a poet who lost her words

I read a story in today's Sunday NY Times about an 89 year old poet who suffered a stroke and couldn't put her words together. She tried to recite the Lord's Prayer, but could only get so far as "Our Father..." in English; however, she could recall the entire prayer in the Latin she learned as a child. She had raised seven children and always found at least 10 mins. a day to write, so she started with just 10 mins. a day in speaking her words out loud. She had a cadre of friends who came to her house to help her rediscover her words. She has healed, althought she mixes pronouns and phrases still can be confused.

There were many other stories in the paper--about the oil spill, the war in Afghanistan, the struggling economy--but I only skimmed those stories; her story I read. As I reclaim my daily life post-ankle injury I am being more selective about what I do, what I read, where I put my energies. I dropped out of a Coffee Party group because it had become too ideological for me. I stopped going to a local "meta-dialogue" because I grew tired of references to the "black swan" and all the gloom and doom of the 21st century world. I think I am not only willing to be willing to change; I am ready to change. And I want to choose my path with clarity and deliberate slowness. I am not needing to go fast, just to move.

It's like summer life in Tucson. This is our "winter of discontent." Because of over 100 degree heat, we are obliged to slow down, take siestas, maybe squeeze in what we have to do in the morning and take a deep outside breath after sunset, when the sidewalk no longer burns our feet. My plants need to be watered more often and so do I. I seek nourishment and a sense of care from other places. I don't feel like wandering but plot out the necessary outside travels with priority. I hunker down, waiting for rain.

So far, the clouds are not gathering in the East. Blue skies stretch all across the Catalina and RinCon Mountains. Butterflies are beginning to appear and my dog sheds fur by the handfuls. She needs to lighten her load, too.

If I had lost my words, what recitation would come to mind as a step toward restoration? I seem to chant a refrain from Methodist communion: "Lord, be gracious unto us and help us to accept thy blessings." Old hymns come to mind as do nursery rhymes. Deeper parts of the brain, I am reading (current Newsweek) are protected as we age, so, it's logical that as a stroke affects the frontal areas, the deeper areas might rebound more quickly. I think that might be happening with my ankle injury as well--surface scars remain but complex tissue beneath are reconfiguring and bringing me a renewed sense of strength. So I will just take this time to reshuffle my life's cards and, if I mix my pronouns, it doesn't really matter.