"The way I write is who I am..." --Joan Didion

Follow me along this journey; wherein, I seek to be the Me that only I can be. As Gerard Manley Hopkins once wrote, "What I do is me--for that I came." My writing pays homage to that sentiment because no one else in the world can be the you that is you, the me that is me, and the collective sum of "we." What we do is us. That is our mission of LOVE--our purpose for being. For that, we came. 

Ruminate Magazine "What Remains" Theme, Issue 58, Spring 2021 =

 Creative Flash Nonfiction (Less than 300 Words)

Dogspiration

“I’ll Fly Away” was on page 333 in the Pentecostal hymnal.       

      It was sung regularly—dare I say religiously—in the church of my childhood. Those years I learned “thou shalt do this and not do that.” It was force-fed religion where I believed God sat in his seat of judgement checking my name each time I sinned. I feared God.

        So, it’s no wonder that my adult years found me walking away from organized religion. The tipping point came when a minister said I would doom my child to hell if I divorced his father. I wondered, “What kind of loving God would damn my child?” I no longer wanted any part of a judgmental God.

         But in the eyes of a dying brown-eyed, blue-eyed border collie, I saw God for the first time. It wasn’t a damning God, but loving Source Energy. When my fifteen-year-old dog fell ill last January, she went five days without eating. I thought for sure she was leaving me and this world. As I stroked her black and white fur and held her near my heart, I felt pure, positive love. I was sitting on the floor at home willing my Holly-girl to live when I saw God in her eyes.

         Through illness she said, “I may not know much about anything, but I do know one thing.”

         “What’s that, Holly?”

         “I know that every day you wake up, love your life and the world, you are praying,” she said.

         As the sun set on day five, Holly ate the scrambled eggs and sausage I offered.

I don’t question why she stayed. All I know is that she didn’t fly away. Not just yet.

The Finger Literary Journal, published January 2021: In this essay, I contemplate the struggle between my professional career and the career in which I long—writing full time. Through the yearly challenges of teaching, I find solace in the only place that I can: reading and writing. My narrative journey begins grim. But stick with it. Relief arrives at the conclusion. thefingermag.com/2021/01/1723/?fbclid=IwAR1u-F1GYIjPLQlcCD8q3Eb5t3GMXD-AvqKcfRB9zy8_d89Pk5Z3kVqxBdI   

Never Surrender to Battle Fatigue: Reflections from a UC Warrior

        It’s Christmas time. A crooning cowboy wails “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” over the store intercom. I’m rubbing elbows with a throng of other holiday bargain shoppers in a western wear store located in a small, southern Ohio town some fifteen years ago. While pushing and shoving occurs among the redneck, camo-wearing types, I clamp down on the hand of my three-year-old son as a lightning bolt of pain shoots through my gut.

Paralyzed, I halt my holiday bargain shopping. With cowboy boots in hand, I feel sweat beads pop out on my forehead that force me to assess my surroundings.

I know this pain. In a few moments, I will drop to my knees.  My enemy has arrived in this store. It has trailed me, stalked me, since my late teen years and stands ready to fight at the most inopportune times. With bullet-fired speed, it punches me and shouts its warrior chant: “You are going down, sister!”

  I drop the boots, jerk my son’s hand, and grab the nearest sales associate.

        “Do you have a restroom?” I choke out through the Herculean pain that has seized my entire body.

        “Yes, ma’am, we do. Right over there,” replies the salesgirl wearing a pasted on holiday grin as she points to an inconspicuous door.

        With child dangling from my grip, I fling open the door and slam it shut. My enemy takes aim again as I hunker over in excruciating pain.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” inquires my three-year-old.

Through clenched teeth, I whisper the command, “Turn around and face the wall, Bub.”

Why does propriety step in during times of war? Don’t I need a witness to the ensuing battle that has just begun in case I don’t make it out alive? No. It’s too hideous! This war is not appropriate for anyone at any age. I have locked horns with my enemy, and I already know this fight will be UGLY—all the way to the bloody, messy end.

        Since my teen years, I have struggled and battled with an inflammatory bowel disease called ulcerative colitis (UC). For the weak-stomached individuals, the dirty details will be overwhelming. So, just stop right here. Don’t read any further. Sometimes, it’s all right to sit the bench. For me, the “bench” arrived many years ago in the form of restrooms that are necessary to my participation in life. 

In short, UC results in the inflammation of the large intestine—a.k.a., colon and rectum. When the lining of the large intestine becomes inflamed, ulcers form on the surface. Because the colon stores stool before defecation, a sufferer experiences severe cramps, abdominal pain, diarrhea, and rectal bleeding. As a chronic, life-long disease, ongoing treatment is necessary. In the long run, no cure will end the wars, which sufferers like me combat.

        Why was I blessed with this “glorious” disease? Was it because of my effervescent personality? Or did I just piss off the wrong individual who sentenced me to a lifelong pain-in-the-ass disease? Maybe during gestation our Creator looked at me and thought, “Yes, thou shalt be a restroom critic. Go forth and inspect.”

  Lord knows I have visited every restroom that I have journeyed past during forty-eight years on this planet—some nice and clean but also some unlit, filth-laden ones that no one should ever visit. EVER. When a flare-up occurs, this inflammatory bowel disease warrior cannot afford to be persnickety. Hell, even finding a tree to hide behind might be the best call to action when traveling life’s weary roads.

Living with UC is like living with a bomb waiting to detonate. I never know exactly when the “pain” is going to hit, and when it does, everyone better duck and cover. This chick cannot wait for someone holed up texting in a stall. Oh, you stall-hogs know who you are. I have seen your slovenly ways. This soldier has NO time for you to Facebook, text, YouTube, or talk to your “ever-so-important-friend” while imprisoning a commode needed for duty. This colon clock of mine tick-tocks, tick-tocks the few precious seconds before eruption occurs. When my body triggers the battle alarm, this UC soldier springs into action.

As a warrior, I have discovered a few “triggers” for my flare-ups. First, not finding a restroom or available stall will send me into a ten-alarm fire mode. No amount of first responders will aid my relief. At this realization, I have approximately thirty seconds before explosions occur no matter how hard I attempt to stop them. 

Nothing screams “humiliation” worse than shitting your shorts at a football game because of occupied porta-potties. As a matter of fact, I once ditched a pair of my favorite undies in a trash can while tailgating at a Marshall University football game in Huntington, West Virginia. Thank goodness jeans hid the remaining dirty evidence that day.

 Next, stopped traffic will net approximately a five-alarm fire mode. Seeing cars backed up on a highway signals my colon like the start-up command at a NASCAR race: “Drivers, start your engines!” Vroom! I need to race to a restroom! Highway construction and traffic tie-ups became the reason I now carry a roll of toilet paper in my car. If need be, I will do my business between an open front and back car door. Vanity flies out the window during such emergencies. 

Must I also mention food? Oh dear! Roughage—or heck, food of any kind—will result in a “rough” journey through my digestive system. The gurgles, growls, knocks, pings, and pains remind me each day that a simple cheese sandwich on the outside faces a grueling trek on the inside. In essence, anxiety of any kind will crank up the boom bass of my raucous intestinal jam session. No degree of horse pill or steroid to blow me up into a pufferfish will aid me in this fight. I am resigned to the reality that this disease which stalks my every move, requires me to go where no man, woman, or child would choose to go.

Once, I went in search of a cure at a Mexican clinic. Through word of mouth, I heard about a person who found “miraculous” medicine for UC at this clinic in Tijuana, Mexico. Desperation forces people to make drastic choices. As a twenty-something, I was willing to travel to the netherworld if necessary. Little did I know, Tijuana was that netherworld.

Anxiety-ridden, I boarded a plane and spent much of that flight to San Diego, California, in the restroom. Colitis, paired with an overactive imagination, on top of flying represent a triple threat. All I could envision the entire flight was crashing somewhere between Ohio and California. I figured during that trip that a poopy colon wouldn’t matter so much once my scattered remains were all gathered up.

That same train of thought also hit me once I survived that flight and crossed the border into Tijuana. Traversing the back streets of this netherworld seeking some mysterious clinic forced my colon into such epileptic seizures, I wasn’t sure I would ever make it back to the states alive.

After the fact, I realized that my colon attempted to warn me. I never should have visited that clinic, never should have braved the streets of Tijuana to find this voodoo medicine, and I should have listened to the toothless stranger who stuck his grimy face in mine and whispered, “A young lady like yourself shouldn’t wander the streets alone.”

Signs…the signs were everywhere.

Again, sometimes desperation forces soldiers into unknown territory. After that trip, I ended up in the hospital with rectal bleeding so profuse that my gastroenterologist almost fired me as his patient. Lesson learned: Miracles do not live in Tijuana.

On another occasion, I considered surgery to end this war. My hopes laid—literally—in the hands of the academic medical center at the Cleveland Clinic. Leading as the top digestive disease center of the United States, the Digestive Disease and Surgery Institute at Cleveland assured me that the most advanced treatment provided by the specialists would be my intestinal savior. With my Grand Canyon-sized medical history in tote, I drove almost five hours north to the Cleveland Clinic in hopes of retiring from this hard-fought war.

First, I spent hours waiting in a deep freezer called the waiting room. Sitting for any length of time when suffering from an inflammatory bowel disease just didn’t make sense to me as I continually stared at my appointment timecard.  Once I made it to the examination room, I spent more time learning about J-Pouch surgery; wherein, specialists remove the colon and rectum and create a J-pouch reservoir for digestion.

Did I want to get cut? Did I want to lose my colon and rectum? Did I want to go through months of a two-step process? Deal with a temporary ileostomy until the process ends? What do doctors do with a defunct colon and rectum once removed? These questions fired off in my head like an automatic weapon as a team of doctors surrounded me.

  After getting interrogated by the “team” (at least ten doctors), I realized my intestinal savior did not exist at the Cleveland Clinic. In case one has never experienced it, nothing says “problem solved” like bending over an examination table at the waist, dropping your drawers, and having your rectum checked for definitive proof of colitis in front of a team of witnesses. The humiliation of “ass investigation” was too much for this soldier. After pulling up my big-girl pants, I knew I would march onward through this war-torn mission.

With each flare-up, I am reminded how to live. I have learned from my enemy. It lives inside me and uses me as its tackling dummy. How glorious a pain free life would be! If given the choice, I prefer not only never knowing the seedy side of restrooms but also never meeting a team of professionals questioning my bum’s integrity. I also prefer not looking down into the bowl of life—full of its murky, dark details. For whatever reason, I am left to carry UC as my badge of valor.

  In a spiritual sense, I am another ulcer—an open sore that faces disintegration. In life, I will encounter many “cheese sandwiches” that will not be digestible. My journey has taken me through poking and prodding (and the taking of glorious pictures) in areas that no one wants prodded (or photographed).  This disease is one that I will carry for the rest of my life. 

Through all the painful suffering, I see the irritants and ulcers that life presents everyone. With ulcerated pictures glaring at me from life’s holy photo album, I can vouch that we all must accept life’s trials and tribulations. No cures exist to end them. One may choose to cut out and remove a twist or turn on this roller coaster journey. In the end, the twists and turns provide a vision of the universe as a vast landscape filled with pockets of despair but also with pockets of hope.

Returning back to that western wear store during the Christmas holiday, I am Harry Dunne from Dumb and Dumber. Recall the bathroom scene when Harry learns too late that the commode won’t flush. Ah, yes—I, too, am unable to flush my enemy away on that memorable holiday shopping excursion. When the battle ceases and the flame throwers and missiles have halted in this war room, I turn to discover this one-seater of a restroom doesn’t flush.

“Flush, you bastard!” screams my heart in true Harry Dunne fashion.

As the sweat continues to pour, I jiggle the handle and hear a small voice facing the wall: “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

“Nothing!” leaps from my lips as I rip off the top of the commode. “Don’t come over here, son! I have to fix this commode!”

To no avail, this soldier stands unable to flush away the dirty details of the intestinal battle. After surrendering, I wash my hands, grab my child, and look both ways outside the restroom door before exiting. Granted, I feel terrible for the minimum-wage worker left to discover what I was unable to hide. Like me, that worker must accept the murky, messy pains that this diseased society presents.

Through the trials and tribulations of an inflammatory bowel disease, I know I stand as an infected body living in an infected world. This roller coaster journey I traverse, reveals greater truths and wisdom issuing forth from this pain-in-the-ass disease.

  In the end, it serves us well to grab a hold of Hope that resides within this diseased world. Grab it, never let go, and ignore the battle fatigue knocking on the door—waiting and praying for surrender.  For this represents more than a disease. . . It is a drill sergeant molding and shaping me into life’s soldier—training me to maximize and tap in to an ultimate warrior’s strength.

With this rigorous regimen, I stand dressed in my battle gear. . . ready to fight, seize, and retaliate against my enemy as life’s battles rage on.

Somewhere in the Gallery of Important Things

It is quite the ordeal.

The neck gaiter, the gloves, the hand sanitizer, and the can of disinfectant. All of these weapons as I head to the battlefield. I am armed and ready.

What will I confront on this mission? Will I come out victor or victim?

It now takes a concerted effort just to head to the grocery store in Anytown, USA. Small routines, simple tasks are no longer so simple. All that folks once took for granted is set on a new course in the eyes of a pandemic. Somewhere in the gallery of important things, lessons lie waiting to be learned. To be picked up, examined, and re-configured. 

During the powerful trajectory of the COVID-19 pandemic, lives are changing. Time is evolving. We sit indoors through stay-at-home orders. We are lumps of clay waiting to be molded and shaped into what? What new landscape will arise after the sea surge crashes all around?

  This is history in the making.

And I wonder, what emerges from this storm of infectious meditation?

I park at a distance from the grocery store’s entrance. Pull on my gloves. Adjust the tube of cloth over my nose and behind my ears. I am wrapped snuggly in ways only I think will protect me best in this moment of time. I step forth from the comfort zone of my vehicle and march forward with a firm heart and determined mindset.

With choreographed precision, the store doors open like magic. What am I entering? Could this automatic mouth suck me in and devour me whole? Is this death’s portal waiting to suffocate its next victim? Like the fear that rises from gut to throat upon the closing snap of a roller coaster safety bar, I wonder what kind of ride this will be?

Here, in Anytown, USA, residents tremble in fear and trepidation.

In swift motion, I wipe down the handlebar of the shopping cart. Is the virus, this invisible enemy, there—lying in wait? Or does it sit upon the can of corn I grab? What about the bag of chips? Am I shaking hands with this unwelcome visitor? Or caressing it on this grab-and-go mission? Its stance is a dangerous dance, a dalliance with a strong-armed partner. I didn’t ask for this chance tango. All I want is to replenish food supplies for this stay-at-home liaison.

More than 1,800 people die in a single day declare this morning’s headlines. And I think, how long will the storm linger? I hear it’s not the size but the surge that lets a person know when she is in touch with that which is real. This storm surge stands at the door of my subconscious and knocks its formidable questions.

As I consider this morning’s uniform, I think I resemble a kid wrapped up for play in the snow. Winter gloves and neck warmer display a sense of seasonal bitterness, but it’s the bitter bite that I fear. This stands as no play time. It’s not a winter’s discontent but a spring of action. I arm myself to fight off this invisible intruder who has entered the doorsteps of everyone’s life. Now, we must move in this world with serious, set intention. These are planned, calculated steps outside the safe domains of home.

We had it so good. But did we appreciate it?

Is that the lesson to learn? Did we not love enough?

We only are given so many mornings to get up and move about the world sharing love and compassion to all living creatures. Did we fail? Is that why the storm clouds gather here? Bringing us to our knees. Beckoning upon our backs. Bending us. Breaking us over.

I confront other shoppers during today’s mission. I don’t want to pass them. To breathe in their air. What if this shopping soldier on my right is the enemy in plain sight? Or that one? Notice how I duck and swerve as I approach each passer-by. Don’t breathe. Be sure to exhale after passing. Make sure my neck warmer is tucked in place over my nose. Don’t let it slip. Don’t let in the enemy.

  I move purposely and with swiftness through the store. Timing is of the essence. Don’t dawdle. Is it lingering in the air? Just above my head? I remind myself “head down.” Keep moving. Keep pushing forward. Stay focused. Intent.

“How are you today, ma’am?” the employee stocking the shelves asks.

I can’t resist. Can’t ignore. I don’t have it within me to not respond. Be polite. Be kind. Childhood teachings force my hand. But this evil enemy isn’t so kind. He loves to strangle, to choke. To take away polite breathings.

“I’m fine. Thank you. And you?”

“Oh, I’m just working away. Guess I should be glad to have a job now. Right?” Stack, stack. Stack the cans. He moves methodically on his own mission.

Don’t make eye contact. Keep pushing the cart through the aisle. Maybe he won’t say much more.

“Yeah. We all should be grateful,” I reply over my shoulder as my gloved hand reaches for chili beans. And I mean it.

How many am I allowed? Oh, right. Limit three per item. I nod my head up-and-down in agreement. That’s new store policy. That’s what the sign states hanging at eye level. Here, I pause and consider. It is a symbol of greater meaning. Panic buyers dictate a new course of action. Now I shake my head in exasperation. We all get punished for this hoarding.

But then I think of the four bags of brown rice setting in my pantry. As I snatch three from the shelf with a soldier’s hungry appetite for victory, my eyes dart around to see if I have a clear line out of this aisle. Then, I steer away from Mr. Conversation. With swift movement of my cart through the crowd, I justify my rice-grabbing ways because this provision is difficult to come by these days. When I see it, I grab it.

What behaviors get justified in the midst of a pandemic? What should we learn from this experience?

This ride is one we all wish to be over. We are mounting the rising wave. Haven’t even hit the pinnacle. And when we do? Then what happens? 1,800 lives yesterday. All gone in a single day. That’s the total I read in the morning headlines. This is the chatter of news reporters on TV.

I mull over this number as I turn into the next aisle. More shoppers. Crowding the lane. Where’s their six-feet distance? Why are they so close? Have a list. Grab and go. It’s a simple notion, but one that’s difficult for most to abide. What is it about human nature that rejects rules and compliance? Why do we linger and move in slow motion? Why can’t we rationalize that which stands before us? 1,800 human lives in the course of a 24-hour period. Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, someone’s loved one, creations of life. Sunrise to sunset. It is a dawn and an end that makes a soul weary with worry.

I weave around the obstacle course. Holding my breath each time I pass another. What is this virus that attacks the lungs and beats the body harder than flu, harder than any wave pounding upon the shoreline? What is the gasping for air, the headaches, and the body tremors? Are we not in this world to spend our breaths, to share our aches, and tremor in wonder? Who made this illness that attacks indiscriminately? Who opened the door and let it waltz right in? Now, it rubs against the earth, wearing and washing, washing and wearing us out of our bones.

I say a quiet word of thanks as I approach the cashier to pay for my purchases. No one’s in line. I have it to myself. Empty the cart. Watch each item roll along the conveyor. Scan and bag. That’s the motion of this ride.

We, too, roll along the conveyor. Not understanding the magnitude of the price that we receive with life. Being born isn’t enough. There is a greater price to pay. Count our blessings. Breathe it all in. Shine it all out. Every step, every choice depletes the fuel tank that is filled with love. A resource we are to offer and share to one another.

Didn’t we do enough? Are we taking more than giving? Are our supply tanks on empty? These troublesome questions pummel me with each breath.

“That will be $54.37, ma’am,” says the lady standing on the other side of the Plexiglass. It’s a new protective installation. For her to avoid my breath. And I to avoid hers. We create our barriers—whether real or imagined. We attempt to prevent dis-ease.

As I reach for my debit card, I hesitate. Is this a hand grenade? Do I carry the enemy in my purse? Is a personal detonating mechanism waiting to discharge within my hand’s grasp? I whisper another word of thanks for gloved hands as I finish the transaction. This dis-ease makes me question every step.

“Thank ya, hon. Hope you have a nice day,” she says as I place the bags into my cart.

“I just want you to know, I really appreciate your work, your service at this difficult time,” I reply in a muffled voice through my neck gaiter.

And I really mean it.

As I roll towards the exit doors, I wonder, how much will this trip truly cost me? What price will I pay?

Somewhere in the gallery of important things, I think we haven’t appreciated enough. Here, in Anytown, USA, we haven’t lived and loved fully. We haven’t noticed the finer details. Instead, we have allowed dis-ease to dictate our minds and behaviors.  Who’s acting responsibly? Who’s living recklessly?

The questions continue firing their rounds on this battlefield.

Like, what’s essential to life? And do we value it? What’s a good leader? Is it one that does best for himself? Or one that does what’s necessary for others? Somewhere in the swell of this sea, I know we should all be learning about loving the world and all that is in it. We have failed to accomplish this our mission. Our reason for journeying here. And now there is a price to pay.

  When I step outdoors, I breathe in the fresh air. I know we are in touch with something that is real. Lessons from the universe urge us to walk away from this storm with a new vision, a new perspective. 

Some say that “words don’t teach; experience teaches.” So, I wonder: will we see with new, enlightened eyes? Or will we continue making our way through a haze of fogged lenses?

I hop in my car and sanitize my hands.

Once home, I will disinfect the bags, wipe down each grocery item, wash my hands with a surgeon’s thoroughness, strip off my battlefield uniform, hop in the shower, and then shelter in place. This is quite the ordeal.

And yet, I think…

This dis-ease is a universal immersion.

With our cups steeped into a boundless ocean, will we finally see ourselves as part of it and the infinite sky?

Maybe through this christening, each living soul will be cleansed and refreshed.

For when the sea’s swelling swing ceases, might we then see this passage of time’s storm move like winds over the water…

Redeeming.

Revitalizing.

Refilling.

Reborn with humbling hopefulness.

At Shaffer Farms

         One day, I opened and read from holy scripture called poetry.

And within the lines I learned about the “sense of escape sharp as a knife-blade” that “hangs over the dark field of your body, and your soul waits just under the skin to leap away.”

         That reminded me of you…

         Perfect companion.

               In your brown and blue eyes, in your breath, and in your furriness, I leaned into you and all stress from the human world melted away.

              But you left…after seventeen years in the physical world… you said “goodbye” and leapt away into the spring equinox. Such a glorious, beautiful day to depart after we walked the perimeter of the farm. You wanted me to find my own way…a new trail.

             So, when my life broke like a pane of glass, I sought you in other ways to soothe the pain. Along a spring breeze, across the budding trees, upon the back of a deer, I saw evidence of you.

            Then, you directed my path.

            Towards Cecelia, Kentucky, where a little one waited for my arrival. A red merle. So different in appearance.

            And you whispered through the vibrant pink, red, and yellow sunrise, “Trust me. I still walk beside you.”  

           What seemed mysterious and moment-by-moment nearly unbearable, this caramel and cream furry friend soothed. She dammed all cracks. With her wet, pink nose and slobbering kisses, she slowly filled crevices of this old heart.

            As I now walk the farm with a new four-legged companion by my side, I see you in the small sinews of my prayers. It’s the answer of your breath and your love.