A Promise of Angels

I became the legal guardian of my older sister Colleen in the mid-1990s. Though I was living in New York City at the time, the Missouri county judge made an exception in granting me sole guardianship after I’d shown my participation with Colleen’s care in the years following my mother’s death in 1994.

Colleen lived in care facility for the disabled for about forty years. She’d been the victim of lead paint poisoning when she was three years old. She was the seventh child and less than two years after she was born, my brother George was born prematurely. Our mother’s focus was on the fragile premie and until her dying day she carried heavy guilt and deep remorse for not catching on to Colleen’s penchant for paint until it was too late. In fact, the medical establishment bears some responsibility. Colleen had been taken to the emergency room once prior with a fever that wouldn’t break. The doctor said she had a virus, and sent my parents and Colleen home without performing a urine analysis. My mother continued to try a futile and devastating fight to combat the rising fever, holding Colleen’s ailing body in ice baths until she couldn’t feel her own hands. Nothing helped. Then Colleen slipped into a coma.

By this time, of course, the brain damage was done.

She awoke from the coma one month later a different child– paralyzed on her right side, blind, with severe epileptic seizures, and what would be a lifetime of compounding physical, intellectual, and developmental disabilities and ever-changing cocktails of pharmaceuticals to address them.

Yet, Colleen’s life was a testament to the body’s innate movement toward healing. The little one first scooted around on her butt, and eventually was able to walk — after a donated surgery by the Shriner’s hospital in St. Louis to lengthen her atrophied right leg — feeling in front of her with her left hand, and dragging her right leg behind her. She attended the Missouri School for the Blind up to the fifth grade, where she pretty much reached her brain’s developmental level.

But it was Colleen’s spirit that carried her through her life. She was a serious chatty Kathy and wanted to meet, talk up, and touch the hand of anyone within earshot. She adored food — grilled cheese, french fries (NO KETCHUP!) and vanilla milkshakes were at the top of the list. She loved to sing (and dance!) to the pop and early rock-and-roll of the 1950s — especially up-beat sock-hop hits like Dion and The Belmont’s A Teenager In Love, all the hits by the Platters, the Everly Brothers, the Coasters. She also loved songs with stories of teen longing and heartbreak, like Dickie Lee’s Patches and Shelly Fabares’ Johnny Angel.

She was also fiercely curious. She loved to listen and point toward the sounds of planes overhead or trains passing by — wondering aloud where they were headed, who the people were that were traveling, and what adventures might await them. She wanted to know the origin of certain noises, and who might be in need of emergency care when she heard sirens. She wanted to know how things came to be, and how they worked. She loved to giggle, adored attention and presents and holidays, and lived her life fully — so often rejoicing in the mystery, often shaking her head and marveling at the way things fit together — laughing and saying “So strange, isn’t it?”

A few years back, Colleen started falling. This Delaware Public Health FAQ explains how “most lead settles in the bone, interfering with the production of red blood cells (leading to anemia). It also interferes with the absorption of calcium, which is required for strong bones, muscles, healthy muscle contraction, and blood vessel function.” Colleen’s posture began to suffer, and her center of gravity changed, which caused a loss of proprioception – the sense of her body in space. She’d always been prone to falls when she’d have seizures, she otherwise had found her way around pretty doggone well. But as her posture began to fail, her center of gravity, and the falls became more frequent and more dangerous. She knocked out teeth, suffered head wounds, broke bones. She had to start wearing a helmet.

For a while, she had a physical therapist and staff assisted her in using a standing desk in an effort to keep her legs strong, but it wasn’t successful. Her body wasn’t building muscle. Colleen was relegated to a wheelchair, and suddenly lost her freedom to move about. It was a very difficult transition. Her mind was still very young and curious, but her body was failing her. The falls continued — she’d awake in the morning and automatically get up to head to the bathroom, and down she’d go. Safety bars went in around her bed. She was seat-belted into her wheelchair. It was frustrating and confusing for her. She wanted to touch and move about in the wondrous world around her, but it was no longer safe for her to do so.

Colleen and Marline at her standing desk.

The breakdown of her bones and musculature, and the confinement to the wheelchair only weakened Colleen’s body further. Her breathing mechanisms were compromised and she had several serious bouts with pneumonia over a period of six or seven years. One was so dire, she was in intensive care and had to go on dialysis as her kidneys began to fail. We gathered as a family to have ‘the talk’ about letting her go. We met with a funeral home to discuss next steps. But overnight she rallied, and with the new morning and new doctor, there was hope for a rebound. She snapped out of it almost as quickly as she had descended into it. That time. She received chewing and swallowing therapy to help keep her from aspirating food, and had to really work to keep from chatting at mealtimes.

Colleen always had a strong belief in the Divine. She regularly sang songs like “Yes, Jesus Loves Me,” and “Sunbeam.” She talked to the angels when she’d feel a ‘spell’ (seizure) coming on, asking them to protect and help her. Family members who’d died became part of the flock of angels she’d talk to and mention in her prayers. For a long, long time, she didn’t fear death. She knew she’d be with Jesus, and she’d be able see her loved ones and walk and run again. She liked the idea that she’d be able to eat everything she wanted in heaven — and not just the soft blended food that had become her diet to prevent her aspirating food.

At some point in her later years, and kind of suddenly, she started expressing to me that she was afraid of dying during our weekly calls. My hunch is that someone in the (non-denominational Christian) home in which she lived threatened her with going to hell if she wasn’t more well-behaved. Part of Colleen’s brain-damage diagnosis was Explosive Personality Disorder, and we had learned as a family that you most often couldn’t derail a Colleen temper tantrum —and especially not with threats. She’d end up on the floor and she’d spit and cry and you’d get a nasty pinch or a good wallop if you got too close. We knew to clear the area and let it run its course, because when it got to this point, she was no longer choosing her behavior.

I tried to ease her back into the wonder of death, but it did no good. She was particularly hung up on the idea that when your body gets buried underground, it was down close to the devil. Partly because of her blindness, and partly due to her developmental level (that of a ten or eleven year-old), she couldn’t fathom the separation of spirit from body, or that the physical had nothing to do with where she’d go after death. It really broke my heart, because her faith before that was so pure, and I so wanted her to have a gentle transition when it was time for her to go.

In the summer of 2016, I was living in California. A solo performance piece of mine was chosen for a festival in New York City. My boyfriend Mitch jumped on the computer immediately to find flights for November when the festival was to take place. Out of the blue, he suggested that we take a week or so in New York, and then fly to St. Louis to see my family for Thanksgiving and stay a few days. I was a little surprised and pleased at the suggestion. Mitch wanted me to have some time with my sweet sister Colleen, and wanted to meet her himself. He also wanted to meet the rest of the (large) family, which would take some time. We set the plan: a few days in New York. I’d perform the night before we’d fly to St. Louis. We’d land two days before Thanksgiving, stay just over a week, and then fly home to California.

Two days before we were to fly to New York, I got a call from the Emmaus Home telling me Colleen was in intensive care with another case of pneumonia. I was fairly hopeful, since she’d bounced back in the past. But as we readied for our trip, she wasn’t getting better. She was getting worse. We flew to New York, still unsure. I did my best to meet up with all the friends we’d planned to, and was often met and with bewildered looks when I’d show up with mascara running and tear-stained cheeks. I spent hours on the phone with doctors, Medicare, family, and care providers, constantly worrying whether if I’d have to drop everything and go to St. Louis. I waffled agonizingly about dropping out of the solo performance festival. It was next to impossible to rehearse and practice lines, when Colleen’s life hung in the balance.

I was given many tremendous gifts during this time. The first was from from Peter, organizer of Solocom ’16. When I explained to him what I was managing, he very kindly said, “Jaene, if you need to cancel on the very day of your performance, up to the last minute, you can do that. No problem.” This took such a weight off my shoulders, as I didn’t have to worry about not showing up for the commitment I’d made to do the show. Mitch, also was such a loving support, held my hand as I sobbed my way all over the city — including in the copy place, waiting to fax consent forms to various parties awaiting them.

One morning, I called the ICU for a check-in with Colleen’s nurse. She said Colleen was no longer in the unit, and my heart dropped. She followed up quickly to let me know that Colleen had been moved to a ‘step-down’ unit. She forwarded my call to the nurse there. Within moments I was on the phone with a new doctor, who was distressed because, according to her, Colleen was non-communicative. I didn’t understand. She’d been intubated for more than a week. The doctor explained that the tube was out, but that Colleen was mumbling and didn’t seem to be saying words. But then I thought about our sweet Chatty Kathy. I told the doctor that when Colleen is excited, she talks really fast and you have to encourage her to slow down. I asked if I could talk to her. They put her on. I was so excited.

“Jaenie!” She was perfectly clear to me. I will never forget what she said next. “I went to HEAVEN!” I completely and utterly believed her. If anyone had a fast track to the angels, it was my sister Colleen.

“You did?!” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Well, I didn’t go IN, but I went by there.”

I didn’t mince words. “Sis, I know your body is tired. Are you ready to go?”

“YEP,” she said.

I asked her if she was afraid anymore.

“NOPE,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to the doctor.

I got back on the phone with the doctor and told her Colleen had told me she was ready to go and that I wanted to authorize whatever would facilitate that. She put in the order for Hospice Care, and said Colleen would be able to go home and eat whatever she wanted. I talked to Coll once more to tell her what would happen and that, though I originally meant it to be a surprise, I thought she should know that I’d be there in a couple days to see her.

Within hours, it was all set up and Colleen was released back to Emmaus Home late the next day. I hung up the phone in New York and fell to my knees, so grateful that her faith in the beauty that awaited her had been restored. I wept tears of joy. I couldn’t believe how incredibly held she was — and we all are. The gift she received was also a gift for me, and for everyone who ever loved her and were concerned for her welfare.

Meanwhile, in New York, Mitch and I were gifted tickets to Saturday Night Live by my friend Tara. Kristin Wiig, a favorite of mine, happened to be the host. I was still unsure if I would perform the following evening, until the high I had after we saw the fantastic show, which is, at its heart, theatre. I thought if they can do ninety minutes in front of millions of people, surely I could do twenty in a little blackbox in Chelsea.

The next day, Mitch went solo on an all-day walkabout in the boroughs, while I stayed at my friend Celia’s East Village apartment, running and running and running my piece. (Celia was out of town visiting family, and we had exchanged a place to stay for caring for her two kitties.)

I performed that night and was pretty pleased with how it went. It was a little rough — definitely not as good as it would have been if I’d had all those hours originally built in to rehearse — but not terrible by any stretch. Mitch and I boarded the plane the next morning as snow flurries began to fall in Manhattan.

The next morning, my sisters Sharon and Jean, my niece Kelly, Mitch and I all went to see Colleen. We sat around her bed and chatted, and then Jean and Sharon, the eldest sisters, starting singing some sweet old songs. This is the part of the story where people always ask what else Colleen had to say about her Near Death Experience. Here’s the thing: by the time we got there, Colleen was non-verbal, so I couldn’t ask for more details about her Near Death Experience. The attendants at Emmaus sat her up in her chair for a bit, and she did tap her foot to the singing. We all got a kick out of that. She wasn’t completely out of it, but they were giving her morphine by this point.

As they were getting ready to put her back to bed, I decided to ask a yes or no question.

“Colleen, when you went to heaven, did you get to meet all the angels?”

Colleen shook her head no.

“Did you get to meet some of the angels?”

Colleen shook her head yes. We all saw it. We all were so thrilled.

The next day, Mitch and I were exhausted. We didn’t take the hour-long drive to see Col, but I asked the attendant at her home to let her know that we’d be there to see her the next day, on Thanksgiving. In the morning, Mitch, Sharon, my brother Jim and I went. By this time, Colleen was in bed and wasn’t responding to us much. I brought her a soft, fuzzy bear, put it in bed with her, and put her hand on it so she knew it was there. She loved soft, fuzzy things. The Hospice nurse came and let us know that it wouldn’t be long now. We visited awhile and Sharon was ready to get back and to prepare for Thanksgiving dinner.

I chose to stay with Colleen, and my brother Guy said he’d come pick me up later, after dinner at Sharon’s. The workers at Emmaus had made a pretty good turkey dinner, and I ate in deep gratitude, telling Colleen about everything on my plate. I took a walk around the snowy grounds of the Emmaus Home in Marthasville, Missouri. The campus was massive — 670 acres, an old German seminary that had become the “Asylum for Epileptics and Feeble-Minded” in 1893. Beautiful old place. I’d never explored the whole thing —it’s home to many people — but we used to gather there as a family every year for their fall bazaar. It had been a number of years since we’d been to the bazaar —I’d been out of Missouri for twenty years, and Emmaus had changed the date to spring. Some family members would still go, but it just wasn’t the same.

It had recently been decided that Emmaus would close and sell this property and bring residents into smaller homes. Colleen had been excited about a new place, but I was a little worried about her moving so late in life, getting used to a new place, new routines, people, smells, sounds… As I walked, snow was beginning to fall around me and I cried and cried as I hiked as far up the hill as I could until the weeds were almost as tall as I was. I was trying, as much as I could, to be present with this monumental transition for my dear sister. I wasn’t scared for her, but I was so sad for myself. She’d taught me so much about love and joy and laughter, and I knew it’d be hard to be without her. But I also knew, when it was my time, she’d be waiting for me with her angel friends. And I was so filled with gratitude.

I got back to Colleen’s room, took off my coat and boots, and lay with her in the bed. I brushed back her hair and kissed her face. I whispered to her that I would miss her, but that everyone would be waiting for her, and that we’d see each other again. She moved a little, letting me know I was laying on her arm. I got up and sat in a chair, and held her hand until my brother Guy came. We stayed a little longer so that he could tell her goodbye. I put the soft, fuzzy bear in the crook of her arm and kissed her once more. We left the Emmaus around 5:30, and got to Sharon’s about an hour later. A short time later, my cellphone rang and Marline’s name showed up on this display. Marline was an aide at Emmaus, and one of Colleen’s longest-running and best advocates. I picked up and she told me Colleen had passed just before eight PM. She said she was still holding the soft, fuzzy bear.

Side note: My mother had two birthdays. One she celebrated all her life, November 26, and one that she refused to celebrate, but was on her birth certificate, which she had to get when my father died in 1980: November 23. I once asked her in a dream which one it was and she was firmly in the November 26 camp. Still, we all considered both birthdays to be hers. It wasn’t lost on me that Colleen died on November 24th, embraced between the two. It also is never lost on any of us that knew Colleen that she died on Thanksgiving. Something happens to your heart when you have a loved one with special needs. It becomes a sacred storehouse of gratitude for the gifts given you by someone so special.

You probably can guess that I believe in a lot of things. One thing I’ve felt with Colleen since she passed —more than anyone else who’s gone on — is that she is close, always, and very accessible. When I feel her near, she is so free and expanded. She is ebullient with joy and love. She seems to be always giddy and excited.

In fact, while I was typing this, and adding the links above for the Colleen’s favorite songs, one of my browser windows was open to YouTube and had just played Patches. Another song began to play, (as YouTube will do when it is on autoplay). But, curiously — or not, because it’s Colleen I’m writing about — a song from the 70s (!) started up. This song was not bookmarked. I hadn’t given it a thumbs-up, but it’s most definitely one of her absolute favorites, Maggie May by Rod Stewart. She clearly didn’t want me to leave that one out! I wept with joy. Miss you, sweet girl. Love you so so much.

Day 24 Coronavirus: 4/9/2020 Thursday

wow! Somehow five days passed since my last blog post. Well, I know why. I was under deadline for my Master’s program (David Lynch Master of Fine Arts/Screenwriting), with a treatment for my pilot which was due Monday, and some reading and watching assignments. We also did some work around the ranch, taping up holes in the screens, cleaning the windows. Man! I cleaned those windows but they are still grubby. I’ll be circling back around when it warms up again. We thought we’d have a week of warm weather, but it was one day. And it got hot up here!

 

I saw this bug.

 

We weren’t sure what it was, but with the bug book and our friend, Google, we realized it’s a snakefly. A beneficial insect.

 

I Googled ‘bug with long neck and stinger thing.’

 

 

 

 

We built a ramp for the sweet old fat doggy, and staple-gunned a couple of pieces of carpet to it from the garage to help her with traction. (I tried it without the carpet first and she slid down it on her butt. She didn’t get hurt, but it scared her.) Once we got the carpet on there, we had to coax her up and down the ramp with treats so she’d get used to it. This girl will do just about anything anything for treats. Now she’s always using it to go down, but still likes the couple of stairs to go up. It’s her front left leg/shoulder that hurts the most. You can kind of tell from the photo that she puts her weight more on the front right paw. Arthritis, because she’s about half her weight overweight. Or so. Chonker.

We also had a few nights of a gorgeous moon, Sunday and Monday nights

and then again Tuesday night, the Pink Super Moon, wasn’t so pink but was gorgeous, especially in the swing under the oak tree.

Last night, my brother called me, a bit anxious. He said he watched a report about someone working at Home Depot (as he does, still), who was 63 (he’s 58) who was fairly healthy (as he is) and got sick and died in a matter of days from Covid. We talked about trying to pay attention only to what’s right in front of us. I asked if he’d been meditating yet. He said no, but he will on his days off. Then he told me about the friggin’ approaching asteroid. Mitch had mentioned this a few months ago, but I didn’t know that it’s basically upon us. The target date for the fly-by is April 29th, according to NASA’s Asteroid Watch. (Who knew they had an Asteroid Watch?!)  Whatever you do, do NOT go down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories on this one. I’m still getting my heart rate back to normal after looking for the legit links on this one. As an older friend of mine, who passed last summer, liked to say: It’s just one more damn thing. Deal with it.

And Stay. Present.

Day 18 Coronavirus: 4/3/2020 arising, unfolding, dissolving

Mitch is going back to Oakland today. I was having a great sleep, but was unable to go back to sleep after 5am when I woke up thinking about it.

Then we got in a heated argument because I wanted him to take a roll of paper towels in addition to toilet paper, just in case he needed them for his dad or his grandma. He refused because there are napkins in the glovebox and a roll of shop towels with the tools in the trunk. I don’t know why I care so much about him taking the fucking paper towels. It’s my little tiny input on his journey, which I’m apparently terrified about his taking.

But his father has cancer. Today is his birthday. Despite the risks, he wants to see his son. It won’t be a great visit — Mitch will be wearing a mask and gloves and won’t be able to hug him or stay long. But he’ll give him the peanut butter cookies he made yesterday and the card we wrote out to him. And it breaks my heart right now just  thinking about it. I know that we’re just moving into the real stuff with this pandemic, but I also know that many have already experienced tragic loss. Many friends feel this deeply and regularly. Others do, too, but are soldiering on as best they can. I waffle.

The sweet fuzzer girl knows when things are feeling immeasurably difficult.                        She just knows.

This is a time to be with what is. Allowing what is arising in our consciousness — be it fear, sadness, confusion. My beloved teacher Richard Miller says everything is arising, unfolding, dissolving in our consciousness. So, too, is the movement of this virus through our experience. It’s arising in some places, unfolding in others, perhaps dissolving in some…

Om, shanti, shanti, shanti.

Peace in body, mind, spirit.

Stay. Present.

Day 17 Coronavirus: 4/2/2020 Pursed Lip Breathing

A colleague in Colorado reported that she is recovering from Covid-19. A tip she shared: She spent way too much time and energy trying to get tested. Tests just aren’t that available. She went to ER twice because of shortness of breath, and still couldn’t get a test.

She did get a finger blood-oxygen sensor and said that it was helpful because even even though she felt like she wasn’t getting enough oxygen, the sensor would tell her otherwise. She said 95% and above is good.

This made me circle back around to tools we always have with us.

My Mother was my First Yoga Teacher; though, neither of us knew it at the time. When I realized this many years later, I cried for a day.

My mother had congestive heart failure in 1993. She was a lifelong smoker, and her addiction was fierce. It talked through her — saying things like, ‘But I like it.’ ‘If it’s going to do any damage, it’s probably already done it.’ She was diagnosed with COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease), and put on oxygen. She quit smoking, thank goodness, but was a bit in denial about her health saying things like, “I’m going to wean myself off of this oxygen.” I think it was because she secretly hoped/(her addiction mislead her to believe) she’d one day be able to smoke again.

After she was released from the hospital, we started going to weekly ‘breathing classes.’ We learned about the mechanics of Congestive Heart Failure.

• Basically, because of the damage smoking causes, the lungs are unable to push out/exchange carbon dioxide (the used up air in the exhale) for rich oxygen (the cleansing air of the inhale).
• This leads to a buildup of carbon dioxide in the lungs and in the blood. The heart reads this as the body not getting enough oxygen, so it starts pumping faster (going into fight mode).
• This faster-pumping heart leads a shortness of breath, because the automatic systems of the body are focusing solely on increasing the oxygen in the body — via the inhale. So there are lots of big inhales happening without sufficient exhales, making the blood-oxygen levels even more out of whack, which gets the heart pumping ever faster.  The body is going into full-on panic mode.

The good news, and the reason I keep preaching about meditation over and over in these posts, is that we can learn to control our breathing. It takes practice! But with practice, we can circumvent a panic attack, or congestive heart failure by observing when we are feeling agitated, and turning focus inward.

The best tool that my mother and I learned together, and practiced together, is Pursed Lip Breathing. WATCH  this 2-minute video from the American Lung Association about it. The short story is that you focus on the exhale, blowing out through pursed lips (like you’re blowing through a straw). This helps get the used air/carbon dioxide OUT of the body. There’s a lot more carbon dioxide in our bodies than we know.

• So extennnnnnd the exhale each time through pursed lips.
• Lengthennnnn the exhale. Lengthening the exhale also has the added benefit of  activating the Parasympathetic Nervous System or “Relaxation Response.”

Here’s another great information page from the Cleveland Clinic.

What the hell does this have to do with coronavirus, Jaene? I think it could very well help because:

• when we clear out carbon dioxide by extending the exhale, through pursed lips if need be, we make more room for oxygen.
• we also keep our bodies in repose and relaxation, so the body doesn’t go into panic.
• when we keep the body calm, we’re also supporting the immune system and helping to quell inflammation.

Pursed Lip Breathing could be an excellent tool for anyone feeling short of breath due to the inflammatory response of the body against the (previously) unknown virus. It could help one feel a bit more in control and allow the body to do what it is designed to do and knows how to do: FIGHT and move back toward balance.

Day 16 Coronavirus: April 1, 2020

Exhale. That is my mantra today. I’ve found, as I start to get stressed, I hold my breath. I realized we’re all kind of holding our breath right now. As the coronavirus spreads, we’re all bracing for what the next wave will bring. This easy-to-understand Google map of the progression of the virus is indicative of the reach of this pandemic. Everyone is some shade of blue. We are all connected. This inhaling and exhaling thing has me thinking about the contracted and expanded way of looking at this thing. If I get too micro, it’s devastating, it’s terrible, it’s frightening. If I zoom out, though, it’s humbling, it’s profound, it’s unifying. On March 24th, a friend sent me a video poem from an artist I’d never heard of, Riya Sokol. It starts by thanking the coronavirus. In the moment I received it, I was definitely operating from the contracted place and I wasn’t open to what she was saying. It seemed too new-agey weirdo, even disrespectful, especially in the face of all the deaths in Italy and the wildfire-like spread. I circled back around to it a few days later, when I felt a bit more expanded, and I found it has some good things to say. This havoc this virus is wreaking is forcing us to slow down — or, rather stop — our business-as-usual and take stock of what is important. I just hope (contracting here) this goes all the way up the chain to landlords and insurance companies and mortgage holders and creditors. I hope they, too, can find a way to exhale and sit in what’s truly important. People. The Planet. Wellness. We’re looking at things from a different perspective now. It’s a new world.

Exhale. Stay. Present.

Day 15 Coronavirus: March 31, 2020

It’s been over two weeks here in self-imposed exile to Mendocino. In the interim, I’ve gone into town maybe three times, mostly wearing a mask and gloves. Others in my crew — sis in law, brother, boyfriend — have gone when I’ve gone and at other times. My brother is a nurse at a small medical center. So our exposure here to Covid19 is both limited and front-and-center. I’ve had some ringing in my ear for many days now, which could be due to the the altitude. I’ve had some gastrointestinal distress, which passed after a couple of days. I’ve noticed some indigestion the past couple of nights, but that may very well be red-wine related. I’m also a bit snarfy — stuffed up, phlegmy — but we’re living in a dusty old farmhouse that gets quite cold at night and burning wood for warmth. It pretty much resolves in the daytime, with the help of a neti pot, warm tea, and herbal tinctures I’ve had in my medicine cabinet, like Wishgarden Herbs, which I purchased a while back at Pharmaca.

Key to keeping one’s immune system thriving is to keep cortisol levels down — which means minimizing stress as much as possible. Turn off the television. Create art. Tell stories. Stretch. Find online communities. Do a little yoga. Play with your loving pets. They really know where it’s at. Easy meditation resources are available to you. I’ve listed many of them in previous posts. I urge you to take advantage.

Now here’s one of my sis in law’s sweet fuzzers with what looks like a pioneer hat. But it’s a rat.

Not a real one. A stuffed toy rat.

Day 14 Coronavirus: March 30, 2020

Today I spent the morning finishing up some reading for my pilot-writing class, which resumes tonight, after Spring Break last week. It’s fortunate that my Master’s program, the David Lynch MFA in Screenwriting through Maharishi University, is low-residency, and we were already conducting our classes on Zoom. I had a bit of an existential crisis right before spring break — what’s the use? What will Hollywood be like after it’s all said and done? Will there even be a world to go back to?

Real questions. Real talk. We’re not even really in this yet.

But it’s a welcome distraction to write. This blog and my projects for school. Pepper in a good cry for the world every so often, and then I get back to the program credo: Meditate and Create. I’ve been leading meditation with OperationEVAC a couple of times a week, which is an honor and a gift. Sharing iRest meditation with people during this time is a must for my own health and calling. The veterans of OperationEVAC are familiar with iRest; I’ve been working with Ryan Miller since his Harborside Heroes days, back when were both budtenders there. So they’re open to its benefits. Even the new ones coming in are fairly open to it, because their comrades know the practice. They inspire me. I know this coronavirus is triggering them as well as the rest of us, but they’re showing up for their mental health and that’s exactly what we all must do right now. Anything and everything we can to stay present. And to foster restful sleep at night.

With regard to meditation, there are several amazing communities I’m honored to be part of, and I highly recommend any and all of them to you if you’re looking for a way to stay grounded and connected.  Transcendental Meditation, the receipt of which is part of the the DLMFA program and has been amazing for my daily life, is a 20 minute practice, 2x per day.

I’m also doing the twice/weekly iRest free meditation program.

And, the 21-day Oprah/Deepak Chopra free Meditation Experience.

I highly recommend as much meditation and self care as possible these days. If you’re meditation-averse, know that it is a normal part of entering into a practice. The mind gets nervous about its possible extinction. The chatter will grow louder at first. But it will quiet and it will get easier. Just show up. Do what you can to Stay Present. Here’s an easy meditation if your belief is that you don’t have time.

 

Day 13 Coronavirus: March 29, 2020

Today, I spent the morning setting up my Día de los Muertos altar. I had it set up at home, and that was one of the things Mitch retrieved for me. After seeing the animated film Coco, which I so loved, (and which a playwright friend worked on), I felt a draw to create an altar in order to gift myself a space for my grief.

In it I have various photos, trinkets, ashes of friends and family now gone — Mom and Dad, and my siblings Maureen, Mike, George, Colleen, and Kathy.  Five of the eleven  of us have gone from this world. I have sugar skulls and marigolds, candles, stones and other beautiful mementos. I cannot tell you how healing it is to have a place that is reserved for honoring the dead, and a place I can go to to look at and touch my grief. It feels as though, before I created the altar, I was carrying all that grief around inside me. Now it lives outside of me and I pay my respects daily in passing and, on occasion, more deliberately — when something is coming up to be observed and processed.

I also have an angel tree, which is specifically for my dear sister, Colleen, who always sang pretty songs and talked to the angels. She had a near death experience while she was in the hospital before she died in which she got to meet some of the angels. It’s a beautiful story. I did a solo show about Coll a few years ago. I told Mitch to leave the actual metal tree (which isn’t my favorite). When it dried up a bit, I’ll find the perfect branch to put the angels in. Right now, they sit on the table next to my bed.

I may have mentioned, I was considering either letting my hair grow through this or shaving my head. The head shaving idea didn’t go over well with Mitch or my sis-in-law or brother. So I’ll let it grow. But I won’t be coloring it. I read that hair color is flying off the shelves in stores. Fuck it. It’s time. Silver is beautiful. Here’s a photo of me today. We’ll see what it looks like at the other end of whatever this is. 

I took the Furminator to dear, sweet old doggie and her coat is already starting to look better. I’m beginning to fall in love with her. It is my hope we can get her weight down while we’re here and get her back a little more healthy. She still begs terribly when we’re eating, and it’s hard not to give her bites and treats, but table food is not good for her and she’s starting to go lie down when we tell her no. Still, she watches us.

It is raining and freezing tonight, and the fire was stubborn and didn’t want to catch. I’m wondering if we left the flu open and maybe it got damp inside the stove. It’s working now, and not a moment too soon. I was chilled.

Not sure if I mentioned, but I’ve been having a bit of tinnitus the last couple of days…

Safety and wellness to you all. Stay. Present.

Day 12 Coronavirus: March 28, 2020

Saturday. Rain. The fellas went into town to drop trash at the dump and pick up groceries for an elderly friend and his wife. They also made it to the natural foods store to pick up some herbs and more neti salt. We don’t know if neti potting is contraindicated for coronavirus, but we’ve always used it to fight viruses, which supposedly hang out and replicate in the sinus cavity. So we’re doing it.

There’s so much we don’t know. I didn’t sleep well last night, again, knowing they were going out to be around a lot of people and people are kind of being assholes out there.

I delivered another meditation to OperationEVAC, the peer-led cannabis support group for veterans. We had more people – fifteen this time. That’s hopeful. I’m grateful that to Ryan and Alex for doing what they do, and that I can share a deeply restorative practice with them. Some were lying down, really snoozing. I love that.

My sis-in-law and I did some yoga and then worked — she’s still running her small business online. I am getting ready to start classes again (onine) for my Master’s degree in screenwriting, after spring break. It came at an opportune time, as it was hard to focus last week on things that seem really inconsequential in light of the times. I’m looking forward to getting back into it, and though I know this time is made for writers, I also know that, like after 9/11, it’s hard to write about exactly this — and I can say so even with this blog — because the psyche is still adapting to the new paradigm, the new reality.

The guys returned without incident, even said that there were not a lot of people out at the stores they visited. They also said lots of other people were wearing masks and gloves — not just them. (Last week, as I mentioned in an earlier post, we wore masks and gloves when we  went to town and got tons of dirty looks from people, which is still just weird.)

We called family and friends and drank a little wine. My sis in law got out her art books so we could start drawing/painting. I’ve never really done that stuff but I’d like to. I reposted some short meditations. I also plan to record some more short practices. As soon as the rain lets up. I hope to be outside to do it.

Stay. Present.

Day 11 Coronavirus: March 27, 2020

Hard to believe it’s been eleven days since we left Oakland. Now beyond the shock, we are doing our best to stay present and enjoy things in the moment. The trees, the fuzzers, the fire in the woodburning stove.

Here’s a post I made a few months back with three new meditations. Please share these – they’re very doable in this crazy time, 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes. They’re low-priced, but if anyone needs them, just reach out in my contact info, and I’ll provide them for free to you.

I plan to record a few meditations in the next couple of days, weather permitting. I want to be outside. With the sounds of nature. I hope to videotape it, but we’ll see. My hope is it will help all the workers out there in this stuff to down-regulate their nervous systems, help them be present, help them sleep better, eat better.

It’s been cold here. In the 30s at night. Foggy/cloudy. Supposed to rain all weekend, but next week’s forecast is sunny, 60s-70s. That’s when we’ll work on defurring the rug from the sweet, old, dog who’s been running the joint for six months. Crucial, or fleas could be a real issue in the heat. We’ve already put some diatomaceous earth on her and Mitch brought back the Furminator deshedding comb we had for Lovey. It pulls up all that matted undercoat. If you deal with a lot of pet hair and don’t know about the Furminator, you just must. It can be sharp, though, so only for thick-furred animals, and only in non-sensitive areas — back, butt, chest. NOT ON THE BELLY! OW!

Woke up again in the night. I guess this is my new processing. I saw an alarming post about the Spanish army finding elderly patients abandoned at care facilities in Spain. I couldn’t read all the way through it, because it’s horrific. For everyone. The patients who died there, their loved ones, the Army who found them, even the people who felt they had no choice but to leave them there for whatever reason — their own sickness, exhaustion, to care for family members, lack of resources. That’s a horrible choice to have to live with.

Stay. Present. Loves…