Dreaming the World

We awoke to Nori the cat wanting doors and windows open, in the window behind her a rich blue sky with just a hint of high, thin cloudiness. The air was noticeably warmer and more humid than yesterday, yet held fast to an autumnal touch. After an early start to fall color, we have been on hold for a couple of weeks, as seems to happen here every autumn.

On Sunday we had, as measured by our rain gauge, three inches of rain. It poured most of the day and we had some water in the basement. Yesterday we had the plumber stop by to adjust our overfilling sump pump and try to sus out where else the water might be coming from. Our current thinking is that it came through the base of the chimney and from a sump pump overflow. We will definitely need to do some more sleuthing.

I’m writing in my office which is also my sound studio. From my desk I notice that in the two months we have lived here the sun has wagged south so that it no longer shines through my north-facing window. That southward drift has accelerated noticeably of late, and will only intensify after next week’s solstice.

We’ve entered autumn, a good time for dreaming, and I’ve been dreaming about the overlapping worlds inhabited by shamans. Often, in the shaman’s world one lives with one foot in the vastness of the unknowable and “eternal”, and one in the everyday. In one we are mortal and in the other we are not. In one our lives are lived out here in this time and place, while in the other our lives are multitude.

Both experiences are real and valid, although the eternal encompasses and incorporates the everyday. The result of this is one rages and grieves for oneself and the world, then stands aside from the drama, watching with curiosity and a sense that this, too, is impermanent and part of a much longer arc. Some days bouncing between these views gives one whiplash.

A couple of years ago, the surgeon who repaired my hip and femur took some length off my right leg in the hope that I might be less lopsided and more comfortable. He did not ask beforehand, but I probably would have jumped at the opportunity. What I did not know, and he should have known, is that leg shortening in adult polio survivors often destroys one’s sense of balance. The seemingly inevitable leg weakening that accompanies aging, especially after polio, amplifies the effect, so now I find myself challenged to walk even very short distances without supports.

I find I must be more careful with each and every step, and the temptation to be overly careful grows. The reality is that going many places by myself is proving challenging. My disability scooter is a godsend, and when I can do things, like go to the coffee shop, while staying on it, saves the day. (The lift that gets in and out of our van malfunctioned over the weekend and needs to go to the shop next week.)

Navigating even the briefest of stairs, or trying to carry things while on crutches, is increasingly a no go. (A part of that is the anxiety generated from having fallen on steps while using a crutch and carrying something, and ending up in rehab. Granted, I was only using one crutch when I fell but the anxiety remains.)

I find it curious that I see very little written or spoken about aging with pre-existing disability, or just the disabling nature of aging period. In our culture of late neo-liberal insistence on constant self improvement there is little room for disability that is not going away.

Yesterday we were walking in a a park when a young woman ran by and encouraged me to keep going. (I managed to walk several blocks over uneven ground.) The moment was very sweet, yet I imagine she had some notion of me as recovering from some misfortune, a recovery that would be aided by my “keeping on”. The reality is that I need to walk in order to keep the function I have; any strengthening is a bonus and depends on my not overworking weakened muscles and nerves.

It seems to me that as the disabling impacts of late polio grow, so does the comfort of sometimes having access to the afore mentioned all encompassing point of view. For many years I have had the following quote tacked to the bulletin board in our art studio. Jennie found it this week while unpacking a box (we still can’t find important things!) and it is now here in my office.

“I am not I. I am this one walking beside me whom I do not see, whom at times I manage to visit, and whom at other times I forget; who remains calm and silent while I talk, and forgives gently when I hate, who walks where I am not, who will remain standing when I die.

Juan Ramon Jimenez, translated by Robert Bly