You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘limits’ tag.

Doors open onto our homes, our cars, places of work, recreation, worship, stores, and other institutions; their variety reflects the imagination of the contractor: some hinged, some folding, others sliding, and still others rotating up and over, and most with locks. Crossing their threshold imperceptibly alters our energy.

The walls of Egyptian tombs in the Nile Valley depict the earliest reproductions of both the single and double doors, replete with symbols demarcating the sacred from the profane. Later, ornamental doors were found on mosques, monasteries, cathedrals, and temples, orienting the worshiper toward its mysteries.

Outside the precincts of sacred places, the doors of our homes are also sacred. Our choice keeps some inside; others, without.

Yet, another door lies closer to home, the door to our hearts; its challenge is to work with its promptings:  pause before opening it before whoever or whatever attracts. Then, discernment follows with questions: Who will benefit? What will I learn if I act? Or give in? Do lesser motives obscure its toxicity? Is neediness demanding to be satiated? Perhaps “No” is the wisest response when clarity is an issue.

Such practice deepens humility and opens the psyche to spiritual guidance, without which we stagnate.  Thus, we thrive in our flawed humanness and bring our unique gifts to fruition among others—the purpose of our existence, so I learned long ago but still slip up.

It had been one month, then, one week, now only four days before New Year’s Eve, with its frantic preparations for get-togethers or travel, with its review and planning for 2022. It feels like hurtling through time, with nothing substantial for support. Gossamer strands, multicolored like candy canes, tickle imaginations, tumble words, and befuddle days of the week. What ever happened to 2021?

Standing below a maple, its nakedness articulated against the blue sky, I’ve heard myself say, let’s snapshot this, tuck it away in memory. So beautiful! Like nothing I’ve seen before! Yet, however strong the impression, it’s lost within the recesses of my psyche, perhaps to be savored in a later dream.

I feel this way toward the old lilac shrub outside my study window. In what seems like a slit second, it has displayed its full cycle of budding, of splitting greenery, of heady blossoms morphing into tissue-paper browning, of killing winds stripping the bug-eaten leaves, leaving winter’s dormant presence. Each snapshot of the shrub’s cycle nudged Creator God in my depths; they are all there.

Such transformation speaks of my own that manifests in dreams, prayer, and other “O!” moments, even words that surface from my word processor, realm of my Inner Writer.

So, all of life is energized by the Sacred and through course corrections, both sweet and bitter, keeps everything cycling through its growth and diminishment and regrowth—everything in good order. 

Now on the down side of life, I still offer thanks for what is left, despite time’s curlicues.

I can’t do this anymore! I admitted to myself, gripping my cane. Like stricken puppies, my legs, refused to move, despite my commanding them to do so. I was beached, immobile, furious, a storm crashing within me.

I had already checked into the YMCA, was sucking a lemon cough drip, and was standing at my usual start position by the entrance. Ahead of me stretched the wide corridor; its recessed lighting reflecting upon the floor had helped me maintain balance the four months I’d been coming here. My helper waited for me to begin my customary walk toward the gym and the exercise room, her shadowing each step lest I fall.

That was three days ago, an experience that left me floundering in self-pity, one of the faces of grief.

It’s all about acceptance: my terminal illness has taken another hit—and there have been many—but not as pronounced as this one: Weakness like I’ve never experienced, shortness of breath that worsens speech production, and muscle loss that rouses issues of disease gnawing away at my body, despite still eating full meals prepared by helpers or brought by friends.

Yes, there’s change. Rather than use my cane, I rely upon my wheeled walker to get about—It’s slower but still works. Happily, I’m still able to blog the ongoing experience of my terminal illness, and if appropriate, I will return to the Y’s NuStep and exercise my legs—not to walk as before, of course, but to keep going, one day at a time with Precious God’s help. Besides, I’ve friends there.

Available on Amazon

%d bloggers like this: