Sun comes up on the pavement

The Red Eye's Truth

Mac has conjunctivitis. Yesterday, he and I filled his prescription for eye-drops. When I first tried to administer the dreaded drop, he would have none of it. He flinched and pulled away. I gave him a couple minutes to breathe, relax, and to try again. Things only got worse from there, until he was sobbing, and I was red with anger.

It didn't seem to matter that I wasn't going to hurt him, that these drops would be no more than a brief irritant, that he was over-reacting, that I--with my 46 years of life experience and vast medical knowledge (guffaw)--knew exactly what I was saying and doing! Trust me, damn it! What the hell are you so afraid of? 

...oh.

I finally gave up. That was my first smart move. His mother called to check how things were going. I began to air my grievances. By then, however, I considered the fact that Mac is very sensitive to touch. He loves his hugs, tickles, and snuggles, He enjoys people in his personal space when it's clearly affection. Flip the coin, and he can't stand negative touch, i.e. being steered, restrained, or pulled. I realized that he couldn't help but feel threatened by this intrusion into his space and against his very vulnerable eye. I did not know what to do from that point. I envisioned clamping his head in my hands while his mom would force open his eyelid with one hand, aim and squeeze a drop with the other. That did not sound like a good time.

His mother agreed. She also had an idea. She has many of the same issues with medication, and the anxiety that he feels. She long ago learned how to administer her own eye-drops. "Let me show him what I do, and maybe he'll pick it up from there." Well, it worked like a charm, of course. He is administering his own drops, and is rightfully proud. I feel a bit sheepish, but grateful. 

Here's at least one lesson. Even if I am not, actually, a big scary man, even when I'm right and know what's best, there are things and situations in which I will not be able to teach it or make it happen. It is possible that the very contrast in style helped Mac to be more receptive to his mother's approach. In any case, the result is better: greater independence and accomplishment. 

I need to be more quick and willing to let go of my expectations, my goals, and my pride, to ask for help, or to pass the baton. Before I completely lose my... [patience], if it still needs to happen, it probably will...if and when I let it go!

At Low Tide

I walk over crackling shells and loose pebbles
and step carefully across sand and suckling mud

To stand as close as I dare
to these waters
of von Geldern Cove.

Having looked at a map, I know that
--if I could peer through the grayness
in front of me--
I'd see the north tip of Fox Island
and Green Point.

Instead, I'm satisfied
standing and listening to patting on my head
from rain
that drips off the back of my ears
and soaks my sweater.

A pair of gulls tease and dance.
He, with his white body and
patterned wings flies above,
swoops below,
and for awhile calls alongside.
He drops down on dark sand, but
she flies on,
and we stand in the rain, on this shoreline,
contemplating our losses.

The tide has turned some time ago
already inching toward my toes.
I know it's silly and incongruous, but
I hear a song
from a Kevin Bacon movie
(of all things) playing in my mind;
you know, when he's in a waiting room,
...not knowing: "Pray God you can cope..."

It's a sad song, especially right now.
But I close my eyes and listen to Kate sing
that refrain again:
"I know you have a little life in you yet."

I let raindrops fall on my face,
and against my teeth.
My feet sink an inch more
under sand and water, and
it occurs to me how very wet I'll be
if I stay here ...just an
hour or two more...
over my head, really.

"I know you've got a lot of strength left."
So, pulling my feet out, I turn from cove, gull, and gray
to the wall, to the stairs,
and I climb.

A Tree, a Moment

I'm sitting on an upper deck of friend's borrowed beach house. I have a beautiful view over the Carr Inlet of the Puget Sound with Mt. Rainier distant but still very prominent on the eastern horizon.

There is a large tree that stands in the yard below me. You wouldn't call it beautiful. It's one that you might say has "character" with knots, old broken branches, and limbs all akimbo. There's a knothole at the base of one branch that is home to a nesting pair of birds. A swing hangs from long ropes, its seat made from a split log.

A young man wearing a broad-rimmed straw hat and a woman, along with their aging golden retriever, have spent the better part of the afternoon on this and the adjacent properties. He's been mowing and trimming; she's been walking the yards and down by the water with their dog, enjoying the unseasonably warm sunshine.

Late in the afternoon, the yard was nearly done. Not long ago the woman, in her long flowered blue dress, returned from the beach with the old retriever following behind. She sat on the swing, and after a few leg pumps, set it in pendular motion. About that time, the trimmer ran out of gas, and the young man used that as reason enough to take a short break. He saw that the old dog was close to the path of the swing, so gently led her aside and--with a few light pats--settled her in the grass. He gave his wife three strong pushes on the swing, enough to make her laugh, and then stood to the side looking up along the lengths of the rope. I heard him explaining to her that the swing was veering off course because he needed to change its position on the branch. She just pumped her legs, head tilted back.

Meanwhile, far above their heads, the nesting couple flew in and out of their knot-hole.

Eventually, he went back to his trimmer, added fuel, and started it up. She spent a few more minutes on the swing, and then wandered off to another part of the yard, dog slowly trailing behind.

At last, his work is now done. The young man has returned to the gnarled tree, leans the trimmer against the trunk, and spends a minute or so looking at the swing and branches. After a couple of tugs on the ropes, he gets on, and kicks off from the ground. While he leans forward and back in time with the swing, his dun-colored hat flutters off his head onto the grass behind. For awhile, I lose sight of the young man. Instead, I see the little boy he was - not all that long ago. No more than a minute later, he brings the swing to a stop. He finds his hat, puts it on his head, shoulders the trimmer, and walks off from sight.

From the perspective of that old tree, this evening with the young couple and the nesting birds has been the briefest of moments, and yet--to me--it speaks about years of new life, losses, changes, sameness, and hope.