdoors or open a window for two weeks when fires threatened, smoke billowed about us. But I am not looking for danger or expecting the worst. I take it as it comes, try to better prepare myself, then go on with my life. The high winds we get with tremendous pounding rains; the deep darkness of our winters; the steep temperatures of summer with no rain for months–all this. But I am not on a seesaw of emotions. Humans adapt to survive and thrive, as do other creatures. Weather is becoming a greater challenge than when I was a young woman, yes, but I remain and will live through the coming times the best I can, connected with others who learn to do the same.

Staying alive despite harsh events and celebrating the gifts in living in small, gracious ways has remained a good way to be for many decades. Life has provided me much fulfillment. I respond by giving back. Spring is such a fascinating pleasure that I anticipate it with wide-eyed glee every year.

But the next time someone says they hate spring or wish people would stop acting so happy about a season that will just end and who cares, anyway, what does any of it matter– be aware. It may well be someone who aches with emptiness, who is forsaken, who is sunk by grief and needs intervention to get off the edge where they teeter, uncertain if another day is worth staying around. Put out a kind and encouraging word, a strong hand; try to keep them a little steadier, show them better options until they can find their way to hope and courage again. You never know what others suffer until you pay attention and open yourselves to their need.

Soon I will be filling ceramic and clay pots with flowers although relentless, stealthy squirrels will keep digging up dirt in newly planted containers. I will make fresh brewed iced tea and sit under the trees and be happy as the birds speak to one another and me. May Springtime teach, invigorate and deepen your lives, as well.

If you or someone you know is feeling suicidal, call 988 in the U.S. Seek professional help and find hope.

Wednesday’s Words with Photos: Revisiting Irvington’s Cheery Spring

There are times I become nostalgiac about our old neighborhood; we lived there for 27 years. It is a lushly flowered place as spring arrives with meticulous yards that overflow with small and big greenery and blooms, and houses proud with fine porches for sitting about in interesting chairs. One can feel time melt away in those lovely spots. Irvington is on the National Historic Register, and a place where one is loathe to leave, which is why we stayed so long (then found a couple reasons to move to our current home.)

My walks were zigzagging and circuitous, crisscrossing streets, pausing often to photograph like mad. I admired grand old homes and accompanying maples, oaks, and the apple and cherry blossoms–all arched overhead. I mused over varieties of flowers, the care with which they were planted. Poems came easily as I meandered–I recorded them as I went to put on paper or computer later. My mind was stilled by a fine clarity, heart lightened with elation. The very air was redolent of nature and life deeply rooted, generous of fragrance and design, a touch of wildness amid the finery. The air was so sweet in spring that it clung to me a bit when I left outdoors; I threw open windows and doors so it would wend its way in day and night.

I became accustomed to the presence of those places, thosew streets– the gravity yet lightness of them. Some houses fancy, others more modest–all lovely. They were a comfort with the serene proportions, friendly verandas and gardens a-shimmer with color and humming with bees. As winter failed to lash its way through unfurling leaves, sunshine became a bolder presence. I revelled in another unfolding of the seasons.

I suppose when I visit there what rises within me is a sense of sweeter, kinder times, when the world seemed to turn a little more slowly. Even all the way back when, as a child, I could safely roam the streets on bicycle or on foot, wandering several blocks to visit friends or to while away the days. I’d stop in my tracks to marvel over bird songs or a neighbor’s garden abundance, to observe ants at work or butterflies fluttering beyond my reach. The natural world was luminous to me as it is to a child–vivid and unfettered by more serious climate matters. Electric and perfect. It spoke to me. It brought me right to God.

It still often feels like this. So one way I try to hold it closer is to photograph. I have taken hundreds of pictures of Irvington neighborhood delights, and offer only a few today.

I am juggling many feelings as I search archives. I am entering a period of anniversaries of loss. I don’t grieve day to day, anymore, but those worn, softened places where tears have run like rivers linger in my being. I turn to what I want most to see, experience, revisit during the next month or two. I seek and create greater cheer. It may be the memories I need to evoke, as well. Despite vowing to return to that area in the peak of spring, summer or fall, I only infrequently have made good on it the last five years. And none of the recent photographs taken have matched the beauty of older ones. Perhaps it was the regularity of walks that distilled my fervent attention. There is an intimacy that such familiarity brings. And so when I look back over reams of pictures, I am lit with happiness. Still, I will go again. Soon, camera in hand.

The last two pictures–tulips which signal to me another birthday is soon coming, and one of myself from 2016 that was in an Irvington grouping: how the decades come and go! How fortunate to look back and find the good and true in all the ups and downs, before and since. I found joy then and I find it now, for what benefit are melcancholy reminders of losses if we cannot discover rejuvenation and go on? As a Christian, I know the cross will become empty soon with the promise of greater life beyond. As an ordinary woman, I know that what is lost can be honored while creating and loving anew.

So, Happy Easter, Happy Spring! Happy flower findings, all.

Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: Winged Things that Fly into a New World

Who can even recall a childhood bereft of stories? Those read by adults or older children to younger ones, at home or in school, or those offered as a spontaneous spinning of a tall tale? This everyday ritual is common throughout the world, a time eagerly anticipated by both giver and receiver. It is such a part of learning and sharing that it may qualify as negligence to not engage in storytime with young ones. Consider how they enrapt they become, eyes on storyteller then compelling drawings that drape across pages, their minds awash in images and ideas, facial expressions a ripple of emotions. Kids need stories any old time, in any way. And they love a story time shared. It is an opportunity to settle down, sink into coziness, enter into magic making as they take a pause from the day’s stresses. This is true for reader and listener. Reading can excite a child but it is also a tried-and-true soothing measure that reassures. Those small picture books can initiate a lifelong, happy love affair with reading.

It’s the way of humans to discover and imagine other peoples their ways, to consider far-flung as well as familiar creatures, places and events. We want to gain better access to the world and we learn soon to travel via words and pictures to cultures and landscapes beyond our small reach. Stories aid in identifying or interpreting feelings and experience as we seek clarification and wisdom. They show how to empathize with those unlike us. Books educate and demonstrate a seemingly endless variety of subjects and possibilities. Even children’s books. Yet perhaps in the end it is great fun to sit in a comfy chair, at bedside or on the floor with a book and a child or two hanging on to every word. The little ones lean closer or toward unfolding action on the pages. These are explorations of the gymnastics of language, the complexity of human and other experiences–and in children’s books, these are accessible in a faster, compact and concentrated manner. No wonder kids like story hour.

These days I am reading to twin preschooler granddaughters. But it is easy to remember those years I read to not only the other “grands” but to my own little ones. And in my memory are many authors we loved and books we read over and over until pages were tattered. Every now and again I search the children’s library or bookstore shelves: Peter Spier, Ezra Jack Keats, William Steig, Else Holmelund Minarik, Stan and Jan Berenstain, Richard Scarry, Shel Silverstein, Dr. Seuss, Maurice Sendak, Eric Carle, Mercer Mayer, Margaret Wise Brown, Laurent de Brunhoff, Margery Williams, E.B.White, Roald Dahl…well, the list goes on and on. It grows much longer as they nudge into elementary school– and so soon comes the leap into middle school with a whole new group of books. Before long a parent or teacher is left out of the golden circle of a shared story. -In these times, electronic versions rule so much, as well.

By age 8 or 9 a child is apt to read entirely on her own; storytime becomes a cherished memory. I longed for that time as my children got too busy, impatient or bored with that nightly routine–it was was at some point deemed “babyish”. I consoled myself with the gatherings at family meals (we did that in the 1970s-80s) and after-school times at our big table, sharing our days and many ideas. It was a modified “story hour” if comprised of real life rather than imaginative things. In this way we came to know one another differently, better, including stories of our family histories.

I still own a few favorite children’s books that we read often and at length. A few more are recalled after 40-50 years. For example, just last week I was again trying to pull up the name of an old favorite author who wrote about (I think) 18th century life in an Eastern seaboard/harbor town, from the viewpoint of (I think) a Quaker family, particularly a boy of (perhaps) eight. I well remember the drawings that accompanied those books–enchanting! The writer’s name has yet eluded me. The books depicted a fascinating time, place and culture that we all enjoyed exploring. I will keep looking.

Children’s books offer a broader variety of subjects these days. Harder things, difficult topics, as well. It seems language varies more as authors’ writing encompass different cultures and thematic material. The illustrations are always evolving, may be intricate and softly hued or bold of design and color, or spare with brush marks intimating forms–but they very much matter, enhancing and emphasizing each page offering. Who does not still recommend the old favorites with such pictures?–Maurice Sendak and Dr. Seuss come immediately to mind. I still seek and buy storybooks for my own small collection, as much for the art as the narrative. Finding new-to-me or recently published authors and illustrators is a joy while collecting this genre.

I created a children’s book for my own youngsters for Christmas at least once and, later, for grandchildren (both despite being only a passable drawer). I also studied writing for children and youth and so wrote many short stories. Some of them worked fairly well; despite being a novice I made progress and grew to love it. It was clear that writing for a young audience requires a different and demanding set of skills. Being very succinct, writing with simpler, recognizable (not too easy) words or often emplying rhymes, dealing with feelings in a clear but not overwhelming manner, developing characters that delight, inspire or challenge a young mind–and pairing with an illustrator successfully–well, you can tell this is not one bit easy. The slim books read to kids take a huge amount of work plus talent. I admire the authors and the artists and am still attracted to the challenge of this writing.

Recently I had a literary shock of sorts. I was browsing the children’s shelves at Powell’s Bookstore, Portland’s famous, humungous used books store. Such a vast treasury from which to choose and never enough time or money. I looked for the familiar then browsed new books, and was stopped in my tracks by a series of books on display by the amazing Ursula K. Le Guin. I had met her a couple of times (dry wit, smart, easy to talk with) at book fairs, since she lived in Portland until her death. But–she wrote children’s books? I naturally knew of her fantasy novels, a few books of poetry and her essays. But this was a thrill to see: Catwings by Ms. Ursula Le Guin and illustrator S.D. Schindler.

I picked one up–the cover showed four cats with wings perched on a branch. I opened to page one, Chapter 1. Instantly the first sentence had me: a mother cat cannot explain why all her children were just born with wings. I sat right down to absorb all 39 pages, studied the fine, whimsical drawings. Such strange and lovely creatures! Such a caring, smart mother cat to accept and adore her kittens, no matter what. Soon the young ones were sent off on an adventure that would change their lives–and they took me along with them. I bought the first one of four in the series and after I read it once more I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The elegant genius of the storytelling, the wonder of the illustrations. Those winged creatures, a terrific bunch of cats. Later I checked out the others at my city library and soon devoured another one. Now I am taking it more slowly, as they need to be savored.

Last Monday I visited my sister, Allanya, in her memory care/senior residence a few minutes from my house. She used to read often, mostly nonfiction, history, mostly, but enjoyed a well written fictional tale. She has great fondness for animals so once read about nature and wildlife and various pets. Though she reads little now, she enjoys the experience of reading aloud.

So I’d put Catwings in my coat pocket in case she was in the mood. I hoped she might be. Upon my arrival I walked up to her chair. She was gazing at a musical on television with other residents and I gently touched her arm. As usual, she immediately rose and put her arms about me, saying, “Oh, dear Cynthia!” but on this day her eyes were clouded and sad.

“I –oh– sister, thank goodness–you came! Not a good day…”

Her eyes were tinged with sorrow so I hugged her closer. “I’m so sorry, sister. Tell me about it.” I took her by an elbow as she got her cane. “Let’s head to your rooms and you can lay it all on me, that’s why I’m here– with my young, big shoulders.”

She laughed. This is always a good sign, that she still laughs at me or herself, despite the mysterious miseries of dementia. But she couldn’t name a specific incident that had lowered her mood. She often cannot. It’s the fog, confusion, the loneliness. That day it was loneliness, it seemed, so we talked about my visits 2-3 times as week, those with family and friends who come to see her. But she was snared in that greater sense of aloness that is only partly due to her partner having passed away two years ago. It’s the more difficult sense of separateness from others, of a far deeper aloneness that dementia brings, I think. The general anxiety it brings. Feeling unmoored: why, where, what next? It is painful to witness at times, may bring tears that I blink away–or she will ask what is wrong and shift into real concern. But her sadness can seem to roll off her in waves of grief. I can sit with her but I can also often help her out of it.

We chatted awhile; her mood lightened a little after I filled the birdfeeder outside her window with more nuts, seeds and berries. She has a strong interest in and love of birds as well as the towering trees beyond her window. As I finished I was thinking of Catwings and if she’d like it.

I of course know about her appreciation of her past pet buddies including cats. I thought she might take to the book so I got it out and explained the main story line. She was puzzled at first, then flipped through pages. Somewhere in the beginning of the second chapter, she began to concentrate, scanning the lines. I took a chair beside her and waited.

It is important to tell you so the rest is understood: Allanya has trouble with language, despite enjoying an excellent facility with with words in all forms until she showed signs of dementia in her late sixties. She was a writer, a speaker, a director of human services agencies. In time, there were more stumbles and missing words; it graduated to sentences that were suspended as she sought an errant word to describe what was wanted and needed. Some days, though, she can speak clearly as if everything is understood through a brightening lens; she knows just to say. Most days, though, she stutters, pauses, and persists, anyway–and, too, she may just quit. She rarely seems to be that discouraged, at least with me. Perhaps I interpret her a bit, help pull out words, or at least the main gist. I have known her all my life. I deeply sense her emotions and intended meanings. And I ask if I understand correctly.

But here’s the thing–when Allanya begins to read aloud, the miracle happens. She far more easily speaks, and with an articulate authority, with appropriate emotional emphasis. So she placed her forefinger under each word and moved it along as she read, telling the lively story in multiple cat voices, pausing for effect, laughing at funny parts. She studied the pictuires. Some words were altered or skipped but she carried on, her voice full of feeling and interpretation. She was swept away. Delight changed her sorrowful eyes into twinkling blue.

Into Catwing country she slipped, a fantasy world of unique critters who shared a deep bond. Whose mother had sent them on the adventure of growing up so they came to be stronger and smarter as they made their way in a baffling world. The four sibling cats are close, attuned to each other’s needs, readied with interesting solutions.

She offered me a turn at reading, so I did. Then handed it back. It went on that way the whole time as it often does, back and forth. Finally, she read the last pages which bring the Catwings bunch toward a few victories, and she seemed to hold the glow of some small fulfillment– in that way that books can create. She was once more at a greater ease with herself. She sighed and turned to me, a dimpled smile on her smooth face.

“Good one,” she said. “I liked the weird cats.”

I sat musing over what it felt like for her, that story. I was thinking of being mothered or not mothered enough, and of being a mother, myself, and what a journey it has been. And of being her younger sister, how that now means I am almost a quasi-mother since our parents are gone, and I am responsible for her welfare. In some essential way I feel responsible for the safekeeping of her deepest heart. Responsible for mine and for hers, both, and perhaps this is not so different than before, when we were very young. Except that once, when I was stumbling and falling often, she looked out for me so much more than I could for her. It is my turn, and with a familial love that endures misfortune and twistiest paths. It’s a sister pact made without words very long ago. Once there were three of us sisters who were there for one another and two brothers; now we are two sisters and one brother. I come with my stories but am ready for hers– told with her words or not.

One way we connect is that we have our own sort of story times–we read circulars or old cards, nonfiction books she has forgotten, a magazine I bring about nature– or architecture since she used to flip houses. Children’s books, rarely, but this one worked out fine. No matter what we read, she can find her voice, clear and strong. I think of it as our private readers theater, as we both let drama flow as we take our turns, sometimes acting ridiculous in our deliveries.

After the reading Allanya moved on. She was rummaging for a piece of jewelry, then a candy bar. I had brought an Almond Joy for her which she offered to share. I took a piece and said goodbye, “until next time”. “

“When are you coming?” So start questions she asks every time.

“In three days, Thursday” I assurred her.

“What time?”

“Early–nine o’clock.”

“I love you, Sis”, she says and gives me a hug.

“I love you more,” I say.

On the way out, I decided to buy the whole series of Catwings books. Ursula K. Le Guin understood a great deal of everything, I think. Books, afterall, can be passageways and bridges for mind and soul. The right book can help mend a lost soul or a breaking heart or an ailing body–and a short children’s tale can send you straight to curious and beautiful new realms. As for the first Catwings in the series that I already got at the bookstore: I gave it to my youngest daughter to read, then she can share it to her daughters, the twins in the picture above. She loved it, of course, and I suspect they will, too.

Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: The Problem with Hearing Things

(Photo by Bastian Riccardi on Pexels.com)

Sound: a sensory experience taken for granted or deeply appreciated or a luxury–and also a nuisance. In general, I hear pretty well–especially if (pardon the image) I keep my ear canals nicely cleared. I can certainly hear music of a driver-singer when their car is idling by mine, all closed up. I hear the spring peepers way before getting close to them. I hear footsteps on the roadway down the hill from the house. Also, if the washer is a little off or a light needs fixing (the odd electric sound that signals trouble is brewing somewhere)–time to see to it. I can hear people down the hallway or in the next room, so likely their conversation–do they know that?

I’d give myself a B+ in hearing or perhaps better. Yet do I also hear selectively, or erroneously?

I have a practical hearing issue. Or maybe an interpretation issue. It impacts my daily life enough that I am trying to sort it out. I finally researched it due to the aggravation I experience when hearing certain sounds. It may be misphonia, albeit a mild case. It is not an actual disorder medically/psychiatrically but enough people complain of symptoms–perhaps 1 in 5 some time in a lifetime–that it bears noting. More women than men experience mysophonia; it often begins in teen years. The definition includes being negatively emotionally and/or physically triggered by certain sounds. An open-mouthed or loud chewing sound is a trigger that’s common, as is slurping liquids or breathing loudly, loud kissing, snoring or tapping fingers and clicking a pen repeatedly. Yes, the breathing heavily. The snoring and snorting, even not loud enough to deafen. Reasonably, I realize most can’t seem to help it. And yet.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Tap, tappety tap, tap. I was reading at the table, quietly sipping tea. I know it was quiet because that’s how I sip. But I couldn’t be certain due to the noise of his chewing sesame sticks. And keeping loud time to a song. I glanced at him; he slightly smiled. His music was going directly from iPhone to his ears (and via hearing aids), but I may as well have been privy to it, at least the drummer, though a less interesting rendition. The repetitiousness!… But those sesame sticks being masticated was taking over an otherwise pleasant ambience.

He does eat with gusto. He does love to drum on things–knee, car door, book, table. It can be jarring. Though I may tune it out awhile, I likely will have to vacate the scene. I admit I asked him to stop the car once so I could get out a bit; in a car one is trapped with every sounds, like it or not. I think he was singing tunelessly on pupose (he is a musician, he knows how to sing nicely) and tapping on the steering wheel. Or I may ask if he can please stop awhile; he will likely do so. But he just doesn’t think of it–why should he, why should anyone, really? It is hard to stop what feels natural to a person, what feels fine. Plus, he does find repetitive sound pleasing. He does not like sudden, unidentified, loud sounds while I tend to tolerate them okay. Different strokes…

So, we are quite a pair as far as auditory input. How do we navigate the conundrum? Carefully…usually! Some people get so emotionally amped by their trigger sounds that they have angry outbursts, say or do things that are not helpful, even regretful. Luckily for us both, this is rarely a response, though my feelings can seep out of my self control. Irritation is a thing I am working on, yes. So I might mention it once, twice– or simply move to another area in our house awhile, or find a way to distract myself. Inwardly, though, it grates on my peace of mind until I cannpot hear the offending noise.

So, I recognize it is an issue: certain sounds make me uncomfortable, even fussy. It may be neurological, it may be genetic, it may be emotional, but sensory input is powerful for everyone, and we don’t experience it in all the same ways. Nor do we experience such input the same during all times of our lives. We know that when too tired or stressed or sad, for a few examples, we can be reactive in ways we prefer not to be. “Things get on my nerves right now!” we clarify is some kind of self-defense. But I don’t have to be in a particular state or mood. Certain sounds just annoy me. It may be that my nerves are not like some others’,but I am not alone with this phenomenon, apparently.

I didn’t know I was especially sound-sensitive– except when it came to music–until the last couple decades. I should have had a clue when my cardiologist commented that, though being able to hear my heartbeat (the majority of time) was not usual as I had long thought, it was not unheard of, either. And he believed me. I can explain to him exactly what my heart is up to; can interpret heartbeats like notes and in time signatures as in an imagined musical score. That is fun–he is also a musician–and he is able to verify by testing. But beyond that, he said: “You hear and feel arrhythmias as well as normal heartbeats–and it has saved your life before. It’s a good thing to be able to do–you just have to tolerate it when it bothers you.”

He’s not kidding. Ever try to sleep when your heartbeat is dancing a lengthy piece in your chest, neck or head no matter what you do? And can it feel like the famous Edgar Allen Poe tale? Well, not really. It’s just the heart’s beats telling me I am alive, if annoyingly. If it is oddly bothersome, it is time to call Dr. P. -Still, this is an internal sound system, and so not the exact problem.

How can I be sound sensitive, in general? I was enured to alot of noise, I thought. I was raised in a family of seven in a smaller two-story bungalow home. There was constant activity and the mixed noises of family life, music playing or being made, plenty of friends and visitors who added to the acceptable cacaphony. When I grew up, I ended up with five children, surprisingly, so it was a re-run of somewhat controlled chaos and a variety of sounds with few places to find refuge for long–unless one left the house. But the thing was, it only rarely bothered me. I had to be sick or in a generally foul mood. All the commotion was only a familiar foreground or background. My attuned ear sorted each noise–alarming shrieks or thuds or too much silence then addressed. The rest: family life being lived.

Friends or neighbors would stop by to visit. “Doesn’t it all get to you?” they asked, laughing at their sudden frankness. As if having five kids was an immense number that automatically made life rough on the human ear–and brain–to bear. To me, such variety of voices, words, emotions created a vibrant if somewhat wild family composition. Back then I couldn’t “check out” by listening to private playlists or a podcast. We owned a stereo system and a radio or two; anything more would have been gross extravagance, anyhow.

Growing up with lots of sound may possibly have masked a misophonia tendency. Or created it. I’m grasping at straws here. Being awash in classical music, we all played instruments and sang. I was active, social as we all were–our home was not super tidy or quiet. But I also craved silence and would leave to find a modicum of it, out of doors. Nature, the best of sweet privacy. Yet I loved going to my room–as both sisters took off for college it was just mine–where I would write until midnight or make montages, create songs with my guitar and read and read. Sit and contemplate birdsong beyond the screen window or colors and textures in the room, patterns of my clothes. Draw. Watch the light change as it fell across the bed, floor. Daydream unhindered. Being alone was as needed as making music or joining in main currents of life. The blessed sound of almost-silence.

On the other hand, typing class was not for me. I wanted to be proficient before college–I wanted to keep writing– so I started a class one summer. I was sitting in the classroom, sweat running down my back, and hitting the keys with less than admirable accuracy. But it was the sound! Fifteen kids wailing away on keyboards. It drove me out the door the first week despite truly wanting to gain the skill. Enough with horrendous noise; I would type in my room.And I was much more at ease typing on electric typewriters–so much gentler a sound as keys were pressed down and words appeared on the clean expanse of paper.

Nature’s noises never have bothered me. I can listen to cicadas forever and crickets, too; hear birds and other creatures sharing their voices (though crows can sound a bit irksome if they don’t take an occasional break). I like wind, even suddenly gusting wind that careens about firs and houses. I love pattering of rain on the rooftop, the crackle of a log fire, the particular strike of ice pellets, pine needles being crushed underfoot as summer sun heats all. The ocean waves, relentless yet reassurring. Owls in the night, please. I leave a window ajar.

Not everything drives me up a wall.

But…back to that hard crunching. I even minimize the sound when I eat a potato chip, smaller bites and closed mouth. I can hear it inside my head, but can tolerate it. I try to never slurp soup. The one time it is fine to make loud drinking noises: when I’m with grandkids and we suck the last juice or soda through our straws. So, maybe part of it is that I was taught that, being an adult in the general sense, includes having decorum, acting more civil, come to think of it. Fun is good, but good manners are also good–is that it? It’s not even half the story, no.

Here are a few other things I don’t appreciate for too long: leaf blowers (and lawn mowers very early in the morning unless they are manual mowers), cars without mufflers, tennis shoes drying in the dryer, dripping faucets, loud bathroom fans, screaming kiddos (this after raising our 5, what can I say?), someone “hawking a spitwad”, my sudden and long-grumbling stomach even if alone, off-key music (not necessarily dissonant), cats meowing/dogs barking madly and long, peculiar and random vocalizations if not by a child or comedian, a loose screen door banging. And frankly, the TV on too much. I enjoy shared shows in the evening an hour or two at most. But I don’t like it on otherwise, and not in daytime. If I can hear my neighbor’s TV in the day I shut it out somehow. (But if a great sports event is to be broadcast or important news, okay turn it on low! Preferences…)

I’m not thrilled with big city noises. I have lived in very active, close-in city neighborhoods, and though I got used to it more or lesst, there were times I had to leave, find a lovely park and walk an hour. Gunshots occasionally, weekend drunken goings-on, cars screeching, sirens, traffic all the time. “Exciting city life” can be tiring. Even distressing. Moving to the wooded area we live in the days and nights feel more interesting and tranquil. My blood pressure is better. I can find other stimulating actitivies as desired.

Is that enough stuff that bugs me? Does it embarrass me? A little. Am I so overly sensitive that I find life rather grating? Yes, there are times– and also, no. Mainly it seems to be human-made noises or the odd mechanical sound. I am fine with dishwashers and washer-dryers. I quite like laboring noises that carpenters or roofers make. I tend to be calm and deal well with noisy emotional crises as I did routinely at work when people fell apart, flared hotly. But if someone taps on a plate or glass with a fork or knife or spoon more than a few times….that person likely gets a cool stare. Sorry, but not too sorry– if it’s my own table. If not, I will zip it, behave nicely.

Meantime, what sounds drive you batty? Or do you enjoy them all or most, most of the time? If so, you are more fortunate than am I. Your hearing is neither frayed nor impinged upon by common, random things. You don’t have to leave a room for a few. You likely do not have even mild misophonia. But if you’re overtired or hung over or burned out by your life’s demands and it hits you–anything can get to you–take a break for your ears’ sakes, your mind and heart. It will pass, I hope.

As for me, the good news remains that I can hear the diverse and fascinating sounds to which we have access, as such sensory human beings. I am truly grateful for this. It isn’t anywhere close a dog’s hearing–and that’s likely a great blessing. I hope that if I must lose my hearing it is very slowly when I am very, very old. This aggravation called misophonia–an inconvenient oversensitivity– will matter far less. That tap tap tapping will fade away into a blissful nothing. And the music I love will play on whether or not I hear it clearly as before.

(PS My husband noted just last night (3/11) that I misspelled the central word of “misophonia”, oh dear. So I have corrected every “misphonia” spelling now –I hope!)

Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: Powerful Wind, Icy Darkness and Beloved Trees

Big and small candles–all ten of them–were lit, persistent flames swaying in drafts from around windows as the winds careened and howled. Marc and I sat tensed in recliners, defending outselves from the cold with three layers of clothing, huddled under three blankets each. We were listening to branches smacking roofline and outer walls. Now and then we heard that telltale crack that informed us of another tree battered and soon descending. It had been over 24 hours without heat or light and we were getting chilled despite our best efforts. My nose felt like an ice cube as I yanked the blankets closer. My hands even with gloves had started to ache; slippers and socks were small comfort. Despite my husband’s presence, the dark held an ominous weight. I almost felt alone even as I glimpsed his profile in the yellow glow of candellight. Not one to easily scare, I realized I felt helplessness. It was a waiting game.

It was not a surprise that a winter storm had brewed up difficult conditions but this was becoming a monster. It rains all winter and when it meets frigid air streams it hits everything as sleet and ice. Snow might join the fray in Portland metro. It is Oregon; we always get a yearly frigid winter storm although it is a temperate place, happily habitable the majority of the time. Then come Pacific storm systems coupled with arctic blasts, and on the other side of us the forceful east winds tunnel and roar through Portland and reach us here at higher elevations, arriving with the formidable Columbia River Gorge energy. The velocity of those can reach beyond 80 mph along the mammoth Columbia River, but even in the city–and in suburbs where we live–it can register at 50-55 mph. Hurricane force. The sustained high winds with rapid gusts have the last say, and there is nothing to be done about it. But wait it out, hope for the best.

So big winds are a background score to daily lives in all weather. (I hear them whipping about the rain as I type.) But not often coupled with temps in the teens, sleet and snow coating everything–nor for long.

We were cognizanrt of weather watches and warnings before the recent week-end and, like most people, thought only that we were due for an ice storm with a couple inches of snow and a thaw sooner than later. Snow is far more abundant in the Cascades and Coast Mountains–a good thing for those who ski, snowboard, etc. there. The last such storm was in 2021 and caused quite enough damage to trees and homes; we were resigned. But we thought we were prepared mentally and physically. Food stocked up, water in the closet, blankets aplenty, devices charged. We do not own a generator or a battery powered radio or cleats for boots–all of which has to change, I now see. But we were unknowing of the days to come–all would be tolerable a couple of days. We ensured our Anna’s hummingbirds, the only kind that stay year ’round, had plenty of sugar water, but it froze. We watched other bird visitors crowd in and cling to suet blocks packed with seeeds and nuts. They obviously were fueling up.

First, the cold seeps in but gradually, when heat goes out. We felt the many candles’ heat was a little help for warming the air. I bent over a few in a row to ease the chill from my face, to hold my hands above flames and catching fleeting warmth. Marc was close to shivering so I told him to go up and down the stairs, stomp about. I did the same. You think that layering will do the trick and moving around will make a difference. It can, but not enough as hours grind on. As I fell asleep I thought, people don’t realize they are getting too cold and then…but we got through it and saw the thin light make visible the rooms again. That was encouraging, at least.

The second night of the outage we again slept some in the living room, away from a stand of big trees on a small hill above us. There are also groups of huge trees right behind us–but the wind blew from the east, not west, and trees tend to lean away from us there. We heard the many firs by a back window creaking, glimpsed them swaying. The sleet and snow mix continued in force. We wondered what another morning might bring as in later deep darkness we listened to ice pellets slash across glass–then a couple more giant firs moaning, then crashing. We ceased talking. All we could do was ponder how bad it might become, how to cope. It didn’t help to speculate; we were clear it was no regular storm. And the power was not likely coming back soon. The stocked food might not make it. With the refrigerator out for another day I considered foods we’d use: peanut and almond butters, cheese, crackers and bread, dry cereal. Dried fruits and very cold bananas and water. We wouldn’t likely starve. But mortality felt magnified.

In the morning, ice coated tree branches glistened–a quarter inch or more, further weighing down trees’ long, ponderous branches. They clanked against buildings, pressed on roofs and scraped windows. There are skylights in many homes. I worried about those holding up if a part of tree sruck them. What would happen as a whole tree, pushed by gravity and wind, hit a roof. We reside high on the side of a small volcano; it gets steeper, colder and more wind-blown the nearer the top. We are very close to the summit.

By the second cramped day of no power and plummeting temps, I began to feel a little ill. Lethargic, a bit nauseous. I was warm but not deeply enough, and Marc, too, felt it. The reports we had gotten indicated two hundred-fifty thousand or more habitations in metro areas were without power. Road conditions were treacherous and worsening. Our cell phones were done for; they’d already leached power from computers and tablets. I could no longer text family and friends for updates and company.

By afternoon of that day we researched hotels that had generators running and room for us. The only one we could find close enough to us with availability was a Hilton in Portland city center. It meant creeping along the highway, but we tossed a few things in a bag and left. Thankfully, I have a small but trusty AWD SUV. Still, climbing the steep, curvy grade to get out was not easy as we kept pushing up to the main road– which was not good, either. Downed trees partially blocked roadways; crews were trying to clear a path and remove a great deal of tree debris as that ferocious wind pushed and shoved. Power company crews were valiantly trying to restore power. It was very slow going. I clung to the seat with both hands as Marc navigated humps of frozen slush and branches, slid a bit to and fro.

I grew up in Michigan so I have never been afraid of snow; blizzards were not out of the question. I know how to hunker down, stay safe. How to walk, bundled with accoutrement needed, on hidden sidewalks or quieter streets as snow swirled and engulfed. I loved it as a kid and youth. I tobogganed and ice skated in years of stormy winters. people got out and about despite the snowy inches crunching under chained or snow tires. But in Oregon we are not prepared for the strength of the storm we got. We don’t have the equipment to prepare roads or make them viable during and after storms. We don’t have huge restoration and recovery crews for winter crises. It is too unusual. We have to borrow help from elsewhere. We have to ask for volunteers and be patient. Neighbors help neighbors here but even that can fail to be enough.

The snow skimmed, slick streets were nearly deserted downtown. When we arrived at the hotel, we were greeted not with warmth in the attractive lobby, but breezy cold. We could hear water streaming from the ceiling a couple of places. But there was light. There were tantalizing fragrances from hot foods at the restaurant. We wanted a cozy down comforter-encased bed, a toasty shower and a fancy grilled sandwich with steaming tea and coffee. We wanted to feel a little more safe. Not so alone. There were longer lines to the reception desk than must have been usual. It was clear many had not prepared for a hotel but felt they had no choice butr leave fast, like us. We milled about a few minutes, our faces slack with weariness, eyes widened with a barely hidden current of anxiety.

The first room was without heat. We got another that was toasty and happily settled in. Marc had been complaining of a headachebut we rested, snacked, watched tv, charge up our devices. I took the longest shower in months just to soak up heat, and began to feel better as he felt worse. The next day, I felt rested and refreshed while he huddled under covers– fully dressed despite comfortable heat. I knew he was ill and in time, so did he. I thought right off that he had Covid, based on the symptoms I’d had in October. (Later, back home, he tested positive; he still is tonight.) From that first Sunday night through Thursday afternoon, we were stuck in a hotel room with no masks–we’d forgotten to think. So I was party to his coughing and sneezing, headache and fever. Tea was drunk and Marc half-heartedly tried to eat a bit each day. He slept and slept, thankfully, as his body fought with the germ.

I left to walk on a treadmill and ride a stationary bike in the fitness room–only one or two others joined in each time–and to breathe in gulps of air that wasn’t so infectious. Or I hoped. I ordered chai lattes at least twice a day, bought berry-studded muffins and whorled cinnamon rolls for my afternoon consolation. I observed maintenance people working on leaks, watched families eating and talking and milling about, everyone grateful for shelter. I talked to a few, often in elevators, many of whom had brought their pets, mostly dogs. No one had expected it to get so bad and were glad of the same things– light and heat, a bed, some food, the conviviality of the hotel.

But what of those who had none? Sure, I give money to shelters but there are only so many of those. Ripples of guilt and sorrow rose up as once more I realized so many could not afford that getaway as an unprecedented storm raged on. How many would die from exposure, car accidents, trees falling on houses and atop cars when driven on slick roads with high winds? Too many. I gazed about the Hilton and struggled with appreciation. Then I was swept up to the ninth floor and checked on Marc, who snored softly.

But he awakened as I moved about and reached for the remote control. The television was so big it took up half the wall. We watched the Australian Open day after day–tennis! I like being entertained by sports and knew some of the female players. Watching this and a couple other shows on an outrageously large screen made the time pass more seamlessly- what day was it, anyway? Yet we thought of our home and our neighbors–three of my friends had also headed to hotels for a bit. But we stayed on even when one of them said the power came back not long after we had left. However, roads were worsening as the storm continued; trees kept cracking; accidents increased, per the news. No one was going anywhere yet.

Marc was listless, achy, coughed more. I brought more tea. By Wednesday night we realized our room was getting colder. The leaks had been fixed in the loby and fitness room, then returned. There were problems with the furnace and pipes. Food at the restaurant and the small maketplace appeared to be a bit scarce. Many staff could not get to work. We thought of the eletricity now on at home–heat! light! and faucets that were turned on to a drip and were likely not cracked and leaking! I wondered how much water it might take before the hotel’s ceilings caved… We packed up Thursday late morning, paid a discounted bill, and left.

Outside we waited for the valet and a CBS news crew was loading up a big truck, heading out. I wodnered what they thought of it all, if they had been to our home city which was already in the news.

Marc spoke with a guy who answered, “Yeah, we had to come out here and see what this storm was all about in Portland. I guess this is a bad winter weather here!” He laughed, shaking his head as he looked about.

It was true the thin layer of snow and ice was slushier, and downtown streets appeared more clear. There was hope in the scenario with immense old and imposing buildings and a few passersby, cars and busses moving with renewed confidence in the brighter mid-morning.

Yet I wanted to step forward and say, “Have you even really seen conditions far and wide, have you been to our beautiful small city? Haven’t you heard of the hundreds of trees down and more that will fall? Have you looked at countless homes torn apart by those doomed trees that we Pacific Northwesterners deeply love? And noted the car accidents? Lives lost?How about the hundreds of thousands without power, still? One apartment complex has been without any safe water for over a week. Who are you guys with your smart-swaggering tone? This is our home! Go on, then.”

But they were already gone. And then we left, too.

The roads into the community we livd within were better but still covered in a mix of slippery ice, snow and scattered gravel. Driving slowly, we gawked at towering Douglas firs felled, dying and dead. It was a challenge to get home –and it was hard to not feel sad. There were several immense firs and a few decidous trees laying across or, having been chain-sawed by then, piled along roadways and walking paths. Some lay threateningly atop roofs, and a few cars had taken hits or slid off road. We’d seen on the news that our lovely Lake Oswego was one of the very worst hit by damaging winds and ice. We should have expected the devastation. We’ve long known that acres of woods can offer and what threats can be posed with a Columbia River Gorge wind, and about in any season. But this was bad. It is estmated that over 100 trees have fallen on properties here. And at least 150 trees have fallen otherwise–and the count continues. The state has never seen such a storm system as this one nor for so long a duration. (This sort of statement is beginning to be too familiar when the topic of weather comes up. I, for one, am going to learn more about emergency management strategies.)

We chose to live right here because of those ranging woods and other generous natural areas interspersed with many types of homes. Because we enjoy a sense of intrinsic solitude as well as friendly neighbors. Good library, plenty of public events. We live here because it brings joy to view the mountain ranges, such a wide sky, and roam in protected areas and along the rushing rivers. There is peace and wisdom to find here and even an assortment of wildlife. Now the landscape is wounded. I wonder whether or not the critters know all that has happened–but surely they must, so close to earth’s whims and gifts as they are. When we got home I went to the balcony to check our bird feeders. The sugar water was still frozen but the juncoes, flickers, finches, sparrows, downy woodpeckers–they were crowding one another, flying back and forth as they pecked away at the other feeders. But I didn’t see the usual pair of Anna’s hummingbirds. I so hoped they’d show up when we put out fresh sugar water.

Light, power, heat– and still, that whipping wind. What was it telling us?

Another surge of weather blew in that evening. We promptly lost power again before bedtime. It lasted just 24 hours but more of the woods was damaged, more homes bashed. Those relentless, bitter east winds roaring into the West Hills came fast; out came the candles with more blankets wrapped about us. But by Saturday morning we had conveniences back and could survey the land. Temperatures rose and rain came. Marc was still ill–he had tested positive for Covid– and he was relieved to be able to sleep in familiar surroundings. I thought, well, I had Covid already, and so far have no symptoms, so maybe I will be okay. I prayed for us both, and for more.

After I cleaned out and scoured the refrigerator and freezer of the likely or clearly spoiled food, I decided to go shopping for replenishment. The sun was peeking out a bit; slushy roads looked much more navigable. I knew I could get out with my car. All I had to do was walk down the hill carefully to the garage. I debated while Marc and my children were exhorting me to forget that idea. I kept thinking about fresh food. I was hungry, even if Marc was not, yet (he lost his sense of taste and smell).

But my neighbor had “crampons” I could borrow, so off I went. It wasn’t tough to get down, at all. Then I stepped into my garage and slipped. Hit my left hip and arm and shoulder–and back of head. I sat there, shocked: wet metal studs on my shoes and then those met concrete, followed by the rest of me. I didn’t feel too badly. My arm hurt like heck and looked like it would soon bruise. Hip okay, head not really aching. After that assessment, I stood and all was workable so got into the car and proceeded to the grocery down the road.

A few hours later, as my impacted, aging neck began to hurt more, I contacted the on-call doctor. I take a blood thinner since my knee surgery and a blood clot so, well…intracranial bleeding? Scary. He advised that I get a CT scan at the ED of my head and neck. So I did–but had to call a daughter and her fiance to transport me with their AWD car, as Marc was too sick and I felt unable to drive up our slick hill with a smacked head and neck. (Aimee stayed w ith me, and what a comfort that was!)

I was deemed good enough to be discharged after five hours, with the proviso that I stay vigilent about worsening symptoms. The next day I naturally felt worse and by following morning I was in some serious pain. I felt scared and angry; what did I do? Why why why did I make it through the icy areas and then fall on cement? I knew why but it dismayed me. I got up, stretched and drank ginger tea, ate toast, used a cold pack. I loosened up some, determined it was the position in which I had slept so long (with the help of a muscle relaxer). I did feel better as time went on; discomfitting anxiety about it ceased.

That was 4 days ago; I’m beginning to heal up. The pain has lessened a lot with a repeat of cold packs, acetaminophen, rest. In the hospital emergency room, I had heard there was an enormous number of accident victims that arrived due to the weather: broken hips and arms and wrists and worse. I surely got off lucky, in the end. I’m over 70 and it might have had a far worse ending.

I was fortunate to feel able to walk a short distance at a park yesterday after a medical follow up and more instruction to be aware of any new sympotms. But so far I have felt better each day, despite the shock of concrete meeting my head and limbs. Rest and pain relieving efforts (I do not use opioids) have made a difference. Today a friend and I enjoyed 45 minutes on hillier paths. It was 50 degrees, almost springlike in comparison to the previous 2 weeks. We got half-wet as rainfall increased but that walk was gratifying. It is, afterall, Oregon weather. And the rain was welcome!

It was a relief to breathe deeply and talk with my friend. We avoided heaviest wooded areas. The trees will keep falling a few weeks, at least. We are now getting lots of far more usual rainfall that will further saturate earth–and many loosened roots reside there. There is a leaning tree behind our place that should be checked by an arborist. There is tremendous clean up and restoration beginning. I follow a Mountain Park website so keep track of updates and leanred how helpful people are being, pitching in during this crisis.

My sudden fall was simply another result of a wild weather system. We are getting more, no doubt. I study the stands of big Doug firs, especially, and have a strange thought: trees can maim and kill. I forget that possibility though I know it is through no fault of their own. But, oh how beautiful they are, how honorable in their potent mystery and strength, their elegant complexity, their vast community with each other and the rest of nature. With even me. I fight back tears as I write. I watched as landscape people made wood chips of the divided trunks and branches. I alwhave felt something profound in response to their lives and deaths. The dignity of their forms and value of their oft-secret ways in this world are far reaching. I already miss the ones that have departed here. I hope for many others to bring back the earth to a richer and healthier state of being. I wait for spring already, for it is coming, I have seen flowers opening already. I want to see even more greenery in the grand greeness of the Northwest, and to hear all the trees singing new/old, gentler songs.

In the meantime, I suppose heaps of wood chips will be nourishing plants and insects and dirt all over town and the acreage we love to traverse. I will keep my spirits up as the wind settles and the air sweetens with the scent of their strewn, crushed needles. In fact, I will again take more more walks, note the treetops’ dances, and of course will seek out the river path as eagles, herons, ospreys, comorants and river otters and much more live out their lives– not that far from my own.

(P.S. So far I am negative for Covid. Marc is improving quickly now.)