Vibrant Iris emerging further, May 26

Then I was offered a new catalyst. On my left foot I have several toes called hammer toes. Instead of lying flat, the toes are held bent so as I walk the tips touch the ground. They bleed easily and a wound can become infected if I’m not watchful.

In April of 2023, I developed a serious infection that spread into the bones of one toe. This is the left foot that was crushed 60 years ago by the horse. The circulation is poor. I spent 12 weeks on a very strong antibiotic. The wound began to heal, but there was no way of telling whether all the bacteria was out of the bone. Only time will tell that. For 14 weeks I was not permitted to walk except for very short distances in a special boot. I could not swim. I could shower only wearing a special plastic sleeve. I had to spend most of my time on my back with my foot elevated.

My first reaction was fear. If the bacteria was not released from the bone, I could lose my foot, even my leg, as I knew had happened to my paternal grandfather over 90 years ago, eventually costing him his life. Strong fear arose and reactivity to fear. I’d wake at night with the thought, “what if I lose my foot or leg?” It was easy then to become lost in the stories of how I could fix the situation. There were also stories about how it might destroy me, seeing myself steeply aging, even dying. But our bodies will age and change. We can do what is ideal for better health, with diet and exercise, but ultimately, aging will happen.

That which is aware of fear is not afraid. In essence, I AM that awareness. Yet fear and pain are also real. I challenge myself to observe and welcome fear with a deep breath, palms together and a small bow, “hello fear; what have you come to teach me today?”

I also spent a lot of those 15 weeks meditating with Pure Awareness, just resting in spacious innate perfection, joyful yet knowing there was some attempt to avoid the seriousness of the physical situation. Holding on to the foot that is already healed right there with the serious wound can become a way of denying the mundane world reality of the infected foot.

Writing today, May 28, 2026

Hal on the boardwalk and the river deck.

Yesterday evening, Hal, his caregiver and I had a wonderful walk through a local park, on a long boardwalk to the river. It’s a favorite walk. Yet mind jumps from the moment into remembering, when we could both actually walk this path, and on to grasping.

 

2017, 9 years ago, in our kayak

Wanting it to be other than it is, there is suffering. I was meditating on our deck this morning, eyes open, looking at the Iris. Each day they emerge, fuller and more vibrant. Yet, I know that in a few more days the flowers will fade and then die away, energy going into the tuber from which they’ll emerge again next spring.

Hal and I are at that fading stage now; Hal much more so than me, but at 83, I also am fading. I can’t imagine sending him away to a nursing home where instead of constant daily contact, I’d see him a few times a week at best, for limited hours, and only for as long as I can drive! And what then? There’s clinging in these thoughts, and grief. But after 8 years of illness, Hal’s retirement savings is almost gone, and it costs $10,000/ month to pay his caregivers. I have not been able to get him back on Medicaid, from which he was removed 17 months ago, with the government DOGE changes (and which had given him $4000/ month toward caregivers, plus some money for needed daily medical supplies and equipment). Last year many friends gave generously and got us through a year, to now. I know we must invite change.

The iris fade; our mortal lives fade. Peace is in watching what comes without clinging, yet continuing to work toward our highest good, choosing to manifest and invite that which best serves us both.

For several years we’ve been teaching the process of co-creation: to imagine, to envision, to invite…. What do I envision next in my life? How can I best help that to manifest? What does Hal envision, a harder question to answer since he cannot speak.

I see how I’m grasping to keep him blooming like the iris, to keep me blooming too. I love this home of 55 years. What does letting go look like, for me, not letting go into death, but to envision a life beyond a daily one with Hal, beyond a younger body?

For Hal, letting go into a nursing home will mean an end; there’s no way to keep him active and healthy in such an environment, as we can at home. Inactivity, bedsores and sepsis, pneumonia will take their toll, as they did in the 2018-19’s nursing home years. Stories of my failing him come up too, not shame, just sadness. And I know them as stories. This is just the cruelty of our system. And for me, grief that I cannot do more. Grief of letting go of what I love, of Hal, the daily vivid memories of our babies growing up here, in my home since 1971, the hardwood floors I sanded and refinished some decades ago, The lilacs I dug from a construction site and transplanted 50 years ago, my glorious spruce trees!

On another level, I also know nothing dies; it just moves into a new teaching/ learning space. The iris will bloom eternally; our love will bloom eternally. The human wants it all!

Grasping is suffering. I cannot say “no grasping,” but I can relax into that space of compassionate, loving presence where grasping dissolves. I can rest there for a while, and when I come back to the mundane, grasping mind, I can know it as such, and hold compassion for myself and all us sentient beings that return again and again to this human life, loving us all for all we do and give that deepens the energy of joy and love on this plane.

Last summer; water play with my children and grandchildren in the lake