Holding Fast

creepertwirls1Virginia Creeper Holdfasts in Winter

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All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.
~Henry Ellis

The Virginia Creeper vines,
stripped bare by winter,
cling steadily in winds and rain
through thousands of tiny “holdfast” suckers.
The glue holds tight, taking the vine
where no vine has gone before.
Once there, it stays put–
an invincible foundation.

Letting go comes as
spring and summer surge forth
through the veins of the vine,
branches and berries
dangle daringly in mid-air,
reaching for the next grab-hold,
the next surface to be conquered.
I wish I were as adventuring
as I creep through my days.
My fingers and toes tend to
cling fast to home,
to become adhesive
for what grows from me,
from which a glorious and unforgettable
autumn is flung
into the future.creepergarage

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A Destiny of Many Colors Tied Together

This is what today means to me — a kid who grew up in a nearly all white community in the 1960s untouched by the challenges of racial inequality in other parts of the nation. The ideals of Martin Luther King Jr. have influenced my path in ways I could never have imagined fifty years ago.

Barnstorming

Let me say finally, that in the midst of the hollering and in the midst of the discourtesy tonight, we got to come to see that however much we dislike it, the destinies of white and black America are tied together. Now the races don’t understand this apparently. But our destinies are tied together. And somehow, we must all learn to live together as brothers in this country or we’re all going to perish together as fools. …Whether we like it or not culturally and otherwise, every white person is a little bit negro and every negro is a little bit white. Our language, our music, our material prosperity and even our food are an amalgam of black and white, so there can be no separate black path to power and fulfillment that does not intersect white routes and there can ultimately be no separate white path to power and…

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Torn By Twine

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My hands are torn
by baling twine, not nails, and my side is pierced
by my ulcer, not a lance.
~Hayden Carruth from “Emergency Haying”

Miles of twine encircle
tons of hay in our barn,
daily loosed free of grasses
and hung up to use again
in myriad ways:

tightening a sagging fence
replacing a broken bucket handle
snugging a horse blanket belt.

It is the duct tape of the barn
when duct tape won’t work;
a substitute made beautiful
by a morning fog’s weeping.

A Haystack of Light

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Everyday
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for —
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world —
~Mary Oliver from “Mindful”

Some days I’m the needle
and other days I’m the pin cushion

This day was some of both
of soft lit floating fog,
doing chores with my neighbor kids,
saying a final goodbye to an old farmer from down the road,
missing a favorite poet’s reading
to deal with a patient’s suicidal crisis.

I long to rest in the softness of the light
that floats close to the ground,
reaching with cloudy fingers
to hold me close, sharp edges and all,
a reminder of what I was born for.

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Frost-Fires Kindle

 

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 Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.

 The rayless sun,
Day’s journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.

 Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.
~Walter de la Mare  “Winter”

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One Fir Unyielding

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A silence slipping around like death,
Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh,
a breath; One group of trees, lean,
naked and cold,
Inking their cress ‘gainst a
sky green-gold;

One path that knows where the
corn flowers were;
Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;
And over it softly leaning down,
One star that I loved ere the
fields went brown
~Angelina Weld Grimke “A Winter Twilight”

Our farm’s lone fir is a focal point of the neighborhood,
standing grand on the highest hill for several miles around.

Raptors use this tree for views of the surrounding fields.
The horses love the shade on hot summer days.
It is backdrop for glorious sunsets and rising moons.

Yet in winter I find myself admiring it most —
Its steadfast presence, so stoic and unyielding
though buffeted by cold wind and icy storms.

Decades of seasons flow past the lone fir,
“silence slipping around like death,
yet chased by a whisper, a sigh,
a breath.”

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photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

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Places in the Heart

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Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist,
and into them enters suffering,
in order that they may have existence.
~
Leon Bloy

I see these new heart chambers forming every day.
Spaces filling overwhelmed as if water frozen,
with hurt
and loss
and despair.
So I try
to help patients let go of
their suffering,
let it pass, let its ice melt down,
allow it to pass through,
forgiving, forgiven,
their hearts changed
by a grace
flowing warm
from new found gratitude.

Tucked Under

roofmoss

mcubin2…No one sees us go under.
No one sees generations churn, or civilizations.
The green fields grow up forgetting.

Ours is a planet sown in beings.
Our generations overlap like shingles.
We don’t fall in rows like hay, but we fall.
Once we get here, we spend forever on the globe,
most of it tucked under.
While we breathe, we open time like a path in the grass.
~Annie Dillard from For the Time Being

Although the generations are forgotten over time,
covered over, layer upon layer,
the brief time we are walking here
we leave behind a path,
whether straight or crooked,
that others may follow
to find their way.
May my path lead others
to something
worth the journey:
time well spent.

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Caught and Stoppered

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

“Dandelion wine.
The words were summer on the tongue.
The wine was summer caught and stoppered…
sealed away for opening on a January day
with snow falling fast and the sun unseen for weeks…”
~Ray Bradbury from Dandelion Wine

Now is mid-January:

Summer is found in our dark root cellar–
in rows of canned fruit and
a pile of potatoes

Summer is found in our freezer–
containers of berries and dehydrated pears
alongside bags of pea pods, corn and beans.

Summer is found in our barn–
piles of hay bales to be opened
to release the smell, the sun, the sweat of a midsummer evening’s harvest.

 

Coughing Round the Clock

‘Tis the season to be coughing…

It no longer takes an epidemiologist looking at absenteeism rates in schools to predict the start of influenza season.  For several years now there have been sophisticated models using search engine terms to monitor increasing incidence of febrile cough illness in regions of the world as well as sentinel clinics reporting on influenza-like illnesses.

Or just ask a primary care clinic what its waiting room sounds like these days — a chorus of coughs, high, low, dry, moist, choking, barking, hacking, gagging, wheezing.  In our clinic, every patient is handed a surgical mask at the reception desk, whether coughing or not, with the explanation “for your protection and others’.”   A sea of blue masked faces glances up every time the nurse comes to call a patient back to an exam room.

In reality, it isn’t that clear how effective simple disposable masks are in preventing the spread of viral illness, but they are likely better than using nothing in crowded symptomatic people on public transportation, in a classroom, or a clinic waiting room.  Masks do make it more difficult to touch facial mucus membranes with contaminated hands if you can remember not to rub your eyes.

So we are in the thick of it now, with patient volumes up 30% over the usual load with extra staffing needed to manage the increased phone calls and electronic messaging.   We do rapid flu tests for those patients who fit criteria for Tamiflu treatment, otherwise, we are primarily looking for those at risk for flu complications, all the while trying to make the miserable a little less miserable.  Otherwise the usual self-treatment advice applies, especially stay home, stay home, stay home.

Once the fever and body aches subside,  one little residual symptom is usually left behind: a post-viral cough serves as a humbling reminder of the persistence of influenza inflammation and irritation in the respiratory tract.  Although no longer infectious by ten days after onset of illness, the cough can last up to three weeks or more, no matter what the patient does or takes.  It can be round the clock, interrupting everyone’s sleep from a constant tickling pressure in the trachea and a sensation of heaviness in the chest.   Although this cough is unlikely a risk to spread infection to others, it certainly sounds to others like a potential threat, so wearing a mask is advised as a courtesy and a reminder to protect others at all costs.

Has modern medicine found an answer to the plague of post-viral cough, other than preventing the whole illness to begin with by vaccinating for influenza?  Dropping out of polite society for three weeks isn’t possible for most people. Post-influenza patients must allow their bodies time to heal from a major insult that required a significant immune system response but most of us do need to get back to work and school.

What’s a doctor to do?

Antibiotics certainly aren’t the solution and never have been, but historically they (and a narcotic cough suppressant) were the easiest prescription for physicians to write for a tired and frustrated patient.  The aisle in local pharmacies for “Cold/Flu Remedies” seems to lengthen annually with new combination over-the-counter products.  Heavily marketed items vanish quickly off the shelves as people search in vain for relief.   Every imaginable combination of menthol, eucalyptus, and honey-lemon has been tried and tried again.   Probably chicken soup is still just as effective as anything else.

This is a time for tried and true wisdom:  this too shall pass.

Just please don’t pass it to others.