In the Arms of Love

The MRI machine is two inches from my nose. I go cross-eyed trying to focus on the 3x 5 lights implanted in the machine ceiling. My arms are not only pinned awkwardly to my sides but pinching my skin on the moving walls on the side away from my body. "Now get comfortable and lay very still," comes the technician's voice over the LOUD speaker. RIGHT, I am thinking sarcastically. Next come the hammers. Clunk, clunk, pound, move clunk, clunk, pound, move, over and over again. Silence, I release the breath I didn't know I was holding. Rat-a-tat, tat, tat,tat, the jack hammers have proceeded to assault both my ears at once. These tiny orange sponge ear plugs are about as useless as bridal veil in keeping the sound out. My fingers are twitching and my big toes on both feet are trying to escape the LOUD, too-fast-to-be-music, rhythm.

My mind is tossing up pictures of miners trapped in underground caves, of victims of Haiti's earthquake unable to move because of crushing rock. I feel panic rising into my throat. I have to get control of this. For me it's only 20 or so minutes, I will survive the experience.

I force my thinking into times when being held this tightly felt better. The times when I was in the arms of love. Probably as a baby bound in a receiving blanket I surmise. Or when I skinned my knee and was held in comfort while I cried. Or those times I sat on the rug when my mother's family gathered at Grandma's house to share the weeks news with each other. I felt so comforted being seen but not heard. Letting the white noise of sisters sing-songy talking lull me into light but restful sleep. And now I'm remembering Sunday afternoons in winter, my children playing together or separately on the living room carpet, my husband in a chair across the room, me swaying in sleepiness on the couch. In the arms of love.


Rat-a-tat, tat, tat, tat, back to the moment. It's still going on. Did the technician forget me? Does anyone know I'm here and I can't move, can barely breathe? How long has it been; am I almost finished. I have to lead myself back to mind meditation, my only saving grace to not going all claustrophobic and panicky.

OK, God, come on speak to me. Yours are the arms of love I need right now. You've promised everywhere I am YOU are there. Come on in I'll make room for you. The rocking motion of the MRI is changing positions, I can imagine that is YOU God. Moving me gently in your arms to bring the rhythm back to a lullaby instead of unplugged RAP. Ahh, yes. That's better. I sigh, peace returns, my fingers and toes noticeably relax. We talk awhile YOU and I, I almost drift into that seen but not heard memory again. And then the words I've been waiting for. "You're all finished, Bonney!" Hallelujah the angels are lifting me out of the tomb that started as a womb, into a room where light steps away from my face toward the windows and the noise has gone on break.

Dreamily the arms of love walk me out to my car and we ride the freeway home.

Play Room

The glassed front 5X7 shadow box is bursting with -- crayons! Painted on the glass front are the words, "Live, Laugh, Love". It is a gift from my inner child. I ask for crayons at restaurants along with a kid's menu, especially when I 'dine' alone.

(Once I designed placemats for adults in restaurants filled with grown up (whatever that means) trivia, word finds, and coloring space to use while sitting alone and awaiting your meal. Takes away the discomfort of where to put your eyes when there is no one at your table to talk with. I really need to find a market for those.)

Surrounding the crayon shadow box are multiple scissors, papers of all colors, sizes, patterns; stones, beads and found objects; ribbons, cotton puff balls, fabrics, buttons, silk flowers rescued from someone's bad judgment and a trash basket. A large bottle of bubbles waits impatiently just to the right of the crayons. All are calls to my creative, playful side to come learn on the LIGHT side of life. I've heard the DARK side has cookies, but I don't think there's any monopoly on baking cookies -- right Keebler and Auntie Annie's?

Every one should have a Play Room. As adults we call it Hobbies, but the word does not spark with excitement. And, somehow turns into something we 'work at'. We work at our photography, work at gardening, work at carpentry, work at scrapbooking. You know it just hasn't got the same invitation as PLAY ROOM. A space where things are out and ready to use when the spirit moves you.

Playing makes me a better adult.

What's in your Play Room?

Who Moved My Summer?

Once Upon A Time. . .the first day of summer marked the start of bare feet, the fresh smell of street sprinklers on hot asphalt, digging up dandelions for a penny per root and fresh squeezed lemonade. It was for getting an ant's eye view of moving sand mountains to build a home, of the forming of raspberries one succulent ruby bead at a time. It was for summer school that was pure recreation with kickball, table tennis, craft projects, wood burning and giggles.

It was the making of parade lanterns using cereal boxes to cut out flowers, stars, animals and flags in preparation for multi-colored cellophane overlays. Once the candle was waxed to the bottom, the cardboard sides punched with holes and laced with shoestrings, the 4th of July parade at Vollrath Bowl's landscaped park was anticipated with racing hearts and flashing eyes.

The first day of summer marked the loooooooong time off of school when everyone relaxed from their wound-tight, winter restricting isolation. When the air had a 'sound' of relaxation and music had a smell of romance and expectation. A time when everything seemed possible, because it was. When the flavors of the season felt slippery as home-cranked ice cream, as comforting as bratwurst on brick oven hard rolls and German Potato Salad with yellow and white boiled egg slices topped with crispy bacon crumbles.

Red, white and blue flags waving from red geranium and pink, blue and white petunia hanging pots on main street marked the coming of the 'middle' of summer. Celebrations were boisterous, colorful, happening all over town and snap, crack, popping with fireworks. (Also in bowls of Rice Krispies in fresh milk if you had a big imagination). It seemed that after the 4th of July things slowed down to neutral. August was the month without celebration. Garden's were harvested and canning and freezing for the future took front place on the To Do List. By the middle of that slow, dry month Back to School Sales served as a not too subtle reminder of things to come.

But who moved my summer? Who put the 21st of June within arms reach of the 4th of July? What do you mean there are only 13 days separting the start and the middle of MY season? What happened to that long, languishing freedom of days between these bookends? The slower I move, the faster time goes by. What's wrong with this picture? And what happened to the CREAM in ice cream, or the SUGAR in lemonade. I'm embarrassed to give the anemic half circles called hamburger buns to the birds and ducks -- it seems so wrong to give them inferior nourishment.

I don't want my youth back, but I sure do miss my summers.

How is it for you?