Autumn Leaves (Behind)

Association is a powerful, powerful thing.  It serves so many purposes, but perhaps none so much as the ability to retain a memory.  It is an indifferent mistress, neutral in the extreme it cares little whether those memories are good, bad, helpful or painful – it simply serves its purpose, attaching memories and sensations in an intricate web of gossamer slivers of time.  It creates for the brain snapshots of consequences, outcomes, decisions good and bad – creating ghosts where none existed before, rekindling flagging fires of past pain so that they can singe their way along embattled nerves time and time again.  Warm vignettes of loved ones and joyful experiences ride alongside, caring not which flavor of memory will be summoned next.

Association is capricious, predicting when it might surface is a chancy thing.  A tendril of wood smoke on the air, the whiff of a cologne or perfume, the refrain of a favorite though forgotten song, the roll of the ocean or cry of gulls – simple, daily sensations that could be seared permanently into the recesses of your mind simply by adding enough trauma or enough joy.  Days on a calendar, seasons of the year, holidays with now-specific significance, brought forth in splendid relief or ruined forever in the space of a heartbeat.

I love autumn, it is far and away my favorite season and has retained that spot my entire life.  I love the turning of the wheel, the earth settling to sleep, the blazes of color that come with the land’s spectacular death knell.  I got engaged under a spectacular blue sky in autumn, my son learning to say “trick-or-treat,” my daughter’s first horse show, the list of my favorite sights and smells of autumn is long and boring to anyone but myself. 

The cusp of autumn also represents the time of year when my notion of family fell apart. 

It is standing in the heat of a late August afternoon, staring blankly at the trees and noticing that the leaves were just starting to change - as I listened to the tremor in my father’s voice as he told me my brother had died.

Autumn is the sound of my mother screaming at my father, demanding that he go buy her more wine – trying desperately and deliberately to use the same measures that took her son to drown out the pain of his loss.

Autumn is listening to the strain in my husband’s voice as he made one of the hardest decisions in his life – then watching him be vilified for it by his own children and never once being given the chance to explain … and being unable to stop it.

Autumn is the last time I saw the first two children of my heart, the ones that I accepted unconditionally fourteen years ago and remained content being relegated to the background for.

Autumn is the first time that I had to look at my own children and listen to the question, “When are we going to see them again? “ 

“Mommy doesn’t know.  They don’t want to see us right now and that is their choice.”

Autumn is the beginning of coming to grips with the fact that for whatever the reason, my little ones and I have been discarded – tossed carelessly aside as if we never existed.  That because of skew and bias and bureaucracy, bundled with base concepts like greed, anger and retribution, what I thought made up my family was shredded and consigned to picking up scraps and trying to heal undeserved wounds. 

I look at the changing leaves and it takes me back to last October, sitting in a hayride with my family … all of my children.  The late afternoon sun is slanting over cornfields; the track taking us through some hokey Halloween attractions nestled in the fields along the trail.  The kids are flushed and laughing, bouncing on the hay bales.  The sun is warm and the air smells like fall, apples and pumpkins, warm sweaters and crunchy hay.  It is the quintessential autumn day.

What autumn leaves behind breaks my heart.

Over The Fence

This is Meredith on Te, winning her first show.

Several months ago, my little girl rode in her second "competition" today, every few months the stable hosts a Barn Show so the students can learn how to compete and show off their skills.  The parents show up and take pictures and it's basically the horsey version of a dance recital.  The little ones start off in "lead line" classes, where their instructor leads their mounts through their paces and basically they judged for the ability to stay upright.  Meredith won her first blue ribbon a couple of months ago, sitting straight and proud on a half-ton of lazy brown horse.

That's right, I said a half-ton.  It's one thing to look at smiling pictures of giggling children on pony rides, it's quite another to wrap your head around the fact that there is very real risk in little girls on big horses.  I do not allow her to do it because it's cool, or fashionable, or because it's what little girls should do.  I allow it because she has sincere love for the animals, because it teaches her responsibility and partnership and having respect for other creatures. 

I do it because a lifetime ago it was my life as well, long days filled with the stamp of hooves and the smell of fresh hay and oiled leather.  Before there were ambulances in my life there was horses - stocky Quarter horses, athletic Thoroughbreds, graceful Arabians and everything in between.  Barrel races and long summer afternoons spent daydreaming, sprawled across the sun-warmed back of an old draft horse as it grazed its way across a green pasture.  Most don't know that about me.

Now my little girl is up there, and instead of being beside her I'm relegated to my position with the other parents - on the other side of the fence.  It's a very hard place to be.  You want so much to protect them from anything that will hurt or scare them, to let them float in this protective bubble of love and happiness that exists nowhere in this life.  Instead I put a helmet covered with hearts and cartoon ponies on her beautiful blonde head and send her off with breath held and fingers crossed that I am doing the right thing.  More than most I know how fast everything can change, a misplaced hoof, a shadow that spooks, gone in seconds from joyful ride to tragedy ... and still I let her go, even when inside I'm in knots.

As I watched the warm-ups this morning, she took her sweet time on the long way around the ring.  It was one of those moments you stare at extra hard, trying to imprint the visual image on your brain forever, knowing you will fail.  I could never fully relay to you how beautiful it was, this autumn vignette of a small golden haired girl on beautiful white horse.  A sunlit halo around them both in the cool early morning air as they meandered along, the rolling landscape behind them spectacular with the russet palette of fall.  There is nothing like the Northeast in fall, as if someone dragged a paint-soaked brush in random swaths of red and gold and orange.  On the far side of the ring, she was so far away from me and I was torn in two.  I'm so proud of how much she can do and yet I know every success pulls her from me, just a little bit.  I bite my lip and hold my position on my side of the fence.

This is her first show without a lead line, she'll be out there all by herself.  I watch her steer Cloud around the ring, carefully listening to the judges instructions.  It's not easy, the riders are young and the horses tend to do their own thing.  She walks away from her first class with second place and a loudly cheering family.  One more class to go.

Not twenty minutes later she was face down in the dirt of the competition ring.  Cloud was ancy all morning, she just had a tough time keeping him straight.  He acted up in the ring, she got frightened and lost her stirrup, sliding sideways and hitting the ground ... it's so far away for a little girl.  Embarrassed and scared, she let go of the reins and when she could regain her wind howled her indignity at the Fates as the class ground to a halt.  I had seen the whole thing from my vantage point on the wrong side of the fence and knew that her injuries, if any, included her considerable pride and not things like her liver or spleen.

I wanted to climb that fence so badly, never in my life have a fought an urge that strong.  To run to her across the ring and scoop her out of the dirt, to tell her that it's alright and that none of it was her fault and everything would be ok.  That's what mothers are supposed to do, I believe we are hardwired for it.

I did not climb that fence, I did not even express upset - other spectating parents were more visibly concerned than I was.  It was so hard, watching her get up and knowing she was embarrassed.

My fists were so tight that my palms were riddled with red crescents, reminders of how hard I was pressing my nails into the skin.  I held my ground, even as I was assessing her for injuries from a distance.  The owner of the stable collected her and lifted her over the fence, saying soothing phrases to her and telling her that she did not have to get back on today if she did not want to.  He is a good man, and was concerned for his own reasons as well as hers.  I finally let my breath out and collected her from him, she was on my side of the fence again.

I held her tight, catching her sobs in my hair as my hands quietly ran over her in a subtle inspection.  Yes I knew she was alright but there is always that small chance ...

Cloud stood passively, unattended, head down and tail swishing slowly - waiting for direction, unconcerned with the drama surrounding his sidestepping reaction to some minor upset.

Meredith continued to sob indignantly, announcing that she would never get on him again and she wanted to go home.  The owner assured her quietly that she did not have to do anything she did not want to.  I stopped them both.

She had to go back in.  To ride a horse is to enter into a partnership, an agreement, a mutual responsibility that needs to exist in order to succeed.  She was responsible for him, even if he let her down it did not mean she could fail on her part of the agreement.  She cried louder as I told her what she had to do, but now she would turn and sneak looks at poor old Cloud and you could see that she understood what I was saying.  Shame and responsibility are big concepts for such a little girl, it was like placing a burden on her you did not know she would be able to take.

I think perhaps one of the hardest things I have ever done was to pick her up and place her, still crying, back over the fence.  She clung to me, not wanting to face her failure.  I understood oh I so understood, but I also knew that she would have to learn that she could fail and come out alright and that Mommy does not know any other way to be.

So it was that my little girl trudged through the dusty ring, tears streaming down her cheeks.  She gathered up Cloud's reins and looked up at him for a moment.  Sniffling loudly, she patted his nose and with that small motion forgave him.  Then without another word or assistance, she lead him from the ring with all the dignity a five year old can muster - to the resounding applause of the other riders and the audience outside of the ring.

I hid my tears from her and told her how proud I was of her.  How everyone falls and that it is not the fall, it is how you pick yourself up after that matters.  What I could not say to her is that fence will always be there. That it will grow higher and harder to climb over as time and experience pulls her further and further into that ring.  That someday Mommy will not be able to reach her over that fence but maybe, just maybe, I will have taught her enough to get herself safely back out of that ring with grace and dignity.

Someday she will learn that being on the other side of the fence is the hardest place to be.

Sea of Blue

 

A lifetime ago, when I was brand new - entering a fledgling profession in an impossible environment, I walked into a sea of blue. Industry icons even then, if you wore the patch then it meant something. It meant you were expected to be resourceful, thick-skinned and better at your job than the average person. If you could manage those things, you found yourself standing on pillars of strength found nowhere else, and a wall of blue at your back when you needed it the most. If you could not manage those things ... well then you would either get better or get out.

It's all well and good to talk about "the good old days" but they weren't better or worse than now, just a different dynamic and a different generation. Because we were forced to work without a lot of resources, we made our own - we were our own. You did not have unit tracking, you had peers who could reserve a portion of their brain just for keeping track of where all the other units were - if you called for help someone had paid attention. If you were going to a disreputable location, there was no concern that you would be alone - another truck would slide silently up and wait quietly outside, just in case. If you screwed up (and we all did), you faced the gauntlet of blue that let you know in no uncertain terms that what you had done was not about you - but a reflection on everyone dressed just like you. And that ladies and gentlemen, was simply not acceptable.

We were the leaders in the field, the state. We didn't go to conferences, we hosted them. We wore our battle scars proudly, demonstrating clinical expertise that was hard won. It didn't matter what the outside world thought, because we knew what we had to do to get through each shift and we expected the person sitting next to us to do no less. It was a fraternity where the expectation was excellence and being a part of it meant you had earned some swagger.

If you wore the patch it meant something.

Time marches on and with it comes change. The generations and priorities change, procedures and practices change even though the job itself does not. Frustration from within and without takes its toll, and apathy and exhaustion erode even the strongest landscapes. Faces come and go in rapid succession and the old guard is too weary to lift its head to invest, the bar begins to lower under the weight of having to carry all these strong spirits faced with adversity from all sides.

Over time it has lost its meaning, becoming merely part of your uniform and no longer a facet of your professional identity. We have been looking for meaning that has been lost, buried under a pile of bureaucracy and trapped in the throes of a struggling institution. Despite all that, the job has not changed and neither has the patch - the morale and camaraderie is a completely different story. In losing that we lose our pride and some of our strength.

When Billy said he wanted a team in the METI games, it's nothing we hadn't considered before. Previous feelers met with apathy and this is something you cannot force people into doing (except maybe for Glenn Vogel). Then we got contacted by OEMS who said that they had almost no competitors registered and would any of the projects step up to help. Shortly after he put the email out asking for interest, I got contacted privately by someone who was interested. It was not someone I would have considered as being interested, but they said they felt that this is just the thing that would be a "shot in the arm" for the department and they wanted to throw their hat in and try.

Before we knew it, we had eight teams willing to give it a shot and the games were on. All of a sudden it was the topic heard everywhere; with us trash talking on the inside and the people on the outside looking on in absolute surprise. We were the buzz around the state ... and not for a bad reason.

These guys came on their own time to practice, studying protocols and doing sequences over and over again, trying to do it better each time. And with each passing week, there was more support from both inside and out. NorthSTAR opened the hanger and spent hours working with their simulator and then with the teams, working together and bridging the natural distance that often happens between us and the flight team - even though we all wear the same patch.

As this week grew closer the support became even more palpable, people long gone who had worn the patch offering words of encouragement and support and resurrecting the sense of pride that we all once shared.

Thursday morning, with the sun barely over the horizon, the gallery opened for orientation. When Billy and I walked in there what we saw was a sea of blue. Eagerly clustered around the simulator, they mauled it and hammered the technicians with questions. I'm certain it was overwhelming to the other teams, I know I would be.

Professional, squared away, obviously taking this seriously. As Bill and I stepped back and looked on, an unbelievable amount of pride swelled up in me. One of the people from the state came and stood by us to watch for a moment. We said to him, "those are our kids." He looked at all the blue, all those patches moving over the simulator and all he could say was "That's really f***ing cool." He's right, it really was - and we hadn't even competed yet.

The rest of the day was a blur, a flurry of non-stop activity. As we were learning the flow and preparing the first team to go on, as I was pinning the mic to Joe Sapienza's chest I kidded that it was like getting your kids ready to go to prom. It really was more like working backstage at a Broadway show, with so many teams we had to get them out, restocked and the next ones set up and in, ready to go.

When the first team went on it was a new experience for every one of us and we had no idea what to expect. As they moved through the scenario, I don't think we could have grinned any wider. It was immensely satisfying to watch our guys go in there and settle in and roll with each quirk of the simulator and the situation presented. Supporters moved in and out of the viewing gallery all day. Dr. Scott made it a point to stay for every team; her grin was even bigger than ours. By the end of the day the viewing gallery was packed. As teams came out the sea of blue would roar to life in support, team photos and smiles all around. They mingled with the other teams, making new friends and proving that we're not unapproachable or anti-social.

Team Honey Badger set the mannequin on fire. Brick City Medics electrocuted it and made a pretty light show. The Little Bricks threw the wrench in the works by speaking to the hostile bystanders in Spanish. Team Angina held it together in the face of some unprofessional behavior and provided awesome BLS care. Every single team went out there and did their best; it was obvious and great to watch. The whole day will be one of my best career memories.

At the end of the day, two of our BLS teams occupied spots in the finals. While the ALS teams did not place, the judges said that the scores were extremely close and the results were determined by a matter of mere points. With only a few weeks to prepare, no simulator experience and wearing the patch, we were absolutely a force to be reckoned with and the mark of it was present throughout the competition and the conference.

The feeling has carried over - there was new life in everyone there. The M*A*S*H Bash was a blast, everyone enjoyed themselves and as we clustered in the back hallway for group photos it occurred to me that we have not had such department pride in years. The words of support and encouragement we have received from alumni, friends and professionals all over have been amazing. We have had compliments from vendors, officials, outside agencies and individuals. We are back on the professional map after a long silence, and it is all due to the work and absolute courage it took our eight teams to step into that arena or onto that stage and perform under the microscope of peers and beyond. I salute each and every one of you and you will never realize how much it meant to me personally and I'm sure Billy as well - to see us carry it through with such success.

You wear the patch. It means something again. Thank you.

To the rest of the state?

See you next year ... yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about.

The sounds of silence.

Doubtful Sound, New Zealand
Photo by Sue Lovell

The human sense often associated with the word "chaos" is hearing.  Say the word and sound associations occur - screaming children, wailing women, swords clanging, protestors in a raging debate, explosions, shattering glass, twisting metal shrieking as it dies, the auditory backdrop for the end of days. 

My life, my job, my forte' ... chaos.  With that chaos comes the soundtrack - dogs barking, kids fighting, phones ringing, keys clacking, computer chiming, music playing, sirens blaring, multiple radios squawking, it goes on and on.  If those sounds are not sorted properly through the filter of my psyche - my mood, my level of interest and enthusiasm and fatigue, then it becomes less of a backdrop and more of an assault.  If I cannot translate the daily cacophony into a functional tapestry then those threads fray and snap, shredding my nerve endings into a fragile, tangled mass of stress. 

I have found that the older I get, the more I crave quiet.

For so long I have been functioning at an exhaustive pace, I rarely have time to notice just how much noise there is around me.  The audio melange is just part of what amounts to daily life and is a necessary evil, or is it?  Look at what I found about noise on a Yoga instructors site:

Sound 101

"Since the mid 1940s, music has been used as a therapeutic tool to address a wide variety of physical and emotional conditions. Much data proves that the vibrational frequencies produced by sound waves have a subtle influence on everything from mood to health, giving new respect to the ancient healers who apparently knew this intuitively. Over the past decade, an entire industry has developed around recordings of whales singing, waves pounding ashore, and the calls of rain-forest birds, as well as countless recordings of contemplative music designed to move your meditation and yoga practice forward.
 
What we perceive as sounds are actually measurable vibrations moving through the air in waves that emanate from the source. Like ripples from a rock dropped into still water, sound waves produce patterns of regular peaks, whose rate of repetition defines the sound’s frequency. Frequencies detectable by humans range from 20 hertz to about 20 kilohertz and zero to 130 decibels. Research shows that both higher, uncomfortable sounds, and lower, inaudible frequencies, impact concentration, heart rate, stress levels, ability to focus, and sense of well-being. Sounds above 80 decibels, such as power tools and traffic jams, cause responses ranging from the stress hormone adrenaline being released by the brain to accelerated heart rate and psychological distress.
 
In contrast, sounds in the low ranges can produce the release of neurochemicals that lead to an ‘alpha state’, characterized by a heightened sense of well-being, calmness, lowered heart rate, and deeper focus. It is this desirable state so often sought by practitioners of meditation."

Especially in recent months, I can fully appreciate this information.  My patience with circumstances is close to legendary, however I am finding that I can be triggered to anger almost instantly with sound.  The dogs who never shut up, the kids bursting into a screaming argument, phone jangling along the nerves at work, a dozen conversations hitting you at once.  It is almost as if at this period in my life I spend my waking time operating at the threshold of my breaking point, instead of well below it, and it simply takes the right sound to push me over that rational edge. 

I don't recall it always being that way, I've lived and thrived in noisy environments my whole life - is it a process of aging or just emotional fatigue?  It is not like I do not invoke noise when the mood suits me.  I love laughter, I sing loud and off-key to any number of artists in my car, there is everything from baroque chamber music to bagpipes to Katy Perry to black metal piping through my family's life at any given time.  However at this point in my life, I find that I have developed an absolute need for periods of quiet.

With an hour+ average commute, I spend a lot of time in my car. When discussing the pros and cons of driving I am often asked, "What do you listen to?"  The answer very often, frankly is "nothing."  I get in the car and shut everything off.  I am left solely with my thoughts and the hum of the engine.

But it isn't "nothing" - not be a long stretch.  I am listening to myself, playing through the events of the day or looking ahead to tasks for the day.  I am playing out conversations in my head with loved ones that I know I should have but likely never will.  I am writing eulogies for people who aren't dead and acceptances for awards not yet earned.  I am creating snappy comebacks for conversations long ended where I didn't know what to say, or answers to interview questions that I failed to prepare fully for.

Because I am listening to myself and not the external barrage of sounds and thoughts not my own, I can act and not REact.  I find that my nerves settle and I can relax.  I notice the things around me, the wildflowers on the shoulder of the highway, the young deer grazing in the predawn mist, hawks floating in lazy circles on thermals high above me - feathers splayed like fingertips, stroking the invisible currents like strings of an ethereal harp.  I think in narrative and write whole segments about vibrant characters and emotional topics ... that never make it to a page.

Once I am done listening to myself, then and only then can I sort out the sounds of life around me and  put them where they belong - sorting each thread in my head and seeing how they weave themselves into a fabric which I can either allow to stifle me, or carry me like a  magic carpet over the obstacles of my life like in the stories told so long ago ... when there was less noise to listen to, words carried further.

So when I ask you to be quiet, is it for me - or for you?  What do you listen to?

Too many words, not enough hours.

It's been over two years since I put anything here.  It does not mean that I do not have the words, or the means ... it's just that there is so much in my head most of the time that a lot of it never makes it to my hands.

My supporters feel this is a bad thing, so even though nobody looks here - perhaps this will be a good tool for me to start getting more of the narration in my head onto the virtual page.  Because I do have a narration in my head, I write third person descriptions for the myriad of vignettes I see every day.  All the little details that make up my life end up in paragraphs that I review and edit in my head, usually while I'm doing one of my commutes.

And there they stay.  Maybe that's good but when visited by the shadow of mortality, everyone wants an echo.

Even if it only lasts a little while.

Imagine a Woman

(This hangs above my desk, so I get to read it every day.  It holds the wishes for myself, as well as those dear to me.)

Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is woman.
A woman who honors her experience and tells her stories.
Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.

Imagine a woman who trusts and respects herself.
A woman who listens to her needs and desires.
Who meets them with tenderness and grace.

Imagine a woman who acknowledges the past's influence on the present.
A woman who has walked through her past.
Who has healed into the present.

Imagine a woman who authors her own life.
A woman who exerts, initiates, and moves on her own behalf.
Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and wisest voice.

Imagine a woman who names her own gods.
A woman who imagines the divine in her image and likeness.
Who designs a personal spirituality to inform her daily life.

Imagine a woman in love with her own body.
A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.
Who celebrates her body's rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.

Imagine a woman who honors the body of the Goddess in her changing body.
A woman who celebrates the accumulations of her years and her wisdom.
Who refuses to use her life-energy disguising the changes in her body and life.

Imagine a woman who values the women in her life.
A woman who sits in circles of women.
Who is reminded of the truth about herself when she forgets.

Imagine yourself as this woman.

~ by Patricia Lynn Reilly

Here's to Stormy Weather!

"The spirit of resistance to government is so valuable on certain occasions, that I wish it to be always kept alive. It will often be exercised when wrong, but better so than not to be exercised at all. I like a little rebellion now and then. It is like a storm in the atmosphere."

~ Thomas Jefferson, in a letter to Abigail Adams ( February 22, 1787)

It is no great secret that I am a history buff, I actually heard a great explanation for why that may be so the other day.  "History is just the recording of a bunch of ordinary people, trying to make choices - just like we do.  Except now we know how they turn out."  That may be true, but only up to a point.  As time goes by we seem to be developing into a society that does not make choices, because choices come with consequences and those we absolutely do not want.

I just spent a long time working with someone who did not make decisions out of fear that he might be found wrong.  So every choice waited until every risk was weighed, measured, anticipated and defeated.  And if that did not happen, then neither did the decision.  It did not make him safe, it made him ineffective.  I do not want a professional or personal life like that.

Every year I advocate reading something by the Founding Fathers, even the obscure ones, and what you will find is that they were in fact a lot like us.  They had fear and debt, they missed their wives and families, everything they did - every decision they made, put them at a level of risk like nothing you or I ever face today.  Some were obnoxious, some eloquent and all worked toward a common purpose (even if they had a personal agenda as well).  However there is a common theme that you will see as you thumb through Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Adams, etc ...

They all feared the power of their new government if the people did not stay educated to its purpose and involved in its execution.  Not the politicians ... the people, you and I.

Today is a holiday that is all ours - take some of that free time you have today, and educate yourself.  If the past bugs you, read the present.  Educate yourself on what's happening in your town, your state, your economy.  If you don't like it, don't bitch - resist.  Yes, one person's voice is small - but it only takes one person's signature to sign a bill into law, or to veto one as well.

In an atmosphere where kids can't win or lose - just participate, where they can't pass or fail, where you can't say something is wrong or bad, where we want to medicate everyone to a midline and forget that life is a rollercoaster with peaks and valleys for a reason ... be the lightning that says the weather can and will change, whether you want it to or not.

Happy Independence Day my friends - stay stormy!