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Posts tagged ‘embodiment’

I Cry All the Time

From writings about helping my father as he completes his life. At this posting my father has already died, but I want to share in this and the following few posts descriptions of his end days.

December 20
His eyelids flicker. I rarely see his blue eyes now since he sleeps most of the time. “Eyes are a piece of the brain,” someone once told me. Not as poetic as ‘window of the soul’, but right now that understanding of eyes captures my experience. I’m mostly shut out; those gatekeeper eyes slam the door in my face.  I’m alone out here in the chair by his bed. Read more

Winter Night

From writings about helping my father as he completes his life.

All the to-ing and fro-ing from caregiving his ADLs has enflamed my chronic act-up-under-duress injury. I feel like a parolee; I can only go a few steps before a skewer pierces my trochanter, my IT band, my quads. I lie down and tuck the pain under a heating pad. My brother brings me a set of crutches which help. Ibuprofen helps. Not walking helps. It’ll heal but not tomorrow or the next day. Read more

Papery Hand

From writings about helping my father as he completes his life.

I kiss his dry cheek this morning, hold his papery hand. The vinegar smell, the smell that always worries me, the scent of something fermenting, turning, is gone. Today he smells clean and strong despite his bones rising up to the skin. Read more

Caregiving is Detail

From writings about helping my father as he completes his life.

Caregiving is detail. As detailed, nonverbal, and spatial as dance. Our ace guy is Jermaine Cardoza who comes three or four times a week to give Dad a head to toe sponge bath. Washing 180 pounds of deadweight or rigid body is no easy gig, but Jermaine extends both his hands with ease, gives a one word cue, “Stand,” and my father places his hands in Jermaine’s. With a wisp of effort, Jermaine leans slightly back and Dad rises out of his chair. No muscling. No grabbing under his armpits to drag him up. Read more

There Will be Absence

From writings about helping my father as he completes his life.

Late night. Alone in my bed. The wind sighs heavily in the maple trees, sifting through branches with fewer and fewer leaves to rustle. The sound sits on me. I feel my feelings. Windows of connection with my father shrink. There are no longer infinite moments. I digest this. I feel this. Read more

On the Pitching Deck

From writings about helping my father as he completes his life.

Getting from one chair to another. Five steps. Pushing down on the arms of the chair, engaging his shaking thighs, standing in a crumple, and inching one foot forward, then the other, grasping a table edge, a doorknob, the stepping stones of the room. He knows every bump and outcropping of furniture and makes his way like an old mariner on a pitching deck. Read more


What is this medicine?
The protector. The underworld. The unconscious.

I lay on my belly on the beautiful Barn floor three days after being stung by a scorpion. (Walked across a floor in the dark barefoot. Sigh…)  The music played. Everyone moved on his/her own. I felt the skin of my inner arm sliding along the floor and my torso cleaving downward. Then the sense of what had happened—a small creepy creature, a tiny nightmare, injecting me with its message—gushed through my nervous system. Read more

Mesa, August

I opened the lid on my huge water tank and dipped a little pitcher in to get hot hot sun-heated water. Then I sat naked in a green plastic chair in the late afternoon heat-of-the-day on the Barn’s south side shaving my legs. I fully groom my body in sections–shaving pits one day, legs another, washing hair periodically. Read more

Secrets & Places

I am staying in my parents’ house.  The house is in limbo, no longer their home but kept exactly as if they might return at any moment, though they they never will. Like a dreamy puppet, I walk up the stairs focusing on each step, the bend in my legs, the extension to climb, my spine, my doing this coming from a need to feel right here right now as the end of their life rears closer Read more

Routines & the Moment

Most of us want a regular, dependable, effortless movement practice that will deliver fitness, and feelings of goodness and realness. We also want to be in the Moment. If we head down the delusional lane of finding a nice comfy routine, the Moment will never happen. The Moment–that elusive jewel beyond price–is not routine. Read more