BUMPS IN THE ROAD

I try very consciously to avoid paranoia. During the past nearly seven months I've enjoyed so much solitude and freedom to choose from day to day what my priorities are, and I've had precious time to serve my friends and family in small special ways.

But somehow the Universe paired up a major surgery on my face for melanoma with my son allegedly driving drunk and smashing into a parked Highway Patrol car, then fleeing the scene. God's grace allowed the officer not to be permanently injured,and my son's injuries to be minor. I was able to see him briefly after negotiating with law enforcement that I be the one to pick him up from his hiding place.

Sometimes my small mind says I needed a big assignment after such a great year of traveling, prosperity, industriousness and relative calm. I refuse to live in "victim" very long, though I admit there have been moments when this turn of events overwhelms me and my innate wisdom. Thankfully, there are loving arms to turn to, especially my husband's, my daughter's, and dear friends'.

Little does my 10-year old granddaughter know how healing her presence is. Yesterday, avoiding my home like the plague, I invited her to take a little drive to the local duck pond, where invalids, freeloaders and families of ducks and geese share open water with the biggest trout you've ever seen. Folks come and feed them, so they're thriving, noisy, somewhat smelly and hilarious. And beautiful, especially when the afternoon soon catches a mallard's proud green neck and reflects unspeakable colors.

From there we drove up to see the castles on the hill, where immigrants from more prosperous venues have built turrets, servants' quarters, and 30-foot entryways that look out over the valley without even seeing the little town of Hamilton. The bench afforded us a few more minutes of watching the glorious sun setting over the Bitterroot Mountains. On the way home we spotted a newborn calf and played "Ghost," an ancient word game especially made for car travels. By the time we parted I was ready to dive into the dinner shift, support my son's two teen boys that live with us, and carry on.

So while I could live permanently in "poor me" (old familiar territory), I struggle to maintain my freedom, loving heart and high intelligence by hangin' with other strong-hearted ones, be they ten or eighty years old. Nothing "conspired" to create this trauma except perhaps the fears and foibles of those involved. We are all learning to love more. Deeper: This is title of the post doctoral program.

Today is the anniversary of my first son's death many years ago. Having his brother in jail opens old wounds. The old familiar grieving process arises when I see another truck like his, or hear his voice on the phone. But he is alive, also learning and hopefully changing.

My husband and I will turn our backs on the valley and go to Missoula today to have my stitches removed, and take a little break. It's hard to tell if it will be sunny. Most mornings are overcast here as the mountains breath out their clouds from the night. Once they move east over the valley, I suspect we will see sun, and more baby calves on our way north. Life goes on.