I have renewed sympathy for Humpty Dumpty, and huge appreciation for the fact that there was an ankle specialist in the practice that gave me a new hip two years ago.

It started out innocently enough…

I’d thought with the end of the proceeding event of a lumpectomy and five weeks of very targeted radiation therapy for a fairly benign form of breast cancer, I was over the hump. So off on a lovely family trip to the coast, as we say here. If I’d gone to the coast in Texas, Louisiana, Florida – or any number of other places I’ve lived, we’d say we went to the beach. I think on the Atlantic side, it’s called going to the shore. Here it’s going to the coast.

Within half an hour of arrival, we set off on a trail that took us over the dunes and that’s where the mischief started – mischief that ended up putting me totally out of commission for two months. No walking. No driving. No nuthin’. I’m just beginning to walk again, and feel like a clumsy, oversized toddler. This, too, is humbling.

But… I’m getting ahead of myself…

As luck would have it, after a nauseating couple of hours round-trip in the back seat of the car, and a few hours in the ER, I returned with what Colton, my grandson, called a huge bandaid. Splinted and wrapped in enough layers to keep it safe in an atomic blast, it remained thus until surgery a week later. The next morning, a balloon-tire wheelchair was commandeered from the Visitors’ Bureau and these two hunky sons, got me on the beach.

Killin’ Time

During the endless down-time, someone suggested I fill my time with poetry. So – with Dr. Suess as my muse – I did. Here’s a sample. Please don’t throw tomatoes at me. Turns out I wrote it without realizing the form actually has a name: Narrative Poetry! Who knew. Well – now you do, too.

Have a chuckle – and know that this is just what transpired!

Once Upon a Sand Dune

Once upon a sand-dune slope
The kids below were waiting.
The sea ahead, its spume afloat
The dune, its secret waiting.
One way down was straight and steep,
The other mildly sloping.
She stood upon the mighty heap,
And did her best at coping.
Don't be a weenie, said she to self,
Never one for slopes.
Just slide on down that sandy shelf!
She screwed up all her hopes.
She scanned the dune for flatter ground,
But none was there in view.
How hard could it be - she looked around
Then planted her stance askew.
And then it happened, left foot down,
The slide, it did unfold...
The uphill foot did twist around,
And thus began the roll!
Legs and arms akimbo,
with Colton down below...
The two began to roll as one
Wound up like a bow.
Laughter all around was heard.
As a pratfall it was perfect!
But then there was a cracking sound,
Kim's the one that heard it!
Her ankle was a lovely hue
And move it she could not.
Purple, red, and slightly blue -
Move it she WOULD not!
How to get her off the beach!
Discussions did ensue.
Airlift, coach, or ambulance?
Were options to review.

The cavalry came on wheels of four -
Two firemen, they were conjured.
How best to get her through the door
Of the chariot, just yonder?
They settled upon the life-and-hop
and jostled her to the jeep.
Th ride to town was bumpety-bump,
The language was bleepety-bleep.
Off the beach the bumbled,
Bouncing all the way.
And to the house they rumbled,
Where a chairlift saved the day.
Three big cracks and dislocation -
The ankle was a mess!
Colton noticed the big band-aid-tion
And said it was the best!
But wait! The drama is not finished!
Once at home, she kept it up.
Her balance much diminished...
she fell and landed on her butt-
Then broke her hand to finish.
The surgeons, they did fix their dates.
Urgent, it was hailed.
Then COVID reared its ugly face.
What fuckery doth prevail!
Still, we had the best of times,
Played games and ate a pile.
Found a balloon-tire wheelchair
And rolled to the beach in style
The laughs we had were just sublime!
I wouldn't change a thing.
And though I have run out of rhyme,
I can't wait to go again.

Almost without exception, my mystical friends have asked, “Why do you think this happened?” And while I can give a million different possible symbolic reasons – or admit that stuff just happens – I can say that being totally dependent on others for the most basic needs, is humbling. It’s also an opportunity to ask for help (not an easy task for a stubbornly independent woman), receive help with grace, gratitude, and humor and enjoy (yes, enjoy) the down time to visit, form deeper friendships, explore new aspects of self, and just develop a greater appreciation for basic freedoms like driving, walking to the bathroom, making your own coffee, and getting outside.

So once again, here’s to celebrating good health, mobility, freedom in all its forms, and doing so in deep gratitude.

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Peter in 2013

Some of Peter’s Kids

Peter now, with some of the homeless he is helping

Travel is daunting

In Peter’s words:

The remaining kids are receiving nutritious meals consisting of beans, rice, posho (think hard-cooked grits), green and some meat. Yesterday more funds were released to purchase basic cooking supplies and more food, making it more cost effective moving into the future.

All meals are served on reusable plates and utensils, so there is no waste of funds on disposables.

Thanks for reading, and again, please feel free to share the blog or the link to the GoFundMe Campaign.

https://www.gofundme.com/manage/feeding-homeless-kids-in-uganda

Stay safe and thank you all for your continued interest and support.

Nancy

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Life in 300 Sq. feet

 

White River Falls

 

We got down to business of settling in and to give you a taste of the first phase of that endeavor, here’s a  copy of an article I wrote for the Wasco County Master Gardner’s Newsletter. 

Read it and weep.

Goat Heads will puncture bike tires & feet

Hula Hoe

Future weed-puller

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Here’s the bit I hadn’t posted, from November 21, 2016,  so don’t let the timeline confuse you. More to come in bits a pieces…
  
Still processing the aftermath of the (2016) election, I decided to focus on something positive, some-thing a little more uplifting. So here’s some beautiful scenery and an update.

Tucked in among the dripping leaves, bearded trees and waterfalls we chanced upon Lake Quinault Lodge that looks like the set from Dirty Dancing.  Driving on, the scenery switched back to the eerie beauty of the Twilight movies filmed around here.   And in another heartbeat there was scenery that looked straight out  of Colorado. 

Returning via an Indian Reservation and some iconic fishing villages and harbors, we wound our way back into Oregon, stayed long enough to do laundry and regroup before heading south to explore Mt. Shasta, then back north via the southern Oregon coast.

Hoping for a little weirdness on Mt Shasta – known for it’s mystical happenings and  inexplicable  encounters, we found only great vistas – until we tried to get back to the shore.  Somehow – (used in the true Ugandan sense…) we were routed to a Forestry Road through the Forest Prime-evil devoid of any sign of  humanity except for  dilapidated, long abandoned barns and small signs announcing GOLD CLAIMS!!!  It was a trip back in time and we were lost, running out of gas and approaching dusk. It stirred up some old spookiness about back roads and bayous in Louisiana, and fearing I might have to walk out or spend the night in the car, I threw up my hands and asked the Universe for help I’m happy to say a big black SUV appeared around the next curve. Although very welcome, it too had an element of weird:  not a speck of dust on this dusty road and no identifiers what-so-ever re: Make and Model.

We were looking for weird, not scary, but this slice of  adventure sufficed.  Heading back home,  the north coast welcomed us with characteristic rain, and so another fall begins.    I’ve settled into a new place, with great new neighbors – both animal and human – and  ESL (English as a Second Language) classes have begun.   Trying to  find a new cadence to life, since this community is so removed and different from Cannon Beach.

Looks like we’re in for quite a ride these next few years and in trying to find some solace, what I’ve come to is a quote from  Margaret Meade:

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed it’s the only thing that ever has.”   

It’s time to act in your own way to “Be the Change.”

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/margaretme100502.html

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/margaretme100502.html

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Suffice it to say, that what remains after all that jettisoning of trappings and overhead, is the spiritual practice in daily life and the essence of that is awareness of what kind of emotion – vibration – energy I am offering to the mix.    Am I a source of light or contributing to the darkness?

Each of us has the ability to change our own energy or vibrational signature if we so desire and therefore calibrate (there’s that words again…) the signal we want to be responsible for sending and TO WHICH we want to resonate. Change the signal – change the path. 

One practice I have found helpful is meditation in general, but I really love doing a walking meditation, whether hiking, walking on the beach or to the store or even driving… it’s a good way to focus energies and stay out of my monkey-mind.  Sometimes, it’s a challenge to “sit” and still the mind or to re-frame troubling thoughts and feelings, so I’m sharing a meditation I created for myself, in case it resonates with you or you want to create your own:

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Yes indeed, the sun has set on yet another year and  2016 blew in with with gusto and freezing temps here on the northern shore.  Some strange atmospheric anomaly brought with it the tease of seeing the northern lights as far south as Cannon Beach, so in search of a little magic, a friend and I put on one each of the collection of jackets-hats-vests-and gloves co-mingling with the family of boots to drive up to one of the lookout points away from the light pollution of the metropolis of Cannon Beach. 

Daytime view from Nekahanie Lookout

“Out of the night that covers me,

• I said: “I’m sorry who is calling ????”    
• The voice:  something unintelligible
• Again, me feeling embarrassed: “Oh I’m sorry! can you say that again?” 
•  The now-laughing voice:  “Your friend!  The former Assistant Rrrrrra D.C. (Regional District Commissioner)!”  
• Me finally: Oh Emily – it’s YOU! How wonderful!” I am now choosing words carefully, trying not to “decorate”  language with words that will only confuse.  My English is just as strange to her ears as her’s is to mine.

 Three weeks later, life has resumed some form of normality. The elk herd wanders down the street and fat racoons maraud around town at night and the wind blows. 

Cold but beautiful

My role as staff for  Haystack Rock job starts and this year I’m getting paid for what I did for free last year.  That fulfills one of my intentions: to get paid for work I would do (and have done) for free   Since that job revolves around low-tide, there’s no normality to be found there.  The tide waits for no man, so all other schedules have to dance around this one.  No sense of balance there…   But being paid to be on the beach, talking to people about the wildlife is pretty fine.  However, the first session of beach duty was a little raw: 45 mph winds, cold and rough surf. 

An that’s the news from lake Wobegone…

Wishing you all a belated Happy 2016!   Love and blessings ya’ll…

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 Just such a pattern showed itself in the hour it took for me to walk part of the beach a few days ago.  The Oregon coast is apparently notorious for its wind and I walked leaning into a gale-force blow, picking up a hefty tail-wind on the return.  I loved it. Just for fun, I took pictures of the progression of the weather during that hour.

  But the season is young.  I’ve been waiting to be as cold and wet as people threatened, but not yet.  I have, however, been introduced the the world of boots, having visited the local Fred Myer store and asked to be directed to “boots please.”  Isles and isles of boots: polka dot boots, furry boots, fancy boots, short boots, tall boots, fishin’ boots, bog-boots, Xtra-Tuff boots, psychedelic-flowered boots – yes – even glittery boots.  Everything but cowboy boots.  I’m not in Texas anymore apparently.  But these boots are made for walking, skipping through puddles, wading through surf and – as I have experienced – surviving a trick-wave with your back turned.  I now have boots and have packed away my umbrella for travel, having been instructed that it broadcasts one as a tourist.   

And so it would seem,  I have at least moved in evidenced by the unloading of a trunk full of boxes at the recycling center, making several runs to Goodwill and one to donate boxes of books to the local library, which is not funded by the city – only donations and volunteers.  Although the town has only 10,000 people, its recycling center is a good indicator of how serious Oregon is about recycling.  I discovered this focus when I waited for my wee-trashbox (yes BOX) to be picked up two weeks in a row.  I discovered that it would be picked up every forth Tuesday, while my HUGE recycling bin is emptied every OTHER Tuesday.  This is an effective training strategy it turns out, not t mention helpful when one is continuing to purge the detritus of three years out-of-the-loop.  

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I’m on the north end of the beach, the tail-end of the tourist district and it’s pretty tranquil. That’s a left turn when I get the sand and it’s a world apart from what I see if I turn right where there are wall-to-wall hotels, bodies, beech chairs and music.  My end is more populated by the locals fishing, couples walking hand-in-hand and sand-covered toddlers squealing with delight.   Dogs cavorting in the surf are having at least as much fun as their owners and one followed me last night with a ball in his mouth looking for a “throw.”   The only structures for a while are a few Palapas like the one at right built for a little shade.

About a mile down is a small lagoon fed by cold water coming from the underground rivers.  You can see a bit of it at left.  The water stays deliciously cold until it merges with the sea. A few nights ago, I heard drumming and the call of a horn made from a conch shell.  There, gathered at the lagoon were about 50 locals participating in a ritual cleansing ceremony complete with feathers and smoke… and the Virgin Mary.  I was expecting a Budha, but it’s a Catholic country after all.

I waited ’till today to venture to Akumal,  Mayan for “Place of the Turtles,’ since the beaches and the water there boil with humanity even on off-season weekends.  It does live up to its name.  My  turtle researcher friends first told me about it since they have been there often to count and tag the local green turtles that like the grassy patches there. It’s a turtle sanctuary.

The collectivo  drops its riders on the highway at the mouth of a pedestrian bridge that empties onto cobble-stone walkway into the town. You know you’re getting close to the beach when the hawking of tours begins.  Luckily the dive shops rent gear, lockers and showers without requiring a guide or a tour.  What they do require is life jackets, so I paid my $15US, donned my life jacket and gear, stashed my loot and footed it to the water a little apprehensive about actually finding turtles, considering some of my previous water adventures.

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I was relieved to escorted to a big room with a balcony, AC, a deep TUB.  I’m thinking, “boy this is going to be great!”   It was already dusk when I set out to find dinner, but had no idea where to go and the desk clerk was singularly disinterested in helping even when I used my best Spanish.  So I ended up grabbing a yogurt from the little kiosk next door, just as the sky opened up and a heavy rain drenched the city.

Inside one of the bastions

The gardens

Mystery flower…

So!  Back in Bacalar, the tourists have all gone home, the rainy season is creeping in a little early and I like it.   It’s lovely to be back in this sweet little town.  Every morning I walk my three miles and see the same people building a house on the lagoon, setting up to offer tours or just tending to their chickens, riding their bikes or scooters to work.  On the right is the beginning of my route with some of what I see along the way below: gorgeous Bougainvillea, Flame Trees and bits of jungle.

Coral Bouganvillea

The Mayans are very sweet, friendly – always
have a greeting and I love seeing them with their families in the Plaza at night.  The kids are happy and there’s so much family presence.  Have met a few expats living down here, but am not sure I’m ready for that – still need to be more contributive (not sure that’s a word…) than that usually allows. Though this community seems different and more integrated into the regular town and its population than most expat communities.  Houses are tucked in along the way and spread out throughout the area as opposed to being clustered together and a neighborhood unto themselves.

A private path to the lagoon

My free month in a condo a block off the beach in Playa del Carmen is nine days away and I’m soooo excited!  Can’t remember if I mentioned that a woman I met in Merida has gifted me the use of her condo for the entire month of June, my paying only utilities.  She lives in D.C. and the condo has no one scheduled for the month.  I feel like I hit the jackpot and am eternally grateful!

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So, I am moving and will miss Betsy and her care, but will have more freedom and access to getting around.  One has to be a genie to find Betsy’s and the fiasco of transportation to and from dinner on Saturday night was all I needed to let me know “not to try this alone.”  Also, there are frequently other PCV’s staying at the Bukoto Guest House, so it won’t be as isolating.

One PVC came in today with a jigger in her foot.  No no, don’t get excited – not like a jigger of tequila.  a little worm than can get in when you walk with open toed sandals through the grass.  It’s a nasty little beast that literally worms its way in and sets up housekeeping until you cut it out.  Another came in yesterday looking like death warmed over – probably Malaria.  So it’s busy there even if all that happened was medical.  There are 175 of us in country and something is always happening for someone.  Then there are workshops and meetings and lost passports…    So one can be “entertained” a bit while here.  But I am getting proposals for my NGO written, studying Acholi and doing other PC assignments.
They try to make sure new PCVs are not having too much fun and keep us on a short leash.  Not so much fun and much of it seems like busy work, if you’ve already lived a life and know how to get out there and get busy.  But some folks are at sites with too much going on and others are stationed where they are feeling like they’ve been dropped on the dark side of the moon.

The latest hoopla has been over the lack of a Christmas Break.  Washington D.C. has mandated that new PCV’s are forbidden to leave their sites during the first 90 days of service.  This might work if we had not come at a time than when that  90 days spanned two important holidays: Thanksgiving and Christmas.  For some of the younger PCVs, it’s the first time every that they have spent away from friends and family and this is tough.  For the older ones who may have had some exposure to that, we have at least had the freedom to find ways to make the holidays fun or avoid feeling emotionally adrift or downright abandoned.  It’s been a HUGE controversy with boat loads of discontent and today there was some give by HQ.   At first we had NO days for Christmas.  That was changed to give us two days – the 24th and 25th away from site, but ya’ can’t get anywhere in Uganda in a couple of hours and no one in his right mind travels at night.  So today, there was a compromise made and we how have essentially four days, two of which are travel days but we have to take annual leave…   This is where I need a bad word.

Wow – ya think that you leave some of this behind, but the bottom line is – this #!* is everywhere and there is no escape.    Still – PCVs are people who color outside the lines, and the more you try to constrain us the more hostile we get.  So now, the hostility meter is out of the danger zone and some normalcy has returned, meaning that we don’t have to become totally subversive.   We will always be mildly so, because straight-arrows rarely sign onto spend two years with pit latrines,  disease and daily uncertainty.  So how do you handle 175 mildy-subversive personalities?  Carefully and with a sense of humor, a large dose of flexibility and tact.  These traits are not always in supply but sometimes they appear and pour oil on troubles waters.

So that’s today’s report from the Pearl of Africa, boring tho it may be.

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