Quote......

"A lot of people are afraid of heights. Not me, I'm afraid of widths."
------Steven Wright

Made me chuckle. I have to face a lot of scary widths in my line of work!
Peace.

Harvest.............

They're harvesting the winter wheat out at the farm these days. There's a coat of fine, golden dust on everything in my house. I hear the sound of that big machine in the mornings before work and in the evenings when I come home.

I was watching the combine making its way up and down the fields as the sun was starting to set. The farmer harvests the way I mow that big old yard, changing directions sometimes, and working one side of the road for awhile, then crossing over and working the other side, then back across - a change of scenery, I guess. I was thinking that there's probably something pretty zen about driving that combine up and down those fields. In a big kind of way. You know what I mean? Like the way painting a wall is zen - just on a huge scale. I hadn't thought about mowing the yard as being a zen type of experience before. Mostly, I think of it as hard work!! Especially in this blasted heat! But, now that I'm getting ready to move away from the farm and the big yard, I'm thinking that it's not so bad. In the way that such things are not so bad. Hard work, yes. Physically demanding, yes. (It's a really big yard!). But, in doing that work, there's a place that the mind can go and be rested.

I wonder if the farmer has to try not to fall asleep! Or if he drifts off into another place as he goes up and down and back and forth across those fields. I think I'd like that job. Maybe just for a season, just to see what it would be like.

I'm going to miss the wheat fields. They were a beautiful sight this winter. In the midst of all the cold air, blue blue skies, and bare trees, there were these deep green fields of winter wheat. I had a daily reminder that spring was not far away. And then this summer, they have turned a glowing, burnt gold. When I drive out the road to the Homeplace, it seems like that burnt gold stretches for miles. Even though I can see the road and the trees and the edges of the fields, it still seems like they go on for miles. Ever hear Sting's song "Fields of Gold"?

"You'll remember me when the west wind moves among the fields of barley.
You"ll forget the sun in his jealous sky when we walk in fields of gold."

Back to work now. Charts to do and then packing, packing, and more packing. It is my ability to daydream while doing other tasks that saves me!!

Peace.

In honor of Ireland.......

My son Jacob is leaving for Ireland today. He'll be tooling around the countryside there for the next nine days! I can't wait to swap tales with him. He'll be travelling to many of the same places that I visited on my first trip there. Ireland is just one of those places that gets into the blood of some of us and never leaves......... I've a feeling it'll do the same to Jacob. The following is a short piece I wrote during my first trip to Ireland. In the Song Lyrics of the Day section is a song that I wrote after my second trip. I'm posting these in honor of Jacob's trip. And him, too! Peace.

3 July 2001 - Ring of Kerry - Ireland

There is a sense of belonging for me here - like coming home, like I have been here before and have been gone away for a long time. As if I have memories from another childhood of running along the edges of the hills here, watching the sea, chasing the breeze.

The color of Ireland will always be for me - green. Green and stone. Green that lends a brightness to the air and a soft, cool place to rest my eyes. My eyes have learned a hundred new shades of green in just a few short days. But I will close my eyes back home and see those greens again - and I will open my eyes and see them new in my own hills. The colors of stone cross the green, bringing a sense of order across the wild. Like the stone fences of Ireland and Wales, the greys and the greens touch one another but they do not blend.

The taste of Ireland will, of course, be the taste of Guiness Stout in a pint glass. Guiness and potatoes. Potatoes in every form. Potatoes cooked in a thick hot soup with leeks and parsley; potatotes fried crisp with just a lingering hint of fish; potatoes boiled with white skins peeling or red skins split; potatoes with gravy seasoned with savory. I will taste the wind of Ireland whenever I put a potato on my tongue and remember the damp, cool air and the rocking Irish sea as I crossed over from Wales to Dublin.

The smell of Ireland will be the smell of my grandmother's kitchen from my childhood memory - the smell that greeted me each time I opened the door to my room in Killarney. How that smell crossed an ocean and thirty-five years is nothing less than a miracle. The sweet sticky smell of beer splashed against old wood and the smell of burning peat in a small, shady low-built house. Ireland will be the smell of the woods after a rain, the smell of leaves washed clean, the smell of water on grass and trees - the smell of green. How can green smell? In Ireland, it does! You walk down the street in the countryside and you can smell the green on all sides of yourself.

And what about the feel of Ireland? What does my skin tell me to remember of this place? Ireland will be the feel of a cool night's breeze blowing across my shoulder as it comes through the curtain and across to my bed. Ireland will be the scratchy feel of wool against my neck, wool that is warm against a chill. Ireland will be the feel of my hair blown in all directions by wind off the sea; the soft kiss of a rain that is not quite falling. Ireland will be the feel of a song rising from my belly up through my throat - the song I can't hold back. How can I keep from singing? And Ireland will be the feel of fingers against damp stone worn smooth by time. If I hold a stone in my hand and let my fingers feel its smooth underside, I will be back in Ireland again. Over and over I could rub until I rubbed it away before I would lose the memory of touching stone and trees and wood and water in Ireland.

And, lastly, what will be the sound of Ireland in the place where I store my memories? The sound of Ireland will be the sound of feet tapping on wooden floors and fingers rapping on tabletops; the sound of voices all talking and laughing at once, rising together in a chorus that carries the lilt of contentment; the sound of voices joining together in song and reverent ceremony at closing time in a little neighborhood pub in Dublin. The sound of the fiddle and pipes or the mournful call of the low whistle; the sound of a breath drawn in quickly at the sight of something so lovely that I know I'll not ever be able to express that loveliness to another; and the sound of a quiet, peaceful sigh that says, "I am happy to be alive." Any time now that I hear that sound - the sound of a contented sigh carrying a smile with it - I will remember walking the streets of Killarney or driving the highways above the sea, and I will remember how it was to be in the hills of Ireland with a song in my throat, a smile on my face, and happiness in the doorway of my heart.

Good news......

Laurie's staying! Laurie joined our practice last year, right after finishing midwifery school. Our practice is a tough practice - lots of difficult patients, lots of high risk patients, lots of blatant misuse and downright abuse of the system.......... the perfect set-up for burn-out. I can understand the draw of a midwifery practice where folks actually care about what's happening with their own bodies and with their babies...... but she's decided to hang in with us! I am so happy about that. I like Laurie so much - as a person, as a midwife. And I am relieved, too, that all the things I was worrying about are not going to take place!!

So what is it they say about worry being a waste of energy?!

More good news - it's supposed to cool off into the high 80's by Wednesday. Maybe I'll actually get some sleep (as opposed to that sweat-drenched, feverish, restless, weird-dream-filled thing that I've been going through instead of really sleep-sleeping!). Living on the Eastern Shore without air conditioning has made me appreciate the "cooler" days.

My father is 80, my mother is 76. They are both holding their own and doing a fine job of it. I am more grateful for that than anything else these days. They are my cornerstone. They are a huge part of what makes me, me.

Life is good.

Is it pretending or is it coping......

"Every day I am an actress, with a smiling face I play my part......."

Is it acting or is it coping? I've been thinking about that a lot lately. Bruce Jackson, a doctor that I've known for many years, recently commited suicide. He was new to Boone when I first became a nurse, some 20 years ago. He was very patient with me and took the time to help me learn. He called me into the birthing room on my last day of orientation and told me that I was going to deliver my first baby. I was getting ready to start night shift, and, if a nurse is going to unexpectedly need to catch a baby, night shift is the most likely place for that to happen. He wanted me to catch my first baby with a doc standing right there, talking me through it. He put his hands right on top of mine and showed me how to help ease the baby out. I remember the exhillaration! When the baby came out, a big splash of amniotic fluid came out behind it (as it usually does) and he looked at me with a huge grin and said, "Uh oh! You know what that means!? Once you get your feet all wet, you're addicted." And he was right. I was. That was 20 years ago. My hands still do exactly what he showed me. 1200 babies later, I still remember that very first one.

A couple of years ago, Dr. Jackson asked me if I wanted to start my own practice in Boone. I had been laid off and was working as a nurse - back in the same hospital where I started, doing night shift again like a new-bee. Returning to Boone as a nurse-midwife has been a dream of mine for many years. Since before I even went to graduate school. I jumped at the chance. But things did not go well for us. Dr. Jackson had changed a lot. He had a lot of anger sometimes. It was a side of him I didn't know existed, and it troubled me greatly. We couldn't make it work. So I closed my practice and several months later, after Jacob had graduated, I moved here to the Eastern Shore.

Dr. Jackson was a very good actor. At least in a public sense. I don't know about his personal life. I only know that he struggled with one relationship after another, personally and professionally. I wonder if everyone else was as stunned as I was by his suicide. I had no idea that his soul was that troubled. Should I have known? Should he have acted his part so well?

When people struggle with the darkness of depression, is it wrong for them to smile and live "normally" outside of themselves? Are they acting or are they coping? In my own battles with depression and sadness, I know I have acted well. As a single mom, I acted well for the benefit of my children. They often knew when sadness was sitting on my shoulder, but they, too, learned to act as though she wasn't there. I always knew when Jacob knew my sadness was hanging around again, though. He stayed closer to me, touched me more, and tried to make me laugh. When I couldn't laugh, he worked hard (and always succeeded) at making me proud.

We were acting, maybe, probably - okay, we were. But we were coping. More often than not, I don't acknowledge it as acting - I see it as my way of coping with the heavy weight of Sadness. Moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other, interacting with the rest of the world, smiling -pretending or not - that always seemed to lighten the burden of her.

I have thought about Dr. Jackson every day since I heard about his death. Not obsessively, but persistently. I see his face. I hear his way of speaking. And I keep wondering how a person can act that well? Can carry that much rage and hide it? Though bits of it leaked out, I don't think many of us knew he had that much rage inside. And only rage, it seems to me, could motivate such an act. I wonder how he could hurt his children so. And his mother. And his brothers and sisters. I have been praying and praying and praying.

I reach out my hands. It took me such a long time to learn that one simple thing. Just to reach out my hands when times are tough. I wish that Dr. Jackson could have done the same thing.

Peace to you. Peace to Dr. Jackson's family. In time, I know. Peace to them, too.

Oh, I miss my children.......

There are some days that I miss my children so much I can hardly breathe. I ache from the inside out. Hearing their voices on the phone is just not the same as being in their company, watching their expressive faces as they talk, reaching out my hand and feeling their warmth...... I know that this is part of life. That children grow and become adult and go off to seek lives of their own making. I know that, at some point in time, I will adjust to this empty nest bit. I wonder if I will always have days, though, that I miss them like this today, this aching.

I keep wondering when it's going to get easier. In her wisdom, my friend Bobbi pointed out to me last weekend that my children were with me for a long time. Does that mean that it'll be eighteen years before this gets better?!

In my defense, I would have to say that I've spent most of the past year and a half trying to adjust to too many things at one time - a new job, a new community, a new culture...... At times, it was so overwhelming that I just had to compartmentalize and focus on one thing at a time. Primarily, that's been my job since that's the whole reason I'm here in the middle of nowhere and five hours away from the nearest family member and eight hours away from my closest friends! I think I've come to grips with that, for the most part, and realized I'll probably continue to long for my mountains until I'm there again.

I am incredibly proud of my sons. They're both doing so well in school and making their way forward in the world. They're both good men. Good-hearted, gentle souls. I wouldn't want them to NOT be flying free now. Guess I just wish they'd fly home more often. Life is just too damn busy.

I went to church with my parents last Sunday when I was home for the weekend. My five-year-old niece, Alex, went with us. She is an incredibly beautiful child, as is her brother, Luke. She sat on my lap through most of the second half of the service. She snuggled against me, and I soaked up her warmth. I could have stayed there in that church pew all afternoon, just holding her, listening to her happy chatter, let her fall asleep there if she wanted to - I'd have held her all afternoon. It was so sweet. Gave me a vision of things that might come in the future, when the boys are older and maybe ready to settle down. I think they both want to be dads at some point down the road. That'll make me a grammy.

I think I'll make a cool grammy.

Maybe that'll be when I stop missing my children so much..... 'cause I'll be missing my grandchildren? Is that how it works? Probably not. I think maybe I'll just have to move down the street from them!! Or maybe just in the same neighborhood!

Peace everyone. Peace to my boys.

In defense of opera...........

We had our annual Stevens family "Night at the Opera." We had a blast. We saw Madama Butterfly, touted as the "world's favorite opera". My son Jacob and I were both excited about seeing Madama Butterfly. We were wondering if our respective votes would change for our own favorite operas.

The production was well done. Staging was excellent. The set was beautiful. At one point, I leaned over and asked Jacob if he thought the tree on stage was a real tree. It certainly looked real. There were tearful moments in the second act, especially the end of the first scene when Butterfly stands peering out through the screen - all night - watching for her beloved to come. The woman who sang Butterfly's part was a tiny woman (especially for an opera singer!) and fit the part well. The woman singing the part of Suzuki, Butterfly's trusted servant, had an absolutely beautiful voice - even better than the two leads! I loved hearing her singing. All in all, the whole event was great, and I'm so glad we all got to go.

I didn't change my vote for my favorite, though. My favorite opera is still Tosca. Jacob's vote didn't change, either. His remains La Boheme. La Boheme runs a very close second to Tosca in my book.

We had a glorious Italian dinner at Cafe Luna before the opera. Shared a couple of bottles of fine wine around the table. Not a lot of wine, mind you, just the right amount. Had us all feeling warm and mellow - the right mood for a night at the opera. We all had our dress-up clothes on. I'm starting to worry now that someone is going to notice soon that I only have one dress-up dress (since I've worn it a couple of years now in a row!!). There were thirteen of us at the table together. My mother and father (my dad just celebrated his 80th birthday on May 19th and my mom, her 76th birthday was Monday!), my sister Karen and her daughter Jennifer (now 25!!), my brother Jay and his wife Patience (or Patey as we call her), my sister Emily, my younger brother Eric and his wife Tina, Tina's mom Sally, Patey's dad Dave, my son Jacob and me.

It's a cool thing we do every year. How many families get to do something like this? I mean - think about it. We're just an average, middle-class, baby boomer family. Two folks married 55 years now and five kids - three girls, two boys. We aren't rich or high society. We were just raised by a man who has a dear love for opera. And he's passed that down. Once a year, we all put on our fancy clothes and high heels, and we have dinner at the Cafe Luna, a very nice upscale Italian restaurant in downtown Raleigh, then we take the shuttle over to the Arts Center and see the opera. How cool is that? I've come to love this tradition. So has my son Jacob - he saw his first opera at 16! My dad buys the tickets in November, so we plan it months ahead of time.

If you get a chance, go SEE an opera. They are wonderful to listen to when you can WATCH them at the same time. You'll develop a whole new respect and sense of enjoyment for the experience. It is absolutely amazing what people are able to do with the human voice. It is a gift. It is an art.

Chao!