Part 1 of the Tattoo I Now Wear

During a recent visit with friends in Idaho, I got a tattoo. In today’s posting, I’ll share with you the background of that tattoo, which I’m now wearing on my right forearm. It is and will be until I die, a reminder of a Presence that got me through an emotionally difficult time during my childhood—a time of despair, desperation, and loss of the idyllic security of my first five years of life.

 

In August 1941, my carefree childhood ended. My parents and young brother disappeared from my life; I didn’t know where they’d gone nor if they’d ever be back. 

 

My grandmother, angry at her son’s precipitous escape from her dominance, used me as his scapegoat. Every Saturday, during my weekly visit, she’d pummel me with the same harsh words: “You’re naughty, Dodo! That’s why your folks left you behind. They’re having fun without you. But your little brother got to go. They’ve deserted you.” 

 

I learned not to cry. Or ask why. Or whimper. I knew what would come next. Each visit she’d wallop me with the same litany of abuse.

 

“They don’t love you. They’re never coming back. You’re an orphan now. And I’m certainly not going to let you live here. Not with me. You’re just a bother.” 

 

 During those months of kindergarten, I ceased to be happy, carefree, spontaneous. I became, instead, somber, downcast, silent. For the next three years, I remained so. When, at the end of my kindergarten year, my parents returned, my 180° personality change distressed them. Daily they queried me: “What’s wrong, Dodo?” “What’s happened?” “Where’s your smile disappeared to?” “Where’d my little girl go to?”

 

But Grandma had done her work. Fearful, I said nothing. I could trust no one. 

 

No one except Arthur, who was known only by me.

 

I met Arthur in September 1941 as I walked the path through a corner city lot of wildflowers and weeds. Emerging from the plumed grasses, he padded toward me. I felt no fear of this approaching lion with his brown ruff and swaying tail. What I did feel was a sure knowledge that I could sink into the loving depths of his eyes and be happy, moment by moment, breath by breath.

During the next few days, I realized that only I could see and hear Arthur. On our way to school that first day, he’d purred that he’d be with me always, loving me no matter what I did or said or didn’t do or say. “You are my Beloved,” he said. 

 

I did not know what that word meant, but I trusted whatever he said. His words were not razor-sharp as Grandma’s were. The tawny quilt of his being wrapped me in an all-embracing peace. He became my shield against the “slings and arrows” in my grandmother’s quiver.

 

Arthur got me through the hard days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

Twenty-seven years later, in September 1968, while visiting Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, I found a ceramic figurine of Arthur. While browsing in the college’s gift shop, I looked down and there on a table was the figurine. I recognized him immediately. 

 

For fifty-three years, from that day until last year, his figurine was always near: on my bedstand in Ohio and New Hampshire, on my office desk in Minnesota and here in Missouri. Always, I was just a glance away from the security that Arthur so graciously and gleefully had given me on that September day in 1941.

Moreover, for all those years, whenever some persistent emotion overwhelmed me—fear, happiness, panic, gratitude, anxiety, joy, exhaustion, glee, jealousy—I would pick Arthur up and hold him. His rump pressed into my left palm; his snout into my right. Then, seeking the depth of abiding peace, I’d let emotion flow down my arms and into Arthur. And he, a seemingly boundless vessel, would take what I was feeling and leave within me the breath of Oneness.             

 

Last April, I visited Elisa—my adopted granddaughter—in Idaho and spent five days with her in Salt Lake City while she did radiation for her Stage 4 melanoma of the bone. I’d carried Arthur’s figurine from Missouri to Utah, knowing that he’d always watched over, comforted, consoled, encouraged, and delighted in me.

It was time, I realized, to give his presence, represented by that figurine, to Elisa. I trusted that just as he'd protected and watched over me, so his presence would enfold her and what she was going through.

 

She knew his story and was touched by the gift. However, when I returned home and looked to the left of this computer, to where he’d once stood, I missed him. Greatly.

His eyes; his ruff; his sturdiness; his steadfastness; his humor.

 

And so, in my next posting—hopefully two weeks from now—I’ll share with you the tattoo that now blesses my life. I’ll describe the tattoo experience and the delightful tattoo artist who gave me the gift of Arthur in a new and quite wonderful way. 

 

Peace.

PS: This has been, I know, much longer than my normal posting of 600 words. However, Arthur and his steadfast presence in my life deserves no less from me. I hope you will return in two weeks to discover the story of the tattoo that is now emblazoned on the very skin I wear.

Foiled by Google

 Hello All of You Who Leave Comments on my Blog Postings: 

I find myself unable to "sign in with Google." My niece has 

tried--for almost three hours--to figure this out . . . to no avail.

So I suppose that from now on, I won't be able to respond. I do 

hope you know that I welcome your comments and would like 

to respond to each individually as I seem always to have 

something to say!

However, I'm just going to thank you now for the comments 

you've left on my most recent posting (July 4th). And for any 

comments you'll leave in the future. I value your thoughts and 

responses always.

Peace amidst the confusion all around us . . . 

A Lesson in Dating While Vacationing

Recently, I visited my “Idaho family.” For two weeks, I spent time with Elisa’s four offspring, who now range in age from twelve to twenty, and with Elisa and Mike. 

In addition to family time, I had three unexpected experiences: I got a tattoo. I went on a motorcycle ride. And I had a “date.” Or at least that’s what Elisa told me I had. Today, I’ll share my confusion.

 

First, the background: I’ve become friends with one of Elisa’s elderly Idaho friends—a philosophical man. (Let’s call him Palmer.) 

 

When Elisa was in the hospital in November 2020, she asked me to call Palmer and introduce myself. She wanted me to keep him apprised of what was happening with the cancer. He doesn’t have a smart/cell phone nor a computer, so the line-land phone is his way of communicating

 

That’s how Palmer and I met. Since then, we’ve spoken on the phone every couple of weeks about how Elisa is progressing as well as about books, political happenings, and quotations that have struck us as incisive.  

 

In April 2021, while visiting Elisa, I finally met him in person.

 

On this most recent visit, Palmer came to Elisa’s home for a boardgame afternoon with the family. The next day, he called and suggested we have lunch together that coming Thursday. He drove us to a nearby restaurant—and yes, he’d checked beforehand to see if they had any vegetarian entrees on their menu. I enjoyed the food, our conversation, and his candy-apple red sports car.

When we got back to Elisa’s, he opened the car door for me, which I thought was quite nice. Then, as we stood together, he said, “Dee, you’re good with words. What would you call what we just did?”

Puzzled, I thought, “I’d call it ‘getting out of the car.’”

 

Before I voiced that thought, he said, “I’d call it a date.”

 

Floored, I found only one response—the one I say to anyone who takes me to a doctor’s appointment or away from home: “Well, it’s time for my nap.” 

 

He walked me to the front door where Elisa stood—like a vigilant mother. She’d been wanting to drive that Mustang ever since they’d first become friends. So, when he offered to let her do so, she jumped at the chance. The two of them zoomed down the street to the highway. I zoomed to bed.

 

When they returned, Elisa came inside, and Palmer drove off.

 

She told me then all the complimentary things he’d said about me. 

 

“I think he’s a fine person, too. Fair and just. A good friend,” I replied.

 

Then, I told her about his using the word date. 

 

“Well, Dee, of course that’s what it was!” she exclaimed, clearly surprised at my confusion.

 

“No, it was two friends having lunch together.”

 

“Look . . . he called and asked you out; he took you to a restaurant; he paid for the meal; he drove you home; he came around the car and opened your door and helped you out. That’s a date.”

 

“It’s two friends having lunch together. That’s all.” 

 

“Dee, Dee, Dee,” she murmured, looking at me as if I were a butterfly who’d just emerged—innocent of experience—from the chrysalis. 

 

“I know,” she said, gently pushing me down on a kitchen chair, “that you never dated much either before or after the convent. And I know your last date was maybe fifty years ago [she was right about that]. But what you just did was a date. That’s what a date is!”

 

So that’s what a date is. Hummmm. You learn something new every day. 

 

Peace.

 

PS: In a future posting, I hope to explain the how and why of the tattoo and the motorcycle ride. I have photographs of both.

 

 

 

 

 Hello All,

As I indicated in the postscript of my most recent posting, I am experiencing difficulties with Google and blogging. 

I tried to visit many of your blogs this past week, but I was unable to leave comments. 

Also, I cannot respond to comments you've left on my blog.

Today, while visiting DJan's nature/hiking blog, I tried to leave a comment (her hiking days always inspires me!) but, once again, was unable to do so.

However, a notification did come up that I'm sure will help me solve these two problems . . . if only I could understand what is being asked of me in the notification! 

As I've written before, I'm totally inept with computer technology.

BUT . . . my niece Linda, who holds down two jobs and so is busy, is a whiz-bang with computers. So, when she's here again (probably bringing me grocery ingredients for the fried rice I'm craving and want to prepare), I'm sure she'll figure all this out.

Until then,  I'm lying low, trying to write a new memoir. I've put aside the other two that I explored in the past two years. They simply refuse to be shaped into a story.

I'm excited about my new idea as it represents the attitude that I bring to life in this ninth decade of my span of years.

Moreover, I've discovered how to sit on the screened-in porch in this lovely springtime and use the talk-to-text aspect of my iPad (the "note" app). Then, I e-mail what I've spoken/written to this computer. 

Thus, I now have a combination of leisure and work--a combination that gives me great pleasure as I can look at nature while telling a story. 

Also, of course, this is good for my vision as when I'm "talking the story aloud," I'm not focusing on the screen. So this new method is truly a winner!

As soon as Linda comes and figures out how I can leave comments on your postings and respond to comments on mine, I'll be back to enjoying what you all write about as you share your lives. 

Take care. Please be gracious to yourselves and know that you all have become so dear to me.

Peace.

Review of Memoir "Two More Years"

“What do you do?”

 

That’s the most common thing we ask—or so it seems to me—when first meeting someone. Generally, we mean, “What work do you do?” The answer helps us place the person in a category with others who do the same work. It gives us a starting point for discussion.

 

We could ask, “What’s your favorite movie?” Or, “What hobby do you enjoy?” Or, “What’s your best memory? Your worse?” The list goes on, depending on our own interests, our willingness to hear, “It’s none of your business,” or our ability to hear . . . and see . . . beyond the mask many of us wear. 

 

The questions, the answers for which I find myself most interested at this stage of my life, is “What do you ‘be’?” 

 

And “Do you be grateful for being?”

 

And “What have you learned in being?”

 

It is these three questions that are the main threads in the tapestry of events that make up the recently published memoir Two More Years by E. C. Stilson.

 

A memoir about living with Stage 4 melanoma of the bone may sound—and could be—a downer. A real deep down dark downer! However, Two More Years uplifts this reader, who is, admittedly, a friend of the author. 

 

At least that’s what happened when I read the memoir before bed during the last week. I read only a chapter or two at a time—not because of vision constraints but because my mind needed to consider, perhaps ponder, the story, the attitude, the experience, the philosophy of life, the gift the author was sharing with me.

 

Before reading her words, I knew first-hand that Elisa does not want to be defined by cancer. And yet, how can she not be for what she is experiencing is a defining moment in her life. A moment, which, like the 2020 Pandemic, halves our lives into “before” and “after.” 

 

In this defining moment that spans what? Weeks? Months? Years? Elisa has chosen to take the definition and flip it. Turn it on its head. She lets us know what cancer has done, is doing, may do to her body and to her sense of self. It is that she shares with us. That is, she lets us know what it has taken from her . . . and her family. 

 

Then, in almost each chapter, she shares with us what this insidious disease has given to her. It takes; it gives, just as any disease does. This memoir explores both the taking and the giving. As well, it reveals to us the possibilities of growth in the human spirit through the journey into the dark caverns of possibly a terminal illness. 

 

Yes, that journey, but also another: the journey into the glades of gratitude that await someone whose essence has been and continues to be that of joy.

 

My experience of Elisa is that she is like the sun. By that I mean that the sun lights up the day. When she comes into a room, she lights it up. She radiates joy and lifts our spirits—in life and in language.

 

 Throughout the memoir, she relates how the disease is progressing: when it retreats; when it advances; when it teases with expectations and when it disappoints with the advent of new tumors, new scans, new immunotherapy, new prognoses. 

 

It’s all there: the fear and the sorrow as well as the hope and the faith.

 

But what is also there—what is the main thrust of the story—is the realization on her part that she is One with everyone she meets. Twice before in these postings, I’ve quoted Philo of Alexandria who said, two millennia ago, “Be kind, for everyone we meet is fighting a great battle.” 

 

Elisa’s memoir uplifts instead of downloads. That is, she relates how again and again in the past months she has met someone who seemed to have a life much more “charming” than hers. Must less fragile. And, through conversation, listening, and opening her heart to possibilities, she finds that the person also is fighting “a great battle.” 

 

And aren’t we all? 

 

In some way, at some time in the span of our life, we fight a battle that can temper the steel of our being. What I find in her memoir—Two More Years (the prognosis given her in November 2020)—is that her tempering has led to great gratitude and a deep appreciation for the Oneness that connects us to all engaged in the battle to find, at the deep center of ourselves/the wellspring, the fortitude to embrace the moment, to live in the present, and to sing—yes, sing!—of the Holy Oneness of All Creation. 

 

That is, to understand that all of us are united in the quest to find the praise of gratitude. 

 

Peace.

 

PS: I’d give you a link for Elisa’s memoir on Amazon, but Google, to which I’m tied with this blog, seems to have done something that (1) doesn’t permit me to link and (2) doesn’t permit me to leave comments. I’m not sure whether you will be able to leave comments. But no worry, no sweat. Let’s just take wish the best to one another.