Grounded

Finding my footing

Eastern Iowa Woodland.

Poetry

"Praise the Rain"
By Joy Harjo

Praise the rain; the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk—
Praise the hurt, the house slack
The stand of trees, the dignity—
Praise the dark, the moon cradle
The sky fall, the bear sleep—
Praise the mist, the warrior name
The earth eclipse, the fired leap—
Praise the backwards, upward sky
The baby cry, the spirit food—
Praise canoe, the fish rush
The hole for frog, the upside-down—
Praise the day, the cloud cup
The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.
Praise the path on which we're led.
Praise the roads on earth and water.
Praise the eater and the eaten.
Praise beginnings; praise the end.
Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

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Journeying

My bare toes grip the ground like a bird fists a branch. The earth is damp with last night’s rain, the grass soft. I feel the scrape of a tiny twig on the sole of my foot. My eyes are closed. We are supposed to be feeling, listening, smelling, noticing the green around us without the help of sight. But all I can manage is a death grip on the ground.

The ground at this retreat center in eastern Iowa is not ordinary. It’s the product of thirty years of healing and care by a handful of Franciscan nuns who decided to create an eco-spirituality center in Iowa in the early 90’s. Talk about visionary. In a state dominated by monocropping and pesticide use with the lowest amount of protected public acreage in the country and some of the worst water quality numbers, this center is a literal oasis for wildlife, plants, insects, and people, who’ve forgotten or never known what wild is.

This ground can hold me. It can give me what I need. I’m just not sure what that is.

—

A few days before, I’d navigated hallways, elevators, and the serenity garden at the cancer hospital, trying to find the infusion center. I wasn’t getting chemo. I was getting a shot to paralyze my ovaries. I will continue to receive this shot every three months, until my ovaries surrender and stay still on their own. The windows in the clinic room covered two-thirds of the wall space. I curled up on the bench beside them, unwilling to occupy the recliner-like chair used for infusions. I leaned into the light and waited.

A tiny older woman entered the room. She introduced herself, face masked to avoid compromising patients’ fragile immune systems. She prepared the injection, which was subcutaneous, and the pre-injection numbing medication, another shot. The lidocaine went in without pain, but the injection made me feel like a human punch card. The nurse said, “I know honey, I know,” as she pressed on my belly to insert the medication. Afterwords, I had to put my head between my knees. The nurse rubbed my back. I told her that next time, I’d need to eat something before I came. She said, “one thing at a time.”

—

Around a campfire on the second evening of the retreat, I share a small portion of my cancer story. The woman next to me puts her hand on my shoulder. I turn to her in thanks. She says, “do you believe that healing is happening in you and around you?” I thought, “No. I believe I have to do the next hard thing, until this is over.” Then I said, “Now, I do.”

On the next and final morning, it rains. We’re outside. I listen to the tap, tap of water on the hood of my raincoat. I feel cold splashes on the palms of my outstretched hands. I’m barefoot again. The spongy earth gives way and springs back beneath my feet. We’ve just finished a QiGong practice for grief. I’ve got plenty of that. Water seeps through my old raincoat. Sadness drips down my back; my hands are wet with it. The earth washes my feet with her tears.

I open my eyes. The sky has lightened, the rain become mist. I take a deep breath and lower my hands. Everything in me relaxes, even my toes.

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Gardening and Making/Mending

Spring bouquet and the neigborhood Catalpa tree

The peonies were kind of puny this year, not many blooms. I didn’t plant these two bushes with their identical pink flowers. I don’t know how old they are. Do I need to deadhead them, fertilize? I may do the former as I enjoy lopping off and neatening (within certain parameters that don’t extend, for example, to mowing my field of a backyard). I won’t fertilize though, at least, not this year. My daughter and I planted tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and innumerable flower seeds this week. We also planted a few annuals in pots. I put chicken wire around the cucumbers and the borage. The groundhog loves them. Chicken wire is both a nemesis and a necessity. It’s unwieldy, and its edges are sharp. It must be secured around the plants with landscape staples, which eventually work their way out of the ground and must be shoved back in place. One is constantly molding warped wire back into a functional shape with varying degrees of success and many scrapes and cuts. But it does allow me, when I’m lucky, to have cucumbers on my summer salads.

The finished socks.

My knitting has experienced an uptake, partly, because I didn’t knit for several weeks, so any knitting would be considered an increase, and partly, because I seem to want to finish projects and start others. I don’t always feel this way. Most of the time, I just knit and knit without much thought of completion. In fact, when I finally do finish something, I’m often surprised at the resulting object, “A sweater! A hat!” But right now, I’d really like to finish this pair of socks I’ve been knitting for my partner so that I can work on the hat I started for my daughter, which will then allow me to begin another hat for myself. There’s logic here somewhere.

And finally, finally, I have completed the giveaway item for the quarterly A Thin Space Handmade Item Raffle: two “mug warmers.” These knitted cozies will keep your favorite drink warm (or maybe cool as well? Physics is not my strong suit). I knit them to fit standard sized mugs. One is slightly larger than the other, for those like me, who like their beverages on the bigger side. Both close with buttons.

Thank you to all of my paid subscribers, who support me here. I am grateful. And without further verbiage, the winner is:

Nadia B!

Nadia, I’ll be in touch for your address and information about shipping.

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Upcoming on Threshold: Does Everything Happen for a Reason? The Role of Meaning Making in Our Lives

Humans make meaning. We search for our purpose; when something painful happens we want to know why; when happiness comes we want to find a way to keep it. Sometimes having a reason for an event helps us feel safe, like our life is under control. But so much of life doesn’t work that way, or the meaning seems to change. Join Emily and Julia as we discuss the roll of meaning making in our lives.