The Furious Spinner

My mother is in a hospital in Ann Arbor, Michigan, getting heart surgery. Three of my sisters wait with my father. She had to be in the hospital at 5:30 a.m. I don't think my mother has ever willingly gotten up at 5:30 a.m. in her life. She is not a morning person, to put it mildly. We were all hoping she'd be half asleep on her way to the hospital and while registering, so that maybe she wouldn't notice too much of what was going on.

I did a ceremony for my mother last night, and then this morning I woke up around 4:00 a.m. to do another. Mario was awake, too, so we curled up around one another, his head on my shoulder and my arms around him. I tried to whisper him back to sleep. "Shhh, this is all a dream," because he does not do well with too little sleep, but I could tell by his voice that he was wide awake. So we held each other tightly, listening to each other breathe. And once again I was filled with tender love—and with gratitude for having this being in my life. This lovely man.

I went downstairs around 4:30. My mother was going into surgery at 7:30 a.m. her time, 4:30 mine, so I sat on the quilt she made for me years ago. I use it when I do ceremony or yoga. I put a huge rose quartz piece at the center. I love rose quartz. Years ago, Mario and I were driving through the Black Hills in the Dakotas and we found an entire a hillside made from quartz. I sat on a shelf of quartz, surrounded by it, and Mario took a photograph.

I had a difficult time being in that part of the country. We stopped at the Little Bighorn Battlefield (which was called Custer Battlefield back then, I believe). At the time, we both thought it very strange that we would stop there. We have no interest in battlefields. The area was so beautiful, and I wanted to get out and walk around. So we did. And I started hearing things: voices, horses. Not in my head but in the air, even though no one was about except for us. It was very strange. I started weeping. For most of the three or four days we were in that part of the country, I cried. It wasn't until we drove past the Badlands and were solidly on our way to Michigan that I stopped crying, as though a switch had been thrown: I was all better again. I had no idea why I was crying either. Something about the place touched my heart, I suppose.

Anyway, this morning I put a rose quartz stone on my mom's quilt, along with a turquoise bear, raven fetish, rosary (my mother is Catholic), and a photo of my mother. Then I performed another ceremony. I don't know if any of it did her any good, but it grounded me, imagining her being cared for during the operation, with everyone performing their duties perfectly. Blessed be. As so many of you know, it is not easy seeing your parents become ill with old age.

I talked with two of my sisters at 7:00 a.m. my time. They were still waiting for news. I had asked my youngest sister to pick up some rescue remedy and give it to my mother—and everyone else—before the operation. She told me she has it in her purse and she's taking it and giving it out to anyone who looks stressed. It's called "rescue remedy," after all. Doesn't everyone need rescuing? I think in her soul my youngest sister is probably a healer, whatever that means these days, but no one really mentors those abilities or attitudes any more—except in a New Agey sort of way that often doesn't seem to be authentic, to me.

I studied shamanism and healing for over a decade. If someone said to me now, "What would you really like to do with your life?" I'd say, "If I had the ability, I would heal. I would take away suffering." Wouldn't anyone? But after ten years or more of studying (if studying is the right word), I wasn't convinced any of it did much permanent good. Sometimes certain methods worked to heal a symptom, sometimes they didn't. This is true with modern medicine, too, of course. They've done studies where they've discovered most symptoms and minor illnesses go away on their own whether a person seeks medical care of not. When I could not heal myself or my family, I stepped off that path. I don't believe in the wounded healer. If I couldn't heal myself then odds were I could not heal anyone else. I do still believe there are so many things we do not understand about ourselves and our world. I have experienced "miracles" myself. So perhaps I am greedy to want more.

My mother has been in surgery for 3 1/2 hours now. The sky outside my window is white with clouds. The rhododendron bush out front has bloomed scarlet. The stamens stick out from the blossoms, like thin gold-tipped fingers enticing the birds and the bees in for a closer view. Yesterday I noticed that in front of the library the blossoms of the white rhododendron litter the sidewalk, looking like discarded petticoats. Rhododendrons are part of the saucy women breed of plants—the mad women. They seem so sedate from a distance: just another flowering shrub. Get closer and you see the leopard markings, a sign of the Maenads, a sign that these flowers dance with the bees, whisper to the moon, and will let you in on a secret or two: if only you would just stop and notice.

My mother was like that. Once. A saucy woman. I wonder if she still is? She seems lost in illness and medication. She was so creative. She sewed, wrote, painted, did photography, danced. None of it appeared to help. She always seemed lost or angry, depressed and sad. I don't remember my mother ever being happy. Illness broke her. Or maybe it was the crushing poverty she endured as a child. I don't really know. She has not had an easy life.

We aren't a particularly close family. We don’t tell each other secrets. My parents know very little about me or my life. We love each other, but I don't know that we actually like one another. I was the child who always asked too many questions. I was the child always getting the "sass" smacked out of me. I don't know that my mother ever hit me. She may have spanked me, although I don't remember that. I do remember she shook me a time or two after I did something dangerous—like run out in front of a car or something. I was never careful enough. I always knew I was a strain to be around, yet my mother sometimes told me she felt that she could get better if I was around. A strange conundrum.

My mother had a deep and close connection with her own mother, who died when I was about two years old. I heard stories of their closeness while I was growing up. She loved her mother so much, she told me, that she ran away from school nearly every day—for three years—just so she could go home to be with her mother. I remember thinking that I must not love my mother very much because I had never run away from school. I had been sent home quite a few times, but that wasn't for love. As I got older, I didn't want to be anything like my mother. I thought I could spare myself a lifetime of suffering by living my life completely differently from hers. So I did. But illness tracked me down like any good detective would, shouting, "You are your mother's daughter, woman. Deal with it."

When I called my mother Sunday on mother's day, I asked her if there was anything I could do for her. She asked me to think about her. She said we had a bond with one another. "I have a bond with you and you have one to me." My mother never talks like that, and her words surprised me.

I told her I had had a dream about her a few days earlier. "I am trying to get home," I said, "but it's getting dark and I'm slogging through water and over mountains, so I decide to turn back. On the way back, I call you on the phone crying and say, 'Mom, please come home. I can't come home unless you come home. Please, Mom.'" (A few hours after the dream I found out she was going in for heart surgery.) When I told my mom the dream, she said, "Do you think that means I'm going to die?" I was startled. Was there something in that dream I didn't see? "No, Mom,” I said. I didn't tell her what I thought it meant: if you can't get well, then I can't get well.

My mother has been in surgery for five hours. I close my eyes and imagine everything going as it should. I send her love. What else can I do? The day has started. The bright orange poppies line the stairs up to my house. Every time Mario and I walk up or down those stairs, it feels as though we have a cheering section: where everyone is dressed in orange and green. Today is a planting day. I'll go out and plant something in my garden. As it grows, so will my mother heal. I better plant zucchini, then. You can't miss with zucchini, most years. Maybe the pumpkins, too. Halloween is my mother's favorite time of the year. Mine, too. We're both witches at heart. Like mother, like daughter.

Love you, Mom. Get well soon.

P.S. 10:00 a.m. PST My mother got out of surgery after 5 1/2 hours. So far so good, knock on wood. Thanks for listening! 0 comments

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