14 December, 2011


After I brought it inside my hibiscus put out two more flowers as if to say "where am I?" It's a question I ask myself each day, more than once. When the drama is gone, I notice it's absence. It's like being in a bar with ear drum splitting rock music and then stepping out into the winter snow falling quietly, drifting down with something like reverence. I look at the empty space where the grand piano used lived with stacks of mail, music scores, half eaten snacks and presents from groupies desperate to ingratiate themselves with their instructor. Like many cult leaders he did not hesitate to use his position of authority to his own advantage. I do not wish for that scenario to return, but I did notice that it was gone. 
Gone, like our dog left too long on his own, out of a crate, entertaining himself. While living alone, working 60 hours a week, I realized I could no longer manage our family dog as I had while living with a husband, available for his many ever  growing demands. 
My landscape changed again when I accepted a position at a chiropractic clinic. The work was grueling and satisfying at the same time. Mainly deep tissue work to repair auto injuries I would leave each evening to soak my throbbing hands in hot salty water before applying ice packs. And then it would start all over the next day. Gradually I learned to avoid injury while using techniques which were effective in releasing dense injured tissues. Seeking a position with opportunities to collaborate as partners in integrative modalities, I began offering in-hospital services for postpartum parents. And each day I come back to the question "where am I?" After working in hospitals all over the metro area, they are starting to look alike. 
For over 22 years I lived in an identity that no longer seems to exist. The definition of family has altered drastically for my children and me. And while it has been a relief, it has also been an unending (at least to this point) process of grief and recovery. Mostly wondering "where am I?" I trust my journey, just like I trust that you have to drive through Winnemucca to get to Tahoe on interstate 80. But you don't have to spend a lot of time there unless the freeway is closed. Some days I feel like the freeway has closed and I am stranded in a hotel with nothing much to do, but wait. So I write, or sleep, or watch silly TV shows like "The Big Bang Theory."
I am chipping away at the remodeling of my house. Bookshelves are in process even as I type. My precarious finances offer another opportunity to trust my journey. And I try to remember to stay present to my fears and shattered dreams. I build new ones with people who have a little more insight and interest in collaboration. Client consultations are important to me. and the possibility of building those kinds of relationships motivate me to make the effort.  I am here, even not knowing where I am, I can be here. Over and over, moment by moment I can be here. Without knowing where I will be next, I can be right here, right now, as present as I am capable of being, for as long as I can manage. 

1 comment:

Denise Emanuel Clemen said...

I'm in that motel room today, too. Freeway closed. Winnemucked-up.