Pandemic Road: Week 8

Last week we experienced some terrific weather here in Houston. What one would typically call, “Chamber of Commerce Weather”. Temperatures were cool. The sun was shining. Where else to go, but to the Houston Arboretum. There has been a lot of nature development at the Arboretum. There are new trails and many of trails that I have walked for years have been resurfaced and improved. I love it there when it is cool and sunny. Imagine my surprise when I found this while walking on the Ravine trail. A pair of Owl eyes daring me to get too close. I can only imagine that someone affiliated with Rice University painted this beautiful scenery.

I was out in nature. I was calm and relaxed. What a great day. And then I found this on the Outer Loop trail:

Now, I have been a devoted visitor to this arboretum for many years. This is the first time I have seen a sign warning folks about coyotes! During this pandemic I have seen pictures of lions in South Africa and kangaroos in Australia taking over the streets of towns that have been shut down to prevent the spread of Covid-19. However, I did not realize that coyotes were taking over Houston. Fortunately, the morning I was there, a variety of home-schooling parents had brought their children out to visit with nature. I trusted that the sounds of children running and laughing sent all wild life into hiding. At least that was my hope. Since I did not see any coyotes, I am guessing it worked.

I am used to seeing a variety of wild life here. I have been known to journal about all of the different animals I saw during any of my visits to the arboretum. I am very used to butterflies and caterpillars. They are nice friendly animals that seem to enjoy having their picture taken.

 I am also used to seeing lots and lots of turtles. That was what I was expecting to see when I made my way to the pond and I was not disappointed. However, there were other signs as well.

I personally had never tried to feed the turtles. I don’t even know what turtles want for their daily fare.

What I didn’t expect were signs about gators.…..yes, you read that correctly.……gators!

Who knew I would actually see an alligator? No, I did not need to be told not to swim with them or try to feed them. Good grief. Suddenly my relaxing visit with nature was getting more dangerous by the second.

With all of this danger lurking around every bend in the trails, it’s no wonder the slopes are on the verge of a nervous breakdown! Believe me, I had learned my lesson. I stayed on the trail. I took nothing but pictures and left nothing but footprints. By the time this little visit was over, I was trying to remind myself what exactly was so relaxing about the Houston Arboretum. Then I looked at this picture:

It is green and it is alive. There are many spring flowers blooming. Yes, it is worth the danger of giant owl eyes, coyotes and gators. I can’t wait to go back.

Until next week.….

Goodbye to Annie Annys

In the brain aneurysm community, we know her as Annie.

You don’t want to meet her. But I did — seven years ago this weekend.

My Annie was a triplet.

The first aneurysm sat in the back of my brain. Her twin sisters parked themselves above my right ear.

I knew nothing of them until Annie #1 blew up on April 20, 2012.

She exploded when I was on the road. DH and I had flown to his Nebraska hometown to move his parents into assisted living.

I knew there was a problem when, at age 55, I wet my pants in front of my mother-in-law. The ER doctor took one look at the MRI and ordered me flown to Omaha for emergency brain surgery.

Later, I read get well messages on the computer. My voice went on vacation, forced mute by an emergency tracheostomy.

I got worse before I got better. Unexpected complications set in.

Doctors put me in a percussion bed. It rotates as it thumps your backside. The neuro team induced a coma.

Later, I landed in rehab back in Houston with only three tubes remaining in my body. I relearned how to walk, talk, shower, dress, and feed myself.

Our dog, Rudi, loved rehab visits. His version of wheelchair healing delivered tears of unabashed joy.

I remember little of that cruelest month-plus.

Pictures fill the memory blanks. The photos exist for one reason. Early, I suggested to DH: “take lots of pictures. I might need them for a book or something.” 

Here we are, seven years later. The book is in the pipeline.

I share my Annie misadventure because this Easter weekend, my head buzzes with a seven-year-itch.

It’s time to close the books with this anniversary.

A ruptured brain aneurysm and a single surgery devolved into 15 hospitalizations and four brain surgeries. Amid the health crises, we buried ten family members during those years.

I call them my anni horribiles, or horrible years. Queen Elizabeth’s bad 1992 offers chocolate cake with sprinkles compared to these last seven in my tribe.

The word “seven” bristles with universal meaning.

Seven days of creation. Seven days in a week. Seven seas. Seven continents. Seven colors in a rainbow. Seven chakras. Seven Wonders of the World. Seven deadly sins.

Even my car hit a notable seven yesterday. Ah, the lucky power of timely observation!

Ancient Greeks and Romans believed seven-year cycles guide every human life. They named it the “hebdomadal system.” Mystic Rudolf Steiner modernized the concept in 1924. Some believe the human body renews all its cells every seven years (a myth, by the way).

The seven-year theme echoes across religions, economics, politics, even writing. The Roman writer, Censorinus, made a powerful, primal connection. In A.D. 238, he linked these life cycles to Nature: “seven years…a turning point and something new occurs.” This link offers hope, stability, and an ending.

Pema Chodron aces the message with words of her own: “Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.”

What learnings can I share from these past seven years?

  • Let your team help you survive. Return the favor often.
  • Let your life purpose rise up; it’s waiting to guide you.
  • Let your body tell you what it needs. Listen well.
  • Let your mind and soul offer thanks. Daily.
  • There are no lessons, only learnings. Use and share them. Wisely.

I’m packed and ready for the next cycle.

Bigger, braver roads beckon me forward, onward.

How about you?

Why I Walk

Observation.

The word beckons, two months — nearly to the day — after a life-changing encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

This time, nature delivers on my daily morning walk.

Whoa! How did this happen? 

No storms last night. 

Not even a teeny gust of wind.

Curiousity moved me forward. 

Inspection reveals this tree half-died across a lengthy period of time. It consumed itself from the inside out, internal erosion concealed beneath solid exteriors.

Disease consumes perfection, beginning its continuing work on lower limbs.

Yet in this ultra close-up, Life returns.

A ring of healthy bark embraces a circle of green. Star of hope amid a rotting halo. It’s a wink to onlookers who search for meaning in the world surrounding.

Truth hides what the outside never sees. Does that make a lie?

Parallels to the writing world—stories, projects, relationships, life itself—scream back at me. I smile.

Ah, today will be good.

When nature speaks, she roars.

What happens when we see, then listen.

Ellen offered a single word to these pictures: wabi-sabi. It was a classic “aha!” moment. Wabi-sabi centers on (quoting Wikipedia here) the Japanese aesthetic that art marries “asymmetry… austerity…and appreciation of …natural objects and processes.”

At her mention, I remember “duende.” It’s a Spanish term for a passionate experience relating to an experience of art or life.

I proclaim Tener Duende for wabi-sabi! That’s my Tex-Mex version of ‘to have duende’ for this entire discovery of one vital broken-yet-living tree.

Now I know why I walk. To see what to write.

It begins with Observation. Yes, with a capital “O.”

I end on this offering. Dear Deer marked my final photo from the day I observed the living/dying tree.

Can you spot the tribal trifecta?

Papa stands at first base with Mama guarding on second. Baby, new to the fam and our neighborhood since last winter, remains puzzled at third.

I stand at home plate, awed to silence.