enroute365

Taking the high road

I have come to understand the need for fiction writing in a whole new way.

When I began blogging over a year ago, my goal was to share slices of life and observations from my own experiences. In essence, to share truth as it presented itself. I fully anticipated that at some point I'd run up against one specific problem with that plan: I am intricately connected to others. When I reveal bits of my journey, very often I'm also exposing the struggles of those whose lives touch mine. In doing so, it's easy to invade others' rights to privacy.

This is one of the reasons I decided to take a break last fall, the need for integrity above all else. The daily dramas I was entering into were not mine to share ... even if they captured many a valuable life lesson.

Now, don't get me wrong! I'm still awash in tales of my own foibles! In the coming days I'll fill you in on my recent lapse in mindfulness and the broken ankle that resulted. But just for today I wanted to acknowledge -- perhaps even celebrate -- the reality of human inter-connectedness and the bonds of trust that need to be protected ... even if a great story is buried in the process!

Some day I will delve into fiction to tell those truths that would somehow be lost in a "tell-all" accounting. The truths that would somehow be rendered sordid or exploitive if I spared no detail. But today's not that day ... and this site is not the right forum.

But, be forewarned! For Enroute 365 to continue as a "life travelogue," I may deliver fewer stories and more brief insights, especially during those times when my days intertwine deeply with those of a family member or friend. It's a conscious decision to take the high road ... on this site and in my life.

More butterflies, more meanings

After my August 12th post, it's no secret that I'm fond of butterflies! But I am just now realizing how these beautiful creatures have come to symbolize real transformations in thought within the lives of others.

My blogging pal Emily at Be in Wonder is a case in point. In March she wrote a very revealing post entitled "Butterly Wings" that I've only recently became aware of. It refers to this insect in terms of individuality and worth.

In her story, Emily refers to a silky piece of cloth that was imagined to be butterfly wings by her son. She observes:

I had often felt like those butterfly wings [after they had been seen more than once and were no longer considered special]; That because I wasn’t unique I didn’t have any joy to offer those around me. I grew up thinking that if I didn’t have anything unique to say that it wasn’t worth saying at all.

I was wrong ... What I have to say is worth expressing--even if it's been said before ... Like butterflies, I will spread my wings -- even if they’ve been seen before. I may be the 1,000 Monarch butterfly you've seen, but I’m the only one dancing in this moment before you.

A second writer, Donna at Amazed By His Grace is the mother of an autistic son. One day she was surprised to see the boy "enacting a butterfly coming out of the cocoon." In response to what she had witnessed, Donna wrote a short but poignant poem which she shared in a recent post. Her words refer to the cognitive breakthrough made by her son and among this mother's heart-felt lines are these:

You broke from your small abode, no longer crawling
But fluttering in the sun, soaking up the rays
Bringing delight to all who would stop to gaze and reflect on the wondrous transformation
My son, I see your passion for the vibrant winged insect and I ponder...
Do you love them so, because they are so much like yourself?
You too were once encased, enclosed, hibernating
Now, you've emerged even more beautiful than I could imagine
Full of life, full of energy, full of love

I can give neither of these posts full justice, so I encourage you to visit the blogs through the links provided above and read these inspirational messages for yourself. Each story is transformative in its own right ... and shows how real empowerment can be found in something as fragile as a butterfly!

Frank without fences

Part 1: Series Introduction
Part 2: The Forced Smile

Frank doesn't like fences. Although he doesn't remember when this aversion began, it seems to have been evident already in early childhood.

Frank's story has come to mind because my husband is celebrating his 52nd birthday today. Because border issues are a big deal in the United States at the moment. And because, to me, Frank represents a man who has never built walls around himself.

The subject of fences came up last week in, of all places, the grocery store parking lot. Maybe that's because shopping is what all too often passes as quality time for us these days. Be that as it may, as I steered the car into the lot, Frank was reliving a discussion he'd had with his father some thirty-plus years before.

As anyone who has been there understands, the teen years represent the time when we distinguish ourselves from our parents; when we discover our own beliefs and -- sometimes unwisely -- choose to tell adults just where they got it wrong. Now, I'm not saying that Frank went to that extreme. But I do know that my spouse inherited his Dad's German stubbornness. That Frank's father was big on artificial borders. And that Frank is not keen on walls of almost any kind.

Pausing from his story, Frank returned his focus to me for a moment. “It's like “Paradise,” he said, referring to my favorite Sonia Dada song.  >> Words and music here. << Dan Pritzker's lyrics sum up the point-of-view that Frank shared with his father all those year's earlier:

The walls we build for protection when you see them from the other side
A prison whose gates close and lock from the inside
Oh paradise

Adapting as my parents age

It's been a trying week. With my parents now in their eighties, I've had to face some facts. First, I've had to admit that, while they are still intelligent and articulate adults, my folks' ability to comprehend the complexities of their health care has diminished. They are now more easily confused. Second, I can no longer turn away from the reality that ensuring their optimum health means I must become involved. There has been a change in Dad's health and, after months of delays, we still have no answers. My father deserves better.

I'm big on responsibility. How many times have I told a friend to “step up to the plate?” Now it's my turn and the task is none too easy. Wednesday we started with the paperwork that gives me access to Dad's medical information. The documents are key to gaining a first-hand understanding and clearing away the confusion.

But becoming involved means I'm resetting a boundary. I'm pushing past that line which says “Father (and Mother) knows best.” In place of a monarchy, I'm establishing a triumvirate of sorts, one that is governed by Mom and Dad and children. I say “children” because while I'm taking the lead on this, my sisters and I are in this together. As I take notes on the tests my father undergoes, my siblings are making sure I've got the right forms and are researching each test and diagnosis.

Still, I'm not comfortable with this new level of involvement in my parents' lives. In some ways my actions feel like an invasion. After all, I take my own freedom seriously. Ever since my college years I've maintained a reinforced border between my parents and myself. I'm comfortable with it and I'm not too eager to tread on their side of the line. I'd prefer to keep my gaze averted, focused on my own daily dramas ... except life doesn't work that way. Each life phase seems to demand a different sacrifice of me, removing me from a comfort zone. The senior years, I've found, demand a shift in the interaction between parents and children. And denial could mean the difference between life and death.

Mid-week, as my father and I continued through the documents, we discussed  his wishes regarding life sustaining treatment. I read each scenario from the Advance Care Directive aloud, gave a real-life example and repeated the options. When I sensed his comprehension was slipping we stopped and moved on to something lighter.

Any other day I am known for being impatient. But, on this occasion I chose to transcend the limitation. When my nieces and nephews were born, I found I had patience in abundance, because a child's heart and mind are, to me, a sacred ground. On Wednesday I rediscovered this virtue in my dealings with Dad. In some ways he is now just as vulnerable as my sisters' children; he needs to be protected ... while still being respected. It didn't matter that personal deadlines were looming on the periphery of my mind; Dad needed my understanding. Needed it because he now has a slower pace. This is the reality. My duty was to adapt. I had to abandon the faster rhythms of my brain in order to work with Dad at his level. And so we finished the form with long explanations and longer breaks.

I guess what I'm really discovering as I write is this: my resistance against my parents' aging is truly futile. Time and time again, life calls on me, demanding just one thing: it wants me to adapt. I can have any number of reasons why I shouldn't ... and it doesn't matter; life will win out. I can wage war against the inevitable and come away beaten. Or I can willingly accept the changes and retain the strength needed to carrying us through. Either way, as my parents move through these twilight years, my life will change as well as theirs. Still I sense that by choosing to move in step with these changes I can ease the transition for us all. And, maybe, I come out the other side a better person.

Protection from the poison

I'm getting aggressive with noxious weeds. Both in my yard and in my relationships. Let me explain.

Frank, my husband is developing an increasing sensitivity to poison ivy, so I've taken it upon myself to rid our property of the invasive vine. Or free ourselves from its grasp as much as possible.

Mine is not an easy task considering that a) we live on the edge of a woodland and b) we don't want to use chemicals. My solution has been to search out the poison ivy about once a month and -- with my arms coated and covered with every type of protection imaginable -- pull out the creeper by the roots. I'm developing a keen eye for spotting its three mitten-like leaves at even the weed's seedling stage.

All of this is risky business, for even the plant's root system contains urushiol, the oil that can result in a painfully itchy rash. Yet I'm willing to take the risk because I've seen Frank covered from ear to ankle with weeping blisters and I fear that his next reaction may land him in the Emergency Room. Keeping the irritant away from him is important to me.

As I eradicate the danger in my yard, however, I know I have some weeding to do in my personal life as well. Perhaps we all have an itchy "Ivy" in our lives. Someone who, due to the familial bond or ties of friendship, has crept in with a different kind of poison.

Ivy was in my home last week, complementing me on, of all things, my housekeeping. Now I'm sure Ivy did not fail to notice the clutter in my office nor the dust on ledges, because her faint praise was just a cover. Simply an intro to her real subject matter, the perceived sloppiness of  mutual friends.

I struggled to remain polite. Her targets were mothers running busy households. "I have it easy by comparison," I protested.

"Minimizing the worth of others and inciting conflict are not rational acts."

Whose "To Do?"

Thank you notes. I cross it off of my To Do list. Not because the cards have been written and sent. I don’t know if they have. It’s off my list because it never was my task to begin with.

“Your problem is …” an ancient scripts starts playing in my head. My problem is taking on other people’s issues, challenges, work.

Is this about caring? Or control? Am I being fair to me? Am I underestimating them?

Judy, my husband’s sister died several weeks ago. Many lovely flowers and plants were sent. Some came from Frank’s co-workers. I sat on the sidelines while the funeral arrangements were made, but afterward I wanted to make sure family members were taking care of details such as Thank You notes. These are all capable people. I was not appointed Emily Post. Yet I added to it my list of activities.

My To Do list is quite ambitious. I don’t think one woman’s lifetime could do it justice. Still I keep adding to it. Then, I wonder why I feel stressed.

“Some days I need the reassurance that I can still say, 'no.'”