I heard the rhythmic thump and shuffle of movement moments before I saw her. She looked older than I expected, bent nearly double, her shoulders rounded and slumped forward. Her long hair swept the ground and obscured her face from sight.
Red, blue, and yellow lights flashed within the depths of the cave created by the curve of her body. The image on the screen shifted to a larger view, then returned to her. She shuffled a step forward with her left foot, simultaneously using both hands to pull a heavy bag behind her. Her right foot scraped across the ground as she dragged it along. It took a few rotations through the shifting screen for my brain to piece together what it saw.
I could see the fluttering motion of her hand as she stopped, reached out, and patted some little creature on the head every few steps. Despite her movements, her body never straightened. This was not the result of strain or stress. She was designed to sustain the weight of everything she had to carry.
My first impression was that she was weary, but the perception of fatigue did not align with my thoughts and feelings about her appearance. We have shared a body all my life, and I had never seen her so clearly. She was beautiful. Strong. Determined. Kind. Fierce when necessary. She was my heart.
Poison ivy on a loblolly pine [B. Rhodes]
I spent two days resting or wandering around quiet paths, disconnected from the outside world and mostly lost in thought. Hospitals are always places where life and death cross paths and even sometimes walk together. Liminal boundaries fade. They may cease to exist in darkened corridors with unoccupied rooms and minimal active life force. This is one reason hospitals send chills crawling up our spines and through our nervous systems like a fast-growing poison ivy vine. Even those not cognitively aware of the liminal can feel its presence.
The unit I was on was configured in two connecting circles. Lazy figure eight. Infinity. One loop was not in use, and the solitude and dim lights were inviting. The far side of the nurses’ station was an entire plane of existence away from the sorrows in my hometown and the world’s troubles. Each time I walked through that space, a piece of the armor I had accumulated since last fall fell away. Then, I intentionally let go of some I had been wearing all my life. In that isolated space where I could hear my thoughts and feel my feelings without hostile interjections or abruption or the cacophonous noise of the crumbling patriarchy, I was able to let go of protections I no longer needed. I was able to open myself up.
Self-healing and awareness were the essential results of my hospital stay. Without them, I believe the physical truths I came away with will have minimal importance or positive impact on the quality and meaning of my life.
Liminal loop [B. Rhodes]
Since the current administration took office and began its public attack on the people of the United States of America, I have had dozens of conversations with people who struggle to understand the hows, whys, and whats of this living nightmare.
- How did we…
- How can people act like…
- Why are people so…
- Why don’t they…
- Why don’t we…
- What if…
And the question that sums it all up:
- What the everloving…
While I was in those in-between places, I thought about those questions. I thought about the circumstances of life in Swannanoa, in the United States, and in the world. In my fitful hours of sleep, I was shown some of the answers, but I do not remember what I saw. In one dream, I was sitting by the fireplace inside my apple tree den, and the Great Mother was seated across from me. She was in the form of an American Black Bear, sipping tea and eating slices of bread with butter and honey. We did not speak.
My husband drove me home from the hospital on a sunny afternoon. I asked him to drive the pretty ways so I could see what the earth had been up to while I was adventuring inside a pile of concrete and steel.
Spring was in a riotous mood, asserting her right to wear bright colors and every shade of green imaginable. Redbud trees were dressed in pink flowers. Azaleas showed off their versatility with pink, white, purple, and orange flowers. Dogwoods and Bradford pears were decked out in white. Some neighborhood gardens were showing off rainbows of color. This part of the world felt fresh and full of hope, as did I.
My own gardens are an overgrown mess. Once, they would have seemed ugly to me. Now, I see the beauty in their determination to continue living and thriving in a complex world. Rabbits and songbirds are busy among the wild growth and blooms. Today, I saw my first butterfly of the season, and the bees have been busy for weeks. Yesterday morning, I saw a small fox in the same area where one appeared last year. What seems to be a dystopian nightmare just needs supportive work and a bit of protection.
Every night now, I sit in the garden, observing growth and natural paths and opening myself to the present spirits. Liminal spaces are open and present, but not the same as the ones I encountered from the stepping-off point in the hospital. The Cottage, my home, is full of vibrant life energy, and the pathways to other places reflect that. Or perhaps they feed it. Maybe someday I will have an answer to that question.
Mother bear [B. Rhodes]
Every night I sought the Great Mother in my dreams, hoping for conversation, hoping to see Her bear form again. It was more than a week before She came to me. She laughed when I said, “It took you long enough.”
It is a peculiar thing to hear laughter rolling out of the body and mouth of a bear. The sound trailed behind her as she began to walk across the wide valley that stretched before us. She turned to look at me with an invitation in her golden-brown eyes, and I began to walk behind her. Our path followed the course of a river, and I knew I was in the place where the Swannanoa was born, long before she was called the Swannanoa.
“Where are we going, Mother?” I asked.
She did not answer, but far ahead of us was a tall, sturdy weeping willow standing alone on the bank of the river. It should have taken a long time to cover the distance, but we were there in fewer than 10 steps.
“Come, daughter,” said the Great Mother. “Sit beside me.”
Then she walked underneath the graceful canopy of willow branches dressed in catkins and disappeared. I entered the space and sat down next to her. I waited patiently for her to speak again. When she did, she said, “You wonder how you and your kind will make it through your current disturbances. There is much fear and anger.” I nodded, afraid I would cry if I tried to speak.
The curtain of willow in front of me was filled with images of historical events. Some included humanity’s failures; some did not. War, volcanoes, flooding, minor conflicts, small and large deceptions, decaying cities, lands destroyed, and decimated populations of people and all kinds of living creatures. At that point, I was unable to utter a single sound. Then, the scenes on the catkin screen changed to reminders and memories of the thousands of ways that humans have been and can be kind and good.
I leaned against her great body and cried until I could cry no more. Eventually, I grew quiet, and in the silence, I began to hear the sound of her breathing. Then, I could hear the sound of her beating heart. She let out a great sigh but remained still as Mothers sometimes do.
It seemed to me that she was weary, but the perception of fatigue did not align with my thoughts and feelings about her appearance. We have shared a body all my life, and I had never seen her so clearly. She is beautiful. Strong. Determined. Fierce when necessary. She is my heart.
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