A Fabiolous Day ~ Grayson Highlands, 1/25/17

This piece will be short compared to all the little (which were big to me) details that occurred this past Wednesday, 1/25/17, along my journey to, at, and from Grayson Highlands State Park in Virginia. Just that I had strength enough to do the trip is a big deal. I'm getting closer to pre-surgery status. Thank Groot.

The day before on Tuesday I looked at the weather forecast which was clear for Wednesday and unseasonably warm - in the 50s. We've had little sun the past couple weeks. A sunny, warm winter day along highland vistas felt inviting.

~Gosh, I'd love a mountain trip if I'm feeling strong enough. Where should I go? Blue Ridge Parkway? Grayson Highlands?

I was viewing my Twitter account Tuesday evening. I gazed at my background photo - Fabio cantering across an open field. I had taken the photo this past summer.

Fabio is one of the feral ponies of Grayson Highlands and the Mt. Rogers Wilderness Area. He was given his name by some locals and has become a mascot of sorts for the feral ponies of the Virginia Highlands. 

~I'd love to see Fabio. 

I mulled over between the Parkway and Grayson.

~Grayson it is, as long as I feel strong enough.

I felt up to it Wednesday morning and left around 10:45 am. The drive takes about 2 hours, but it's a nice drive. The drive is part of my enjoyment on these excursions.

Once at the Park I stopped at the Ranger Station and had a pleasant exchange with Ranger Shirley. I asked, "Are there any Fabio puzzles?" I'd been requesting a Fabio puzzle for a few years. None were ever made, except for a children's puzzle of about 15 pieces. I wanted a 'real' puzzle.

To my surprise, Shirley responds, "Yes! They are brand new, and we just got the shipment. I saw the shipment box this morning." Typically puzzles and such are sold at the Park Store, not the Ranger Station. The Park Store is closed through the winter so all goods are delivered to the Station while the Store is closed.

Shirley went in the back, found the box, and opened it. A 300-piece puzzle of Fabio! I was thrilled, and so was Shirley. I am now the proud owner of the first-sold, 300-piece Fabio puzzle. I also bought a Fabio magnet for my refrigerator.

Then I drove the couple miles further into the Park to Massie Gap, parked Edward the Explorer, and began my trek. My destination was a little over a mile to a bench that sits right at the border of the State Park which adjoins Mt. Rogers Wilderness Area, a part of Jefferson National Forest.

Near the bench was a herd of ponies. But Fabio wasn't among the herd. I took some fun photos, rested on the bench for awhile, and then started the trek back. I was happy even though I didn't see Fabio.

~Maybe I'll see Fabio next trip.

As I hiked back to Massie Gap, after about 1/2-mile, I heard a whinny over my left shoulder. I stopped, turned, and looked for about 5 seconds, but didn't see a pony. So I turned to continue my trek.

I took about 2 steps. Another whinny. I stopped, turned, and looked for about 5 seconds. As I was ready to turn back to continue my trek, a pony came from behind a knoll, trotting toward me.

"Fabio!"

I could hardly believe my eyes. And he was all alone! Usually he's with a herd.

It was a true fairy tale moment!

I won't go into my conversation with Fabio, but suffice it say he gave me a showing. Including finding a small barren tree-bush to scratch his rump...going back and forth while I photographed him.

Sky. Wind. Sun.
Hawks. Crows. Birds.
Trees. Meadows. Fenceless fields.
Freedom of nature.
Cradled away from the hurriedness of modern life.
Oceans of land where these little ponies run free along a ridge in the Virginia Highlands.
The magic of Grayson.
A healing balm.
There is no monetary price that comes close...

~*~

Fabio Therapy















~*~

Creativity and the lack thereof...

"Friend" seems like an inadequate word to describe the closest of my friends.
Comrades. Partners. Those with whom I can share some of my deepest challenges, doubts, imperfections, and triumphs.

In the past I have referred to myself as a poet and memoirist. I don't think I've ever referred to myself as an author or writer even though poets and memoirists are authors and writers. Currently I don't refer to myself with any of those labels.

I still write, but not like I once did. Words don't come as easily as they used to. Many days, maybe most, it is difficult for me to express my feelings and thoughts in script. I know that comes from living with chronic pain and disability which affect my cognitive function, my energy, my ability to produce.

To produce. Something I long to do but so often lack the ability.

On my better days and weeks between my routine epidurals and injections, I sometimes feel a spur of creativity. Often the surge has dissipated when I later would have time to pen my thoughts; that energy has had to go elsewhere and there is not enough left to get the thoughts into printed words. And then creativity evaporates.

I have always felt a fondness toward nature. As a child and teenager, I'd sometimes sleep outside in a sleeping bag in the summer, alone with the stars and bugs and wet dew in the morning. I regret that I never pursued anything professional in that field. And now, I don't have the energy to do so.

Since becoming disabled, I often seek solace with nature. She cradles me and speaks to me without words. I have become an observing participant with her. I talk to her. She often causes my heart to swell and happy tears to roll. She comforts me. Sometimes, I feel like Snow White in my often critter sightings. It seems they understand me as we observe each other.

I'm not naive to think nature will always take care of me, so to speak. Lightening could strike. A bear could attack. A flood or earthquake or tornado could sweep life away in a moment's time.

This evening I watched part of a PBS documentary on Rachel Carson, the author of Silent Spring which is about the overuse of DDT and its detrimental effects on nature, published around 1962, a time when DDT was in vogue.

After she started writing the book, Carson became ill for weeks or months. Along with sinusitis and other symptoms, she developed a type of arthritis in her knees and ankles and couldn't walk for weeks or months. A horrible circumstance for anyone, but especially a Naturalist. (Not long after those symptoms she developed cancer.)  During those weeks/months of disability (but before the cancer) she wrote in her personal writings or perhaps in a letter to a friend, I'm not sure which, something along the lines that her creativity had left her and she felt the author who once lived within no longer resided there.

With tears in my eyes I whispered aloud to the television, "I know. I so understand."  It is something I too suffer.

I wrote a friend today, that somehow I want to believe there is a purpose to this suffering. That somehow it will turn to good for something. I may be fantasizing or just wishing, and that's okay. I don't know if I'll ever quit hoping and wishing.

I opened this essay, if that's what it is, with a paragraph about "friends." I hope to come back to that with a Part Two.

"How are you?"

Since surgery on 8/30/16,
I have been quite isolated.
I still am,
though I am now able to get out of the house on some days.

Other days it takes all my effort to just get out of bed,
much less get dressed.
Thinking and conversing on those days is difficult;
cognitive energy goes into performing simple daily tasks.
Socializing takes lots of effort,
and then I end up...
isolated.

Most days I have to gauge where and how to "spend" my energy,
("spend" in quotes,
because I prefer thinking of energy as more like time,
more like a state of being,
rather than a commodity,
even though it is a "commodity").
I know everyone has to do this.
But it is more complex when a person lives with chronic pain/illness/disability.

Since my surgery
I have suffered deep depression and intense anxiety,
along with insomnia.
I have had some good days.
But most have been rough.
My days pre-surgery were rough enough.

Since living with nerve damage
(which started in Spring, 2011),
I often find it difficult to answer the question,
"How are you?"

If I'm suffering and the question is from a close friend,
I usually let on.
"I'm miserable,"
or "I'm having a shitty day,"
or something to that effect.

If I'm suffering and the person asking is more of an acquaintance than a close friend,
I typically respond,
"I'm hanging in there."
Sometimes I respond that way with my close friends.
It's such a drag to always hear,
"I'm struggling."

But every day I struggle.
And more so since surgery.

In the past few months, I've been journaling mostly with pen and paper.

I wrote a a few CBT thought-records,
due to my high anxiety.

I journaled explosive rants,
sometimes in LARGE ALL CAPS.
I chiseled scratch-marks diagonally across whole pages of my journal.
Not literally chiseled,
but that's how I felt.

And I journaled some "good" things too,
("good" in quotes,
because I don't like thinking of life as "good" or "bad,"
but rather,
that life simply is,
even though it is "good" and "bad"),
like what I accomplished on a given day
or what I have to be thankful for.

I got maybe one working poem out of my past-few-months scribblings.
Now,
maybe two.

~*~

Well, this mini-ramble has ended up differently than I was thinking.
I thought I was going to write about my social media history and the whys behind my involvement and then dis-involvement.
Maybe later.

~*~