Visions of Johanna

"Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin to be so quiet.  We sit here stranded, but we all do our best to deny it"  Bob Dylan, Visions of Johanna, 1966

An appropriately themed title, as usual, to begin the blog.  I'd go so far as to say that this was Dylan's best song, over and above any other work, in my humble and honest opinion.  What I love about this song is how it exposes each side of positive and negative, with the lyrics dancing between the defining realm of perception and undeniable aspect of feeling, yet somehow achieving a remarkable story throughout the rhyming sonnet and the delicate sequence.

And so this song comes to mind as I near the end of my hospital stay here at North Valley.  I have been here for 14 days.  That equates to more than 336 hours I have lived here in this hospital.  If I count Spokane (which, of course I'd rather forget), the number would be even larger.  The visions that are coming to mind, as the time melts into the future, are results of the present moments, such as the fact that I am in a wheelchair now.  Another vision which has begun haunting me is the traumatic scene of my body smashing into that tree and the cries of agony that accompanied the moments just after impact.  I actually have incredibly vivid visions of my body, from above none-the-less, as if I am out of my body and watching my shoulders being thrust back as the impact happens.  Its funny to me that the shoulders are what stand out the most.  I believe this has to do with the way my back immediately curved around the shape of the base of that tree, prompting my shoulders to slide onto my back, the way one might initiate a backbend in yoga.  Imagine your back being compressed and your shoulders opening as your heart moves forward.  This is the image that haunts me.

Although its not all that horrifying.  In fact its quite the opposite.  I see it as my heart bursting open to the world, and it took the destruction of my pelvis and lower back to break the seams that were binding my ability to open towards grace (an Anusara yoga term).  Obviously I'm getting a little esoteric here, but it is a direct result of what I am experiencing from this vision that remains.  Another recurring theme is the reality of my situation.  I guess between the drugs, the novelty of my situation, and the gratitude for my condition not being worse, I have yet to fully process or digest what has happened to me.  I have had these moments, almost like an epiphany, where I suddenly realize I can't physically move certain parts of my body yet.  Its difficult because I feel so "normal" again; however, I am reminded of the reality of my situation.  Awaking to the reality that I am in a wheelchair, albeit temporarily, is a frightening thought.  I never imagined I would be in a wheelchair, unable to stand and walk.  Even to type this, it brings about feelings of sadness.

And yet the wheelchair still remains the highlight of my day.  Wheeling around the halls inspires a new found sense of freedom and discovery.  Its like I am conquering the frightening part of being in a wheelchair, while accepting that my current condition is exactly what it is and how it is supposed to be.  Rest assured, I am having fun with it all.  In fact, I am now concerned that I don't have long hallways to breeze through at home.  Where can I go to get a nice wheelchair cruise?  These are also some of the thoughts that are beginning to infiltrate now that my time here is almost done.  Another thought I have is how nice it will be to feel the outside air again.  I haven't been outside for more than 10 days.  Imagine not a breath of fresh, outside air in that amount of time.  Its weird to feel this way.  I look forward to the opportunity to sit on my porch and watch the sky do what it does and breathe in the cool, crisp, clean Montana air.  What I hope all of you will do, for me, is take a big deep breath and give thanks for whatever you are grateful for in your life, the next time you step outside.

 
While I am on the topic of realizations I also discovered another well known fact about hospitals (with special thanks to my favorite nurse); people are not only born here, they come here to die too.   This hit me rather strangely, as the obvious nature of the nurses comment combined with the idea of death was so unexpected to me.  Here I am so focused on healing and getting well, then I am reminded of the very building I am living in.  Both processes are beautiful and something we all experience in our lifetime, as we all were born and we all will die.  This is about as obvious as the idea that if you jump into water, you will get wet.  But how often do we stop and recognize this process for what it is?  Most of us likely consider the consequences of the temperature of the outside air and the water prior to actually getting wet; on the other hand, how many of us can think of birth and death in the same realm?  Do we actually consider what our lives will be like if we look back with regret in our heart while facing our last breath?  How wonderful it must be to see life come into this world.  On the same hand, how amazing it must be to watch someone peacefully pass away to the unknown.  Birth can be tragic and painful, as can death, yet in our culture only one is really celebrated, that which is life.  If we could all see death as a celebration, we would likely have more examples of compassion, dignity, and community in America as opposed to the greediness, fear, and separateness that keeps many of us from being happy and living harmoniously.  Because after all death is life, as much as life is death.  Some of us are busy living, and some of us are busy dying.   (Thanks to Captain Obvious for his contribution to the above paragraph)

And so it goes my mind wanders about the life and death of beings, while I reflect on what I am grateful for and what I want to do with the time ahead of me.  There is no doubt this accident has had a a profound effect on me.  If it were any less, I'd expect you all to be concerned about me.  I have never felt a deeper appreciation for the people who are in my life, specifically those of you who have taken time to communicate or reach out to me, visit with me, and to share your love and energy with me throughout this healing process.  This means more than anything else to me right now.  You know who you are and I thank you with love and gratitude.  For without you I'd be climbing through the caves of despair, without a light or a sense of direction, lost inside the loneliness of illusion.

So now, dear friends and family, is your chance to share a little time with me.  I have created a care calendar, so that you may reserve a time to help me with some of my basic needs.  The link is here:  http://www.carecalendar.org/logon/67241
The password is 4479. 

The way the calendar works is you sign up for a AM or PM visit.  The AM hours are from 10:30am-2:00pm, and the PM hours are 4:30-7:00pm.  Exact times are not important, its a loose idea of when people could sign up and visit with me.  Some basic tasks will be performed, perhaps a little cooking, maybe assistance with running errands, or just spending some time with me and drinking tea.  Directions to my house are on the site.  I encourage you to find some time you could help me.  I am grateful for any and all assistance you may be able to provide.  Please do not hesitate to contact me if you have any questions. 

And I will leave you with the calendar, as well as some more quotes from "Visions of Johanna", as I bid adieu.  Sometimes, the lyrics read like a zen koan.

Much love,
Ande


"Little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously....   He sure got a lot of gall, to be so useless and all, muttering small talk at the wall, while I'm in the hall.  Oh how can I explain, its so hard to get on; and these Visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn."

"Inside the museums, infinity's going up on trial.  Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while.  But Mona Lisa must have had those highway blues you can tell by the way she smiles."