Throughout my book, The Caregiver’s Choice, I emphasize that caregivers already have too many “shoulds” in their lives and that nothing I say need add to their burdens. So keep that in mind as I tell you a story–a true story. I’m not nagging, just sharing.
Last Tuesday, as I pulled into the country lane that leads to my voice teacher’s ranch house a quarter of a mile away, my car stopped dead and stayed dead. I called my teacher who drove up and helped me push the car to the side of the lane. She was concerned that I had to wait there for the tow truck, but she had another student and could not stay with me.
The tow truck was an hour away, and the sun and the car were hot. I moved along the fence, leaned on the fence post, and stared disconsolately into the small ragged meadow between the irrigation ditch and the highway. The ruts left by some ditch-cleaning machine scarred the grass. Piles of debris–a mixture of mud and sticks–were heaped at random along the ditch bank. The locust tree above me was scraggly; many of its limbs, barren of leaves.
I leaned my cheek on the hand that was resting on the fence post, and as I did so, I suddenly became aware of the texture of the wood beneath my hand. It was rough, but there was a pattern to it. I lifted my head to look at it. The post was made of an old dead tree limb. The wood still bore interesting circles and other patterns where bits had pulled apart as it dried. But the post was sturdy and useful. It held up its part of the barbed wire fence. I rubbed my fingers over its rough top and thought, “When I’m gone, I wonder if any part of me will last and be as useful as this post .”
Somehow, the whimsical thought made me ashamed of my grouchiness. Hadn’t I learned anything by writing The Caregiver’s Choice? After all, the book is about finding serenity by changing one’s mind. Could I use my senses to change this long, hot, anxious wait for help?
Senses. We have at least five of them, but we don’t use them all equally. The fence post had made me aware of my sense of touch. I straightened up and focused on my surroundings in a different way. From the grass on the other side of the ditch came a turtle dove’s soft “coo-coo.” I don’t know how long the bird had been calling. I had only now begun to pay attention to the lovely liquid sound. I thought briefly of my lost voice lesson. I needed a teacher. What natural magic in that bird’s throat, what movement of air and larynx, allowed that crystal pure, but mournful, sound? As I listened, another sound came to me. The water in the irrigation ditch was hurrying along, brushing the sides of the ditch with busy little gurgles, but mostly just swooshing out toward the hay meadows in a businesslike way. I could almost believe that the water was aware of its vital importance in this agricultural spot. I looked toward the ditch. In the shade, the water was dark khaki colored, but when it rushed through a patch of sun, it turned into rich gold.
My eyes caught the debris along the ditch again, and I began to study it in a different way. The mud was rough as bark itself in some spots, smooth and shiny in others. Twigs, trapped in the mud, still pointed upward with angled fingers. An artist would have loved to capture the angles and shadows of those natural things, fallen away from their source. I looked up at the locust tree above me. The blossoms were listless and fading, but a remnant of their lovely scent hung faintly in the air. As I sniffed with appreciation, I thought, “Well, I’ve used my sense of touch, hearing, sight, and smell, but what about taste?” I glanced around and laughed in delight. In the roughened ground just across the barbed wire from me was a patch of lambsquarters–those delicious wild greens with their fuzzy grayish leaves that I had often, with my mother and my grandmother, picked in the spring for table greens. I knelt and reached through the wires. I picked a handful of lambsquarter leaves, shook off the dirt, and ate them raw. Memories rushed across my tongue.
As I grasped my faithful post to stand up from the ground, I saw the tow truck nearing my lane. I looked at my watch. I had been lost in a different sensual world for almost an hour. I had not gone to a resort or a fancy vacation spot. I hadn’t even sat down. But I was refreshed and renewed, and I could face the question of my car’s problems with much more serenity. I was almost sorry to see that tow truck…almost. (The car? $300 alternator.)
