Line-Dried

 

          My dryer broke about four weeks ago.  I was standing at the kitchen counter when I heard a tremendous CLUNK sound emanate from the laundry room.  No scent of smoke, no horribly abrasive sound ensued.  I went on with making dinner.  About two hours later, I reached into the dryer expecting to pull out a dry load, and discovered a soggy mass, tightly coiled in on itself.  All the wash was bound together by the stretchy amorphous legs of my daughter’ tights.

            I turned to my helpmate, my husband.  He is abundantly more talented in understanding the machinations of inanimate items than am I.  Half an hour later, he rendered his verdict.  Call the repairman.

            It took three phone calls to locate a serviceman who would do repairs on a thirty- year old gas dryer.  His name was Bob.  Bob was as helpful and friendly as could be.  He identified the problem and told me he’d order the part.  I explained that I couldn’t go very long without a drier with three children under five – the baby just six months old.  He was sympathetic and left.  The next day, he called me with a good news, bad news story.  He couldn’t get the part, but he had “tinkered” in his shop at home and had managed to get the old one working.  He returned to install it.  I jokingly asked if there was any risk of fire, explosions or gas-related accidents.  He reassured me that there wasn’t by demonstrating how the part was tooled.  When the burner started right up, I was wildly enthusiastic about his demonstration.  Bob kept cautioning me, “I can’t tell you how long this will work…”

            It worked for three loads.

            The gauntlet flung down, my husband decided to really roll up his sleeves.  He puttered and tinkered with staccato commands emitting from the laundry room floor, “Flashlight,” “Screwdriver,” “Turn it on,” “Quick, turn it off!”

The upshot of his ministrations came as a swift whack on the dryer’s side, and the dryer worked.  He showed me exactly where, and how hard, my palm must strike.  I didn’t have the knack.  I tried with my fist, my foot, the palm of first my right, then, my left hand.  Nothing worked.

            We talked about buying a new drier.  We looked at flyers, read reports, all very scientific.  The purchase of a new drier would be an unexpected expense, but not a prohibitive one.  Surprisingly, there was something else going on. Something undefined caused our reluctance.  I was in no hurry to buy a new machine.

            The laundry continued to be generated at an alarming rate  -- the natural consequence of a cleanly family of five.  Since I happen to do the bulk of that household duty, and because I would have to wait for my husband to be available to give the machine a wallop, I resorted to line-drying.  Now I have a friend (who gave us the dryer fifteen years ago) who will only use a dryer under dire circumstances…even when all four of her sons, and mother lived at home with husband and her.  I remember shaking my head in disbelief.  “But Joanne,” I would lament, “You spend all your time centered around washing, hanging, picking, folding, ironing, and putting away laundry – all while keeping an eye on the weather.  How can you manage to fit in your job, the boys’ activities, shopping and meal preparations?”  She would never answer me directly, instead, she would smile knowingly. Rather like the initiated might smile at the uninitiated. 

            I have since joined the ranks of the initiated. 

            At 6:30 in the morning, when I bundle up my son, plop him in the stroller under the clothesline and begin hanging laundry.  I enjoy a stillness and expansiveness people pay therapists to achieve.  At noon, when I pick that first load, and hang the next, I escape from my desk or my household chores for some mid-day sun. The baby likes to be placed directly under the clothes so he can reach for them as the breeze flutters them just beyond his reach.  My young daughters race back and forth in a game of their own imagination.  At 5:50 pm, while I go outside to bring in the last load, I escape from the madness of a hungry family who are nipping at my heels for food.  I am alone among a colorful population that never resists my ministrations.  Later, after dinner, the radio blares the daily news that I completely disregard .  However, I can recite verbatim the forecast for the next day’s weather.  Just before bed, I enter the laundry room to inhale deeply of that wonderful clean, outdoor scent that was so hard-earned.  The fragrance seeps into the fibers of the fabrics of those line-dried sheets and towels.  The box of “outdoor fresh” Bounce fabric softeners sheets lays unused on top of the dryer.

            The downsides do exist in this way of life; chapped fingers, unexpected rain showers, stiff, unforgiving blue jeans.  But for a while, it’s a nice way to slow down life.  I recognize that this step back in time is drawing to a close.  I ordered a dryer and it is due to be delivered today.   I am hoping to salvage the best from my new dryer – fluffed and tossed convenience as well as an occasional visit to a line-dried way of life.

                                                                                                Reprisal of essay

                                                                                                     May, 1995

Irreproducible Love

                                                

                 1974      Sally                   Dawn                           Chicki       

Chicki was the first person to love me for who I was rather than due to a genetic imperative.  As I grew up, she was an ally and a friend; she helped me weather the battles of childhood, adolescence and young adulthood. Chicki took me as I was, without forethought or deliberation.  She doled out life lessons like the candies on a candy necklace.   In later life, distance and circumstance separated us, but I never doubted that she would help me if I needed her.  It was kind of like going through life with a parachute.  Just knowing Chicki was in the world allowed me to believe that, not matter what life threw at me, I would land on my feet. 

            The origin of Chicki’s name was never explained to me, nor did it matter.  She was my mother’s younger sister by twelve years.  When I was a child, she was called a “change-of-life baby.” Chicki was born well after her siblings; my grandmother was 39 when she delivered her.  Shortly thereafter, my grandfather died.  My grandmother had two children in college and one entering grade school. Since my grandmother had to work, she enrolled Chicki in a nearby parochial school.  The nuns were regimented and had little patience with Chicki’s antics and imperfection (Chicki had a severe hearing loss in early childhood, due to a high fever). She wore hearing aids that were large, fell out often and would emit ear-splitting squeals that would disrupt class. She was reprimanded for turning them off.  When asked why she did this, she said, “It’s easier to daydream.” Perhaps the final straw for the nuns was when they found Chicki, a Protestant in a Catholic school, raiding their third floor living quarters. The secret she whispered to me may now, fifty years later, be divulged.  Nuns’ panties and bras are sometimes dressed with frilly lace.  My version of that take-away moment was that all women are entitled to secrets.

I do not remember a time before Chicki came to live with us; she was simply the reason my sister and I shared a bedroom.  Later, I understood there were “problems” between my grandmother and aunt so my parents took her into our family.  Chicki’s bright future was briefly dimmed by a man named John to whom she was briefly engaged.  All I remember about him is his name and the effect he had on her psyche when their engagement was broken.  On Wednesdays, my mother would escort Chicki to see a special doctor that would help her with her mind.  Chicki would see the doctor for precisely fifty minutes; I knew this because it was how long I had to read the HIGHLIGHTS magazines that were strewn about in the waiting room. I asked Chicki what she did with that doctor for all that time.  She told me they talked.   “Sometimes you need someone other than your family and friends to help you understand yourself,” she told me. “It’s okay to ask for help.”

Another lesson Chicki taught me was the value of omission.  She had borrowed a friend’s new, red mustang. When she offered to take me for a ride in it, I jumped at the chance. We cruised along unfamiliar streets and neighborhoods.  Eventually, we drove between rows and rows of army barracks.  Chicki declared that it was time to go home.  With her foot bearing down on the gas, we raced down the avenue.  At the instant she meant to take a right, she misjudged the corner.  The car lurched over the curb, with its tail wigwagging behind.  The mustang came off the curb with an earsplitting jolt.  Chicki’s right arm, a precursor to seatbelts, stretched across my chest to secure me in my seat.  When we resumed our ride home, she strictly observed the speed limits and traffic signals.  Just before we got home, Chicki stopped the car and turned to me, “Dawn, there are going to be times when it doesn’t make sense to report every detail of an adventure.  Please don’t tell your parents about this little mistake.” Thrilled to be taken into her confidence, I willingly agreed.  It was the first time I understood that there could be parts of my life to which my parents were not privy. 

In a move that surprised and delighted all of us, my grandmother and Chicki wanted an adventure together.  They found jobs and rented an apartment on Martha’s Vineyard Island for a year.  Unknowingly, they opened a door that led us home; the Island, its beauty and its people drew us in.  My parents ended up buying a summer cottage there.  The Vineyard became central to our life stories.  

When Chicki returned to our nest, she worked to save money so she could rent her own nearby apartment. The morning she left, I was twelve.  She found me kneeling at the foot of my bed in front of an altar I had assembled; there were the doll Chicki brought me from Amish country, a flickering candle, and my Sunday school bible, open to the 100^th psalm. Prayed earnestly, I knew that our closely woven friendship was about to change forever.  Later, she told me she cried all the way to her apartment because the last thing I asked her was, “How can you leave me this way?”

We entered a new phase of our relationship as marriage and motherhood took more and more of her time and school took mine.  Chicki’s life underwent a shift with the birth of her daughter, a divorce, a remarriage, and another new baby.  In the midst of all that, she recognized that my home life had grown untenable.  She urged me to escape my parents and come live with her. I chose to stay the course for a short time, but then moved to live in solititude in my family’s Island cottage.

  Life proved to be generous with me.  I met a Vineyard man who made me imagine a future brighter and better, simply because I was in it.  As our relationship became committed, we exchanged visits with Chicki and her growing family. I loved watching the kindness her girls would show their mother even when there were disputes.  They would never yell from another room.  They would run back, plant their feet in front of their mother and make sure she could read their lips when they shouted, “No, I WON’T!”

Chicki’s husband hailed from Texas. His native family pulled his new family pulled west and into a world apart from us. Chicki and I wrote letters but the phone was always a challenge with her hearing.  One day, she called me unexpectedly, shouting with her pitch a bit off, “Dawn, I came out of a building today and I dove for the ground.” “What do you mean?”  “I have new hearing aids and a plane flew directly overhead.  It was the first time I ever heard a plane!!”  My eyes welled up. “That,” I thought, “That is Chicki.”

As the years passed, we each became more mired in our lives, children, and jobs.  My mother, who now lived on Martha’s Vineyard, became a conduit of news and updates because she and Chicki wrote weekly postcards to each other.  When the time came to call hospice for my mother, I called Chicki.  I heard her voice and broke.  I cried and hiccouped and she couldn’t understand a thing I said.  Slowly, slowly, I pulled myself together so she could understand the sad news I was sharing with her. My mother held Chicki closely under her wing right until her death; she sent Chicki the last postcard from the hospital.  

            Eighteen months later, it was Chicki’s daughter, Rachel, contacting me.  She and her sister knew I would want to know their mother was in the ICU.  The girls –now women, were sweet to send me daily updates.  They called me shortly after Chicki died.  They were sitting outside the hospital in their car feeling numb and full of disbelief that they were going home without their mother.  We managed to laugh through our tears as we talked about their mother.  We plotted to commingle Chicki’s ashes with my mother’s on Martha’s Vineyard. We all agreed that there was a symmetry to that closure. 

            Chicki’s love for me was a gift of immeasurable value; it had its own breadth and width and depth. She filled in the edges of my life, fortifying, teaching and always, always believing in my worth. She lived her life by loving, giving herself to others without condition, and looking for humor wherever she could find it. The peculiar lilt that her speech had as a result of her hearing impediment branded her love for me.   Her “I love you’s” , with their unique intonation were unique and irreproducible.  As unique and irreproducible as she was to me.     

I Can Not Be Thrown Away

      On the day before my discharge from Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, a clergyman came to call on me.  I recalled

agreeing to his visit three weeks earlier, when I was first

admitted.  Now, after a particular arduous stay, it seemed, well, irrelevant.  I had found my way without the particular religious salves he might offer: I was fine.  However, I did not banish him from my bedside.  We chatted about the fine work of the Rabbi who had called upon me when my first hip was replaced and I was rehabilitated at Spaulding.  The clergyman explained he was a Baptist, that

he and the Rabbi and the priest who served the hospital had a deep appreciation for each others’ work.  The message that God is present and moving in our lives, even in our darkest hours, is non-denominational.  It was a brief visit, and I felt I had weathered it politely without revealing some of the profound questions that have surfaced in my life recently.

As he was leaving, I saw how tightly the minister was clutching his clipboard – I thought he was clutching the list of faith-seeking patients he might locate by room number.  Instead, he pulled out a sheet from all of the others.  As he did so, he said, “I find we have a lot to learn from each others’ religions.  The Rabbi came to my church to address my parishioners last year.  I would like to leave you with a few words written by a Catholic Cardinal.  Please, when you have a moment, read this over and see if they mean something to you.” I folded the page in thirds and placed it on my blanket before shaking his hand goodbye.  

      As the minster was leaving the room, he paused to talk to my roommate.  The “privacy” curtain was half drawn between our beds; neither of them could see me. Without much thought, I reached for the paper on my bed and unfolded it.  My first thought was that the page-long prayer he left me was like an overly-adorned woman.  The ornate, ritualistic language typical of Catholicism almost managed to obscure the simple, beautiful and powerful message therein. I had no forewarning of my reaction. When I read Cardinal Newman’s prayer and translated it into a language I use myself in praying to God, something broke inside of me. I wept. I tried to do so silently.  I simply couldn’t imagine what was happening. With no Kleenex at hand, I buried my face in my blankets. I tried to restrain the shudders of grief and relief that passed through me. The whole time, I kept my face turned toward the window while I struggled to regain my composure. The message that I am not disposable and that I have a role to play was a powerful one at this time in my life.  I know that I must thank John Henry Cardinal Newman for starting this particular conversation with God.

I am created to reflect God’s glory. The design for me is to serve mankind in a way that is uniquely suited to me and my God-given gifts.  This is my life’s work.  I am uniquely created to do something or to be someone to serve others. My place in the world is one no one else can serve; whether I am rich or poor, despised, or esteemed by others, God knows my heart. I may not understand the role I serve. I listen to the quiet, inner voice that guides me and speak my truth, I can be certain that I am playing my part in God’s world. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between others.

I will trust God.  Whatever, wherever I am,

        I can never be thrown away.

God is with me. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him: in confusion, my confusion may serve Him; if I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. My sickness, confusion, or sorrow may be stopping points on the path toward an end I can not imagine, but is part of God’s plan. God may prolong my life or shorten my life. He may take away my friends, throw me into unfamiliar circumstances, or leave my future clouded and uncertain. I may feel abandoned, desolate and alone.  Yet, despite these heart-wrenching trials, I hold fast to my faith in God’s presence in my life.

No matter my purpose or my work, I will trust in God, who affords all goodness, love, life and light. 

~John Henry Cardinal Newman as paraphrased by Dawn Elise Evans

The Secret

If what we read feeds our thoughts, it is pretty clear what I have been thinking lately.  I have books strewn about the house.  In a whirlwind blast to tidy up the house this morning, I gathered up some of the books I am reading currently.  When I saw the stack, I laughed out loud.  The pattern that emerged was pretty clear.  
One Day My Soul Just Opened Up  by Iyanda Vanzant
Mind Power into the 21st Century by John Kehoe
The Healing Power of Mind  Simple mediation Exercises for Health Well-Being and Enlightenment
              Tulku Thondup
The books have been dropped in the bathtub (where I often fall asleep reading them), highlighted and their pages dog-earred and torn.  These book have been well-worn and well-loved.

In a few days, I am going into the hospital for my second hip replacement in three months.  I have been working hard to harness the infinite power of my mind to bring about the best outcome.  For that reason, I must have pulled these books off my library shelf at different points of times.  These books are instruction manuals for enlightened thought; using different words, describing varied examples, their messages are all the same.
You are GREAT. You can do this!
I encourage anyone who is trying to find their way through a physically, emotionally or spiritually challenging period in their lives to seek out and read any one of these books. I will tell you honestly, however, that it's not about the books you read.  What I have discovered is that it is about the willingness to ask the questions.  The answers you seek will not be found in a single book nor in a single teacher.  If you are determined to find an answer and are willing to ask for help,  you will ultimately find the answer within yourself.  Just ask Dorothy ~ you don't even need ruby slippers.   The  answer  may not be the answer you want, nor even the one you imagined, but the answer is already within your reach.  So, that's The Secret.  Picture my hand cupped and curled as I lean close to you and quietly whisper,        "Pass it on..."

Living with Grief

May was Ehler’s-Danlos Awareness Month

For me, every month is Ehler’s-Danlos Month.  Living with Ehler’s-Danlos Syndrome*, I mourn daily.  I mourn the future I had envisioned before I had major medical issues.  I mourn the freedom to live each day without physical pain.  I mourn the many things I can no longer do.  I mourn the freedom to choose my activities without limitations imposed upon me due to issues of health. 

I believe that it was 1976 when I met Elizabeth Kübler-Ross at a seminar conducted for the newly- formed hospice agency on Martha’s Vineyard.  She introduced us to the idea that there were five stages of grief.  Originally, these stages applied to people facing terminal illnesses.  However, she realized that grief is laid bare whenever there is a catastrophic personal loss. This may also include significant life events such as the death of a loved one, divorce and the onset of a disease or chronic illness.

From Elizabeth Kubler Ross,The Five Stages of Grief

1. Denial — "I feel fine."; "This can't be happening, not to me."
   Denial is usually only a temporary defense for the personal. This feeling is generally replaced with heightened awareness of the  possessions and  the people that will be left behind.
2. Anger — "Why me? It's not fair!"; "How can this happen to me?"; '"Who is to blame for this happening to me?"
   Once in the second stage, the individual recognizes that denial cannot continue. Because of anger, the person is very difficult to care for due to misplaced feelings of rage and envy toward others.
3. Bargaining — "Just let me live to see my children graduate."; "I'll do anything for a few more years."; "I will give my life savings if..."
   The third stage involves the hope that the individual can somehow postpone or delay the loss. Usually, the negotiation for an extension is made with a higher power in exchange for a reformed lifestyle. Psychologically, the individual is saying, "I understand loss in inevitable, but if I could just have more time as it was..."
4. Depression — "I'm so sad, why bother with anything?"; "I'm going to die... What's the point?"; "My life, as I knew it is over, so why go on?"
   During the fourth stage, the person begins to understand the certainty of loss. Because of this, the individual may become silent, refuse visits from friends and spend much of the time crying and grieving. This process allows the person to disconnect from things that offer love and affection.  It  is an important time for grieving; these feelings must be processed.
5. Acceptance — "It's going to be okay."; "I can't fight it, I may as well prepare for it."
   In this last stage, the individual begins to come to terms with the impending loss or death.  They find peace.

Each new day presents me with an opportunity to move closer to Acceptance.  The funny thing is that, just when I am confident that I am at peace with my life and my diagnosis, I

rebel.  I plant the geraniums, paint the trim, go out to dinner.  The next day, I find myself in bed angry at myself and bargaining with the Powers that Be. I resent the price I pay for the simple pleasures of daily living.  It’s all up to me, however.   When I successfully break this cycle, I know I will be closer to achieving a state of grace. 

Go to www.ednf.org/  or you can watch http://www.ehlersdanlosnetwork.org/mysterydiagnosis.html

to learn more about Ehler’s-Danlos Syndrome.. 

The Cottage on the Vineyard

The first time I remember being in the Cottage was 1963.  The Johnsruds stayed there and my sister and I stayed with our parents down the street in the pink house behind the Wesley House.  That was the summer my Mom cut her foot so badly on the beach.  My sister and I were enchanted with the floor grates in our second floor bedroom -- they afforded us the ability to eavesdrop on the adults downstairs.

Mary K. guarded the Cottage with all of the possessiveness of a mother lion protecting her cubs.  The Johnsruds were careful to observe all of her rules and the Campground’s regulations.  Of issue was how to enjoy alcohol on the porch.  Cousin D and I were excited to be allowed an overnight in the room that later became my bedroom.  For lighting effects, he draped a cloth over the lampshade and nearly started a fire.  That was the summer of “The Cousin’s Photo” – the five of us lined up in Martha’s Vineyard sweatshirts. It is an enduring icon of our family history.

The Cottage became my lynchpin: while our family moved, uprooted and began again, to meet my Dad’s career moves, the Cottage was home.  When life in Rhode Island became overridden with conflict at home in April, 1976,  I escaped to the Cottage. I was seventeen. It was no coincidence that I married an Islander.  Six weeks after our first child, H, was born, I took her to the Cottage to begin to earn her status as a ”sort-of Island girl”.  Our daughter, K,was captivated by a place where her creative expression was rewarded; she won first place in the All-Island Art Show in the Children's Division.  C, my third baby was tagged our Beach Baby Beach Bum after spending day after day under an umbrella at the Beach Club.   
As our family contemplates plans for my father's long term medical care, the piece of the equation that is difficult to resolve is the future of The Cottage.  It is his asset, it is my heritage.  The Cottage and the Island represent family, home and tradition to me.  In the days ahead, I will do what I can to preserve it....for my parents, for my children and for their children.   

The Power of Forgiveness

 

It has taken over fifty years for me to begin to discover the power of forgiveness. A surprising corollary to that understanding has been that, whenever I stop assigning power to the person or event that hurt me, I am a happier person.  Every time I find the strength to forgive someone, something good rushes in to fill the space my resentment once occupied.  It’s as if condemnation, with its far-reaching and evil tentacles, tries to stifle goodness.  It takes persistence, desire and vigilance to achieve forgiveness.

Since Sunday-school teachers drilled it, grade-school teachers recited it, and high-school teachers demanded it, I have tried to live by the Golden Rule to “do unto others as you would have the do unto you.” I have done a fair-to-middling job in that practice.  Where I have been most deficient is in tearing up the list of misdeeds I have suffered. In self-indulgent moments, I imagine a long-robed judge sitting through my recitation of the wrongs I have endured.  Her head nods in silent encouragement as I pour forth with my sorry tales.  Finally, she sets forth her judgment, proclaiming as justified and warranted my feelings of anger and resentment. Her legitimization leaves me righteous and satisfied.   I am left with a twinge of disappointment when my fabricated Goddess fades from view.

                When we suffer an injustice or hurt by another, we rush to judge them and condemn them for having made us suffer.  That anger is pernicious.  Before long, it becomes the dye in which our world is colored.  Hard-earned experience has taught me that forgiveness is like an invisible contract we have to make between ourselves and the ghost of the person who hurt us.

To break it down, there are seven steps to practicing forgiveness.                                                                                                                                    

                                                

Seven Steps to Forgiveness

1.     Acknowledge your feelings of anger and resentment.

2.     Identify why you have these emotions.

3.     Allow yourself time to experience these feelings.

4.     Desire the release that forgiveness offers.

5.     Picture how things would be without this negativity in your life.

Practice blame-free living in short bursts.

Dig deep and offer light and goodness to the person or people who hurt you.  Repeat    “I forgive you, I release you, I am letting you go.”

6.     Repeat Steps 4 and 5 until you feel detached from the person or people that hurt you.

     

      7.  Accept that forgiveness is a process. Expect to go three steps forward and two steps back. Blame and resentment can resurface without warning.  Be prepared to renew your efforts.   

Forgiveness is an act that demands that we let go our sense of the injustice we have suffered.  When we release our judgments and seek understanding instead, we are giving

to others what we would ask for ourselves.  We must not forgive once, twice nor even seventeen times.  We must forgive until we find only love in our hearts; be assured that love comes back to us and multiplies.  Through forgiveness, there is redemption. In forgiveness, we are made whole.