ConnieOre.com

Knowing that the molecules of air that float about in our universe are finite, today it causes one to think about what is carried into the lungs with each breath. This very air was above Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas just hours ago, and now here it is, carrying the remnants of other thoughts and considerations that were on the minds of inhabitants of those places. I dreamed of jungles and dark green leafy places that are not a part of my life experiences here at Sanctuary where all is turning brown and gold, so I would suppose that the strong winds from the south could be the source.

The phlebotomists at our local clinic spend their days drawing little vials of blood for purposes of tracking and reading a good number of health conditions. I have been through the door of the little room where this is done countless times, and each time the same question is asked of me. . . date of birth? Even though we all know each other very well by now, I have wondered what would happen if I altered the digits I recite automatically, or if I had a senior moment and simply forgot those numbers. I asked about it, and all I got in response was a smile. To date, the process remains too serious to try out anything other than what is asked of me. For some time now the results of the blood readings have meant that someone will call me to make sure that I am aware of the implications of the findings. At the beginning of the disease, when we looked at these very low white blood cell numbers, we were undone, but in this season of life we just proceed in the new “normal”. I wear leather gloves now, and I move quickly away from clusters of people, particularly if I hear coughing. In spite of the turmoil of economics, energy, wars, political posturing, and all other things one could choose to fret about, September has been beautiful and fine, and each day continues to be a lovely gift. Thanks be to God.

Nebraska delivered a perfect autumn day for us, so we lived within it with gusto. I am naming some of the landmark trees in Sanctuary - the weeping willows by the bridge are the “Two Wandas”, the old creek willow with its shape reminiscent of those in Victorian paintings has been named “Victoria” (what else?) and so forth. This personalization of the flora is perhaps another step away from the life of logic and reality; when I begin to report conversations with these trees, and I hear them speaking back to me, then I am sure someone will come forward with an intervention.

This present phase of my life with cancer is a bit odd. I look good, and I feel quite well with nice energy, but the blood still reports “no immunities”. Life without interaction with other people would be a lesser one, so contrary to the doctor’s recommendations, I continue going forth into public places, visiting with others and hugging granddaughters as often as possible. There is a heightened awareness of the possibilities of illnesses that seem to multiply with school beginnings and summer’s end, and both Charles and I do a lot of hand washing while avoiding places of tightly packed humanity. So far, so good.

“Same song, second verse. Should get better, but it’s gonna get worse.” As I read the CBC results yesterday afternoon, these words in a raucous singing voice came into my head after remaining dormant since high school bussing days. I have had a splendid week of happy living and feeling well, so I hoped that the state of the blood would be better than it was 2 1/2 weeks ago. It wasn’t. Instead, the reading revealed a little loss in the red blood cell count while the white cells and platelets stayed nearly the same.

The trees, grasses, and wild flowers of Sanctuary are very beautiful now. The flowers are predominantly white, yellow, rich gold, or dark pink and lavender, and the grasses have lovely cream colored heads. The trees add more yellow leaves each day as the sunlight recedes, and some of the wild plums are filled with fruit in colors ranging from a soft pink to a dark purple. When Alphie and I walked at dawn today, the plumes of grass in the pasture held myriad droplets of moisture which shimmered in the early morning sunlight. I try to memorize these sights because they are always singular and worth remembering. Only the blue jays were calling to each other at that time - the nighttime temperature has dropped to 39 degrees which is quite low for early September, so it is possible that many more bird species have determined to get to their winter homes sooner rather than later.

We have a chandelier in our living room that has a large glass bowl in the middle which can be filled with cut or seasonal flowers. Charles filled it with pink sedum and a wild flower called “snow-on-the-mountain” which is white and green with tiny white flowers that form very small green, furry seed pods at their bases. What we have found out since is that at a certain moment of ripeness, the little seed pods literally explode, popping out the ripened seed and causing it to fly a goodly distance from the plant. Last night we heard the little pops, and had the sensation of getting struck by tiny spit balls as seeds began to randomly fly about the room. At first, we had no clue about what was going on, but after a bit, Charles identified the source. This activity is still going on as I write, and I have been struck a number of times. When one looks closely at the floor, there are quite a few seeds generously sprinkled about, and Charles has announced that the flowers will have to go outside. I say the whole method is ingenious and explains why this wild flower shows up in different spots all over the yard and pasture each year but I have to agree that having a well-seeded living room is not the level of sophisticated living for which one would like to be recognized.

For me, faith needs to be considered and regarded daily. It seems to change shape and form constantly because it encompasses so much that is unseen. There are the hints and reminders of a creating and sustaining God that one finds in nature. . . the sight of newly designed sunrises and ever changing cloud forms, the sounds of season changing winds and supportive rains falling and always, right overhead, the mystery of the stars and the universe. There are the touches of angels in the smiles and words of dear ones around a person, in the thoughtfulness of friends and nurses and doctors and good people. How this is perceived is held inside of each person’s own mind, and here it is that the conversation with God is heard. I think it is easy to understand “pray without ceasing” because God is so present.

This last week has been one in which I have thought about living in faith a great deal. My visit to my primary care doctor ended with a friendly admonition to take care, wash hands, avoid children, school settings and church because they would be the most dangerous places to pick up infections for which I have no defenses. I left knowing that two dear granddaughters would be arriving for a stay of several days, and that my weekly worship experience would need to continue - Charles always has new and wonderful music that wraps the hymn texts and readings in beautiful sound colors, and I go forward refreshed. But then I frequently get sick for a day or more, and my circle of life is pulled “out of round”. It was that way last weekend, too, but my contemplations of living in faith lead me to think that life has to be lived and I must not fear the outcomes.

The children were wonderful and bright and full of enthusiasm for all the things that Sanctuary had to offer them. They were delighted with every flower, butterfly, spider, frog, damsel fly and bird, but most of all they were delighted with Alphie. While standing on the roof, they blew bubbles and watched them catch in the treetops; we made chocolate ice cream and dried wild flowers in the microwave and always, there was Alphie to feed, pet, brush and be the object of much attention and conversation. Now they are back home and we are returning to our long breakfasts with good coffee and crosswords.

Listening to the cries of “change!’ that are coming from the political camps, it seems as though the weather over Sanctuary has decided to respond with a day of wonderful rain and a surprising number of yellow leaves falling to the ground. The migrating oriole that I mentioned in last year’s blog was sitting on the tree in the southwest corner of Sanctuary again. I do wonder if it is the same bird, or son of last year’s oriole following in its preprogrammed path toward a place the orioles know about in some part of their tiny brains. . . it is one of the lovely mysteries of nature. Life goes on. Thanks be to God.