Another Day

The day began with frost and a brilliant blue sky. When I look out my windows I am used to seeing a flock of pigeons down at the corner by the Presbyterian Church, or seagulls and crows battling for their favorite spot on the neighboring rooftops. I do not expect to see six or seven men perched on the ridge of the Victorian house near us, as I did today. It appears that a re-roofing job is in progress and these men were hired to remove the old shingles. The house is three stories high and situated on a steep hillside… a long way down.

While organizing and pulling together some twelve years worth of writing, I ran across a journal entry that described the painful confinement I was experiencing in 2004, prior to back surgery. In many ways it mirrors my thoughts at this moment, though blessedly I have no pain.

A SMALL DARK PLACE

The world once so expansive is now like looking into the wrong end of a telescope. My world is reduced to the house, a room, the loveseat I lie upon. My best friends are cats, books, Bob, and little white pills that promise to banish the pain, but rarely do so. Oh they work for a little while, but I try to ration them instead of using them instead of using them freely, so instead of being pain free, I hang on the edge.

How can anyone live like this? It is not living – only existing. The bare essentials of life… eating, sleeping, breathing. Bob cares for me. He cooks, brings me everything I need, takes me for an outing at least once a week. He makes it all bearable.

Soon I will be undergoing back surgery and this phase of my life will be behind me, but I won’t forget the frustration, the boredom, and the feeling of being powerless… the loss of all the things that give meaning to my life.

I am working on the book, “A Winter Passage.” It brings back memories of our voyage into British Columbia six years ago. In some ways it is hard for me to be putting so much of my time into writing about something that happened years ago. Then there was something to write about every day, and my journals were full to overflowing. I want something to write about today. I want to have new experiences, new challenges, see new things. I don’t want to just relive old memories. (Sept. 2004)

A month after I wrote this I had minimally invasive back surgery, and it was 100 percent successful. It gave my life back to me. I could garden and hike and dance. And I could move to Canada to live in a log cabin on 123-acres of wilderness. Hopefully my current situation will only be a temporary setback like that one, and there are new adventures yet before me.

I have not received a report on my latest CT scan yet. But the day ended with this spectacular sunset.

... P. L. Morningstar