We're Here

It's not like it is poetry week, or month, or whatever. Poetry is all around us, all the time. I used to drive family members crazy by breaking out into song all the time (there seems to be a song from a musical to cover just about anything). It is just as easy to break out into poetry.

I'm a little stressed over expenses these days. The termite hit was pretty large; it blows the budget all on its own. The carpenter has been fixing the room for a couple of days now and is still not done, so I don't even know what that total will be. *sigh* But it is spring, we have our family, the flowers are blooming. Daniel's blood sugars are in range for a few days now. It's spring break. I'm home with my kids for a week. The weather will warm up. A trip to Great Falls is on the agenda. Yet there isn't actually much of an agenda. The clock can move more slowly this week. We have each other. That, of itself, is a little miracle.

Here's a poem by the wonderful Molly Peacock:

Little Miracle

No use getting hysterical.
The important part is: we're here.
Our lives are a little miracle.

My hummingbird-hearted schedule
beats its shiny frenzy, day into year.
No use getting hysterical--

it's always like that. The oracle
a human voice could be is shrunk by fear.
Our lives are a little miracle

--we must remind ourselves--whimisical,
and lyrical, large and slow and clear.
(So no use getting hysterical!)

All words other than I love you are clerical,
dispensable, and replaceable, my dear.
Our inner lives are a miracle.

The beat their essence in the coracle
our ribs provide, the watertight boat we steer
through others' acid, hysterical
demands. Ours is the miracle. we're here.

Hopeful

Bernard talks about a new clinical trial led by Dr. Denise Faustman, who is searching for a cure for Type 1 diabetes. I know that people are alternately excited & jaded with this clinical trial announcement. How many years have we been hoping for a cure? My God, we've only had diabetes in our family for less than a year, yet it seems like I have been wishing for a cure forever. There's a constant dialog with the divine running through my mind; it goes something like this: "Okay, here I am at Target and I have to remember to get lemon juice & laundry soap, speaking of laundry jeez I wish Daniel would stop wiping his bloody fingers on his pants legs, maybe I should get some spot cleaner and please let there be a cure for this damned disease by the end of 2008. Or at the very latest by the time he is out of high school."

I can't help but feel a leap of hope in my chest when these new clinical trials are announced. This could be the one, this could be the year, this could be the vaccine. I'd get Daniel in the trial if I could, but he doesn't qualify; he's not over 18.

I mean, people are flocking to China to get stem cell therapy to cure blindness in their children, laying thousands of dollars down on their hopes, on the love for their children. Is it working? Some people say yes. Some people say it is baloney. But I tell you, I would travel across the stars and back for Daniel if there was a cure I could buy, if someone could grant my child health in a vial.

At the same time, I'm working on my gratitude. This is like mental yoga -- where you use opposing forces in your muscles to build strength. I don't even know if I'm saying that right. I'm thinking of the downward dog pose, where you outwardly rotate the upper arms while at the same time pressing the base of the index fingers into the mat... it all leads to a strong arm. ANYWAY... what I mean to say is that I'm so happy Daniel is alive! That, although insulin is not a cure, it keeps him here with us! That although diabetes is a major pain in the ass (shots included) we are managing it day by day, hour by hour. I hate diabetes. But I'm learning from it. Opposing mental forces, making me stronger (I hope).

A kid Daniel's age, who was his classmate a couple of years ago, was killed on Friday along with his father in a small plane crash. The news rocked our house yesterday, and my thoughts & prayers flew out to the mom & sister, who lost both men in the family at the same time. The tragedy served to remind me: we don't know what's going to happen tonight, tomorrow, an hour from now. We have to live every day, really live it, stay aware, notice each moment as it passes just for its unique beauty.

Half Way Point

My birthday is coming up. Two more days and I'll be 45. I don't want a cake because 1) Daniel can't have any regular old gluten-filled bakery cake (and I sincerely doubt that any other members of my family are going to attempt to make a gluten-free one) and 2) I'm trying to lose weight so cake is counter productive. The best birthday present ever was yesterday when Matt installed my lovely new/old dishwasher. Thanks to Carla for donating her not so very old dishwasher to me when she got a newer model. It's Bosch, it's sleek & stainless and I love it as much as one can love an appliance.

So... the birthday thing. There's no guarantees about anything, of course, but am I at the half-way point? What shall I do from here on out? I feel so often that I have been going from one day to the next doing what needs to get done, but not really *living*. Not being aware.

The title of this blog is from a Mary Oliver poem, the summer day, which ends like this:

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? "

I haven't been kneeling in the grass today, it's just too wickedly cold for that! But I am in the middle of a lovely day spent with my family. We're going out tonight for my birthday because Wednesdays are just too busy. In this relaxing day there's time to write and think over life, its joys, its challenges, its blessings. Do a little laundry, do a little knitting, give and receive a lot of hugs.

I'm trying not to let the age thing bug me, but to deeply practice the gratitude I feel for all the wonderful people in my life. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat.