Safety

safety: (noun) the condition of being protected from or unlikely to cause danger, risk, or injury; [as a modifier] denoting something designed to prevent injury or damage

safe: (adjective) protected from or not exposed to danger or risk, not likely to be harmed or lost; not likely to cause or lead to harm or injury; not involving danger or risk; of a place, affording security or protection; often derogatory, cautious and unenterprising; based on good reasons or evidence and not likely to be proved wrong; uninjured, with no harm done
Origin: Middle English (as an adjective): from Old French sauf, from Latin salvus 'uninjured'. The noun is from the verb SAVE, later assimilated to the adjectival form.

http://oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/safety

http://oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/safe?q=safe
________________________________________________________________________________

Remembering

Easter morning we'd wake, head down the stairs just as we'd do at Christmas, but rather than half-eaten Santa cookies, we'd find bunny prints on a piece of paper beside the five or so baskets on each side of the table...Five for my brother and five for me, with one, large family basket in the center of the table.  Every holiday--every Easter--was bigger...more baskets, filled with more candy, more stuffed animals, more of everything (the stuffed animals were bought in duplicate for fairness, and stored, wrapped individually in twisty-tied shopping bags inside the cedar chest on the far side of my bedroom).

For meals, breakfast and dinner, there was more of everything too.  A trip to the local bakery the day or two before, would create a tower of sweet things: bunny cupcakes, seasonal cookies, and strange pastries part of other people's traditions...if it was someone's tradition, it was our tradition. We hijacked other traditions.  Dinner was ham, pineapple stuffing, mac & cheese casserole, some corn-based concoction, rolls with the lamb-shaped butter, and other assorted sides.  Dessert involved all of the above mentioned items, plus the homemade peanut butter and coconut cream eggs, the homemade chocolates, and whatever else was around.  There was always too much and it was never enough.

There'd be hyacinth candles burning, hyacinth flowers sitting in pastel wrapping, Easter decor everywhere. One my mother's Jewish friends from nursing school (this IS how Mom referred to her)came to visit just after we'd ceremoniously unpacked the stuffed animals and lined them up on the fireplace mantle and wherever else they'd fit, and this friend asked if she should expect a bunny to pop out of the oven.  That is just how much Easter there was.

On Easter, though, I looked for two things: my Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs (I may or may not have stolen them out of the other baskets and burried them under the Easter grass in mine) and, most importantly, the handful of new books I'd receive in my baskets.  They were always classics (Kipling, Twain, Stevenson, Poe, Alcott, Bronte, etc.). I'd retreat with those books, the newness of them and their promise of safe 'lost' and I had a way to be alone...to be safe.

Safety has always been solitary.

Thinking

Safety (the noun, the THING) is established by thinking and feeling through a sensually based moment in which what you think and feel matches up with what you see, what you touch, what you smell, what you hear, and what you taste.  The balance--the match-up--can occur in a second, or over a period of time. Slight-seeming shifts send safety spiraling towards danger and vulnerability-- again occurring within a second, or over a period of time. Through can be direct or indirect.  Through is through regardless.  What you think or feel through seeing, touching, smelling, hearing, or tasting can be thrown out of balance when any of those senses reattaches historic (recent or more distant past) perception onto a thought or feeling, leaving safety (the thing) illusive and manifesting somewhere along an 'I remember' spectrum stretching from  'something's off' to full-blown anxiety, panic, and beyond.  Establishing safety, then, is contingent on collecting and recognizing, sometimes replacing but ultimately balancing out, the perceptions responsible for tipping us out of balance.

Feeling

Safe (the adjective pointing towards the thing) taps and ducks, taps and ducks, playing, leading me to identify who, what, where, when, I am safe.  The safe job, the safe feeling, the safe piece of writing, the safe telling, the safe person, the safe time, the safe...and it goes on and on and on, challenging me to ask and think too many questions to manage.  To come back from the questions I search for present.

In a present moment...

I see sunshine rising, first lighting the sky in color, then bathing grass pushing sporadic green blades through the brown and I recall walking, alone, safely towards the creek far beyond my Mom-Mom's house.  Through the soggy, mushy-brown earth leading up to the spot that was all mine.  A safe spot.

I touch the outer edge of this ceramic mug, warming between my hands as I wrap my finger around simply for the warmth.

I smell that coffee, breathing its oils and steam into the air yet untouched by breakfast. 

I hear birds as though I'd never heard them before, squeaking out a language that, in moments of quiet, seems so much more capable of expressing joy and pain than words or tears.

I taste that piece of Easter chocolate that, in all of its glorious, silky-sweet goodness, has yet to reach my lips. 

I remember other Easters...ones that didn't feel safe, but rather chaotic, dysfunctional, hurried, and hurting, and sometimes, that taste of chocolate, coupled with an event, tastes of chaos and sadness. 

Sometimes playing with words though--reading words--like I am this morning, brings back my solitary safety...one that smells of old books.

Enough

enough: as much or as many as required; used to indicate that one is unwilling to tolerate any more of something undesirable; to the required degree or extent

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/enough

_______________________
"The Heal of Enough"

Am I

Gin?

gin gin gin gin

gin gin gin gin

the little 'gin that could

You call 'Gin' and I want to get on-board believing 'Gin' is quite enough to get drunk on. I want to listen...want to guide hazel globes up to see you see me as you apparently do.  You tell me, 'stubborn is a huge compliment, Gin'-- gin gin gin gin, gin gin gin gin. You tell me to 'believe you're better to start rather than assuming everyone else is better, Gin' -- gin gin gin gin, gin gin gin gin.

I chug challenge, spending 34 years, give or take a few glistening moments of clarity, hungover-- dizzy, spinning, remembering in half-connected snapshots-- my head bouncing off stairs, a knife thrown, a door slammed, cop cars, guns, a park, a hole in the wall, a beard...doctors, odd instruments, hazy PET scan images and girls without hair like 'Gin'--

gin gin gin gin--
gin gin gin gin--

I steam forward, the call of the name I hear you call begging me to stay on-board with staying on track--keep on keepin' on...

I want to believe faster--heal faster. I am patient--but I'm tired-- a tired like the chemo treatment tired the night after the chemo treatment steroid buzz-- a tired where all the nerves and pathways resting just beneath my skin, pinch closed, hold at choking room temperature, whimper without making noise. I am tired 'Gin.'

But you tell me, "Don't doubt yourself, Gin" and I feel it when I let myself feel it because at that stop on the tracks-- from this side of the tracks-- I do, sometimes, feel it and so I keep going...patiently...

gin gin gin gin, gin gin gin gin,

the bigger 'Gin' that can

I am...

____________________________
I could yell 'ENOUGH' or I could yell 'NO' and I'd be saying the same thing.  I would no longer "tolerate any more of" anything that isn't something I want.  But what do I want?  What are my expectations in saying, and believing, I can yell and will say ENOUGH?

Or is it about that at all?  Is the power I give ENOUGH about the "required degree or extent" and what that means for me--the comparisons created between someone or something and Gin?

As I gin gin gin gin
gin gin gin gin
I only hope, when the train stops,
I am
enough.

Or

Or: (conjunction) used to link alterntives; introducing a synonym or explanation of a preceding word or phrase; otherwise (used to introduce the consequences of something not being done or not being the case); introducing an afterthought, usually in the form of a question; archaic either

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/or
_________________________________

"Anxiety Or"

overwhelmed or
underwhelmed
unsteadily off
today this is
how I feel today,
right now,
presently how I felt
last night...assaulted
swallowed
when I can't
swallow time
I box it
figure out
how to move
since when I can't
I can't
couldn't
wouldn't
focus
my eyes blur nouns
blur verbs
people, places, things,
deactivate  I
look past or
through
instead of at....

It's hard to breathe
or I'm
breathing more--
or faster
with more effort
making effortless
impossible making me
want to cry
yet when I want, I
can't, so I don't
and feel beatings
poundings
pounding
beating
reminding me I want  
or wanted to run
but still
I can't
and when I can't,
I can't focus,
and around
and around
or around
I go--
an amusement ride
blurred
a long night
with head pain,
and chest pain,
pain leaking, tired, forgotten
bones try to hold me
but they can't...
or I can't....
a part of me
they aren't mine
while spinning...
spinning...

unsteadily off-balance
convinced no one can see it
or feel it
or cares to
or whatever else
a person could
put after or....
or what I'm
looking for or from
someone, or anyone, or I
am overwhelmed and underwhelmed
or hurt

Light

Light: (noun) the natural agent that stimulates sight and makes things visible; understanding of a problem or mystery; enlightenment; a device that makes something start burning, as a match, lighter, or flame; a window or opening in a wall to let light in.

Visible light is electromagnetic radiation whose wavelength falls within the range to which the human retina responds, i.e., between about 390 nm (violet light) and 740 nm (red). White light consists of a roughly equal mixture of all visible wavelengths, which can be separated to yield the colors of the spectrum, as was first demonstrated conclusively by Newton. In the 20th century it has become apparent that light consists of energy quanta called photons that behave partly like waves and partly like particles. The velocity of light in a vacuum is 299,792 km per second.

http://oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/light?q=Light
_____________________________

Last night the synchronistic world spun me again.  I'd decided early on in the week that I wanted to write on light for this week's blog, but despite knowing that clearly, when I sat down to do the writing nothing came...at all. 

I found a photograph on Etsy this week I'm holding in my cart (I am an Etsy.com dork-and-a-half).  I'm rather attached to it, so much so that I started looking for other ways I might incorporate the elements of that image into my daily life. The photograph shows a bright blue sky and a bird flying through the flowering branches of a cherry blossom.  For those of you who've had the chance to read my piece in The Survivor's Review (http://www.survivorsreview.org/features.php?vol=14&art=202), you might recognize that this picture sounds reminiscent of the skylights above the chairs in the chemotherapy wing.  In that piece, light plays a large part. In that experience, being and remaining present played the largest part.

So how, you ask, did the synchronistic world spin? Just as I was getting ready for bed last night, my sister-in-law posted a picture of an art project she thought I might enjoy (because she, like so many others, knows I'm also an art project dork-and-a-half)...and that project involves creating paint flowers very much like cherry blossoms using the 'blooms' on the underside of soda bottles.

Take this a step further: One of my goals for month two as I seek an organic, yet thoughtful, place of health, wellness, acceptance, and love, is to begin working again in the room I'm converting to my studio space. This space, one where I'd planned color set off by calm, sits with a single coat of paint and has been this way for months. I've been stuck, unable to move forward and complete this room of my own (that 'other' Virginia was correct in the need for us all to have such a space). When the final coat of paint goes on, and dries, I planned to paint a tree reaching from floor, and then onto, the ceiling.  Perhaps now, I need to let enough light in so that cherry blossoms bloom on the branches. Perhaps continuing in the room is contingent on allowing myself to swim within the present.

When I'd lay my head back mid-chemo treatment, drug A, B, V, or D moving through my system, and look up to, and then through, the cherry blossom skylights, I went back and forward in time, yet managed to stay connected to that present for a number of reasons (not the least of which was because I was connected to an IV, hung from the IV tree, the roots of which carried medicine, hydration, and steroids to the sore port in my chest). Uncertainty in a threatened life, like uncertainty when creating art, leaves you with 'your feet firmly planted in mid-air.'  The air there is full of light pushing its way through,  provided you sit patiently watching for, and believe in, the possibility it will come.

My bedroom window is open today, the potential of a new season being heartedly chirped by a pair of cardinals. I woke to stunning light. This week I will try to believe that light can stay and that I, like the light, deserve to shine visibly. 

P.S. I might also work in my room.

P.P.S. I might also buy the photo from Etsy ;)

Well

well: (adverb) in a good or satisfactory way, in a thorough manner, very probably, (adjective) in good health; free or recovered from illness, in a satisfactory state or position, sensible; advisable, (exclamation) used to express a range of emotions including surprise, anger, resignation, or relief, (noun) a shaft sunk into the ground to obtain water, oil, or gas; an enclosed space in the middle of a building, giving room for stairs or an elevator, or to allow light or ventilation; in physics a region of minimum potential, (verb) rise to the surface and spill or be about to spill

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/well
http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/american_english/well--2

_____________________

On October 16th, 1987 I sat with my Mom-Mom and watched the TV coverage as rescuers pulled Baby Jessica from a well.  That night, while my father was having heart surgery, Mom-Mom was watching my younger brother and I.  I waited on wellness-- Baby Jessica's and my father's.  I remember the TV pictures that night and waiting for, and getting, the phone call.  Mom-Mom took the call on the corded rotary phone mounted in the dual-purpose laundry/bathroom.  I don't know what was said, but the sense of the image was all would be OK. Though I wasn't aware of ages at the time, I know now my father was 37.  I was 9. Baby Jessica was out of the well and my father was out of surgery.

On April 4th, 2011 I packed a bag of coping strategies and drove the Buick to the parking garage attached to the hotel attached to The Hospital at the University of Pennsylvania.  I was less attached to what was happening than the buildings were attached to each other.  A few hours later, early in the morning, I walked through the connections to check-in where Kim completed all the remaining admission responsibilities prior to her open-heart surgery later that morning.  That morning, while I waited, I stared at another TV--one which tracked her progress from pre- to post-op.  For the most part, I didn't move from my seat.  Those who were with me stayed fairly close as well.  I didn't read or write or draw or use anything I'd brought in the coping bag meant to keep me occupied.  I was so full-- so connected, yet so disconnected--there was no space for anything.

Hours later, the desk in the waiting room received the call and we were sent to a room on another floor.Surgery had gone well.  And with the declaration of well, everything I was full of, spilled...

I could have cried for hours... I almost wish I had.  That 'well' started as spilling out of relief-- fear, love, anger, sadness, worry, joy all worked their way in-- though the spill wasn't just about Kim being OK. It was about my father's surgeries, my Mom-Mom's death, childhood, cancer, fat, feeling alone, and being loved.  In the hallway, the tears stopped-- I made calls, sent text messages, informed so many people that all was well.  Not long after, I saw Kim.  A bit later, I ate dinner.  Within what seemed a few minutes, the small handful of people who'd come for the surgery left for home, and I went back to the hotel room alone.  

I opened the curtains on the wide windows looking out to the track used for the Penn Relays and beyond that, the Philadelphia skyline.  Growing up just outside the city, it was a skyline I knew vividly.  If I put the local news on, it was, in many ways, the same local news I'd left behind when I moved to go to school years and years ago.

Sitting in the evenings was hard.  I felt little-- back at home, out of control, and alone.  

By the morning, the newness of the day was enough to move me forward.  A cup of coffee, a shower, a little bit of morning TV...  and then back through the maze of connections to the hospital room with the bag of coping strategies (some books I'd never read, and some art projects I did spend much of the time Kim slept, working on).  

I've not managed to get back to the spilling.  When I get as full as I was that day, well, I either stay full or the fullness comes out as exhaustion, moodiness, or an ADD need to keep moving and keep doing.  I'm not able to sit with it as I had that day or as I had each day I had a chemo treatment.

A new part of my wellness involves working with meditation. I'm trying to sit with anything. The first meditation proved interesting.  After about twenty minutes, an image of my Grandmom Grove's backyard gazebo came forward, and with it the word 'enough.'  It was spellbinding. The process had presented its own mystery, yet what it meant beyond what it was, I had no desire to solve.

Subsequent sessions haven't painted images. They have left me spinning certain words from their original--example: The jug fills drop by drop BECOMES The drug fills-- and though I was able to abandon attempting to decode 'gazebo' or 'enough' my mind, wired to over-analyze, desperately wants to figure out this puzzle. Why is one word becoming another?

This morning I woke on the other side of a dream. It started out one way and became something quite different. Inside my parents' house, in a back corner of the living room, two women told me of their desire to publish my book. It felt right. Then they handed out pages and my mother divided them between my father, my brother, and herself. I told her she wasn't to read it, but she continued, making edits, in pencil, all over the pages.  I stared down. When they were done, my brother also stared down, my father said nothing, my mother told me that I'd better check my facts. I no longer felt right.  I just wanted peace even if peace meant voiceless. Back in the living room, one of the two women asked for direction to the bathroom.  I escorted her and she did not return.  Then, I woke.

Perhaps the reason visual art feels so much safer than words is because it is less editable. Perhaps it contributes to my wellness more, as a result.  Perhaps it is why, with all the memories I have, that pictures come back most readily, or why, with that bag full of coping strategies, I was never able to read or write but completed an art project...after the spill I still have yet to knock over again.

(below is the art piece I worked on while Kim was in the hospital... A scratchboard drawing...perhaps of full...)