Sunday, January 16, 2005

And there is no more to Eden
Than a fleeting backward glance
As we race into tomorrow
Like a dancer in a trance
As we stumble to tomorrow
Like a madman on a roll
Like an angel on peyote
And we never pay the toll
And the Serpant tries to stop us
For the Tree is past it's prime
And we race toward tomorrow
But there isn't any time
And the parents of the children
Are the children of us all
And are racing to that Eden
And not listening to His call
So He slithers to the Garden
And He sheds His itchy skin
And He curls up round the Goddess
And He tells Her where He's been
And the Children of Tomorrow
Are out running on the track
That revolves around the Garden
And they're never coming back
And they race into tomorrow
Like a dancer in a trance
Giving no more thought of Eden
Than a fleeting backward glance.

There's a new friend of mine I'd like to introduce. He's called fibromyaglia. It starts at the base of the neck on the left side and goes does like molasses around my shoulder and down to the elbow where a few lines of pain trickle to my fingertips. There are one or two spots near the elbow that feel as if someone had driven a steel rod through the elbow and occasionally twist it, as if someone were trying to pull it out but it's stuck. It's strong enough to wake me up when the meds run out and the meds they give me so far simply bring it down to nearly tolerable. So now I wake up early, shut off the alarm so it won't wake my sweety-pie, choke down a handful of pills and start the coffee. Then I pace about waiting for something to happen, like a decrease in pain. About an hour or so goes by before I can stop making little sounds in the back of my throat if I move my arm. Mostly I walk about rubbing the elbow and holding it like a wounded bird. It's a good friend in that it never fails to be there for me and it always pays attention to me. I think that somehow the body has misunderstood something. Response to stress should not be increased pain. I would think a better response to stress would be a calming squirt of some enzyme which is like THC and you get calm and quiet and able to focus on little details. Instead you get mind numbing pain which wakes you up and drags you down the hall, away from your sweetheart and warm bed and into a dark place where mysterious thoughts come and go.

They want me to return to the list where we got support for those living with coma and brain injury. I cheered them up with my "gallows" humor. They don't see it that way, of course. I try to say things which give hope and I tell them about the cats and the chickens. I always respond around people in pain with humor, little stories to take their mind off it. Trouble is, nobody takes my mind off my pain. People suggest drugs, which I have either tried or cannot take because of previous adictions. They say try prayer, but they usually want me to pray to their god and that will not happen. I've prayed to their god and I don't like his responses. At least I understand the Crone and the Maiden.

I will return and I will help them get through the day. I will tell them about my undying faith in the face of death and dis-ease and pain. I will tell them about my tailess chickens and the fights over bits of bread or the attempts to escape into the garden. I will tell them about my boy and his latest trip to the hospital, my father's latest trip to the hospital and my latest pain. It helps them take their minds off their problems, which amazes me, because these people are struggling with matters which would bring me to my knees. But they say my words help. I don't understand how that can be, but then I don't understand why my friends watch soap operas either.

It's been half an hour now and the meds are not in the blood yet. Typing is interesting because my left hand can work just fine and the pain the neck and elbow do little to slow down my thoughts. But it feels like my hands should be shaking or my arms should be frozen at the elbow. After all, isn't there an invisible rod of hot steel driven thorugh the elbow and up the arm? I guess my metaphor needs adjusting.

I have to call dad up and tell him to relax and tell him that it's a good thing we are taking all control over his money. He understands that mom can't have a credit card, because she will give out the numbers to anyone on the phone who asks for it and then forgets to tell dad what the call was about. So they subscribe to 15 magazines and mom can't read because she forgets what she just read and just sits there staring at the first paragraph over and over and dad, bless his heart(what's left of it) is mostly blind. He told me they keep sending him free gold coins and other collectables but he doesn't realize that like mom, he too is giving out credit card numbers and forgetting about it. They both sob when they think that they are going to a nursing home someday and there they will be seperated because homes haven't enough beds or double rooms. It isn't true, or doesn't have to be. I would gladly take them into our house. They could stay in Jon's room and have their own back door and a nice window over the herb garden. I could make a porch for dad to wheel out his chair and watch the sunrise. He might not see the trees or the flowers but I am sure the shining sun would make it through those clouds in his eyes. But they say it's too cold here. They want to stay in California where they can't afford to pay for an apartment and can't seem to remember how to handle money or meds and can't afford to pay someone to stay with them on weekends. Here they would be a treasure and I would care for them every day, every night. I could watch their meds, answer the phone and tell them my funny stories. But I would also probably have to watch them die. The role of the shaman is not only to cure, but to help people die. We are close to the Crone because we frequently have to help spirits find their way Home.

I need a cup of coffee to help speed these meds along. the cloud of pain over my own eyes is masking the promise of this morning. I don't want to dwell on it and my parents pain. I want to talk to a chickadee, open the hen house and look out across my sleeping garden and see this summer, with everything growing and blooming. The garden is like the snake which goes underground, sheds it's skin and is reborn as a new shiney beast. My garden will be filled with flowers and fruit and soft smells of lavender, rosemary and hops. In the summer when my arm hurts enough to wake me up I will grab my coffee and walk out into the garden to let the pain go away amidst the beds of lettuce, tomatoes and beans. I'll reach out to connect with my Goddess and tell her I thank her for this pain, for this reminder that I am part of this world, bound to it by my body and soul. Like the serpant I will shed this skin and emerge as a shiney new me.

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