By the Labyrinth

I sit by the labyrinth,
watching the evening shadows
descend here in the cathedral.

A woman sits on a cushion
in the center of the labyrinth,
her back straight, her body still.

The setting sun, shining through the stained glass,
splashes jewel-toned lights
on the stone walls of the church.

Sounds of the busy street
enter the windows and doors
on this warm summer evening.

A homeless person sits in the back
seeking respite from the street,
seeking shelter from the heat.

I, too, find respite here.

8/24/2010

Psalm of Thanksgiving

Thank you, God, for this ordinary day,
this day with no crises.

Thank you for ordinary tasks,
washing windows, making beds.

Thank you for time to notice
the cool breeze coming through the window.

Thank you for time to watch the goldfinches
visiting the feeder in the yard.

Thank you for this time of respite
after the storms of this summer.

8/24/2010

Do Not Walk Away

I.

If I allow myself to sink into my fears,
If I share my fears with you,
If I weep, if I scream,
If I shake my fist at God,
If I allow myself to crumble,
If I stop trying to be calm,
stop trying to be strong,
If I allow myself to really lose it…

II.

Do not be afraid.
Do not offer advice.
Do not try to cheer me up.
Do not get angry with me.
Do not change the subject.
Do not offer me a drink or a pill.
Do not walk away.
Do not try to make me take care of you.

III.

I will not yell and scream forever.
I will not cry forever.
I will not be angry forever.
I will not go mad.

IV.

I will, when the storm is over,
become calm again.
I will, if you stay with me,
become once again my familiar self.

8/12/2010

Ornitherapy

I laugh with delight
as I watch the saffron finches
perched on the feeder,
enjoying their breakfast.

Sparrows jockey for position
on the window feeder.
Mourning doves eat the berries
under the black cherry tree.

Blue jays scream
at the neighbor’s cat
when he ventures
into the yard.

Watching my backyard birds
as they go about their business
helps me to endure
and move forward.

8/12/10

Alone in My Room

I sit alone in my room,
seeking peace,
seeking strength.
I see my altar,
a file cabinet covered
with a tie-dyed bandana,
a red candle,
and a picture of Mary.
The Buddha and Kuan-Yin
sit in meditation
on the shelf above the altar.

Books on the shelves
remind me that I’m not alone
as I search for hope.
I belong to a community of seekers:
ancient and modern,
Christian, Buddhist, Jewish,
Hindu and Sufi,
male and female,
seekers from east and west.
Like me, they had to find meaning
in the dark nights of their lives.

I look at the planter
I brought home from my father’s funeral
so many years ago.
I see the wooden box
filled with treasured mementos
of family members
long departed.
I remember the struggles and triumphs
of those who gave me life
and shared their hard-won wisdom.
They still give me strength.

Alone in my room?
I guess I’m not.

8/5/2010

Fight

Darryl also writes poems to express his fears and his hope as he waits for the transplant. The poem below expresses both. I made the mandala above to give visual expression to the powerfully hopeful opening lines of his poem.

Fight, a poem by Darryl Nichols

Every choice you make
is a choice between Life and Death.
Or, if you prefer, Love and Fear.

I will not fear. I will love and live.
My feet tap out the sound,
of my heart beating round and round,
spinning as I face my greatest fear,
an unknown death, a census smear.

I will fight. You will fight.
We all will fight, for the right
to breathe, to party, to love, to grieve.

One day this thing
will put me in my grave,
but even then
no coffin will I crave.
Burn me up, an offering to your gods
so that you can go on and Fight.
And love, and survive, and strive
and become the best
whatever it is you were destined to be

When you dreamed,
as a child, on a shooting star,
that you later found out was a firefly.

You know the fireflies are dying out.
The city lights confuse them.
I used to think they were fairies.

Put the little fairy bodies on my breast
right before you push the button.
We will all burn bright
One last time
before we return to the earth.

Fight! Never give up!
Live. Breathe. Love.
Let Death fear YOU!
Fight.

5/20/10

Dark Night

About a month ago, when we were going through another rough patch, I took great comfort in this song by Kate Campbell and Walt Aldridge. As the song kept playing over and over in my mind, I began to see colors and an image of the dark night, the fire out in the cold, and the wonders that can be seen even in the midst of the darkness:

DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

You can pray with all your might
Till your knuckles all turn white
You can look the other way
Hope it’s gone with each new day

You can do your best to hide
You can hold it all inside
You can curse and shake your fist
You can ask why God why this

There is peace somewhere I’m told
There’s a fire out in the cold
There are wonders to behold
In the dark night of the soul

You can give in to your doubts
Try to figure it all out
You can fight the fight alone
Do your best to drink it gone

There is peace somewhere I’m told
There’s a fire out in the cold
There are wonders to behold
In the dark night of the soul

Trust your spirit to be your guide
You’ll come out on the other side

In the absence of the light
Let the shadows hold you tight
You can let your fear and pain
Wash over you like rain

There is peace somewhere I’m told
There’s a fire out in the cold
There are wonders to behold
In the dark night of the soul
In the dark night of the soul

By Kate Campbell & Walt Aldridge
© Large River Music (BMI)
Cross Key Publishing Co. Inc./Waltz Time Music Inc. (ASCAP)

Shall We Dance?

My son faces a fearful journey, one he might not survive,
moving to the brink of death in search of new life.
Fear, like a rock, takes up residence in the pit of my stomach.

I long for that rock to be transformed—into what?
Hope? Peace?
A calm assurance that all will be well?

Sometimes I reject that rock,
pretend that I don’t see it, don’t feel its weight.
I tell it, “You can go now.”

And it seems to—for a while,
but it returns, and I run to the nearest distraction,
so it grows legs and chases after me.

Sometimes I turn and face it,
sit down with it, hold it,
embrace it as well as I can.

It seems a little lighter then,
a little less oppressive.
It’s still there, but less the center of my life.

We’ve done this dance many times, my fear and I.
We’ll do it many times again, I’m sure.
I wouldn’t have chosen this dance partner—if I had a choice.

But he comes and he asks me to dance.
I escape to the ladies’ room.
He’s waiting when I come out.

“I’m too tired to dance,” I say.
“Then let’s sit and talk,” he responds.
I no longer have the energy to resist, so I get up and dance once more.

Advent in August

It’s been a rough summer for Darryl, with three hospitalizations since mid-June. He’s had pancreatitis as well as the usual lung problems, and because of the pancreatitis, he’s been temporarily removed from the transplant list until that resolves. He’s now a week into the third hospitalization, and things seem to be moving in the right direction. The fevers he was having a week ago are gone. So are the back pain and nausea. His lipase level is coming down, and that’s a good thing.

He’s still very tired, though, sleeping a lot of the day, still needing to use his oxygen most of the time. I worry about the fatigue, the monotone in his voice, the lack of “Darrylness”, for lack of a better way to describe it. So we wait and hope the improvement continues.

Waiting is a major theme for me these days. We wait for the pancreatitis to resolve so he can go back on the transplant list. We wait for the transplant. We wait for him to once again be able to breathe with ease.

Maybe that’s why I think about Advent a lot these days. Never mind that it’s in the 80’s and 90’s outside, my spirit is often plunged in the cold and the darkness of December. I light candles and wait for the daylight to return.

I think of Mary, waiting for the promised child, waiting for Joseph’s reaction to her pregnant condition, waiting for the response of family and community. I imagine her dread of the difficult journey to Bethlehem—nine months pregnant and riding on a donkey. I see her waiting and laboring through the birth. I think of the journey to Egypt to escape those who would murder her child, waiting for the word that they could safely return home.

Darryl, too, has a long and difficult journey ahead: more waiting; the transplant, when the time comes; the period of recovery from the transplant; the uncertainty about what and when and where and how. It’s a difficult time for those who love him, too.

There were comforts in Mary’s waiting, of course: the reassurance offered by the angel at the annunciation; Joseph’s acceptance of her condition, her visit to Elizabeth and their shared joy in the new life growing in their wombs; the faith that allowed her to consent to God’s will for her life.

There have been comforts for us as well: the love and prayers of friends; the hope of longer life and greatly improved quality of life; Darryl and Carrie’s amazing resilience in the face of so many difficulties; the ministry of so many loving “angels” in our lives; the faith that allows us all to keep moving forward, day after day.

Advent comes at the darkest time of the year, but it ends in a glorious blaze of light and praise and new life. I pray that it may be so for Darryl, however long this Advent season might last.

Mother Bear's Lament

A couple of years ago, I joined a women's poetry group that meets at my church, Trinity Cathedral in Cleveland, Ohio. This group of wonderful people meets monthly under the wise and compassionate leadership of Mary Anne Woodward. It is a wonderfully safe setting in which to give expression to my feelings about all kinds of things. One Saturday last April, I wrote this during a meeting of the group.

Mother Bear’s Lament

Breathing in...
Breathing out...
Easy for us to say,

But when your lungs don’t work so well,
you find other ways to breathe.

You breathe in Spirit
and breathe out images
poems
stories
games
memories
jokes—
and splash them across a Facebook page.

I watch in awe,
tears streaming down my face,
grateful for each breath in
and each breath out,
yet raging against the struggle
each breath demands of him.

Like a fierce mother bear,
I growl and extend my claws
to protect my cub,
but there’s nothing for my claws to tear into.
They have no power against the disease
that chokes his lungs.


Charlotte Nichols
April 25, 2009

Last June, my friend Margaret introduced me to the making of mandalas as a spiritual practice. At the time, my son Darryl was in the hospital for a "cleanout", a term used by CF patients to describe the process of being hospitalized, often for several weeks, for intensive IV antibiotic therapy. This is necessary for many CF patients because the mucous in their lungs is abnormally thick, which makes the lungs an ideal breeding ground for hostile bacteria. Repeated bouts of pneumonia cause increasing damage to the lungs, which ultimately leads to death. A reprieve can come in the form of a double lung transplant, which can add years to the patient's life and substantially improve the quality of life. This is, of course, a high-risk course of action which is only undertaken when it looks like the patient could only live another year or two without it.

Last June, Darryl's doctors did not think he was quite to that point, but it was becoming clear that the time for that momentous decision was drawing nearer. I was frightened and struggling to come to terms with all that was happening to Darryl. So I took out my recently purchased markers and sketchpad and drew this mandala. Around the mandala, I wrote this prayer:

May the strength and wisdom of Mother Bear be mine today. I call upon the earth to ground me. I call upon the tree reaching up to the light to lift my aspirations. May it be so.

That was a year ago. And now the time has come for Darryl to be placed on the waiting list for new lungs. Hope and fear constantly compete for my attention. Most days, hope has the upper hand, but when fear arises, I find strength in this image and this prayer.