Finding Flow Amid Beginnings and Endings

I wrote this blog at the end of December. My hip was broken at the time, but I didn't know it. I tried to finish the blog and send it out while in hospital, but I couldn't focus well enough. I managed to write the addendum, but the mechanics of getting it sent out were beyond me. Now, I was just about to start a new blog, but this one is quite good. Poignant…

I haven't resumed swimming or macramé yet, but like my own inner wisdom speaking to me, this blog inspires me to do so.

To the One, macramé, 2024

Above is an image of my latest macramé piece. It began with the CD in the middle. There are holes drilled around the edge of the CD in which I could start the macramé. It’s free-form macramé in that I had no plan. As the loose petal-like centre emerged, it was too floppy and required those more rigid circles of half hitch knots so the work would float nicely in the square frame. The reused sturdy metal square frame was salvaged from a desk that broke and couldn’t be repaired. Hence the web of spaced out square knots to attach the work to the frame. Followed by more half-hitch knots to wrap the frame. It then called for a little fringe to complete the asymmetry.

I really love falling into the creative process and letting the work reveal itself. We often hear that from sculptors — how the sculpture is already within the stone or the wood and the artist skilfully reveals it. Or from musicians that the music is already in the air; it's a matter of listening for it. In the centre of this piece, I have (maybe illegally) marked up the Elton John CD so that it reads: To the One. Meaning the one manifesting as the many; the many emerging out of the one. There is fluidity in this piece where it does appear to be moving into one and out into the many and back again. The rivers of dark blue amid the bright orange/blue/purple really contribute to this flow. A flow of beginnings and endings; endings that can only happen due to their beginnings; and beginnings that can only happen due to endings — like blue shifting into orange and space shifting into knots. Like every moment is made possible because the previous moment ended and yet the passing of time feels like a constant flow, constant movement.

My parents have been in the hospital for the last month because of a pelvic fracture and dementia. I can sympathize with the challenges that life is presenting to them: the desire to get back to how things were, the grit it takes to work through these challenges, and finding balance in an ever-shifting new normal. Doing so requires that things come to an end whether it’s pain or joy. It's the only way new things can begin. I hope my folks don't mind me saying that it's poignant to see them aging. It puts life in perspective: they were children, young adults, parents and professionals, and vivacious retirees. We've talked about how life suddenly has you as an older person even though you still feel young. Not just young at heart, but like the same person looking out of then 25-year-old eyes, now looking out of 85-year-old eyes. I feel it too in my mere 54 years — “How did I get here?” sang the Talking Heads in the ’80s: “This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife!”

Thus transitions can be shocking. Childhood innocence and curiosity ends before young adulthood begins, independence and autonomy have to end for parenthood to begin, vigorous enjoyment of an active life might have to end before deep spiritual contemplation can begin. One shock of realization came for me when suddenly the possessions around me appeared frayed and yellowed as though from a different era. So here's a few other things that have come my way as 2024 came to an end. More poignant things. And what does poignant mean other than recognizing those moments of transition, loss, gratitude, endings, and beginnings.

A TV show that ran in the early ’90s, Northern Exposure, is full of existential questions about these kinds of things. I watched reruns of it in the late ’90s. And I just watched it again on Prime. It's a beautiful series set in magical Alaska, but it's the quirky characters that you fall in love with, and the metaphorical and mystical richness in which their stories unfold. I cried then and now as this song played in the last episode: Our Town. Forgive the twangy old country. (Unless you like that kind of music!) The lyrics are simple and profound: poignant. The song is full of beginnings and endings.

I'm the only one in the pool on a bright -27° morning.
Photo: Michael Ball

I faced a few setbacks in the past year. Sometimes it feels like life wants me to just sit down, lie down, slow down. Every time I get going, something else goes awry in my body. At the beginning of this year, I began using a wheelchair in the afternoons because I would be so fatigued at that time of day. I am struggling against how much I now need the wheelchair. In the last couple weeks, my right hip has been bothering me so much that walking has been very difficult. I haven’t walked at all the past few days. The mind wants to sort out what's going on and rail against what's happening. But, very slowly, "taking the next step" and embracing what I am able to do in each moment has to be my focus. The mind’s stories — about what I should have done, what I should do, how it used to be, or how it should be — are not helpful in the moment. What helps is being real about what's happening now and what makes sense in response to that. Getting angry at these new symptoms never helps, although I have been angry. Crying about my lost limber body doesn't help, although it's a necessary release at times. It's a poignant moment of transition. I have learned to appreciate what mobility I have because, while I don’t know what the future holds, more challenges are inevitable.

Michael took the picture above when I was swimming one Sunday in December. Swimming is full of beginnings and endings; each stroke has a beginning and end, each breath has a beginning and end. But at some point it becomes smooth motion and gliding, like being one with the water. I enjoy most of my swim, but especially those moments when my body feels fluid. The rest of my life is about finding flow in other ways. Like the flow I feel creating my textile pieces. Or how Michael and I have to find the flow in working together as my body becomes less able. You know that trust exercise where you fall backwards into the arms of someone else? It isn't easy to take someone else's arm and trust that they've got me when I've been holding my own body upright for 50 some years. There are mechanics to moving together so that it's less strenuous for both parties. We are learning. Swimming is a great analogy for all of it — feeling the water for where to slip the hand in, when to breathe. Is it time to pull? Is it time to push? Is it time to glide? Letting go allows things to reach a natural ending and enables smooth beginnings.

Beginnings and endings are talked about in Buddhism as cause-and-effect, causes and conditions, or Karma. I’ve written before about the complex, incomprehensible, and concurrent set of happenings creating each moment. In the coming together of these happenings, free will is ultimately only an illusion. Conversely, in the coming together of these happenings, there is freedom. We aren't stuck on a determined path or confined to the mind’s stories or society’s expectations. We are heir to what we do next; as in the Buddhist recitations, Five Thoughts for Frequent Reflection:

My body is of a nature to get sick; I cannot avoid illness.
My body is of a nature to get old; I cannot avoid aging.
My body is of a nature to die; I cannot avoid death.
I will become separated from everything and everyone dear and beloved to me.
I am the owner of my actions. I will be the heir of my actions.

These may seem rather blunt and negative, full of loss, but reflecting on these truths helps us find a rhythm of peace and love. Because ignorance or denial of these truths leaves us wanting — for more of what was, for less of what’s painful, to hold on to what’s gone, to resist change — and missing the opportunity to see that right now might be enough, might be cause for gratitude, for joy even. Maybe more importantly, we recognize that these are common ground for everyone — from the Trumps to the Theresas — and therefore compassion makes more sense than judgement. The Theresas appear to live by an unconditional acceptance that becomes love in action; they are radiant with irresistible warmth. Whereas the Trumps will never be satisfied or find real happiness, and meanwhile spread misery. Our lives fall in between these extremes. As much as we lack free will (are subject to the conditions of our lives), our actions and the intentions behind them set events in motion.

I’ve been working with this when I find my jaw clenched and a firm grip on the arm of the chair, resisting what’s happening … oh, remember pain x resistance = suffering … release the jaw … brow smoothes out … shoulders drop … hips open … mental clarity returns. This doesn’t mean I suddenly am free. But gratitude for the breath, for the mobility I do have, for food and shelter, for the precious opportunity to be curious about life — these things suddenly have room to return, to inform this moment, and the the next. Blissful and joyful moments can entrap us too. They have an underlying sense of “I don’t want this to end” or “how can I make this last?” Let the bliss wash over you and move on; then feel gratitude, curiosity, and so on for the joy as well as the loss. This moment can unfold the same way a free-form macrame piece grows knot by knot. When we admit we don’t know what will happen next, therein lies possibility instead of constraint. Love instead of hate. Plenitude instead of lack. Peace instead of war. Wisdom instead of ignorance. Grace, balance, and equanimity flow like water seeking level and entering where, seemingly before, there was no room.

The softest thing in the universe
Overcomes the hardest thing in the universe.
That without substance can enter where there is no room.
Hence I know the value of non-action.

Teaching without words and work without doing
Are understood by very few.

—Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu, ch. 43, Tr. Gia-Fu Feng

Adendum

Feeling at times like a summer bird left behind in winter.

The hip pain I mentioned above? Michael started suggesting we should go to the hospital about ten days before I finally said, “ya, let’s call the ambulance.” We came up to emerge on New Year’s Eve (and I’m still here as I send this out). My description of spastic and tightening muscles causing the hip pain made sense to everyone. I mean, my right leg is stuck in bent position and won’t be pulled out straight — it’s painful and snaps back into bent position at the first twinge of pain. The muscles and tendons have shortened after a year of mostly sitting. However! Upon discharge I was still experiencing pain despite four medications targeting it in four different ways. I requested an x-ray, suspecting that the breast cancer from 2023 had metastasized. So when the doctor came back with the results and said, “bad news,” I was totally surprised and a little relieved to hear the hip was broken. By the healing evident in the x-ray, it’s been broken for two or three weeks. In that time, I’ve been to the chiropractor, been swimming, had a PAP smear, and spent hours bent over the macrame above.

I’ve been prescribed rest and another x-ray will follow in two weeks to see where it’s at. A hip replacement would be another solution, but the violent leg spasms I experience might dislocate the new hip and right now it’s actually in a good position for healing. For the immediate future I will get some gentle exercises and stretches (the orthopaedic surgeon looked at the exercises I was about to go home with and said, “nope; you can’t do any of these”), stronger pain meds, and more PSW support at home. I’ve also learned a few things.

1. Listen to Michael because he sees my struggles from a different and, at times, objective perspective.

2. When I find myself saying, “I feel like I have a big hill to climb and I’m already exhausted,” ask for help.

3. I don’t need to fix everything.

4. I don’t know everything.

5. Let go.

This last one I learn over and over. Let go of how it used to be. Let go of how I want it to be. Let go of the stories about how it is. Let go into the many helping hands around me. Let go into the flow of life. It’s gentle breezes are always whispering in our ears (including Michael’s suggestions to call 911, the neurologist’s advice, and the deep down voice of wisdom we all have) and moving us where we need to go. Let go, otherwise it’s a lonely journey and much harder than it needs to be.