Tunnel of History - 2

 

I reach for a stone to drop down the well to check where the water level is.  The one I pick up is covered with seashell fossils from when these Ozark Mountains were under oceans millennium ago.  I place it in my satchel to add to the others I’ve collected.  It always amazes me that here, in the middle of the United States, there was once ocean.  Finding another plain stone, I drop it and listen.  No ‘splash’ of stone hitting water, but instead, the sound of ‘plop’ onto dirt.  OK, not a well but a tunnel as the stair-ladder indicates.  What else will I find?

  

Fixing the flashlight to attach to the side of my neck with the bandana I always carry and have used in this manner before, I free my hands for going down the narrow pieces of wood.  Turning around, I gingerly step backwards and down the first rung, using my arms to balance and thinking perhaps, I should get down on all fours and ease down.  I am no longer as agile as I once was.  I decide to use an overhanging branch as leverage to step down the second rung, then the third and fourth as I check for dry rot on each.  At last my hands can grab the wooden steps, trying to avoid splinters.  Finally my head drops below the level of the surface.  The flashlight shines brightly on the close earthen walls.

 

Ouch! What’s that?  My right hand gets cut as it moved to gain another purchase on the ladder.  An arrowhead!  When is this from?  I pry it out of the earth and examine at it.  As common as they are around here, I still thrill to unearth one.  Is it Osage, Caddo or Cherokee?  Hard to tell.  Could be from the very early days when many of the American Indian tribes criss-crossed this area either for hunting grounds or summer camps in the hills.  Or maybe from the Trail of Tears, or “the trail where they cried”, which passed through this area as over 1,000 Cherokees led by John Benge trudged through here in January of 1839.  I’ll put this into my satchel to check out later when I get back.

  

Finally I reach bottom.  I detach my flashlight from its cloth holder so I can maneuver the light better.  I fold up and place the bandana back into the satchel, then look around.  I’m standing in a dead-end of a tunnel that appears to slant downward from here.   

 

Do I dare go further?  I’m intrigued by all the recent TV programs on the Manhattan underground and London underground, and all the various tunnels for systems under cities for pipes, electric, water, sewer and subway systems.  Even underground cisterns as in Masada and New York City, and underground shelters in Roman times and in London in World War II – all fascinating!  Yet this is creepy, too.  Where does this lead?  What else is down here?  I think of all the stuff nightmares are made of: darkness, bugs, spiders, monsters, the unknown.  I think I should go back.

 

But what if it’s part of the Underground Railroad?  Or an escape route during the Civil War when the North/South line moved back and forth across this area?  I decide I’ll walk just a little further.

 

Cautious steps, one after the other, all going down a slight slope.  Something skitters nearby, causing me to stop as my heart pounds and I move my flashlight towards the sound.  It’s only a salamander.  How pretty!  It looks like a clown with those black polka dots on a bright orange smooth body.

  

A few more steps and I stop again as I hear another noise, but this sounds like water lapping softly onto the shore.  This intensifies as I continue along. 

 

Then I step into what appears to be a large cave with a rock ledge running along one side and expanding past a pool of water that is mostly calm but with just enough motion to create the lapping sound.  Is water flowing in?  I watch, but the water isn’t rising.  Maybe it is flowing in and out? 

 

Aiming the light so it follows the ledge out over the pool, I see some things piled there.  I climb up and walk out further a bit on the solid ledge.  An old bashed-in tin cup, maybe for getting pool water to drink?  Someone hiding out waiting to connect up with the Butterfield Stagecoach, which passed nearby?  Back here, near the rock wall, a pile of feathers interspersed with bits of disintegrating cloth… no, it’s burlap sacking.  Maybe this had been someone’s sleeping pallet… for a slave dreaming of freedom?  for a soldier dreaming of peace?  for a settler dreaming of escape?   

 

And of what do I dream as I stand here in this tunnel of history?  Of the interconnectiveness of all things, the ebb and flow of life, the weaving of patterns, the wonder of it all.  But mostly, of the even bigger Wonder beyond it all!

 

My reverie finally breaks.  A little further along the ledge, I see a pile of charred wood and something half buried in the ashes.  How long ago was this fire snapping and crackling?  What’s this?  A partially burned wooden carved fish!  Symbol of Christians being here?  Fisherman?  Fish in the water? 

 

I go to the edge and peer into the deeper part of the pool.  Yes, I see fish swimming, but they seem to be moving with a purpose, as a school of fish, from left to right.  Is that how the current flows?  I watch closely.  Yes, it is.  Yet I don’t see an opening into the cave.  Must be underwater.  I’m not a very good swimmer.  I think I’ll turn back.  This has been adventure enough and gives me plenty to write about.

 

But where are these fish going?

Into The Well - 1

 

I finished glancing through a Toscano catalog, enjoying all the beautiful sculptures suitable for putting in the garden.  Most everything was too expensive for me to ever buy, but just looking always inspired me with garden ideas more suitable for my budget.  So I then decide to wander through the garden, as the various possibilities were still fresh.

 

I wander through the flower and vegetable gardens, around the huge wild rose bush in bloom, past the honeysuckle overgrowing the old fence, and roam through the back gate onto the rest of the property, all wild and abandoned.  Clumps of daisies and cluster of late-blooming daffodils poke through wild grasses and tumbled stone, evidence of caring habitation in the old homestead that had been here years ago.  Part of the local stone chimney was evident, now a haven for snakes and other critters.   Giving the chimney a wide berth, I move behind it toward a particularly beautiful setting of blackberry flowers cascading on prolific branches.  They seem to form a circle with an opening in the center, but as I walk around the perimeter, I’m not able to penetrate within.  Something smaller was needed to avoid all the thorns… Yes, a bee.

 

I throw my garden/woods-wandering satchel over the blackberries wall and shape-shift into a bee able to fly between branches to avoid the thorns.  But the overpowering fragrance calls to me to stop and collect some pollen.  And then I fly to the next flower, and the next.  Wait a minute… I’m a bee in order to egress to the center, not to stop at every flower for pollen.  It can be hard to become something and not get caught into all the aspects of that something, all the instincts and attachments.  Focus… focus…   

 

I shoot straight to the center and see a round wooden plank cover lying there, encrusted with moss in places.  A metal handle pokes out of the center, so I shift back into my overweight self and pick up the satchel.  As I glance around I think back to the catalogue I had just seen and remember one of the items for sale entitled “The Dweller Below.”  This sculpture by artist Liam Manchester portrayed a legendary boogeyman rising from beneath the streets of London through a manhole cover.

 

 

 The sculpture gave me second thoughts about pulling the cover off, but really, what do boogeymen roaming the city-streets of London have to do with a well in Ozarks country.  Grunting, I pull off the cover and peer within, expecting to see water below.   Instead, there are stairs leading down into blackness.  What is this?  Not a water-well which are common around the farms here, but a passageway.  Where does it lead?  Could this have been an escape route in case of attack from rustlers or Indians way back?  How long ago was that homestead here?  Maybe it’s  more of an escape for during the Civil War when the North and South fought heavily in this area.  Part of the underground railway?  Where does this lead?

 

I pull out the flashlight from my satchel, glad the batteries were new, plus I had extra in the bag.  I tie a Kleenex on the tip of a nearby branch as evidence I was here, just in case… 

Questions for the Doctor

 

Let’s see now.  What else should I ask?  Where’s that list?  Oh, yes, so far I’ve got:

 

• Is it really cancer?  That word, cancer, sounds so unreal.  Mom and Dad had cancer so I guess it’s possible or probable that I would also.  Should that be the first question?  Well, it IS the first question. How can it not be?

 

• How big is the tumor?  I didn’t even feel it or know it was there.  How can it have been growing inside me and I not know it?  Just like Mom’s brain tumors growing big and no one knowing they were there.

 

• What, exactly, is adeno… adenocarcinoma of the uterus?  What a lovely sounding word, yet isn’t lovely to have.  ah-den-oh-car-sin-oh-mah    Just rolls off the tongue.  Could even be the name of a character in a story.  Adeno Carsin Oma was the grandmother (yes, the Oma) of five delightful grandchildren.  Oma loved to hold them when they were babies, but now they are growing up and don’t want to be held as much as to have stories told to them, particularly of the time when…

 

·        Could it be benign?  Or must it be malignant?  What will I tell everyone?  And coming too close after Sis’s operation for a benign but dangerously placed tumor near her pituitary gland.  I’m glad I had a chance to be with her during her recovery last month, but how will everyone deal with me having cancer right now?

 

• How long have I had it?  Growing inside, like my fingernails grow, like my cells grow, like all the life processes go on inside without my awareness.  A part of me wants to just get it out quickly, yet… really… it is just doing what is its nature to do.  Grow, survive, reproduce, grow more.  Just like us humans as we take over the earth thinking we are the important ones…free to kill animals and destroy forests and oceans…Who has the right to be here? Or maybe we all have the right to be here in this world of  duality.  Maybe we are all struggling souls.

    

• What is the treatment?  Treatment?  Is treatment necessary?  What exactly are we treating?  Something that will continue to grow and take over my body and all its processes.  Something that is doing what it is designed to do at the expense of the “me” I know.  So many other aspects of my body have changed over the years, is this the final change?  Or can it be altered?  What is the right thing to do?  I sure don’t know what is best for me spiritually.  What is “Thy Will”?  What is best for my spiritual self?  What lessons are yet to be learned?  From what choice?  What is “Thy Will”? 

 

• Surgery?  Initial difficult shock for the body then 6 weeks of rest at home, then a long scar downmby belly.  If they can get it all, that’s the end of it.  No cancer and no more uterus. And after all my uterus has done for me – what a shame.  This seems to be the course for now and then we’ll see.  Six weeks of rest sounds good – a chance to meditate and mull and relax at home where I love to be, looking out at the garden and the clouds drifting by and the birds twittering and the butterflies and bees  as they enjoy the flowers.  

 

• Chemo?  Radiation?  We’ll wait and see about these possibilities until after the surgery is completed and the biopsy results are back.

 

• How long a recovery?  Is there ever a full recovery?  Perhaps physically, but how about emotionally?  I would think that experience stays with you forever, particularly if it becomes part of your personal growth.  And I would hope that something of this nature becomes an aware-part of personal growth.  What is the point of it all if not?  Part of the process of having us ready to move out of this world when it is our time.  Dying to live – living to die.  The only choice can be “Thy Will be Done!”

 

I guess that’s all the questions I can think of now.  I’m sure that others will come to mind as I listen to the doctor’s replies.  But I had better not misplace this list.  They say that you have just a few minutes of the doctor’s attention, so I want to have the essential questions ready–the important medical questions the doctor will think are relevant.  The rest is up to me and “Thy Will.”            

The Shape Shifter

 

Who am I? Who am I really?  What is my essence?  She wondered as she looked at herself in the puddle reflection.  She saw a pale child soaring through the skies, totally in tune with the white horse with silvery outstretched wings.  The puddle rippled and stilled, revealing a young woman in flowing white robes and moonstones circling her neck floating amongst the stars.  Yet she knew she was now perched on top of the slow-moving green-brown box turtle, a tiny woman with earth-tone skin.  And yet again, she was the middle aged (some would call her a senior citizen or maybe even a crone) much larger woman of pudgy features and developing wrinkles.  So, who am I, really?  Could I really be all of those people?  Have I been all of those people or am I now all of them, able to shift back and forth? 

 

For years, she had been aware of her ability to sometimes appear one way and sometimes another.  But it seemed that circumstances called forth the transformation: perhaps a winged horse and angel rider appearing at her grandparent’s upper floor apartment window ready to take her for a midnight ride around the city and the church steeple; perhaps a squirrel calling her to enter the tree hole and wind up scampering on the branches while feeding on sunflower seeds; perhaps the vastness of the ocean drawing her forth into the mer-person to swim and soar in the deep waters; perhaps the sounds of the Space-Between and the Sight of Him enticing her spirit-wisp towards That Star;  perhaps…; perhaps…; perhaps… all those other times when her form changed in response to some stimuli.

 

Or perhaps, there was no need for the stimuli to generate the transformation.  What if that shape-shifting ability was within herself?  Perhaps she could just visualize and become the shape she needed for further growth.  

 

She knew she needed quiet time to explore this facet of her being: quiet time to reflect on the best way to use her talent and not to squander it.  A place for her to come to discover who she really was; a place that was a healing haven.   Perhaps Lemuria was that place.

 

Dead-Nettle Mowing

pict-dead-nettle

All the steady rain brought forth lush growth of grass embedded within areas of, what turns out to be, purple dead-nettle.  I thought for years that it was heal-all that brought the beautiful lavender flowers to front yards everywhere around here.  Then henbit was mentioned as a possibility. 

After taking a flashlight and going outside at 4 am to pick a few strands of whatever-it-is, I got online today and researched it .  Purple dead-nettle is what the plants really are, as evidenced primarily by its petioles (leaf stalk) attaching the leaves to the square stem.   It does not sting like regular nettles; hence, the name dead-nettle.   I read that the tops and leaves are edible, usable in salads.  But, unfortunately, it spreads from seeds which continue to take over the lawn - front and back. 

So the best way of dealing with it is to mow before the seeds get a chance to be formed.  So I mowed.  Not so bad in 70 degree weather.  It is when it gets to 90+ degrees that it is really a problem.  So much so that I always wonder if I will survive the mowing.  The backyard hill adds to the difficulty.   

So I mowed all the dead-nettle and stray wild onions that look like tufts of hair growing here and there.  And all the while I was aware of the burgeoning dandelions that were just out of reach, under the mower blades.  I envisioned them chuckling, just waiting for me to pass with the mower so that they could then surge upwards, going to fluff-seed before the next mowing. 

I’m sure they do it purposely; that the dandelions are in calhoots with the dead-nettles to get the most out of that first mowing of the season so that both not only survive, but propagate.  Dandelions use hiding and then bolting as their main strategy whereas the dead-nettles use the beauty of their lavender flowers to hopefully delay the mowing so they can go to seed.  They are beautiful, so it always works - at least in my yard. 

The Beach

 

The Beach

  

            I created a microcosm of the beach because of my love of the ocean shore macrocosm.  I lined the bottom of a 4-by-4 by 2-inch clear plastic lidded-box with sea-blue velvet material.  In one back corner, I placed a small blue ocean-scented candle to prop up a large sand dollar discovered on a San Diego beach when my son was married there at sunset in 1996, complete with musical ocean waves and a seabird choir.

            A few pieces of coral, jagged edges smoothed from my touch since acquired in Panama in 1961, reside near the long-pointed shell added two years ago from a California beach.  A smooth black rock with narrow white lines from Tintagel on England’s Atlantic shore, a small purple and white rock from the Arabian Sea beach at Bombay, India, a maroon rock from an English Channel beach, shells from the Atlantic Jones Beach, New York where I grew up, and a tiny shell from the Gulf Coast Florida beach all flow together to form my microcosm of where the ocean and the beaches of the world mingle. 

A tiny carved purple-stone turtle basks on a shell, representing turtles befriended over the years, from painted Red-Ear Sliders of childhood to recent box turtles.  Two small seahorses nestle among the treasures, reminding me of the three-inch dried seahorse found at Jones Beach when I was engaged in 1960, and of visiting the San Diego Aquarium with my infant granddaughter in 2004.

            Sprinkled over all is sand collected from many beaches.  The grains of sand flow together, just as all of my memories and experiences of beaches flow together in a collage of love: each distinct yet part of the whole.

            Two crystals from Arkansas remind me of the beauty which comes from beneath the earth, far from any beaches now.  That even here, when life feels confined to an office in Arkansas, far from any beach, I can lift the lid, inhale the scent of ocean, salt and sand; my imagination provide a magic carpet ride to the beach. 

                  - published in Story Circle Journal -

 

 

A Squirrel’s World

In response to a prompt at Pythian Games: 

My fingers find it hard to plait the daisies into a chain.  Reacting to the weather, they are swollen as well as just being pudgy.  I remember having no trouble doing this until recently.  Someone is watching!  Who would be out here?  I slowly look up and glance around the circle of trees where I am sitting.  No one there.  A slight motion at the corner of my eye catches my attention and I peer closer to observe a small brown squirrel peeking out from a hole in the base of the oak tree.  He watches intently even as I glimpse his tail moving in the dark.  I don’t see any others—just the one.  Is this the greedy squirrel who always eats all the birdseed?

He seems to take a deep breath as he says, “If you are going to come, you better put your best clothes on.”  A talking squirrel?  How can it be?   He scampers a bit closer and turns sideways, his bushy tail seeming to beckon me on.  “Are you coming?  No time to wait.”  He moves into the dark opening.

“I won’t be able to fit.”  How is it I am talking to a squirrel, much less worrying about fitting into the rotted hole?  And if I need to follow there is no time to change clothes.  That doesn’t make any sense.

“Come, come.  No time.”  He disappears into the tree.

My curiosity aroused, I crawl over to the small opening and look inside.  Nothing there.  I cautiously extend my hand in to see how far back the hole goes.  As I do, I notice my hand appears to change, just like putting your hand in water and watching the refraction caused by different densities of air and water.  I pull it out and watch my tiny hand with thin fingers revert to a plumper hand with signs of aging.  In again, a little further, to see hand and arm shrink to.  Would the rest of me shrink, too?  Would I be flexible, once again, able to play like a child, to climb trees and run through the woods?  Like an adult able to climb onto the house roof to help build a chimney?

Without making any conscious decision, I surprised myself as I stood in the hole, not at all cramped.   What had looked to be pebbles on the ground just outside the tree-hole now appeared to be huge boulders out there. 

“Are you coming?” punctuated by a exasperated sigh.  I squinted into the inner recesses of the hole and discerned the squirrel with upraised tail – now bigger than I was.  For the first time I noticed how sharp and long the nails on his front feet were.  Gulp!  I’m so small – no match for an angry squirrel.

“Come!” he commanded, and started climbing up the inside of the tree.  I followed as best I could, grabbing onto protrusions formed by natural and, perhaps unnatural, means.  Sap and dirt clung to my hands and feet, dropping onto my clothes.  I was glad I hadn’t dressed in my best clothes.

Concentrating, to be sure I didn’t fall, I nearly bumped into him.  He stopped at another hole and then stepped out.  I followed, with more caution, but also curiosity.   My hands, for all the dirt and sap and activity, felt better than ever.  I could climb without my back hurting.  What happened to my glasses?

I flashed back remembering this: standing on a branch of the apple tree in the “little woods,” pausing to look around and see if I had time to climb higher to avoid detection in “hide and seek,” reveling in the smell of the apples and woods, observing green leaves against the blue sky, hearing the sounds of birds and squirrels scurrying about their business, feeling the tree bark as I held on.  Much of my childhood was spent here, delighting in the freedom of climbing trees, running through the woods, and building forts.  A welcome contrast to younger childhood years spent in an apartment being told not to make noise and disturb the sick man below.

I stepped out, balancing easily on the branch, following the squirrel who then said, “Watch how I do it.”  Before I knew it he threw the top part of himself off the branch as he held on with his hind feet.  His front paws grabbed the sunflower seeds in a green birdfeeder hanging from the tree.  One paw held onto the feeder tray for stability while the other stuffed sunflower seeds into his mouth.  A few quick mouth/nose wriggles and the hulls flew out, falling to the ground.  

He ate mouthfuls, then hoisted himself back upright.  “OK.  You try it while I get seed from the other feeder.  He trotted onto a smaller branch as it bent closer to a different feeder as he moved to the end.  He took a flying leap onto the top of the feeder, overshooting and falling to the rocky ground.  I gasped as he shook himself and then darted into the hole, reappearing at the top and heading out to do it again.

“Don’t watch me.  Get your own!”  He flew off again, judging the distance correctly this time.  I decided squirrels were use to getting their food while hanging upside down as I watched him as he hung upside down and gobbled seed.  The annoyed birds chirped their disdain for his gluttony and impatience to eat.

 A black-capped chickadee flew at my feeder, startling me, grabbed a seed and flew off like a ribbon waving in the breeze.  I always liked to watch them politely take one seed and fly away so other birds could also partake.  So unlike squirrels who gobble everything until nothing is left. 

I moved over to the feeder,  and sat down, with the branch close to the crease of my knees, slid back and let myself down as I did years ago when I would play on the monkey bars at school or in the trees.  Will I get nauseous? or fall down?  But as I viewed the world upside-down, I felt great.  Everything looked so different from this perspective.  So much more to wonder about.  I took a seed, broke the hull in my teeth, separated out the hull and ate the sunflower nut.  Delicious! And now I knew why squirrels seemed to be so greedy.  With all the work and energy it took of getting into position to do this, more than one seed needed to be eaten to make it worthwhile.  So I ate slowly.  My deliberate movements eased the fears of the birds so they started to come around even with me there.  A tufted titmouse even landed on my outstretched arm as a perch, finding it easier to reach the seeds.  I longed to stroke a bird but didn’t want to upset them.

I was so engrossed with the living, colorful bird collage I jumped when Mr. Squirrel appeared on the branch next to me.  He appeared to be upside down when in reality it was me.

“Well, do you understand now?  Why we gobble a lot?  I’ve heard you asking why as you filled the feeders, thinking we were greedy.  You used to chase us away from eating but have relented and allow us to ear from two of the feeders, at least.  You even greased the feeder poles but that only kept us away for a short time until the cold solidified whatever grease you used.  It takes a lot of work for us to get the seeds.” 

I had swung back upright so I was sitting next to him.  We watched the other two squirrels and the inordinate number of birds flitting about as they determined pecking order for eating.  They ignored me as if I were of no consequence… and at my present size, I wasn’t.  Tiny, covered with dirt and sap to which seed hulls were stuck, what could I do?  Well, I didn’t want to do anything but enjoy being a part of the picture I always enjoyed watching from my window.

“It’s getting dark.  Time to retire to my nest.  And you should go back.  Who knows what would find you a tasty morsel… an owl?  a raccoon or a possum?  even a snake?”

“Thank you for inviting me.  It’s been so wonderful.”  I pirouetted along the branch as I moved closer to the trunk.  I allowed myself to tumble down even as Mr. Squirrel ran up and over a few trees to his nest.

“Could I come again?  Maybe visit your nest?”

“We’ll see,” resounded faintly.

I danced around at the bottom in the hole, did a few back flips (because I could), then took a deep breath.  I inched out of the hole, watching my body revert to the now familiar bigger, heavier, aching body.  I found my glasses in the dirt. I picked up my daisy chain and hung it over the doorway, as an offering, a blessing, a hope.

Easter Contrasts

My mind remembered wearing pristine-white gloves, a pastel frilly new dress, a fluffy white jacket and a fancy white bonnet as I now dug in the earth with dirt under my fingernails and cuts on my fingers from pulling sturdy strands of Bermuda grass out of the vegetable bed.  I watched earthworms wriggle in abundance, now more worms than rocks and clay in the previously heavy soil. 

Manure, peat moss, nutrients and compost allowed the soil to transform from all clay and Bermuda grass to arable, fertile garden able to provide a growing place for nutritious vegetables interspersed with flowers.   Watching worms wriggling instead of people in church pews, as the services droned on. 

The sun gently warmed my back as I worked on this Easter Sunday, a lovely day with a slight breeze.  I was aware that many people were at church services, and I was glad the day was nice rather than having any precipitation, as originally forecast.  Children could engage in the egg hunts and adults get the necessary pictures taken.

For me, at this stage of my life, being outside in the garden with the worms and birds and budding trees and flowering forsythia and crocus was a blessing.  Yet also a contrast from years ago when life was very different. 
 

Easter, the season of new birth/rebirth, for the earth as the seasons changed from winter and for us our seasons of life change.  It all felt so right!

rain… lots of rain

This week we had more rain in one day than I have seen in the 25 years I have lived in this area.  Roads were covered in various depths of water, country bridges washed away, rivers and creeks overflowing, cars and trucks stranded in the high-flowing waters with drivers missing and presumed swept away, homes flooded out.  

It was particularly hard on the hospice staff having to make home visits.  They even got calls from families not to come because the bridge was out or the dirt road was impassable mud.  Yet everyone did what they could and provided excellent care.  Wouldn’t be the first time police or firemen were requested to help staff get to a patient.   

I finally squished my way home, fully expecting the backyard to be immersed in flowing creek water.  But it wasn’t.  Don’t know what made the difference since other years’ flooding  brought the creek waters rising up the slope of the backyard.  We were lucky!  As was our gnome statue gnome who actually was swept away in one of those floods.  He was named ‘Lucky’ after we found him residing in a bed of debris all the way in the far back corner.

The rain will provide the necessary moisture for the spring flowers and trees.  The next day all the Bradford Pears and forcythia opened even though it is likely they will get zapped out by the sure-to-still-occur frost.   If this had been snow we would have been totally immersed. 

The weather has been doing many odd things of late and this was just one of them.  Time for every one of us to make amends to Gaia and practice good earth-sharing with all beings calling this earth home. 

The Weeping of a Disappointed Womb

 About 6 years ago I underwent a hysterectomy because of endometrial cancer.  At home for almost a 7-week recovery, I had a chance to reevaluate my life and my job, and to more consciously create a healing haven for myself.  At that time I thought I was dealing with the loss of my uterus and with the brush with cancer, but a year later it really hit me.  This poem was the result:

                     The Weeping of a Disappointed Womb

Twice–

hiatus in the weeping

of a disappointed womb

Twice–

this womb embraced

wonderous babes  

My womb was pleased

and so was I

we both reveled

in the ease

of pregnancy

the joy of birth             

Long ago

a nurse said “the weeping

of a disappointed womb”

was a uterine function;

it stuck over the years

as I pondered

its accuracy and intent.                       

This womb, my womb,

provided good service

Symbolized the part of me,

hidden from incursions

of others

in use and abuse;

protected

within my body

protected

unconsciously by me,

until I could learn

to speak for myself. 

As I apply

this wisdom

the uterus is taken from me

– endometrial cancer

hysterectomy needed

just enough time

for quick words, thoughts

gratitude, love, appreciation

for all its gentle weeping

all its being there with me 

My womb is gone – and now I weep!                                             

 (published in Releasing Times)