DUST DEVILS

They had been watching them dance across the desert floor for a week now, but, in a heartbeat, this one took her memory back 58 years. “Pull over,” she told him, “I want a picture.”

Her mind’s memory had failed her over the years, but her body’s eye had retained the feel of this “little dust devil”.

She was 4, and it was a grand day. Mother had given her permission to take her baby brother outside to play.  She had been waiting for this day for such a long time. She was now officially “a big girl”. She was in charge. And she was o, so ready to prove she was trustworthy.

Out the door they went, her holding tightly to his chubby little hand as they headed toward the playground on the lot next door to their house. They were on a great adventure! Just the two of them!

Of course she took him straight to the merry-go-round. She had loved the merry-go-round forever it seemed! ‘Round and ‘round, faster and faster she’d spin, just for the thrill of it. But today was different. She was being careful with her charge.  She was gently walking the great wheel ‘round so that her little brother could enjoy the ride in safety. And he was having a frolicking good time.

Then she saw it—dancing its way menacingly toward them, until it engulfed them.  She held tightly to his hand as the sand stung her eyes shut, and pummeled her face, clogging her nostrils until she thought she’d die from suffocation.

Then she made a choice; she chose to let go of his hand. She chose her safety over his, and ran as fast as her chubby little legs could carry, and she hid.

It was all over in just a few seconds, and her mother was there with little brother safely in her arms.  But that little dust devil never really left her.  She had felt its power for years now, its swirling winds in the pit of her stomach, its suffocating affect as she tried to breathe.  And it continued to cause its rush of panic, making her forever want to run, and filling her body with shame and the knowing she couldn’t be trusted to “stay”.

White Sands and White Space

So, you might ask, "What do White Sands and White Space have in common?"

Many years back, I heard Spirit’s voice deep inside whisper, “Sheila, you really need more white space in your life.” Little did I know what that meant, and it took a number of years of “undoing” before I realized all that call was about.

I had a chance to revisit that “space” of time in my life recently when hubby and I visited White Sands, NM.  I had been encouraged to make it a stop on our trip, but didn’t realize the affect it would have on me.

Naturally, me being the inquisitive one, I wanted to make a trek to the top of one of the dunes, and I wanted hubby to go with me – a romantic kind of thing, you know– but he declined, and sent me off on my own.  Naturally, he encouraged my climb up a steep angle, teasing me with, “it’s easier than it looks”. NOT.  

(Hmmm...perhaps THIS really is more like it felt!)

But then he sent me off on my own to explore around the bend.

This was the first sight I encountered, “The desert shall bloom like a rose.”  

In all that white space was this singular plant, and seeing it caused my heart to leap.

 

I continued climbing.  It was quite a trudge through the sand, but at last I made it to the top of that large white mountain of sand

and I was overwhelmed with the quiet beauty of it all. I bowed to honor the White Space

then sat in its silence for a good long time.

I was so grateful wise hubby sent me off on my own. “There are just some things that need to be experienced alone.”

Word spoken in Silence.

Desert Love

She had been driving for a couple of days, first through West Texas, now through the deserts of Arizona. She was surprised at her feelings for this dry arid country. She had experienced the beautiful snow-covered peaks of Colorado, the heavily pine-covered mountains of the Northwest, with its twists and turns, the quiet woodsy smells of the redwood forests, and the icy chill and crashing sounds of the Pacific Ocean, but this--this solitude and barren country was leaving its mark on her, in the deep places of her being. She hadn’t quite found the words yet to explain what she felt…it was a kind of groan, a pleasant ache that hurt so good.  It was like that unsatisfied moment, just before the release of orgasm.

Days later as she pondered feelings the desert made inside her, she was still left with mystery. What was it about this land that was so different? It was so barren, so stark, so harsh—yet it still caused her to feel deeper than anyplace else she had experienced.  The difference for her was like that of her love for the Virgin Mary and the Black Madonna, the bright sun and the mysterious light of the moon, the song of the mocking bird and the raucous call of the crow. It was as if the giant redwoods and the snow-covered peaks lifted her heart high to the sky, and the barren silence of the red rocks, the ocher and purple hills, and the scrubby gray-green of the bush pulled her down into the belly of Mother Earth.  One caused her to soar, the other planted her deep.

Both were beautiful, and both moved her, but the desert—this desert claimed her in a way nothing else had.  She was a daughter of this land, and she never knew it until now. 

Roller Derby Mother's Day

We sat in the stands watching, unable to do anything at all as she was jammed into the banked rails and tossed onto the floor like a rag doll. Whatever possessed her to take this path as part of her life story, to put herself into these kinds of situations? Over and over we watched as she was flung far and wide. Every instinct in me wanted to say, “Stop! Don’t do this to yourself! This is fun?” And I watched his face as his “little one” was repeatedly squeezed, jammed, flung and tossed, and he too could do nothing but watch.

But then we felt the exhilaration as she broke from the pack and skated with such skill and speed! And such freedom! 

Later her eyes sparkled as her conversation was salted and peppered with such terms as blocked, jammed, falling smart, bout, and calling off the jam (I particularly liked that one).

I was reflecting on it all again this morning, and it dawned on me…

That’s what mothering is all about.  There comes a time in a mother and child’s relationship where mom has to sit on the sidelines and let that the child strike out on his own.  He may get himself knocked around, or she may find herself on the floor, with a sore knee and a bruised bum, but then, as that mother watches, she sees the joy on his face as he makes his own music, creates his own work of art, or plays in a roller derby bout. And she will feel her own face smile with joy at one of her best creative acts.

I love you kids: Mike, Bart, Joe, Robin and Rebecca (Annie Nigma).

Beginning, Middle, End

It was early, her favorite time of the day. Stillness was all around, and all she could hear were the sounds of silence: the songs of the birds, the gentle lapping of still waters, and the occasional splashes made by fish jumping in the canal. And she could hear sound of her breath, the gentle in, out, in, out that connected her to all of this life around her. Nothing was felt in her bones but peace.

Out of no where, roaring sounds began booming through the silence as a plane flew overhead, scattering the stillness, so much like the pain of fibromyalgia or the uncertainty of her new friend’s own private pain. The noise deafened overhead, yet she heard still…the birds’ songs, the gentle lapping of the still water, the occasional splashes made by the jumping fish in the canal, even the sound of her own breathing, gently in and out. The noise of the plane began to fade as quiet came once more.

Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  She remembered Deborah’s powerful vibrato.  She breathed, “May our songs still be heard above the noisy distractions of FM and PD. Amen.”  

(Dedicated to my friend and fellow Yogi, Deborah Ramirez, truly a big heart)