Dear Delphi,
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| Sunset: Buck Mtn. Jan 2015 |
I obviously rediscovered the warm, fuzzy comfort of 'movie therapy,' for the fourth or fifth time in my life, that is. I was recovering from a bike wreck that happened in July of 2015. No one would call me wreckelss, but I was riding - with a fully
loaded bike trailer - down Geer Lane. It is basically the steepest road on Orcas
Island (WA), only to jack-knife on the mixed gravel and dirt surface. First, let me say I was very lucky. There were no cars or trucks to complicate my
crash landing. My life did not flash before my eyes; I had no impending sense of doom. I did, however, have a
face-to-face encounter with a rather hard-packed road.
When I, with bike and trailer intact, went sliding through that weird time distortion that comes from the sense of inevitability, I knew I was going to lose that particular battle with the g-forces. I managed to avoid a tree and defy gravity just long enough to land, almost, on the side of the road where there’s an embankment, with a softer, leafy mulch to cushion the impact. Almost. A softer landing seemed like a promising goal at the time, seeing as how my other options were a six-foot cliff, two garbage cans, and a sixty-foot tall, deeply rooted sycamore tree.
When I, with bike and trailer intact, went sliding through that weird time distortion that comes from the sense of inevitability, I knew I was going to lose that particular battle with the g-forces. I managed to avoid a tree and defy gravity just long enough to land, almost, on the side of the road where there’s an embankment, with a softer, leafy mulch to cushion the impact. Almost. A softer landing seemed like a promising goal at the time, seeing as how my other options were a six-foot cliff, two garbage cans, and a sixty-foot tall, deeply rooted sycamore tree.
Geer Lane is a one-lane, dead-end affair in a
private housing development. It serves a few year-round residents and hosts several vacation rentals. The vacation rentals piece is why I was even there in the first place. At the
time, my business (read:"me") was managing several vacation rental cleaning teams, scheduling childcare for
events like destination weddings, operating a face and body art booth at the summer
farmer’s market on the village green, tutoring at the high school level, and performing consultant and program coordinator duties for a local leadership organization. Those of us in the service industry, here in the San Juan Islands, tend to juggle more than one income generating endeavor because the primary economic drivers are seasonal. The work-week is 1,000 hours long from Memorial Day to Labor Day, but more
typically normal in the shoulder seasons. Unless you are gainfully retired, or work for the county
government, utilities, or schools, the winter months are a foregone conclusion of retreat time. Rumi calls it wintering in. Winters can be financially lean if
you haven’t planned well, or a welcome respite if you have. I have experienced both.
On the day of my bike incident,
one of my subcontractors had called in to suddenly withdraw from the team cleaning schedule,
having broken up with a boyfriend overnight. She had decided to leave the
island immediately. My policy and practice, as the owner-manager of the business, was to step
in, myself, whenever a last minute change occurred. That day was not a great day
for me. I was just two days away from a July 4th wedding event in
which I was providing the primary childcare. Because it was the peak of the tourist season,
no other subcontractors were available to step in, as they were all dispersed
to other client locations. On top of this pressure, I had a business meeting that afternoon with a
potential business partner, someone who I hoped could take over the cleaning accounts in the near future. I have performed professional cleaning services since I was 15. At 56, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I was ready to retire from the cleaning aspect of my work-life. It was never my chosen career but it kept food on the table, a roof overhead, and it helped me pay for education for my children and myself.
In two years' time, I probably biked down Geer Lane well over a
hundred times. It has a 15% grade incline in the first ¼ mile. Because I’ve been car-free since 2008, I always walked up that road, pushing my bike and
equipment-filled trailer (including a Sentra II Kirby vacuum!). Then, when it
was time to go back down, I would literally brake, tightly, all the way down to the bottom. A
few times before, I actually walked down the steep part, also with my brakes fully on, so the bike didn't get ahead of me or pull me down. I generally replaced my brake pads about every 15 months or so. I had other clients in other areas, but at this point, I
was doing less and less of the cleaning and more of the training, as well as managing the administrative
elements of the business.
Loading the bike trailer is a mindfulness practice in its own right. The idea is to balance the weight of the load. For the most part, when you pack a car you
don’t generally think about the weight of items and making sure everything is
balanced out, unless your packing items on the roof. Most people with pack in terms of spatial relationships. With a bike, and
this is for those who don’t bike as their main transportation, you have to pay
attention to how any cargo weight is distributed because it will effect not only your
balance but how the bike performs under stress. On my crash day, I didn’t take
my usual care with packing my bike trailer. I was intent on making my
afternoon appointment with a potential business partner. Therefore, I suffered as a result of ditching my usual practice.
I wasn’t going fast. Going fast would have been impossible, even for a car. But the road
was extremely dry and powder-like on its surface, from a lack of rain and the lack of road maintenance.
Now, here’s the part where I get to say it
was my fault. When I rode up and out of the vacation rental driveway, I stopped, and standing atop the hill, I straddling my bike. Thinking. I felt hesitant about the balancing act of
heading down that steep grade. In fact, a very soft inner voice suggested that this
would be a good day to walk my rig down. I had the time. I had just texted my next
client that all was well. Having confirmed the time and meeting place, why did I fail to heed that intuitive whisper of caution?
I rationalized with myself that if I felt wobbly, I’d simply get off and walk the remainder. As you might imagine, writing about this fourteen months later, I do wish I had listened to that soft, inner voice of wisdom. I wish I had taken the self-care to deliberately walk down that otherwise treacherous road. And yet, other lessons were waiting to be born.
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| May 18, 2016: Eleven months after crash and loaded for the local airport. Heading to Midwest for the Celebration of Life for my father. |
I rationalized with myself that if I felt wobbly, I’d simply get off and walk the remainder. As you might imagine, writing about this fourteen months later, I do wish I had listened to that soft, inner voice of wisdom. I wish I had taken the self-care to deliberately walk down that otherwise treacherous road. And yet, other lessons were waiting to be born.
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| North Trailhead Entrance: Turtleback Preserve August 2016. |
When I finally tried to talk, I had the sensation I was speaking from a deep, echoing tunnel. My helmet was busted. I was seeing slightly doubled images of the people and trees in front of me. My right ear was ringing and burning. The area around my right orbital bone was swelling rapidly. My eyeglasses were several feet away, as was the shoe that had been twisted off my right foot. The yoga pants I was wearing were shredded on the left knee, and yes, I was bleeding. Not profusely. The strangest sensation I recall was wanting to laugh but not doing so when I lifted my right arm to see that my wrist had a mushrooming bulge. My fingers and palm were tingling. Disconcertingly, my fingers quivered all on their own. I was aware that I was shaking all over but couldn’t seem to stop it.
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| Parked at North Trailhead: Beginning to train for longer hikes, August 2016. |
To my great relief, three of the
four members of the medic team, who had arrived to scoop me up, were familiar to me from other, non-emergency settings. Living on a small
island, with 5,000 year-round residents, definitely fosters familiarity with
those in the emergency services. I was terribly embarrassed that I couldn’t
stand on my own and had to be lifted by four men into the rescue vehicle. Then I was transported to
the medical helicopter. It was a lot of fuss, really. But there I was, swelling
in various parts of my body, feeling intermittent nausea, and unable to keep up my
end of the conversation very well. All the while the team was getting me readied for a $10,000.00 helicopter ride.
It took over an hour before we lifted off. I managed to request that I be strapped partially on my side, so I could see out of the clear part of the fuselage. My arm and hand were in a sling high on my chest, ice was packed around my right ankle. It hurt to move. But I wanted to see the view! Head phone ear protectors were placed on my head. The initial jerk into the air was enough to make me lose my lunch, if I had eaten any. Under the circumstances, I was grateful for an empty stomach. My sense of timing might be off, but I think it was around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon when we were finally airborne. I had been injured around 1:45 p.m.
It took over an hour before we lifted off. I managed to request that I be strapped partially on my side, so I could see out of the clear part of the fuselage. My arm and hand were in a sling high on my chest, ice was packed around my right ankle. It hurt to move. But I wanted to see the view! Head phone ear protectors were placed on my head. The initial jerk into the air was enough to make me lose my lunch, if I had eaten any. Under the circumstances, I was grateful for an empty stomach. My sense of timing might be off, but I think it was around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon when we were finally airborne. I had been injured around 1:45 p.m.
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| 1.5 miles up North Trailhead: Lookout over Waldron Island August 2016. |
The pilot deftly flew us to another cove, this one by Shaw Island, and landed us softly on the first approach. I climbed out so she could load a family of four into the rear seats. There were two boys, about 3 and 7 years old, who were appropriately awed - asking rapid-fire questions about the immediate flight - until we took to the air and the engine noise made it impossible to hear each other talk. My thoughts drifted back through time to my pre-teen years.
In the early 70's, I had flown, several times, with my step-father in both two-seat and four-passenger Cessna's. I was often in the co-pilot’s seat. Getting my hands on the controls was quite a heady experience for a ten-year old. However, I had never flown in a sea plane until that day in 2008. And I loved every second of it! Nonetheless, it was the jolting of my helicopter evacuation in 2015 that forced me to rely on that early thrill of my first seaplane adventure. Though the pain I was in caused me to break into a sweat, with nausea kept coming in waves, I surrendered to the power of recall to get me through it. I wouldn't take my eyes off the view.
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| Mt. Constitution: 2,398' elevation; Looking Northeast. July 2016. You can get a 360 view from this location. Breathtaking on a clear day. |
My MedEvac trip took about 15 minutes. We landed at Peace Health Hospital, in Bellingham, Washington. That same destination, if approached by ferry and land travel, would have required three hours. While I can visually recall what I saw out of the window that day, hovering in the air, my body memory has added the sensation of the straps that kept me immobilized, the muffled sound coming through the ear protectors, the ice pack moderating the swelling on my ankle, the inflammation around my eye socket, the throbbing in my head and neck, and the shooting pains and tingling in my arm, hand, and wrist. I was grateful I didn’t have to talk. I was grateful to be surrounded by people I was knew, people who exuded calm, and who kept their professional vigilance while remaining noninvasive.
While at the hospital, I was run through the various x-rays and assessments and my mind was a congress of
anticipation over the impact of my injuries. I had a re-scheduling nightmare ahead of me that would last several days. Who should I call and what could I reasonably postpone? The childcare for the wedding needed someone to take my place right away. Ultimately, I would hire two people to replace me. By evening, the assessments of my injuries were complete
enough that I could be discharged without staying in the hospital. I serendipitously managed to connect with
an island friend who was just pulling into the ferry line on the mainland side.
It was after 8:00 p.m. She quickly turned around, got her husband to call and
change her ferry reservations to the next morning, and sweetly arrived to wheel
me out to her car by 9:30 p.m. or so. The nurse had administered some pain relief,
but it made my mind a bit loopy, so I didn’t take any more of it. I only
used some Advil to take the edge off of the general discomfort. I’m highly
sensitive to both drugs and herbs, so a little goes a long way. I avoid drugs
because I don’t like to give them control. Several of my immediate
relatives have died of complications from their addictions. Alcoholism, like diabetes,
runs in the family gene pool, so I tend to avoid situations that I think might activate what I consider to be a predisposition to life-long addiction.
After my friend drove us to the Anacortes
Inn, I slowly settled into a queen bed. I don’t
recall sleeping so much as listening to the sounds of the night outside. I was no longer accustomed to an urban setting, after so many years of island living. Eventually, my
friend’s soft and rhythmic breathing lulled me into a light trance, but by 2:00
a.m. I was mentally taking inventory on all the physical and practical adjustments that needed to be made to my immediate life. I had three primary sprains: neck, right ankle, and left
knee. Multiple abrasions and bruises. Plus, the wrist and arm had multiple fractures,
requiring follow-up scans in ten days. Nonetheless, I still felt lucky. My orbital
bone was not fractured, my eye wear was scratched but not broken, and my wrist
and arm fractures were straightforward enough that I would not require surgery. Phew! Ligaments, however, were
going to take a while. I had been wearing my leather bicycle gloves, which
had spared my hands not only from abrasions - they also protected my wrists from
snapping at the moment of impact and compression.
It would have been so much easier
to have listened to that soft, inner voice that suggested I walk down that
hill on Geer Lane. Even so, some rainbows in this cloud
of temporary doom can be seen. I don’t think I mentioned that I was, and am
still (at this time of writing), a student in a doctoral program. At the time of the wreck, I was six
months into a 3 ½ year program. I wisely took one eight-week
session off, using that time to recoup and figure out a strategy for dispersing
my client accounts and navigating my little life domain as a limping, one-armed but possibly dangerous woman. I rented out two of the bedrooms in my home to make up for loss of income. Two of my young adult children came to
help out for a few days. Slowly, as the weeks unfolded, I took the time to rethink, to pray, to read, and to
seriously consider simplifying my income strategies. Oh, and to participate in
some extended movie therapy binges.
I started with comedies, for
obvious reasons, but it didn’t take long for me to discover a wealth of films
based on true life or time travel. I'm not thoroughly convinced these are mutually exclusive genres but that's for another post. After watching films I hadn’t seen
for years, I realized I was actually on the hunt for something new. In this, my fourth
or fifth movie therapy supplement to a life filled with sharp transitions and little media, I discovered
foreign films. I like to turn down the volume, put in my earphones and cocoon
myself into blankets. Even in the summer, here in the temperate zone of the Pacific
Northwest, you can do that. I have a lightweight blue cotton blanket that is soft and comforting just for this purpose. The thought has occurred to me, more than once, that this is my grown-up version of
hiding under the bed, such as when I was threatened by the close proximity of certain
monsters - which I could not tame, nor can I name them, without legal ramifications.
Physical therapy for my hand and
wrist started about four months into the healing process. This turned into a
chance for me to reconnect with the miracle and physicality of healing, and determine how to stay
connected to that. I picked up knitting again. I started to work out chords and
strumming on my ukulele again. I got back on my bike, with a new helmet and definitely more caution. With
the intensity of my doctorate studies and all the time spent in digital
communications for various consulting projects, even in an island known for its
natural beauty, I discovered it can be rather easy to become nature-deprived.
When I celebrated my 56th birthday in December of 2015, I quietly took an end-of-year retreat to examine my
relationships to the people and issues closest to my heart. It has been a fruitful endeavor.
As I write this entry for a new
blog, it has been 14 months since I went face down into the dirt. I haven’t
solved the cause of wars, or poverty, or eradicated the effects of human trafficking – yet. But the latter has been the original intention behind my earning an Ed.D. More on that later, too. In a bullet-proof nutshell, a whole lot of change unfolded, in the last 14 months:
- Housemates coming and going;
- Grown children visiting and/or choosing not to visit;
- Ongoing coursework, completed and graded;
- Ending my participation with one nonprofit and starting with another;
- Closing my business and imagining a different career;
- Forming a co-housing cooperative venture;
- Creating a humanitarian project and submitting it as a proposal for funding;
- Losing my father in a tragic farm accident;
- Eight distant siblings coming together, for the first time ever, remembering the life that made our lives possible;
- Being confronted with my mortality, knowing there are dreams yet to fulfill; and,
- Opening to new friendships and simple pleasures that can put past events into a new perspective.
It was during my birthday retreat in
December that I made the decision to consider relocating to Bellingham or beyond. When I first moved my family to
Orcas Island in 2003, my children were 3, 6, 6, and 8. I imagined I was done moving. Now, my kids are 16, 19, 19, and 21, and all in college at the same time. I have not enjoyed the empty nest. Primarily, this is because I was
forced into it incrementally by a prolonged divorce process. That is a story
that could fill a book with as much intrigue as any good mystery novel. My bike incident came just a few weeks following my three youngest relocating to
Seattle. I had yet to process a rather gigantic grief to my psyche. That bike wreck landed me squarely in the embrace of the emotion of change. Shortly thereafter, I read somewhere that emotion is simply 'energy in motion' and should be supported rather than suppressed. Amen to that! Ergo, the movie therapy and the the increase in journal writing. All of this neatly, or not so neatly, tucked
in-between my studies and coursework deadlines, as well as consulting activities, too, of course. I'm seeing a pattern here of the necessity of change.
I’ve been so interior for the last
year that several people in my island community thought I had moved away. I did experience a few days
when, shortly after the bike crash, I was feeling disoriented and down, uncertain about my value as a person if I wasn't constantly producing. I
couldn’t keep up the pace of the life I had been leading. That much was clear. Slowing down made that apparent.
Many months later, it has been a relief to let so much go. I’m become aware that in creating space for what’s next, I open to possibilities I would not have considered before.
Many months later, it has been a relief to let so much go. I’m become aware that in creating space for what’s next, I open to possibilities I would not have considered before.
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| Daisies in June: Orcas 2016 |
I didn’t know if I was ready to begin
sharing on a memoir level until I attended an event in July of this year. A European filmmaker, by the name of Nic Askew, premiered two short films he made with two men who were joined in life partnership to each other. One was dying of ALS. They spoke for themselves and I was riveted where I sat. The room was bright with emotional resiliency.
Nic’s approach is to film close up -in black and white - all the while listening in such a way that the person interviewed is lovingly snagged into a soul journey. The resulting films are called soul biographies and can be accessed at www.nicaskew.com
After the premier event here on Orcas Island, Nic asked for a volunteer from within our small gathering of 16 or so, to try the process, live. I raised my hand, saying I didn’t want to go first, but that I was willing to try his technique. Well, you can probably guess how that went. At first, he asked me to just sit in front of the camera, so he could 'fix the lighting.' Once I sat down and he had adjusted his equipment to his satisfaction, the last words I recall hearing Nic say were, “No agenda…” and then, in front of an audience of people I did know a little, but they seemed to fade into the periphery, I said what I had not rehearsed or intended to say. I felt my way through and listened to what was true. It was powerful - like a prayer. The feedback from those in the audience was that they were deeply moved. A spontaneous healing occurred, sweetened by the unexpectedness of it.
Nic’s approach is to film close up -in black and white - all the while listening in such a way that the person interviewed is lovingly snagged into a soul journey. The resulting films are called soul biographies and can be accessed at www.nicaskew.com
After the premier event here on Orcas Island, Nic asked for a volunteer from within our small gathering of 16 or so, to try the process, live. I raised my hand, saying I didn’t want to go first, but that I was willing to try his technique. Well, you can probably guess how that went. At first, he asked me to just sit in front of the camera, so he could 'fix the lighting.' Once I sat down and he had adjusted his equipment to his satisfaction, the last words I recall hearing Nic say were, “No agenda…” and then, in front of an audience of people I did know a little, but they seemed to fade into the periphery, I said what I had not rehearsed or intended to say. I felt my way through and listened to what was true. It was powerful - like a prayer. The feedback from those in the audience was that they were deeply moved. A spontaneous healing occurred, sweetened by the unexpectedness of it.
When the film is edited and published, I will
place a link to it on this blog's menu. In the meantime, the poem that follows will
have to suffice:
No
Agenda
A camera
lens
A digital
recorder
An
invitation –
And
a light draws on a dark background.
An
energy sets in motion
A window’s
breadth of shadows
And
a chair channels a prayer,
Tonight.
While
witnesses of heart and sound and sight
Gather
wisdom like fallen leaves
From
the tree I am yet to be.
Amen.
No
agenda.
(July
14, 2016)
