Coincidental Universe

October 29, 2016October 29, 2016 / Lisa / 7 Comments

Bear with me, those who have heard part of this story before.

About eight years ago I went through radiation for lymphoma. During the treatments, I would share the waiting room with several others, all in our gowns, focused on our personal issues, waiting for chemo, or radiation. We never talked or engaged in any way.

A year or so later I was in the produce section of a grocery store and there was a woman from that waiting area. We made eye contact and immediately burst into tears. Spontaneous crying and hugging over apples. We’d both thought the same thing. ‘She’s alive!’

Over the years, oddly enough, I’ve run into her a couple more times. Both at that grocery store. I haven’t seen her in about two years now.

Some of you know that I spent some time this past March and April in the hospital for internal bleeding. Found out that there’s a tiny spot of a weird type of lymphoma at the base of my esophagus. Sounds worse than it is. Anyway, I find out in a week if I have to do radiation again. If so, it’s not a big deal. Low-dose, localized, etc. I might have problems swallowing and nausea, but nothing I haven’t gone through before. And if I do, this time it won’t involve my brain so I won’t struggle through two years of radiation fallout waiting for the brain chemistry to sort itself out and terrified I’ll never write again.

So here’s the point of this personal non-writing blog post. Today I went to the grocery store. And guess what? There she was. Still alive. Doing great.

Isn’t that weird? I think that every time I run into her. I mean, I have to drive to the city, and of all the days and times and people, we just happen to periodically be in the same place at the same time. Coincidence today? I think not.

Some might see that as a bad omen.

I see it as the opposite.

lincoln-city-jan-06-017

The Screaming Woman

September 7, 2016September 7, 2016 / Lisa / 7 Comments

Have you ever been in the forest, in the mountains, alone, at night? No street light a block down giving a muted halo. No LED lights from sound systems scattered like stars around the room. No reflected red light from an alarm clock. No cell phone with a handy bright screen or flashlight feature. No porch light or welcoming glow from a lamp.

It’s not just dark, it’s Stygian.

On the night I’m going to tell you about, there was no moon. The mountains, the ridge line, and the trees blocked out all but a tiny square of sky.

I wasn’t a city girl back then, having grown up in a farming town. But at the same time I definitely wasn’t a mountain girl either. And yet circumstances placed me in the Pacific Northwest mountains. Alone. Well, except for a dog who was equally out of her element.

In the middle of that very dark night, I woke to a woman screaming. What else can you do when someone is in desperate need of help, but grab a flashlight and go? I took the dog with me, who shook as bad as I did. I reminded her that she was half German Shepherd, but she didn’t believe me.

My imagination was vividly awake. A car accident on the road? Was some woman out there in the woods, lost and afraid?

I followed the wavering flashlight beam down the long, narrow driveway with nothing but trees crowding in. Trees that anything could hide behind. I listened so hard that my breath was held captive. I searched until the cold night leached under my skin and numbed my nerves.

I don’t remember how long I stumbled around before giving up and returning to the pile of blankets still retaining a warm pocket. The screaming had ended. I went to bed fully expecting to find a body in the morning.

By the way, this was before cell phones and where I was, there was also no electricity, let alone land lines. And in all honesty it never crossed my mind to drive out to the road and find a pay phone.

What I do remember is this.

The next morning was bright and sunny and clear and crisp. Early summer in the mountains. I drove to the nearby tiny town to open a post office box in the back corner of the general store. Outside the store three elderly men lined up on a wooden bench, watching life. I could hear one as I got out of the car.

‘Did you hear the cougar last night?’

Me, tentatively: ‘What’s a cougar sound like?’

‘Just like a woman screaming.’

I’ll end with this thought. I walked around in that dark night with a flashlight trying to save a cougar.

Well – Loved Books

June 23, 2016June 23, 2016 / Lisa / Leave a comment

A friend loaned me a book today. Rosemary Gladstar’s Family Herbal, and between the pages was one perfect pressed leaf. Once home I flipped through the book, not looking for specific herbs, but looking for mementos of a well-loved book. Or a well-used book. Which is probably the same thing. I found leaves I recognized and others I didn’t.

Big Leaf Maple, Vine Maple, some Alder

Many years ago when I started baking bread, one of my sisters gave me the Tassajara Bread book. I opened it to old bits of flour, squished and petrified bits of dough, and scribbled notes throughout. She knew that this would mean more to me than a brand new version. The recipes stood for years of her not just following them, but learning, tweaking, and experimenting. I still have the book and still use it.

I found a book at the second hand store that I haven’t read yet and really don’t have any desire to. I bought it because, throughout the pages, there are little tart comments in shaky, elderly lady handwriting. Rather like one of my books that is full of my grandmother’s commentary in the margins.

An elderly friend’s diary that I inherited.

Do you write in your books? Do you leave mementos? Do you dog-ear a page that has words that mean something special? Do you make the book your own?

I don’t do that with all the many, many books of fiction in the house. But I write in books on writing and other non-fiction books. I mark pages I learn from, pages that grab my heart and pages that sing to me with beautiful language. Oddly, Barry Lopez’s book, Arctic Dreams is heavily highlighted, underlined, starred, and dog-eared. I say odd, because I did not expect a non-fiction book on the Arctic to read like poetry.

But it’s more than just signs that someone was moved by something on that page. The pressed leaves, the bits of flour, the fading penciled old-lady words are like ties that bind me to the readers. There’s a connection with that old lady, even though I will never know who she was. The herbal with its pressed leaves shows me another wonderful personality trait of my friend. It’s like walking an old path with companions, touching what has been, sharing the words.

I’m sure I’m going to enjoy the herbal and learn from it. But what warms my heart and makes me love the book before I even start reading, are the leaves that someone took the time to pick up, dry, press, and lay between pages, with the words, waiting.