The Medicine We Need

It was impossible to walk quietly this morning on the paths through the fields and back to the woods. A second round of freezing rain Saturday night glazed every fallen, decaying leaf and tired blade of grass for the seventeen-acre loop that begins and ends at our mud room door, making my bootsteps crunch loudly like those first fresh bites of cornflakes before the milk softens them soggy. I venture out most days with a fragile agenda that hopes for silence and wild companions to join me from a distance, and I graciously receive whatever the land gives me. I am never disappointed when I return to the house, chickens fed and watered, porch swept or salted (whatever it needs most) and walking boots drying at the register near the washing machine. Water boiling for the morning oats seals the deal on what I consider to be the best way to start the day.

Last Sunday, for the first time since we’ve been here, I veered off the main path past the sweat lodge and put my feet where the deer walk, a series of connected and well-worn tributaries through the old ironweed stalks and young sycamore saplings. I used my walking stick to push back brambles and plunged further eastward on the trails, pausing by a tree I didn’t recognize and feeling humbled by the realization that this place hadn’t known human footprints in over twenty-five years. Whatever pulled me forward—curiosity or Something Else—rewarded me with a most stunning find: a full eight-point buck skull, teeth intact and bleached perfectly white. The remaining bits of skeleton lay in a small pile a few feet away and I could only hope this magnificent relative had passed peacefully, surrendering to sleep and a smooth crossing over to the other side. I lifted the skull gently from the cold ground and carried it to the mouth of the meadow where I’d retrieve it on my way back to the house, leaving a string of unanswered questions in the dead grass.

I kept to the paths this morning and as I rounded a slight curve toward the place where a favorite young sycamore stands tall and brave, I saw the soft white glow of a four-point antler resting atop a thick plug of quack grass. It hadn’t been there on yesterday’s walk and the tiny reddish-pink spot of blood at its base was evidence enough that all kinds of things go on out there when we’re not looking. The difference a day makes, eh? I plucked it from the ground and lifted my gaze to the young woods north where three does and a twelve-point buck had been silently watching me. The largest of the does gave a warning snort and took off into the forest while the buck stood there, not moving, just…staring. I turned and showed him my shoulder blades as I moved down the path, head down and not returning his penetrating look, marveling at his utter stillness. Stand your ground took on new meaning in an instant.

The world is an especially noisy place right now and I crave silence in amounts equal to water and air. Most days the hum of traffic a mile away is light or nonexistent and I can bring my full attention to the shrill call of a bright red cardinal or laugh along with the raucous crows flying just over the woods’ canopy on their way to what sounds like a fun party. The woodpeckers are just starting to drill into the still-standing-but-dead black walnuts that line the creek banks, and last week I saw a small flock of sturdy robins bouncing about in the meadow, looking confused and sheepish, as if the memo they’d received had been some sort of prank designed to lure them back to their summer home prematurely. They soldiered on, though, pecking at the ground and slanting their heads slightly to listen for…what, worms crawling beneath the frozen top crust of soil? I left them to it and scooped out extra seed for them near the feeders dangling from hooks on the ridge.

I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that our souls are weary and in need of a powerful balm to calm things the heck down, if just for five blessed minutes. And I realize at the same time that to receive the gift of such a pause is one more hallmark of privilege; there are too many brothers and sisters who don’t have that luxury and must keep moving, no matter how tired they are. I know I can’t fix everything, or even some things, but I can and do walk on their behalf, taking not a single step for granted, sending the peace from the fields across the miles and countries’ borders to reach them, fingers crossed, with a small morsel of healing.

What else can I do? It’s a question I ask myself regularly and I must get comfortable with the silence that follows, waiting for the answer to arrive. There is medicine in the waiting, I know.

Rediscovery

On Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, the good and kind podiatrist released my left foot from its post-op boot prison and sent me on my way, no walking or other movement restrictions, along with his reassurance that I can’t make the healing bone fragments worse unless I drop something on them again. I felt like Dobby with a new pair of socks and looked like a newborn fawn wobbling its way through the unsteady challenge of making my legs work in rhythmic harmony as I stepped down gingerly from the exam table and headed for the exit. Left foot, right foot, left foot again, right foot again, and repeat.

What the toes have to do with my gait and how my hips are involved I’m still trying to figure out, but we’ll all get there, my bones and muscles and nerve endings and I, moving forward into both familiar and uncharted territories. Which means, I resumed my morning walks with a deep and wide-eyed wonder after four-plus weeks of being sidelined, reluctantly content to look out the windows and wonder what might have changed Out There. I did try one downtown-via-the-bus excursion three weeks into my recovery and couldn’t get to the bathtub fast enough (hard to do while limping) at the end of the day for a soothing eucalyptus and Epsom salt soak. My kind and understanding supervisor approved a remote work schedule until I could more easily navigate the cold concrete sidewalks from the bus stop to the office without cautiously dodging the ice and snow.

On that first reintroduction to the walking paths, it was clear our industrious moles had taken over, enjoying the absence of human bootsteps on the landscape. Hills and mounds were everywhere and frozen in mid-unearthing, creating treacherous speed bumps just the right height to catch the toe of my wellies and send me careening or stumbling. I can’t recall a time where I was more laser-focused on what I was doing, a full-body attentive experience, head on a continuous swivel and eyes raking in all the beauty I’d so longed for while weighted down on the couch with Advil nearby. “I’ve missed you so”, I’d whisper into the woods and fields every ten yards or so and she reciprocated with red flashes of winter’s brilliant cardinals (the birds, not the clerics) and a sharp north wind pushing itself gleefully across my smiling face. Week-old snow still covered the ground and held all manner of nonhuman foot and pawprints to slow me down even more. I saw coyote (more on that in a minute), fox, rabbit, possum, squirrel, raccoon, deer and a few from a relative I couldn’t identify. We’ve always known that more happens beyond our gaze than in front of it out here in the middle of somewhere, but give the wild ones five weeks of unfettered and unwitnessed freedom and some mighty powerful reclaiming goes on. I imagined parties on the paths with their own version of a DJ blaring forest music through the bare branches of all the trees framing the mossy dance floor. From the evidence on the cold ground, it looked as if a pack of coyotes took down or at least feasted on a deer on the ridge just below the sweat lodge circle. I counted three of the poor creature’s four legs scattered as far as the north field (still looking for the fourth one) and its still-meaty spine lay to the right of the short path past the stand of white pines, stark and red against the white snow (at this moment, it seemed wise to look around slowly and carefully for anyone coming back for seconds). I moved forward with a fresh respect for the hardscrabble life our untamed land-mates must endure, and a promise to not add to their troubles.

As of this writing, I’ve made four unbroken treks into the wilderness that is our land north of the house and have come back to the couch with stories, images and lessons only she can provide. The deer trails are clean and wide this time of year, with the snow making them distinct like the chalk outlines on a crime victim. There’s no escape from the reality that food is scarce, shelter from the chill winds even more so and here I am running hot water for a bath simply because I can. It’s an apples-to-oranges comparison, I know—my life of need and comfort against the furred and feathered existence of creatures whose beauty brings me to my knees pretty regularly. But it’s hard not to feel motherly and want to take them blankets and leftover cornbread, thinking I’m being helpful. If I can walk past them without startling them, maybe that can be enough.

All this from a forced hiatus from walking the land, being in close proximity to her mysteries and gifts…it was all I could do not to curl up on a large patch of frozen moss and fall asleep, hoping to be accepted as One of Them, letting them teach me their ways of survival and after-hours play. Would I give up my evening hot bath for that?

It’s tempting, my friends. Quite tempting.

Slowing it Down

Last Thursday morning as I was working out, the shiny and heavy chrome weight I was lifting over my head slipped out of my hand and landed hard on my left foot. I’d watched the movie “Elf” the night before and the only expletive that came out of my mouth was “son of a nutcracker!” The urgent care x-ray revealed a shattered pinky toe.

So much for that New Year’s resolution.

I’m ensconced on the couch now, toes taped together and wrapped in stretchy smiley face bandages, covered by an ice pack tied with an IKEA dish towel (that will never see the kitchen dishes again, I assure you). On the floor beneath the end table is my left foot’s new ride—an open-toed post-op shoe in desperate need of a fashion upgrade, which I’ll take care of later this afternoon with embroidery floss and a scattering of beads. Until then, the question is…now what? From my perch I can see everything that needs to be dusted and vacuumed, downsized and taken to the thrift store but can do none of it. When the cats get up to stuff (like stealing each other’s food, tipping over the garbage pail, hanging from the curtain hems), my sharp scolding tones do little to discourage them and that spray bottle can only shoot so far (they’re learning that). I’m grateful that I filled the suet feeders before the Great Accident; at least the birds are entertaining and low maintenance. Wait—birds. I still need to let the chickens out and gather eggs. The engineering of that task will give me something else to think about as I sit here also pondering the whole breakfast project.

Until last Thursday, my body had never known any injury that required more than an ice pack or a band-aid. It’s a marvel that I made it this far into my collected decades without such drama (I’ve had my share of other adventures and burdens, to be sure; maybe the universe had pity on me that way). My only stiches and staples were surgery-necessary and the curious scientist in me found the mechanics of it all quite fascinating. I’ve even removed stitches from a few of Patrick’s wounds, a bit squeamishly, but he talked me through and once I got past my hyperactive gag reflex, all went as it should. Maybe I’m more about preventive medicine and habits. Who knows? I left the urgent care limping and giggling a bit, full of questions and happy for the Advil I always carry with me. I’ll pick up a prescription for antibiotics later this morning (a precaution against infection since that suffering little toe was bleeding from blunt trauma) and stop at the store for a few more craft supplies. That post-op shoe of mine is gonna look great when I’m through with it.

Forced pauses and stillness are good for the soul, reminders that perhaps choosing them intentionally is also a wise idea hatched in a relentlessly active mind. In the exam room I heeded, more or less, the instructions to not use my cell phone and found the absence of scrolling refreshing. It gave me space to notice my surroundings, to listen for clues to the activity taking place on the other side of the closed door. I reflected on the signage posted on cabinet doors stating that rude and aggressive behavior from patients would not be tolerated, that parents should not let their children play with the equipment or steal the nonlatex gloves. Sad that those words even need to be posted for all to see. When the nurse returned to wrap me up and send me on my way, I wished her a short day filled with people who were kind and decent. She smiled weakly and nodded, as if daring to hope for such an outcome to her workday was the height of folly. As I drove away, I recommitted myself to inserting as much gentleness into my interactions with strangers as I could, for those few minutes of connection at the bank, the grocery store, the gas station may be all the kindness someone receives that day.

As this new experience unfolds for our household, Patrick is a gem, making me tea and bringing me cookies, apples and scrambled eggs with Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top. He asks how I’m feeling and during a wake-me-up shooting pain episode last night, gingerly removed my bandages so my toes could breathe a little. It was just the medicine I needed and the sleep that followed was deep, dreamless and without cats (he made sure they stayed downstairs). My mornings now consist of foot baths and dressing changes, easy stretches and looking at the bare trees on the other side of the living room windows, realizing that the seventeen acres of walking paths will not see my footprints for a while. I’m piling up “sitting” work I can tend to that includes prep for an upcoming workshop I’m facilitating on volunteer management fundamentals, putting nonslip nose pads on all my eyeglasses, editing the next two books and creating my 2025 vision board (I’m saving that for last because it promises to be the most fun). Random and occasional napping is not only permitted but encouraged.

When I’m all healed and skipping about again from one happy task to the next, I shall make a note to pause deliberately and relish the learnings that will come from that. Until then, I’ll take this slow medicine gladly. What a gift.

Finding Our Feet

I read somewhere that wearing socks to bed can help you sleep better, so I tried it last night.

It worked, as far as I could tell. I fell asleep and stayed there in that glorious REM spot for most of the night, and my dreams were neither vivid nor absent. Now, I’m not a credentialed scientist but I can at least employ some entry-level research methodologies by wearing socks to bed again tonight, and maybe for the next several nights to compare the results, test for consistency, even throw in a few new variables and plot the outcomes (add a footbath and some coconut lotion, nestle in with the kitten, more pillows, less pillows…we’ll see).

Bottom line here is I need a good night’s sleep. Several million of us do after last week’s election outcomes. I know…socks seem a thin comfort in the face of our shock and anger and deep apprehensions. But we start with what we can manage. I can manage socks for now. And a long overdue break from social media is also in order, not scrolling through the headlines looking for any sign of hope. I’m more likely to find her in the grocery store parking lot, stopping a cart from rolling into a fellow shopper’s passenger side door. That fleeting connection is real and simple and ends in two people exchanging smiles and it’s enough. It has to be or all is lost. I feel that in the marrow of my campaign-weary bones. The mandate to love hasn’t changed. It’s only become more urgent. Kindness—the deep kind, not just pretending to be nice—is still the coin of the realm I want to live in. I must remember this when the angry desire to throw rocks and burn effigies snarls to the surface and threatens to lay waste to all the hard work I’ve done trying to re-set my heart.

Last Wednesday morning, the land knew. She was eerily and respectfully quiet, a mourner with her head bowed in reverence to the tidal wave of grief washing over her. In the middle of our drought, she gave us the rain we so desperately needed when we woke up that day, and it began the slow soothe of our frayed, raw nerves. I had an early morning work commitment and couldn’t disappear into our fields and woods like I wanted, so I slipped into the mid-week traffic, driving next to strangers and searching their faces for clues, anything that would offer a narrow path to connection. We took normal care of each other as we usually do in our metal rolling cages, sharing the road, using our turn signals (mostly) and letting folks in front of us who clearly have to be on time for something and are cutting it close. I arrived at my destination with precious little memory of how I got there. I tucked the experience away to unfold on Thursday morning’s walk.

Today’s rains are steady and gentle, and I made it to the small clearing in the woods where I usually pause to sit on the hard wood of a massive black walnut trunk and Figure Things Out. The scent of woodsmoke from nearby houses’ fire pits stirred memories of our first years here with a wood burning stove of our own. We’d shovel out the previous day’s ashes and set split oak and cherry chunks onto the cold bricks, light the kindling and swing the door shut to watch the gathering flames wrap themselves around the wood. Many’s the night we sat together, Patrick and I, in front of that cast-iron stove, our legs outstretched with the soles of our feet warming deliciously inside our socks (again with the socks…). After a time, we’d check the clock and reluctantly close the damper before heading responsibly to bed until it was time to go to work. I don’t recall if our sleep was better for it, but my memories sure are. And in them I find another source of comfort and reassurance in these encroaching dark times.

I have no grand or exact predictions about what’s to come. For me, it’s still early days and I’m trying to catch my breath. Others in my orbit are telling me the same and we’re giving ourselves room to react on our way to response. I think of so many fellow humans in the world who don’t have that luxury, whose lives have been wrenched from their hands and turned upside down and they are pulled forward in a stumbling dead run just to get out of harm’s way. Too many haven’t made it to any sort of safe place. I am lucky to be able to pause and regather my strength. It’s what I must do; I know no other option.

So, dear friends, I will not let a necessary and temporary foray into inertia paralyze me. My feet have been places, seen a lot, collected stories and purpose and soon we’ll be summoned to new places, along with the rest of our very selves—shoulders to bear the weight, arms and hands to carry the weary, voices to speak what matters most.

We’ll all need a good night’s sleep before we head out. Best put on your socks.