I’ve Still Got It!

 

Hello, My Fantabulous Survivors of Life!

That fear of the inability to do what had been like breathing for me caused a constriction of my soul that seemed to cut off my creativeness. The music that I have always had in my head for as long as I can remember was gone. I couldn’t hear it anymore with my mental ear, and my soul seemed to have become deaf to the song that was in my heart.

Three years later and I wake up this morning September 2nd, 2017,  hearing music that I had dreamt about that night while asleep.  Tears flew down my eyelashes and dripped off my nose.  I sat up on my bed and picked up my Chihuahua fur-baby, Cassafrass the Tiny.  I snuggled her close to my heart and started to laugh when she began licking my tears from my cheeks and chin.  So sweet, so small but such a huge moment of joy.

I got into my powerchair and drove myself across my bedroom to my Korg Triton Extreme keyboard.  My hands had not touched it since July 12th, 2014.  At first, I really couldn’t put a reason to why I had stopped playing, but my now I can see a bit more about the situation in the progression of the illness leading up to the coma that I ended up in because of kidney failure.

After waking up from the coma that I wasn’t supposed to survive’, terror was the thought of not being able to play the piano again.   My feet and my brain were not communicating properly, so standing and walking were not possible at that time.  I cannot tell you why the thought that I might have forgotten how to play and write music the way I had before being in the coma.

 

My hands trembled with an unknowing anxiousness.  Poised, above the beautiful ebony and white keys of my Korg, my fingers floated over their usual beginning on either side of middle C.  I closed my eyes and saw the sum of all fear streaking through my thoughts like lightning across the sky on a hot summer night.   Every nerve in my body was tingling as if I were buzzing from an invisible electrical current.  There were goosebumps on my arms, and the hair was standing up on the back of my neck.  I knew then at that moment I was not alone and that I was being willed to touch the keys to prove to myself that “I still had it.”

 

 

If I still had it, you ask?  Hmmm, let’s see.   I started tinkering on the piano at my great aunt’s house and the one at my Nana’s church when I was four years old.  My 5th birthday present was a piano of my very own. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I sat down on the bench and opened the case lid to expose the keys.  My legs were dangling from that bench like a pair of pantyhose pinned to a clothesline.  Just swaggleing back and forth but not long enough to touch the ground.  It seemed as if I walked on air for several days after that due to the amazement of such a gift.

Remembering how my five-year-old hands poised above those keys of my Wurlitzer piano and how it felt was so close to the anticipation of that first note on Sunday afternoon September 2nd.   Wham! Like an alarm on a clock that was getting ready to awaken my soul from the sleep that I had been in the last three years.   As I touched the middle C with my right thumb, the vibration of that alarm sounded.  As I hit that key and pressed it downward, the tone went straight to the core of my being.

Wake up! Wake up! You fantabulous domestic goddess you! Circular breathe the energy from the music as it flows out of your heart into your soul.  Filling every crack, chip, and hole that has been left behind as the ravaged wasteland of love battles lost and won now declaring them for peace and joy. Out into the world from your hands onto those black and white keys for the first time in over three years.

I drench myself in the sound that washes over my outer ear and drink it in like the skin of my cheeks are absorbing the tears that stream down my weary and battle worn but won face.  Drink in every distortion and fluctuation of that which is being created on a soul level and is brought back into oneself as mindful loving-kindness. My soul inhales.

Exhales a deep sigh or gratitude to the Spirit and the universe after playing for several minutes realizing that my hands and my brain were communicating just fine.  My hands had escaped the traumatic brain injury from the intensely high fever while in the coma three years ago that my feet did not.  I am going to have to figure out a way to use my sustain and damper pedals, but I think my son, the problem solver that he is, will figure something most adequate if not conquering for me to utilize.

Tears and sighs of acceptance, joy, relief, completion, resurrection, and renewal balance the hope and grace I have found once again.

My feel may not let me ever walk again, but my hands will run up and down these keys like they were Olympic sprinters.

Remember, this world needs more loving-kindness, more patience and more understanding and more gracious humanness. Be kind to someone. Be kind to yourself.  Put a little more loving-kindness back into this Universe that we all are.  Make someone smile. Make yourself a better part of this existence.

With all the loving-kindness I possess,

Meredith

As A Survivor

Wondering what is in store for the future is as perplexing a quandary as trying to figure out how arriving at this particular place in time happened exactly.  Thinking, and thinking some more on the subject, my mind reels and begins to spin out of control, like a hamster’s wheel being powered by a guinea pig on meth-amphetamines. Thoughts swirl and whirl like a tornado gathering and inhaling in and up all the forgotten, lost memories of a woman who no longer exists.  The Mind sheds its last tear of grieving liquid acceptance while the Soul wipes it away with the hand of forgiveness.  A body ravaged by mortal world’s ailments, sighs a breath of gratefulness for another day of sunshine and rain on its skin, while the eyes turn to the sky for a rainbow to answer the initial question…What will the future hold?

As a survivor of anything that has the potential to set someone back more steps in reverse than they can continue to make forward it always seems to be that no matter how much good happens something horrendous lurks around the corner and surprises us at the most inopportune time.  Like the monster under the bed, casting its spell on a child’s mind just as sleep is about to descend like the dove of peace.  Sending the child screaming like a banshee down the hall through the parents’ bedroom door and between them in bed for the duration or until the child can be convinced that the monster under the bed is dead and gone.

Tragedy spills out all over us as if we need a good whipping by the belt of utter devastation once again.  There is never a good time for an illness.  There is never a better time for a chronic disease.  There is never a wonderful time for the death of a loved one.  There is never a reasonable time for someone to go through any abuse be it emotional, physical, mental, spiritual or sexual.  There is never a profitable time to be unemployed.  There is never an opportune time to be homeless.  There is never an acceptable time for neglecting others in any way or fashion.

Survivors of Life are those who successfully live after the major event that occurs to destroy or rip their lives from the tapestry woven from the threads of what made them who they saw themselves as at that singular moment in time.

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