Artist in Residence

We have a friend with whom we share our hearts.  He is our brother, teacher, fellow-devotee.  None of these words adequately characterize who he is to us.  He is a musician and composer.  He is also an artist.  His name is Grady.  Each time he stays with us, he leaves us with one or more oil paintings.  His favorite canvas is any wall that looks to be in need of a mural.  If we ever sell this house, it’s going to be painful to leave behind the art that has transformed our home into a beach house, an ashram, a temple, and a hippie pad.  And he’s not finished yet.  He’ll be back to change things up again, and it won’t be just the walls baby.

On his first visit in 2008, we jokingly suggested that he should paint an Aum symbol on the wall of our meditation room.  He asked us if we had any interior enamel, which of course we did - enough colors that he could mix them to get the hues he wanted.

He started out simple.  All the time I was wondering where he was going with this.  I’d seen many paintings in progress at his studio, but had never watched him work before.

The next time Grady visited in 2009, we had a living room wall with nothing on it but an antique Japanese  fan.  He kept saying the wall needed something more.  We advised him that we still had plenty of paint, and he set to work.

Grady paints really fast.

I had an outside job in those days, so I looked forward to coming home every day to see what our friend had created.  After he’d done this much, I thought he’d finished.  The next day, I walked through the door to find that he’d added a few finishing touches, like freakin’ everything you could want in a tropical scene.

Grady then got into a portrait mood and offered to paint one based on a photo of Wingman and myself.  As I was going through photos, I came across my favorite one of Baba Neem Karoli.  I declared that I’d much rather gaze at Baba than at my goofy mug, and Grady agreed.

This one was a little more complex because Grady needed the photo reproduced at the exact same size as his canvas.  He had to give me some Photoshop instruction in order to produce what he wanted.

Again, I thought he was done with it.  As far as I was concerned, it was perfect.  However, Grady wanted to place Baba on a beach in Hawaii.

Ok, I can go for that.  It’s so beautiful.  My most treasured possession.  Grady’s given me yet another attachment to challenge the letting-go exercise I’ll eventually experience.

The painting on the left is a gift he brought us in his backpack on his first visit.  It’s painted in the French En-plein-air style, an impressionist method that is usually done outdoors on an orange canvas or board.  No drawing is used.  The artist paints quickly, throwing it together with broad brush strokes, leaving little flickers of the orange background to add light to it.  It looks pretty much like a location in which I’d be willing to reside.

This last visit - oh man.  Grady began an almost obsessive desire to paint our North wall.  There wasn’t much on the wall I didn’t mind removing, so we gave him permission to proceed.  This became a mural, changing every day.  Before long, there were paint cans all over the floor.

The detail was so cool, right down to sandy footprints on the deck.  I strongly advise clicking on these to enlarge - especially this one.

As Grady worked, I could imagine him stepping down onto the beach and disappearing around a corner.

But thankfully, he stayed where he was and settled in.  For awhile.

We needed sea type creatures next, so I dug out a photo of a pelican in Santa Cruz.  The two lotuses represent Wingman and myself.  I can’t wait to see what he does next.  I’ve already suggested a Loggerhead Sea turtle lumbering toward the water.  See the lighthouse way in the background?

Thing is, I’ll have to be patient.  Grady’s in the Caribbean, and won’t be in a big hurry to leave Paradise.  This one isn’t signed yet, which means it’s not finished.  It still needs that turtle.  Therefore, he must return.  Inasmuch as the script is in divine hands, there’s no predicting when that will be.

Ram

 
 

Backyard Bees

Every summer, we see all different kinds of bees hovering in the flowerbed.  There’s one we’ve come to know as “Grand Master Bee” because he’s Ginormous.  I mean this is a huge bee, quite fuzzy.  Black, red, and yellow.  Every time we’ve spotted him, I’ve dashed into the house to fetch my camera.  By the time I’d return, he’d have flitted off someplace else.  This year, however, he not only stuck around, but he brought his twin.  Therefore, I cannot tell you which one is Wilbur, nor which is Orville.  They seem to have taken a particular shine to our lavender.

Please do click on these photos to enlarge for detail.

I attached a super long lens because, given his size, I suspected his stinger might be proportionally scary.

I figured this imposing insect must possess some sort of scientific name, so I went to my trusted source.  Dave’s Garden has taught me the sum total of what I know about nature’s critters, flora, fauna, and birdies.  I posted photos of our friend, and found that he has a befitting moniker.  Bombus Ternarius.  Almost sounds prehistoric, doesn’t it?  He’s also known as the Tricolored Bumble Bee.

Yep, I definitely see three colors there. I was also informed that these fellows don’t sting unless they’re seriously provoked.

Freakin’ beautiful, isn’t he?  Now that I know they’re semi-friendly, I won’t be afraid to wade in there and get some better images.

Speaking of Dave’s Garden, a few years back we noticed a little round area of earth taking up about three or four inches of our lawn.  Then we saw tiny metallic green bees flying in and out of a hole in the center of the circle.  Off I went to Dave, armed with photos of our intriguing new guests.

I found out they’re called ground bees, and was assured that their underground hive would not cause our lawn to collapse.

The entrance in the photo above is atop a mound.  Whereas, the portal in the image below is on flat earth.  Interestingly, it seems that the only time they mound the passage is before it rains.  How in the hell do they know, when the 9 News meteorologist isn't aware enough to take an umbrella to work?

I haven’t a clue where bees go in the winter, but the ground bees didn’t return to us until this summer.  I’ve spent hours observing them and getting as many super-close up shots as they’ll allow.  I sit cross-legged in the lawn, and scoot up a little closer to their doorway over a period of time.  After awhile, they get pretty used to me and put on a show.  Other times, I might approach the fortress while they’re at lunch, and get a sunburn waiting for activity.

Actually, what I've been hoping for is the Pulitzer winning moment when they fly in formation, spelling out some profound truth regarding the Higgs Boson particle.

In the meantime, I'll have to settle for my own amateur efforts.

However, I did get them on film.  (Hmm - film?  Not really.  No such thing anymore.  I guess that’s a phrase destined for extinction.)

 

 

RAM

Caregiving Defined

Today’s my birthday.  Not something I normally announce.  This time, however, I am compelled to acknowledge the profound Grace that allows me to be here for it.  Most notably, my spouse and diligent caregiver, Wingman. I mean, check out that calm smile as we wait in my room before the surgery.  He was freakin' petrified.

We were married in 1995 and our joy in being together is pretty noticeable.  Friends often comment on how good we are together.  Wingman tells them, “you’ve gotta be friends first”.  Our friendship was the foundation on which we began, and the connection that’s held us together ever since.  We were buddies who loved each other for a long time before romance crept in.  The love has continued and gained strength over time.

We’ve had our disagreements, some of them serious, but we've been blessed with the courage to resolve conflicts as they’ve arisen.  We came to think of ourselves as seasoned partners.  Our experiences with hardships had equipped us to deal with whatever might threaten our union.

In October of 2000, I was diagnosed with Primary Biliary Cirrhosis (PBC).  It’s an autoimmune disease that attacks the bile ducts of the liver, in many cases causing the organ to eventually fail completely.  I was given a medication that slows the progress of disease, and we went on with life, not dwelling overly much on the prognosis.  For ten years, I enjoyed good health.  In fact, I, personally felt sure I was one of those people who would never exhibit symptoms beyond the mild fatigue I was already experiencing.

In February of 2010, shortly before my health began to take a dive, we traveled to Culebra, a tiny island just east of Puerto Rico.  We already had friends there, and we made more during our visit.  One of my island friends became my blogging mentor.  It was a well-timed gift to have this spirit-strengthening experience while my stamina still allowed me to participate.  Wingman, however, paid attention to subtle changes in my condition better than I did, and he would sometimes remind me, “hey stargazer, slow down. you’ve got a liver disease”.  He was my caregiver before either of us knew the full meaning of the word.

During the Summer and Fall of that same year, the fatigue hit me hard, and new symptoms cropped up which finally wore me down.  I applied for disability and quit working that November.  Several years prior, Wingman had been compelled to leave his job in order to care for his diabetic father, and then later when his mother began a slide into dementia. This is important to note in light of the fact that he was soon to become my caregiver as well.

Only one month after I left my job, I was hospitalized with a low red cell count and was given massive transfusions.  Wingman was right in there, asking questions of the doctors and everyone else involved in my care.

Over the next three months, we went through three emergency episodes of internal bleeding, multiple transfusions, and stays in the ICU.  My doctor called it cascading symptoms.  I called it an avalanche.

We became intimately familiar with University of Colorado Hospital.  Living only seven blocks from the campus was a blessing.  Wingman says they built it for us.

During most of this little nightmare, I was not in any shape to be proactive.  But Wingman was.  There were several instances wherein he had to stand his ground, and he did it effectively.

ER docs are continually faced with life-threatening situations, and Wingman had observed their tendency to work fast without knowledge of patient history.  Their priority is to save a life no matter what, so ill-advised procedures are sometimes performed.  I can dig it.

But my partner had learned to watch for hasty medical decisions, and he protected me like a pit bull.  I reminded him several times that he would be of no use to me if he got dragged out of the ER by Security.

The third time I had a bleed, it was an excursion into new territory.  An impressive amount of blood was coming up from my stomach or esophagus or wherever the fuck.  Two doctors who were not familiar with my case were about to perform some procedure, and they were becoming more ardent in their insistence after Wingman told them “no way”.  Not without the blessing of one of my doctors.

My spouse has the ability to convey an unsettling intensity (i.e. challenge) with his eyes.  Ultimately, a hepatologist was called in.

Later, while I was being intubated, Wingman had been banished from the room.  He sat cross-legged on the floor directly across from the doorway, listening, observing, making comments (to which he actually received replies).  Later, there was a period of time during which the doctors hoped to stabilize me by keeping me sedated.  I was left to sleep the sleep of semi-awareness that I couldn’t breath, but that somehow I was.  And Wingman was left to whisper encouragement in my ear.  Not so much sweet sentiments, but straight talk.  And though I don’t recall him speaking to me, he reminded me of a mantra to repeat within. I dove into the comfort of the mantra, wondering vaguely if the instruction had come from God.

Doctors would arrive in the room and find Wingman asleep on the couch, but already sitting up and becoming attentive.  One doc greeted him with, “My God, you’re still here?”  He eventually earned a reputation among the staff for his stubbornness, intuition, and likable nature.  For a guy who “doesn’t like doctors”, he hit it off surprisingly well with most of them.

When the tube was finally removed from my throat, allowing me to breath on my own, my eyes began to focus.  The first thing I saw was Wingman.  His face had assumed a chiseled look, as if he’d been holding his breath until that moment.  Tears brimming.  His features held a raw, unguarded mixture of despair and relief.  Never have I seen love clothed in such a way.

As one can imagine, the party wasn’t over.  There were no more sudden crises demanding an ER visit, but the trauma of the last incident kept us on edge.  Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

After being placed on the transplant list, I underwent several procedures to ward off further assaults on my system, keeping me alive.  Wingman kept himself informed through all these events, during which he and my care team established a friendly, semi-grudging, mutual respect.

A little under a month before I received the transplant, Wingman’s mother passed away.  Even in his grief, he displayed a calmness, comforting his dad and the family.  Acting with purpose and taking things one step at a time.

Returning home after the transplant, I was basically helpless.  Wingman would squat by the bed, I’d wrap my arms around his neck, and he’d stand up, pulling me to my feet.  Everywhere we drove, he would get out the walker and help me get to wherever we were going.  It was a multi-tasking effort for him, because he had to watch me every second.  He was also in charge of my meds, which were always changing.

I was a difficult patient.  Somewhat incoherent, argumentative, and given to delusions.  I was downright hostile at times, accusing him of plotting against me and withholding my pain meds.  I tried his patience to the limit, and we had several unpleasant scenes.  There were times when we thought it had finally broken us.

As I regained some clarity, I was still so self-focused, that I didn’t often tell Wingman how much his caregiving meant to me.  And when I would try to, I’d babble.  I didn’t know how to convey what was in my heart, and I still haven't expressed it to my own satisfaction.  He made countless sacrifices, canceling his own plans and generally giving up any desires he had for himself.  Always sleeping fitfully in case I needed him, feeding me, helping me to the bathroom, buttoning my pants, bathing me.

His devotion was beyond my comprehension.  It is humbling to be the object of such a mighty love.  However, I've slowly begun to understand that I might be worthy of it.  And if that’s the case, I might have the power to return it.

Today is my birthday.  Thanks Dude, for your tireless love.

Words fail me.

RAM