Author: Linda Wright

Linda Wright, author of "My Turn: When Caregiving Roles Reverse," now lives in Florida. She has served on the boards of organizations serving people with rare, genetic bleeding disorders like hers. As a writer, she has contributed to several anthologies and is a member of the Tallahassee Writers Association. Linda is married to the Reverend Ms. Robin Gray.

The Book of Changes

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

When I was 12 years old, I had a doctor tell me that if I didn’t have surgery on my ankles, I would be in a wheelchair soon. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t feel as confident as I looked. After all, how could I be sure, when I was only 12 and he was a doctor, that he was wrong and I was right? Even so, I didn’t have the surgery. He wasn’t the last doctor to tell me that I would soon be unable to walk and each time I got more and more confident and I made the same decision over and over again. Still walking has does not come easily to me, especially now that I am 57 years old. And, who knows what the future will bring.

Today was the first day when I really noticed that the sunlight is getting longer. I took a walk in the bitter cold and wind. We have had a lot of rain this winter and practically no snow. It’s been unusually warm and I’m not complaining. However, this year I’ve noticed the light and darkness much more than in the past, perhaps because I haven’t been focusing on navigating over icy sidewalks and snowdrifts. The winter solstice was December 22nd and since then it seems like only a short sliver of time between the sunrise in the morning and the sunset in the evening. During that short time, there are long shadows because the sun’s rays are slanted from the south. The increased darkness has made me think more about the darkness of uncertainty. There is so much I don’t know about my future. Most of the time that seems all right to me. Yet sometimes, like on these darkest days of the year, I just want to run ahead and see what the future is going to bring. I imagine a fortune cookie that will tell me the truth or a psychic who will read my cards. But, I probably wouldn’t believe it anyway.

Instead, I toss three coins and read the hexagram for Chien in the “I Ching or Book of Changes.” The interpretation is: “Those who persevere make continuous progress.” Outside my second floor window, I notice the tall sycamore tree. It is more visible to me without its leaves of summer. Only the round buttonball seeds dangle from the branches in the wind. It’s not a fast growing tree. I wonder how long it took that tree to grow from the seeds inside one of those buttonballs. In the years that I have lived in this house, however, I have seen it grown and change and age. The progress it makes is like the progress I myself have made in life. The tree must have a strong root system I think. It seems to withstand the winds and lightening that has struck down other trees at the top of our little hill. It lets the buttonballs from its branches drop and roll wherever they may. Like me, I think it is well grounded and protected. The tree and I will persevere.

Instead, I toss three coins and read the hexagram for Chien in the “I Ching or Book of Changes.” The interpretation is: “Those who persevere make continuous progress.” Outside my second floor window, I notice the tall sycamore tree. It is more visible to me without its leaves of summer. Only the round buttonball seeds dangle from the branches in the wind. It’s not a fast growing tree. I wonder how long it took that tree to grow from the seeds inside one of those buttonballs. In the years that I have lived in this house, however, I have seen it grown and change and age. The progress it makes is like the progress I myself have made in life. The tree must have a strong root system I think. It seems to withstand the winds and lightening that has struck down other trees at the top of our little hill. It lets the buttonballs from its branches drop and roll wherever they may. Like me, I think it is well grounded and protected. The tree and I will persevere.

Lightning

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

When my father would hear the first rumble of thunder, he would often gather us all into the car and drive to the highest point of land where we could get the best view. If it weren’t possible to chase the storm, Dad would position himself on the covered patio on the side of our garage. He would stand there, smoking his pipe, watching and listening attentively. The display of electricity as the sparks shot down from the sky and met the ground below never disappointed him.

It was with the deepest reverence and respect that I learned to watch the bursts of light cutting through the clouds. Even today, I find myself counted the seconds off between the audible jolts of sound that precede and follow the long, jagged, tentacles of sparks. It is hot meeting cold, positive crashing against negative. It is energy and brilliance being discharged so that it can be seen and heard. All the elements of wind, rain, sky and earth are present. Atmospheric scientists explain that the push of two sea breezes, one from the east and one from the west, force air upward. This is a common cause of lightning. The pressures of wind and gravity produce an enormous electrical potential.

It feels so much safer to surround myself with other people who share my values. I search for news reports that reflect opinions I already hold. I protect myself from the explosive power of opposites.

Not too long ago, I looked out the window to see two women walking towards the front door of my house. It was a cold, rainy morning. The two women were carrying pamphlets and I had a moment of panic as the doorbell rang. Should I just pretend that there is no one home and let them leave their religious tracts by my door? They looked almost as surprised as I did when instead I opened the door wide and invited them to step inside. For a moment, I felt their surprise and indecision, as I had when I saw them come walking down my path. When I risk conflict, I can feel the pressure rise. Often, I can see it rising from the other side too.

The two women chose not to be tempted by the warmth of my home. Returning to their preset agenda, they stood outside in the drizzle and offered me a pamphlet. I declined to accept their gift. We all missed the energy of the opposite forces pushing against each other. We all missed the possibility of conflict and the potential of transformation.

New Years Eve

~ Linda Wright
 

There are ghosts on New Years Eve and hobgoblins too. I am sure of it. Like All Hallows Eve and Mardi Gras, it is a night to celebrate chaos, drunkenness and the seven deadly sins: wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. My personal favorites are sloth and gluttony, However, I wonder if righteous indignation can be counted as wrath. If so, it would be at the top of my list.

My father used to say that one can only appreciate joy to the extent that one has known sorrow. I say that one can only be thankful for health to the degree that one has experienced disease and injury. Perhaps we can only value the potential for creation in our future after we have fallen into the abyss of chaos.

When I was a child, in bed and in pain from a bruised knee or swollen ankle, my father would say, “Things will be better in the morning.” They often were. Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new calendar year. Tonight the end of the old year is calling darkness and fear. Tomorrow, I will lean towards the future, but tonight I must embrace the past.

Knitting Reincarnation

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

There is no need to check the calendar; it is late autumn. Each night begins earlier and earlier and the daylight time is decreasing in noticeable increments. As the winds blow, rubbing bare tree branch against bare branch outside, the chillier temperatures leak into the house through unseen cracks. It is clear that winter is coming. It’s time for me to start a knitting project.

I usually knit only in the colder weather. I’m not an expert knitter, but, I find it very soothing and almost trancelike. The strands of yarn loop and curl around my fingers cross over the needles to transform into a new shape. Stitch by stitch the connections are made by my hands, my heart and my soul. The winding yarn wraps family, friends, people who knit and places both known and unknown to me all in one re-embodiment.

As I pick up the knitting needles, I remember the time when my great-uncle Eustace asked me with a solemn tone, “Do you know what ‘dyed in the wool’ means?” I was a young child at the time and I had no idea. We were visiting in Nova Scotia. My grandmother’s spinning wheel was still prominent in the front room of the house. It was a working farm where cattle, poultry and sheep had been raised for years to feed and support the family. So, I was sure that my great-uncle would know the answer. “Well,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “It means that the sheep were left out in the rain and their wooly coats shrank around their necks strangling them.” My father began to chuckle at this point, assuring me that it was a joke.

Knitting not only connects me with people it also connects me to places I have been. A finished knitted garment will remind me each time I wear it of the place I sat as it was created with my fingers. The ones I keep to wear myself all have stories. Some of the ones I give away have stories too, like the ‘comfort caps’ a group of us from church made last year for the local Cancer Treatment Center.

In my storage bin there are skeins each packed in tightly wrapped plastic bags. One bag holds sand-colored soft medium weight wool, purchased in Blacks Harbour. Handling this yarn, I remember the journey we made to Grand Manan Island. By the time I discovered that I did not have enough yarn to finish the project, I was a long way from New Brunswick. Another choice in my collection is a bulky green wool that still smells of lanolin even after several years. This yarn I purchased from Peace Fleece. With it, I had attempted to knit a “Coup d’etat Cardigan” only to discover that I had gotten hopelessly confused about the cables. A third bag holds remnants from a finished project. Selected in the Wilde & Wooly Yarn Shop, it is a brilliant blue shot through with white strands reminding me of the mist rising over the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The last bag I pull out is a half-finished vest in black tweed. In the cold of the November afternoon, I can see that the project is flawed beyond repair. So, as I have done many times before, I unravel it row by row. Time for it to return to a ball, until my creativity is rejuvenated and I am inspired to begin again.

There is a satisfaction in turning my past failures into a success. What better time than now?

Happy Birthday, Mom

~ Linda Wright
If my mother were still living, we would celebrate her 94th birthday today. When she died, her body’s ashes were placed in a wildlife sanctuary, among the wild flowers, mushrooms, birds and chipmunks. It is a place that she had walked and enjoyed in her lifetime, not far from the Atlantic Ocean and a salt river.

She had made arrangements, many years before her death, to have her body donated to a medical university. She wanted to be of use even after her death. She wanted to give one last part of herself to others. But most of all, she didn‘t want any money to be spent for a burial or funeral service. She didn’t want any fuss made over her.

Receiving a gift was not a pleasant experience for my mother. For years, my Dad and I gave her presents only to see her face wrinkle with disapproval. Sometimes she would unwrap a gift and criticize what was inside: “Whatever possessed you to get this for me?” The item was either labeled as “too expensive,” or “too frivolous.” Her words were sometimes angry, indicating her disappointment at the way we had misjudged her wishes.

My mother was indeed a frugal woman, better at saving than spending. She rarely purchased clothes for herself. For years, she made many of her own dresses and knitted most of the scarf’s, mittens and socks. Non-handmade items of clothing that she wore were mostly hand-me-downs. As I grew to be taller than she by the time I was in my early teens, she took possession of the blouses, skirts, slacks and jackets that I had purchased for myself when they became too small for me.

When someone would give her a new pair of gloves or stockings as a gift, she would simply be silent and later we would see that the item had been hidden in the bottom drawer of the dresser that she and my father shared. It baffled me, and sometimes left me feeling helpless at holidays. Over the years, my father and I spent hours selecting presents that we thought might just be the one thing that would make her smile and say sincerely, “thank you, just what I wanted!” It didn’t happen and I never quite understood why.

Now I believe that in addition to modesty and thrift, she valued time more than money. The birthday cake that she made especially for me each spring required not just fresh ingredients but, skill, care and time to prepare.

Eventually, I got the message. I started knitting her vests and sweaters or making her a loaf of special bread when I visited her. In between holidays, I often purchased clothing, books, even jewelry with my mother in mind. I would use an item and then tell her I no longer needed or wanted it. When she was in her 70’s and 80’s she had a much more youthful wardrobe than most of her peers because of these hand-me-down gifts. And these humble presents seemed to respect her values more than any gift tied up with a bow of ribbon.