A visit this week to an orthopedic guy suggested that the recent pain in my right arm may be due to a tear in the rotator cuff….the supraspinatus muscle, to be exact.  I couldn’t remember any impactful even that could have caused the problem but Dr. S. said it can happen just in the process of aging.  Yikes!  I hear Betty Davis in my head again, “Getting old ain’t for sissys!”  Since the x-rays are not enough to confirm tear or no tear, Dr. S. says I need an MRI.

Two days later, I arrive at Partners Imaging – not with excitement, for sure – but with no particular concerns except for what potentially the tests might reveal.  I filled out the usual paperwork and signed the usual releases saying that the doctor is not responsible for anything that may or may not happen – ever!  I noted the elderly people in the waiting room and wondered what I was doing there.  I picked up a fitness magazine to thumb through while waiting.  Visions of me being slim and trim again with muscles danced though my head.

Then, it was my turn.  The dark-haired, moustached young man ushered me to the changing room where I removed my watch, necklace and earrings, as well as my bra (always happy to remove the bra!).  I put my personal possessions in the locker, turned the green-tagged key and headed to the imaging room where my escort waited.  He helped me to lie down on what I can only call a body tray.  There was a small table-like area under which I put my right shoulder.  He then cranked down the table to press on my shoulder and placed a weight on my arm to keep me from moving it.  It had the feel and texture of a Beanie Baby but heavier.  My left arm was curled onto my chest and he gave me a tube with what looked and felt like a basting bulb on the end.  This was given to me so if, for any reason, I wanted to end the test I could push the bulb and be removed from the machine.  Turkeys should have such options!  He put headphones on my ears to block the noise.  Still no alarm bells.  “Ready?”  he asked.  Ready.

The quiet motor of the MRI machine eased me into the tubular enclosure.  Then, alarm bells, alarm bells, alarm bells!!!!!  I was completely chlostrophic.  I asked him to take me out before we even began.  He removed the beanie baby weight, eased my shoulder from under the tiny table and helped me sit up on the tray.  I asked for water.  My mouth was as dry as a desert.

Certainly Mr. Helper of the MRI patients was trained to deal with this type of incident.   I asked him if there was any other way to get the necessary information from my arm other than an MRI.  No.  He patiently waited for me to calm down and then began coaching me back into position again.  Once I was properly situated he reminded me that I could push the bulb at any time during the procedure but, if I did so, we would have to start all over again as the information would be lost.  The test would run from 15 to 20 minutes.

I have always been an overachiever and a perfectionist.  I am not good at admitting failure.  Refusing the test wasn’t something I thought I could do.  And, besides, I wanted to know how to get my arm healed.  Loss of a functioning right arm didn’t seem like an option to me.

Back into the tube I went.  This time with a lightweight cloth over my eyes to help, supposedly.  My tour guide said he was putting on some music and then the test would begin.  It began.  RA-TAT-TAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!RA-TAT-TAT!!!!!!!!!!!!RA-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT like a machine gun in my ears.  The headphones were useless and, the piano music that was supposed to help calm me down was a barely audible outrageous joke!  After two minutes, the noise changed to the sound of a fire truck and an ambulance running through my head and, still the damn piano, la la la!

My heart was pounding and palpitating so badly I thought a heart attack was on the way.  My thumb hung over the bulb and I almost pushed the alarm more than once but each time I would think about the need to start over if I didn’t complete the required time.  I began to pray every prayer that I could think of:  Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me; Our Father who art in heaven; HELP!  My breathing was ragged and shallow.  I tried to breathe deeply.  That helped a little but also made me fearful of moving and disrupting the test.

Then, finally, it was over.  The technician again helped me up and out of the torture chamber.  I made sure he knew how awful it was for me and then, he told me to ask for drugs next time.  That is a mental note I will not have to make.  Drugs it is and will be if ever another MRI is in my future.

This morning, I was happy to get up and sit in my comfortable chair and enjoy the silence and stillness.  All the jibber jabber was knocked out of me – at least for this morning.  And, now, perhaps, anytime I think mediation is too difficult, I can remember that, yes, God is everywhere, in all things but I definitely prefer God where God prefers to be found……….in the Silence.

Yesterday, in an effort to break out of my self-centered and fearful mind, I attended my first meeting of the Florida Writers Association. To say the least, it was amazing. Such a diversity of people and, as I looked around the room, I felt certain all of these people were better writers than me. After all, I spend more time thinking about writing than I do actually writing.

I was asked to share something about myself and my writing goals and I, disturbingly, spilled my guts. I told this roomful of strangers how overwhelmed I felt at the prospect of writing while at the same time, I couldn’t stop thinking about writing and my unending longing to be a writer. What I got back for my embarrassing display of emotion was a world of encouragement. Almost everyone in the room shared a bit about their own writing and encouraged me to – rather like a Nike commercial – just do it!

Although I had to leave the meeting before it was over (hungry puppies), I left with a heart full of hope that if these seemingly ordinary people had the courage to come to together and share their writing dreams, then perhaps by joining them, I could make some progress toward my own dream of writing. And, these brave souls are putting their desires into action instead of sitting on the couch hoping something will change.

I saw God speaking to me through these people and my morning devotion having been a portent of things to come. In 1 Corinthians 3:7, I read, “So neither the one who plans nor the one who waters is anything but only God who gives the growth.” This passage felt like a key to the fault in my thinking about writing. It is not MY writing. I close down and lose inspiration when I try to make writing about me. Even if it is “about me” its purpose is to be for God. If I open myself up to be used by God, then my hand and my pen are God’s instruments. If I put my ego and my petty concerns aside, God can use me as God sees fit.

But, then I must also let go of my desire for recognition or success as a writer. I must do the footwork (write) and leave the results in God’s hands. I must resign myself to be ordinary and write for both my desire to express and God’s purpose, big or small. And, I might add, being ordinary is no simple feat. I like it best as expressed by Oswald Chambers, “We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things, to be holy in mean streets, among mean people, and this is not learned in five minutes.”

I am not sure where he was born, but April discovered him for sell in a Florida flea market. His price was discounted because of a cut on his back foot . Cost of one baby bunny: $11; Joy received: Priceless. Cuddles fit in the palm of my hand when I first met him and, although I had already hardened my heart against my daughter, April’s plan of bringing a bunny home during her college break that year, my hard heart melted when I held Cuddles in the palm of my hand and stroked his silky white fur and lop ears. His little pink nose twitched and, I could feel his tiny, fluttery heartbeat as he began the process of orienting himself to his new life with April.

April declared Cuddles my “gran-bun.” I thought she was being silly, but in due course I found myself enjoying all the joys and privileges of being the “gran-mama” including the bunny sitting, the cuddling and the pen cleaning. I would save my choicest lettuce and broccoli scraps for weekends when Cuddles and April were coming to visit. When Christmas came, I found myself purchasing yogurt drops, honey sticks and little rabbit toys for my gran-bun.

I could never resist teasing April about the “originality” of the name she had chosen for Cuddles, but it turned out to be an apt selection. April, always a daughter desirous of closeness and affection, would hold Cuddles for warmth , comfort and affection whether she was simply tired or stressed from all the demands of Med School, angry or hurt by someone, and for the bigger upsets in life like receiving the news that her Dad had lung cancer. She would lie close and snuggle with “Mr. Cuddles,” as I liked to call him, and draw strength and courage from her fluffy ball of love.

But Cuddle Bunny wasn’t just for sad times. April explained to me how Cuddles simply made her happy and gave her joy. The first time I saw Cuddles perform his “happiness dance,” I was amazed. He ran around the house like a whirling dervish with flourishes of hops and turns. The term “joie de vivre” comes to mind. Just by watching him, April and I were reminded how to experience the joy of living in the present moment.

Eventually, Cuddles was joined by Fuzzy (a black lop eared bunny) and April and I were able to learn that even in bunnies, distinct personalities emerge. Cuddles, always fearless and independent had to help Fuzzy (timid and shy) learn to trust. April was happy that her Cuddly Bunny had a companion and upgraded the pen to a bunny “condo.” We (especially April) were deep into anthropomorphism but April felt a deep understanding and communication with these wonderful pets, especially Cuddles, who – being her first – received her undisguised favoritism while all the time she cautioned me not to play favorites.

In the last few weeks, April told me that Cuddles had begun to display signs of illness and her Vet had given indications that it could be systemic. I knew I would need to remind April of the inevitable end that could be in sight, that death was just part of life. I, of course, would be sad but, April’s heart would be broken. So when the news came yesterday, August 10, that Cuddles had died, I found myself crying all afternoon and that I, unexpectedly, had a broken heart also.

So, goodbye, Mr. Cuddles. Thank you for blessing our life for five wonderful years with your incredible bunny-ness. I know your life was as good as any bunny could want because you were deeply loved and never ran out of carrots. You will always be in our heart and, I know you are hopping in the land of pure spirit and love where all good bunnies (and people) go.

As You know, my last letter, “Roadblocks,” was during Lent and I was whining about the difficulty of change.  Now, weeks later, I am in the midst of full-blown change.  Since returning from Tallahassee, I have been “spring cleaning” like a wild woman.  I am discarding “stuff” right and left.  This all began because I simply felt overwhelmed by the “stuff” in my life.  Just like the typical addict, if one is good, two is better and the more the merrier……….be it drinks, drugs, food, flowers, clothes, candles, pens, paperclips or puppies.  I think George Carlin got it exactly right in his piece on “Stuff.”  http://www.writers-free-reference.com/funny/story085.htm Managing stuff is a full time job so it seems to be the only way to get free is to get rid of the stuff that overwhelms my life.

And, as if my personal life being full of change weren’t enough, the office secretary is retiring and now we have to hire a new person.  The office is stacked up with boxes from Tallahassee and it needs a complete reorg session long before November gets here.  Why is my life suddenly changing?  Despite my best efforts to change, when I am trying, it doesn’t work.  Now, without trying, things are happening.  Yet, I remain overwhelmed, overloaded and generally out of my mind.

Perhaps the biggest change afoot is the idea that I am not broken and I do not need to be fixed.  Yes, I want and need to evolve as a human being but coming from a place of brokenness for so many years has actually contributed to more brokenness, not less.  What if I were to accept that I am just fine as I am and, I can and will evolve and change when the time is the right time for me.  You, God, are in charge of my life and thus my Spirit.  Whatever may (or may not) need healing in me is under Your control so all I need do is to do my best as best I understand it and then trust that You will take and make all things perfect according to Your Will.

Lent:  Days 7, 8, 9 and 10 have come and gone.  Today is day 11.  Reminds me of that old saying, “nothing changes if nothing changes.”  I am an abject failure at Lent.  I want to be a true penitent and change my ways but the truth is I don’t want to go through the process of change.  I want You to wave a magic wand and make me perfect and wonderful without me having to suffer the disciplines required to change.  Truthfully, it is easier to languish in the seven deadly sins of anger, greed, sloth (laziness), pride, lust, envy and gluttony.  That’s what makes them soooo deadly…..they are easy and comforting and kill my motivation.  I feel like Dorothy when she was falling asleep in the poppies.  Part of her knew what was happening to her was deadly but, at the same time, it felt so good and all she wanted to do was let sleep come.

Today’s reading by Soren Kierkegaard discusses the difference between a follower of Christ and an admirer of Christ.  The call to be a disciple of Christ is different from being an “admirer.”

“The admirer never makes any true sacrifices.  He always plays it safe.  Though in word he is inexhaustible about how highly he prizes Christ, he renounces nothing, will not reconstruct his life, and will not let his life express what it is he supposedly admires.”

What about the follower?  “The follower aspires with all his strength to be what he admires.”

I feel sad to say that I am not yet a true follower.  But Lent is not over and, I will continue to focus on the goal of surrender and believe in Your Power to transform me.  Thomas Merton writes, “The function of self-denial is to lead to a positive increase of spiritual energy and life.  The Christian dies, not merely in order to die but in order to live.  And when he takes up his cross to follow Christ, the Christian realizes, or at least believes, that he is not going to die to anything but death.  The Cross is the trellis upon which grows the Mystical Vine whose life is infinite joy and whose branches we are.  If we want to share the life of the Vine, we must grow on the same trellis and must suffer the same pruning.”

My prayer today:  Help.  Amen.

photo by:  American Artist Ben Murphy@flickr.com