aww ~ june 16, 2010
non-subject: "hanging there"
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Hanging there.
A few images come to mind.
The time Dr. Rico dropped me as his patient, right in the middle of a time when he and I had agreed to take me off Zoloft because my moods were all over the place. We dropped the Zoloft to see where my moods took me without it. Was it making me worse? What was my baseline mood level? I had to drop the Zoloft to find out.
I walked in for my follow-up appointment and he informed me, "I can no longer see you as a patient."
I was stunned.
And then livid as I slammed my stack of books on his office floor. Books I'd been researching to help aid myself in getting well. Books on depression, bipolor, nutrition, alternative and conventional approaches.
"WHY?!?" I demanded.
"When our relationship changed from professional to otherwise, things changed," he stoicly replied.
"We hashed that out over a year and a half ago," I seethed.
"Well sometimes the past comes back up," was his response. And that was that.
Hanging there.
Clothes on the clothesline in our back yard when we lived at Old Well South. The backyard with the cherry tree and dogwoods, lined with white pines like a fence border. They'd sway with the wind. The clothesline, three green nylon-coated wires stretched between two cemented sturdy steel poles that stood erect some 25 feet apart. The green wires about 5-1/2 feet above the ground. Another single green wire, only three feet above the ground, was attached to each pole. I'd added it for my kids when they were little so they could help me hang clothes on the line, except for bedsheets. Bedsheets on the line were for running in and out of, back and between, playing peek-a-boo.
There is something therapeutic about hanging clothes out to dry. Almost sacred. The unrushed activity of using the wooden spring clothespins to methodically hang garments to worship the sun and the breeze. Usually I'd hum a tune. But it was never as lovely as the coo of the mourning doves, always so distinct in the evening as I took the clothes off the line. The whole experience had a Mr. Rogers affect on me. I liked Mr. Rogers. The way he would take time to unbutton his cardigan and hang it up.
Hanging there.
My yellow backpacking food bag hanging 10 feet above the ground from a tree limb and at least one foot below the limb on which the bag hung, to protect it and me from bears and other wild varmints. To hang it, I tie my Swiss army knife on the end of a rope to weight the rope as I attempt to throw it over the limb. I never get it over in the proper place the first time. Then sometimes it gets caught on some other part of the limb and I have to find some sort of long stick to use as an extension to my arm and hand to get the knife and rope unstuck. I always say a little pray after hanging the bag. It'd be a real bummer to lose my food, and Pocket Rocket stove, and pots on the trail.
Limb. The term The Way used for states in the USA. The USA, the country itself, was called the Trunk. Other countries were also Trunks.
But there was only one Root. That was The Way Headquarters located on what once was the Wierwille farm. Dr. Weirwille and his brother Harry had donated the farm to The Way.
Way home fellowships were called Twigs. "The life is in the Twig," Doctor used to say. Each believer was a Leaf.
Healthy twigs bear fruit. Fruit were the new people in the Twig. Of course the health of a twig in nature is because it gets nourished from the sun and from the roots of the tree. God was the sun. That was never officially stated in The Way, that I recall, but the analogy fit. God is light. The Word is light. The sun is light. God's son, Jesus Christ, brought light to the world.
The sun in the sky. It appears to hang there too.
Hanging there.
MIAs and POWs. I just met a couple men here at Panera as I was taking a short break from writing this piece. I struck up a conversation as we stood at the coffee area, refilling our mugs and adding sweetener and cream. I prefer hazelnut coffee.
"I like your message" was my opening line. They new what I referred to - their attire. Vests with patches about MIAs and POWs. Their tee shirts, with the same. Tattoos on their legs and arms. I'm left with a hole in my heart. My eyes wet with tears. A lump in my throat.
The men were gathering at Panera with other vets, most from Nam. They are members of Rolling Thunder. Most of them are bikers.
They hold table ceremonies for the still missing.
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