"How are you doing?"

Before you read further, please take a moment to remember the tragedy of the March 11, 2011 tsunami that hit Japan. Please pray for the lives that were lost and the families that are still recovering.

 

I was asked a common question via e-mail, rather pointedly, the other day:

How are you doing?  I guess in your landscape when I ask this it has to mean:  "Are you coping well with all things in your limited environment of little movement and little change in scene?"  By comparison, now, I see what luxury I have.  So, what does the spirit say to you about how things are going for you?

I answered, so you ask, "How I am doing?" with a dose of empathy that I rarely encounter. Thank you for understanding the true depths of your question. In answer, I must say, rather well, considering my circumstances.

It's amazing that I have remained in this bed twenty-four hours a day–seven days a week, for more than four years, looking at the same objects, the same landscape as you call it, without going into deep depression. I'm sure the love and care that I have been receiving plays a large part in my well-being, but also, there's the therapeutic aspects of my writing, and some hard to define enhanced sensitivity to my surroundings that spur me to struggle on.

Please indulge me while I engage in these last two activities. Writing these blog posts is part of my therapy, my way of escaping the limited view that I have. I will also attempt to give some cadence to the idea of my new found sensitivity, by describing my current world of vision to you. Seven or eight years ago, prior to ALS, it would have never occurred to me to observe my surroundings with such a focused magnifying glass.

In front of me, my views seems rather cluttered. When I look beyond my computer screen, I can see my television with all of its control boxes, remote controls and wires directly on the dresser in front of my bed. It's not a pretty piece of equipment, nor that meaningful to me, but it does provide hours of entertainment. On either side of the TV, significant paintings and photographs hang on the wall. Precious nickknacks share space on the dresser with the television. I could spend pages describing each object and the memories they contain. Even the smallest item has great meaning to me. Alongside the dresser, there are comfortable chairs and several clusters of pillows of various shapes and sizes that are used to prop up my lackluster body when need be. An African Violet which has lost its lovely purple flowers, but is still growing well, sits on top of a jewelry box.

I like facing forward. I can look at the objects I have described whenever I want to just by opening my eyes. This "looking forward" soothes my spirit, while looking back through the memories some of the objects provoke strengthens my soul.

I have to think very carefully to remember what's behind me. I can't turn my head as you know. I can only see as far as my peripheral vision will allow. Yet, I know my ventilator is there, I can hear it gently pushing air to my lungs. I also know there's a table cluttered with medical stuff that I require, a nightstand with a lamp, a phone and a digital clock. I know there's a framed poster by Gion Mili on the wall, behind me to my right—a black couple doing the jitterbug. I purchased it long ago when I visited the International Museum of Photography in New York City. Just above my bed is a painting by my mother. A river scene—it is one of my favorites by her, though not one of her best. The river is large in the foreground, I follow it as it narrows and disappears into the horizon. To me it represents a focused journey through another landscape. Behind me to the left, is a standing lamp that provides bright white light for the room in the evening, and another nightstand where my emergency ventilator presides—we haven't tested it in a while.

I remember all of these things behind me, even though they are not in my direct field of vision, because I look at them very closely when I get into my Hoyer lift to go to the toilet or transfer to my wheelchair. Whenever I have the luxury of changing my position in this physical world, I look at everything very intensely, much more deeply than I used to.

To my right, there are shelves with papers and books, a fan, the bathroom, and a standing closet where my wife keeps all of our towels, washcloths, and bed sheets. To my left is my window to the outside world, framed by curtains. When I look through the large panes of glass, I can see the buildings in our neighborhood and part of our porch with some plants growing nicely. The windows are clean with only a few visible spots of dirt left over from the rain over the weekend (my son cleans them for me frequently). There are houses and mountains in the distance, passing clouds and patches of blue sky.

From my bed, I look out the window and wonder about the universe we live in. It's comforting to know there's a world out there, but also disturbing. When my thoughts turn to the natural and man-made tragedies that occur on a daily basis, I'm grateful to be safe and sound within the cocoon of my limited landscape.

It's not raining today. There's a nice Tradewind. It's about 77° at the moment (my computer told me that). It's interesting, but I feel that I am much more in tune with the weather these days, even though I'm not able to go outside at will. I feel the barometric pressure going up and down, I feel the wind, and I can tell the wind direction just by the smell. I feel each small percentage of humidity in the air.

No matter where my body is, I seem to be more sensitive to my surroundings.

The other day my friend, Bob, had me outside rolling about in my wheelchair. It started to rain. He quickly tried to rush me under the building, but I protested. I asked him to let me sit in the rain. Being the great friend that he is, he obliged my request. The rain fell softly, but still I got wet and cold. It was wonderful. My wife scolded me rather severely later that evening.

When was the last time you sat in the rain? When was the last time you thought carefully about your personal landscape?

PLEASE, walk, talk, run, swim, touch, feel, dance, smell, travel and do all of things I cannot do. Take notice of the things that you have overlooked. Be sensitive to your surroundings. Be grateful for all of it.

Let your Spirit embrace the landscape of the world.