EVEN COCOONED IN MY sleeping bag and zipped inside my waterproof tent, I sensed fog blanketing my world, and it gave me the feeling of being completely alone. Yet strangely, I didn’t mind. The fog served as a reminder that I had things to clear up, things to do. Anne would be busy today, which was good. Although I enjoyed her company, I needed time alone to set up my Medicine Wheel and sit in the place of the South, where the process of contacting Antonia and discovering my true self would begin.
As I struggled out of my sleeping bag and into my clothes, I recalled what Ben Gentle Bear Mendoza had told me about the Southern direction of the Medicine Wheel. “It’s a place to identify and erase old beliefs, attitudes, and attachments that no longer serve you, the unhealthy habits, ideas, and emotions that you carry around for no purpose other than to perpetuate old hurts and behaviors and keep you from moving on.”
After a lukewarm cup of coffee from my thermos and a granola bar, I belted the pouch containing my spiritual tools around my waist and stepped out of my tent. Sporadic shafts of sunlight penetrated the wet, drooping branches and needles of the surrounding redwoods. Not ideal hiking conditions, but the fog had lifted enough for my purpose.
I followed a gated road into an old oak forest. The path was well marked and firmly packed due to many hikers on their connect-with-nature adventures. I passed a primitive cabin, and then, with Anne’s warning about not leaving the trail still ringing in my ears, I stepped off the marked path.
Following what appeared to be a trail made by a series of four, rather than two, legged species, I felt like a researcher on an expedition to a remote corner of the world. Before regrets for an ill-advised detour could set in, I found the perfect spot for what I intended to do, a flattened circle of soft, spongy earth surrounded by a protective wall of trees and underbrush, which I wouldn’t be able to identify without a field guide. At least I knew not to sit on the reddish-green leaves of poison oak vines or the shamrock-like leaves of stinging hedge nettle, thanks to Christopher’s warning during our Snapshot game, and it didn’t look like I was invading the den of a raccoon, skunk, or fox. All I needed now was an hour of uninterrupted time.
I set my stone markers on the smooth earth, thinking of how the Medicine Wheel represented the four directions, North, South, East, and West, and also symbolized an encircled cross. I lit my smudge stick, let it burn for thirty seconds, and extinguished the flame. When the stick began to smolder, I fanned the smoke toward me with the hawk tail feather I had found in Bayfront Park and inhaled its grounding, aroma. The burning sage, heather, and cedar had an herbal, woody scent, different from the lemony, black licorice scent of the frankincense and myrrh that I’d become accustomed to in church. Regardless, it reminded me of how, as a child, I’d watched the priest put incense into the thurible and swing it forward and back, forward and back—with the censer clicking against its chain on each back swing and smoke wafting out to cleanse and purify the altar.
Using the smudge stick and feather, I cleansed the area above my head, toward my feet, and in the four directions. Then I sat, facing north, in my sealed and strengthened space. I placed a candle next to the smoldering smudge stick on the seashell in the center of my circle and lit it, symbolically opening myself to my own source and to the One Source. Finally, I rested my hands on my knees, palms up, and closed my eyes.
Bird chatter, seet-seet-seet-seet-turrr; chick-dee-dee; weze-weze-weze-weze-weet; zir-zir-zir-zir-see-see, filled the space around me, signaling all was well. I breathed in and out, allowing my body to relax, then picked up the black notebook Dr. Mendez had given me at the end of our first therapy session. “I would like you to keep a journal, starting today,” he’d said after handing it to me. “Personal revelations can come as a whisper in the night, a fleeting thought, or, as in your case, a voice in your head. Record what you hear and see. Share what you have been taught to keep to yourself. Later, we will try to decipher and understand.”
What negative behavioral patterns did I need to erase from my life before I could open to the questions that haunted me?
The first thing that came to mind was the certainty that I could no longer be what others expected me to be, starting with the expectations of my adoptive mother. I loved her. I respected her. And I was grateful for all she’d done for me. But feeling obligated to justify my actions and behavior to her was no longer an option. It was time to let go of her life story and adopt my own.
I drew a stick figure of Truus in my journal, and as I snuffed out the candle and smudge stick and dismantled my Medicine Wheel, I recalled childhood memories of her gentle touch, how she tested my forehead for fever, rubbed my back in concern, kissed my cheek. My throat clogged. I cleared it.
No backing down now.
I dug a hole through the mounds of fermenting duff, tore the page that contained the stick figure of my mother from my journal, and buried it. I love you, Mom, and I thank you.
Eyes centered on the grave-like mound, I began to sing a song to celebrate the occasion of making peace with at least part of my personal history; a song Ben Gentle Bear Mendoza had taught me during our time together in the Tassajara wilderness. Nya Ho To Tya Ha. Oh Ho Mo Ne Me. I didn’t know the meaning of the words, but their effect on my spirit had all the meaning in the world. Dots of sunshine formed patterns on my eyelids as I continued to bellow out Ben’s spirit-song. Every inch of my body seemed to open up and absorb the pulsating energy that surrounded me, until finally, I’d had enough.
I sagged backwards onto the soft, spongy earth. What now, God?
A rustling from between bushes and underbrush.
Jeez. Not again.
The parting of strangling brambles and vines.
I sat up, heart racing, my skin a mass of goosebumps.
I should have listened to Anne.
Too late now.
Adam and his sidekick, Buster, stepped into the open.
“Oh, my gosh,” I said between ragged breaths. “You scared me.”
Adam edged forward, his eyes focused on my journal.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He continued to stare at my journal.
I wanted to pick it up and shove it into my backpack, but something—call it intuition, a sixth sense, empathy—cautioned me to hold back.
Adam scratched his head, then he headed back through the curtain of underbrush, followed by the coyote.
I sagged back onto the ground. I think I hear you laughing, God.
The earth’s warmth worked its way through my jacket to my muscles and bones. Looking up, I followed the length of the elegantly fluted redwood trunks shooting straight into the great blue sky.
Just as I was getting around to thanking God for the gift of my surroundings, Adam returned—holding a book.
He settled next to me as though we were new best friends.
I sat up with effort, my body heavy, uncooperative.
Adam traced the scrolled design on his book’s cover.
“Your journal?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Do you want to show it to me?”
He nodded again and put it on my lap.
I traced the scrolling on the cover as he had done. His journal likely held some of his most private thoughts and faded memories, unrecoverable if lost. “Do you want me to read it?”
“Yes,” he said, and for some reason, I shivered.
I turned to the first page. March 21, 1996.
“You started this journal five years ago?”
“Five years ago.”
Jeez. While I was trying to erase portions of my past, Adam was being robbed of his. I shook my head at the irony.
I have Alzheimer’s, Adam wrote. Oh, dear God, I have AD.
Dr. Peters says my disease is in the preclinical stage, caught early using new imaging technology. The symptoms at this point are hardly noticeable and can last for years. The next stage is called mild cognitive impairment, MCI for short, where I’ll start having memory lapses and trouble making sound decisions. Then comes mild dementia, followed by the moderate dementia, where I’ll grow more confused and forgetful and will need extra help with daily activities and self-care. Apparently, my personality will change, too. And not for the better.
I don’t even want to think about the severe stage of AD, when I completely go to hell. Thank God, Kathleen died peacefully with me at her side and will never know. How long before I become a burden to my friends and to my son? How long before I’ll no longer be capable of managing my day-to-day life or planning my future?
I’ve always heard that life isn’t a dress rehearsal, that it is short and meant to be enjoyed. Only now do I fully comprehend what that means. All my life I’ve lived for the future, always trying to get somewhere other than where I was. I have an eight thousand square foot home, a BMW, a king-cab diesel truck (Ford, American made), and a shiny red Corvette. My key chain is heavy, an apt symbol of my accomplishments. Yet, lately, I feel as if it’s weighing me down.
What I wouldn’t give to go back to the time when Kathleen was alive and we were so much in love. We were rich in ways I hadn’t realized.
Until now.
On the page dated March 21, 1998, Adam wrote:
Two years ago, today, I was diagnosed with AD. Currently, I’m headed for the mild cognitive impairment stage, still able to drive, thank God, but getting lost more and more. I always make sure there’s plenty of gas in the tank, so I can make it home after many wrong turns. Rich people are supposed to live longer than poor people, damn it. Trouble is, I have a disease that high-tech medicine can’t fix or cure. Lucky me.
On June 21, 1999, Adam wrote:
The cost of nursing home care is shocking. And it’s not covered by insurance or Medicare! Yeah, yeah, I can afford it, but for how long? Anyway, I can’t remember how to use the VCR, and I can’t ask my son for help because he doesn’t yet know I have AD. How much longer before he figures it out?
I can’t bear for that to happen.
Patrick, my attorney, introduced me to a nurse and geriatric care manager named Anne. I guess he’s her attorney, too. Patrick has arranged for her to take care of me. We talked about an Advanced Directive otherwise known as a Living Will and that I have to write down my wishes for future care and treatment. There’s a special form designed for people with dementia. Patrick said I can give Anne the authority to make decisions for me for when I’m no longer able, and to let her know my preferences. The directive is not only for my protection but also for hers, in case someone tries to sue her on my behalf.
I continued to skip ahead, since Adam’s journal was a long one.
June 4, 2000: I’m getting lost a lot, but I refuse to give up my car. Anne says I’m beginning to ask the same questions over and over.
November 12, 2000: I got into a car accident today. Just a fender bender. But they took away my license, even though it wasn’t my fault.
March 21, 2001: I left home today. No one knows where I’m going, except for my attorney, and Anne, of course, who’s going with me. I left a note for my son, telling him I was taking a trip and not to worry, though I know he will. I’m changing my name to Adam and will find my Eden in Big Sur, the Big South, God’s country. That is, until I reach the final stages of this damn disease and need round-the-clock care.
I looked up and met Adam’s eyes. He was crying. So was I.
“Would you like to have it back now?” I asked.
He shook his head no.
“I’ll return it when I’m done reading it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Adam,” I said. “Why did you call me Sunwalker?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
~~~
I was surprised, and a bit disappointed, that three particular youngsters hadn’t invaded my tent while I was gone. I checked out the Circus Camp and noticed the car was missing. Clouds were forming. It looked like it might rain. I fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, crawled into my tent, and opened Adam’s journal to where I’d left off.
The handwriting had changed. Soon I discovered why.
April 30, 2001: Anne is writing this journal for me. I can no longer do it for myself. Sometimes, even with Anne’s help, it takes hours to put into words what I want to say. Like how I feel about my son. I want to hold him, transfuse all I have and all I know into him, make him strong, but mostly happy. However, I can’t give him what I have and what I know. Maybe our blood types don’t match. Or maybe my love, my concern, all that I have, would smother him.
During most of his life, I’ve tried to stand back and watch him fall, hoping the excruciating pain I felt as a result wouldn’t kill me. His looks of disappointment, hurt, and anger nearly broke my heart. I watched his chin come up—a good sign as far as it went—and wondered why love had to hurt so much. I would give my life for my son, yet I’ve never let him know. There are no words to convey to him what I feel. Guess, he’ll have to discover it for himself.
I used to be such a big shot.
Look at me now.
~~~
When a drop of moisture fell onto the page of the journal, I realized I was crying. I heard the patter of rain on the roof of my tent and, for a moment, wondered if God was crying, too.
Anne crawled into my tent, her hair and clothes misted with rain. “Guess a mega tent comes in handy after all.”
All I could manage was a weak smile.
“Hey.” Anne’s earrings and bracelets jingled. “What happened to you?”
I held up Adam’s journal.
“Ah, and I thought you were missing me.”
“It’s so sad that nothing can be done for him.”
“Says who?”
I patted the book on my lap. “Adam.”
“His last entry was almost a month ago. His attitude has changed since then.”
My look must have appeared skeptical because Anne added, “Girl, he’s got one foot in heaven, and if we watch and listen, we may get a glimpse of it, too. What you see as lack and limitation is part of what helps him feel so grateful.”
“He doesn’t seem grateful to me.”
The expression on her face softened. “There are good things happening to him now. He’s plugging in.”
“Sure,” I said, not believing it for a minute.