Anasazi Vision: Profound Wisdom From The Four Corners Desert And One Woman's Journey To Peace

An unusual thing about my mother is that she doesn’t cry. Not when my father sold the only home she wanted, not when she entered menopause, not when her mother—whom she deeply loved, died, and not even when her leg was amputated. She saw emotions as a nuisance. They were complicated, unpredictable, messy, and something she simply wouldn’t yield to. Crying was unthinkable. So when a tear escaped her eye today, I scarcely knew how to respond.

Unlike my mother, I live life through my senses. My shoes are rarely on, my feet connected to the cool earth. I bend to touch flowers and pause to feel the breeze on my skin. I’ve been climbing trees and wading in creeks since I first discovered them at the age of three. I love the outdoors. It is my home.

My mother is genuine, kind, thoughtful, overly compartmentalized, and logical—she works crossword puzzles in ink. It’s safe to say that my mother and I travel in two very different orbits, but where our worlds do touch, there is love, and a mountain of understanding that’s taken decades to build.

She lives in Southern Oregon. Her home sits on forested land along the Rogue River, about seven miles from town. The country road to her home is lined with fenced properties—home to cattle, horses, mules, goats, and sheep. It’s rural, but neighbors know neighbors and are there for one another.

Two weeks before Mama’s amputation, I came to live with her. Of her three kids, I was the one who swore I’d never move back to Grants Pass, yet here I was. The three of us had been raised to be responsible, but I was the oldest and had the most flexible lifestyle, so I moved home. As long as I had a laptop and Wi-Fi, I could continue to design websites.

I remember the phone call when Mama told me she’d be losing her leg. Without hesitation, I said that I’d be there for her. Of course, our family had no idea what her care would entail. Mama had melanoma. Surgery had removed the cancerous cells and radiation gave her a clean margin. Unfortunately, a follow-up biopsy of the radiated area never healed, and the open wound grew worse. In the year preceding the amputation, recurring infections plagued my mother, and months of antibiotics to treat the wound left her antibiotic-resistant. That’s when her leg had to come off. Post-surgery, her attending physician explained that Mama had flatlined twice in the ICU.

Sepsis.

She was lucky to be alive.

The threat of dying from sepsis was very real. Mama was fragile and needed a home nurse, but we were at the height of a pandemic, so she got me. Mama arrived at her three-bedroom home on a gurney in a medical transport van. I didn’t recognize her. She could have been anyone’s mother. Mine was strong-willed, independent, and sturdy. The woman being wheeled into Mama’s house was a ghost.

I was terrified.

No one was allowed into her home for the first two months, not her neighbors, not her church community, not even my sister, who had also moved to Grants Pass. Everyone was “sheltering in place.”

A nurse came to visit once a week, signing in upon arrival for her scheduled visit, dressed head-to-toe in a sterile clean suit and hood. To this day, I couldn’t tell you what the nurse looked like.

Eventually, the facial mask mandate eased, and my sister could help more. She was working full-time though, so she took over the extra tasks of managing Mama’s finances, appointments, medical transport, and picking up supplies and prescriptions.

In the year I’ve been here, I’ve learned to capitalize on the things that make Mama smile—for her sake and my sanity: cutting flowers from her garden, morning cocoa, and brushing her curly hair, because the reality of diaper changes, 2 AM medications, oxygen tanks, blood pressure checks, and complete dependence of one human being on another is a long list of wont tasks that no child, no matter how much they love their parent, looks forward to. I was exhausted. And yes, I cried.

And then it happened. In an attempt to alleviate the stinging nerve pain in Mama’s stump, her doctor—who truly did care, prescribed a new medication. A side effect, however, was diarrhea. Mama was bedridden, and bathing her was interesting. It was a time-consuming process of laying plastic under her head, shampooing her hair, washing and sponging her off, then rolling her to one side, removing the soiled sheet, scooting it towards her, laying down the fresh sheet and pad, rolling her onto it, then completely removing the soiled sheet and tucking in the fresh one. By the end of the laborious process, Mama required a nap.

At the onset of the diarrhea, and diapers unable to contain it, the cumbersome task—now foul, was performed four to six times a day. Five days into the nightmare, both my mother and I were spent. She suffered from dehydration, discomfort, and being shoveled from one side of her bed to the other. I, from a lack of sleep, the sheer physical exertion, and the mound of things I still had to accomplish—because my tasks didn’t stop just because Mama and her bed needed cleaning. I called her doctor, and he prescribed yet another medication for the diarrhea.

The day my mother cried was especially brutal. I remember waking to her moaning, the bedside clock reading 2:07 AM. With a sigh, I peeled back the thin hide-a-bed blanket, slipped on my robe, and covered the short distance to Mama’s hospital bed. The monstrous bed had taken over her dining room, claiming most of the space once devoted to family meals, game nights, and the occasional dinner guest. Our once-joyful activities had been cleared to accommodate this chapter of Mama’s life. There was no need to flip on a light to know what had stirred her awake. I could smell it. I was sure I could manage the chore in my sleep now, but for Mama’s sake, I lit a dim light and leaned towards her.

“I’ll be right back, Mama,” I assured her, but before I could rise, she reached for my wrist. Her bony fingers were cool on my skin and conveyed what she could only whisper. “I love you too, Mama,” I said. “We’ll get you cleaned up and back to sleep in no time.”

But she didn’t let go.

“Mama?” I asked, feeling her squeeze my wrist firmly enough that I sat on the edge of the bed. Her bedding was disheveled, and she had somehow managed to tangle a blanket around her only leg.

“What is it, Mama?” She was silent. I placed her hand on her chest and ran my fingers through her hair. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

As I stood and turned toward the stack of linens, I secretly prayed that Mama might find a comfortable position after her bed bath and nod off easily. I knew she was tired, and honestly, I couldn’t take another night without sleep.

I gathered supplies and returned to Mama, washing her and changing her bedding. When I had finished, I kissed her forehead, turned off the light, and made my way to my bedroom. I’d been sleeping on the hide-a-bed nearby to hear her easily. But tonight, I needed to be in my own bed, where I wouldn’t hear her, and finally get some rest. I loosened my robe, let it drop to the floor, and collapsed naked onto my bed.

The sound of a barking dog startled me awake. Had sleep actually lifted the exhaustion and brain fog, I might have realized that hours had passed and my mother was lying in a mess, but it took a moment to come awake. I slowly pulled myself from bed, stepped into panties, and moved like a wrecking ball down the hallway towards the dining room… and Mama. The smell met me before the disaster did. I inched closer; leaning in. She was distressed and the sight of her pained face gripped my heart and shoved a knife blade into it. I wanted to take her pain. I wanted to make it go away.

I reached for her shoulder and began to cry. Mama shouldn’t have to suffer like this. When would that prescription finally kick in? I swallowed and could feel bile rising in my throat at the smell. I wanted to be strong for her; to be healthy for her. I needed to be strong and healthy. If I was, maybe she could be too. But I was failing. I was a wisp of myself—tired, too wrung out to be strong, let alone healthy. I could barely see straight, and it didn’t help her. Nothing I was doing was helping her.

“Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry. I’ll get you cleaned up,” I said as I stood. “I’ll be right back. I promise.” But my words sounded hollow… scripted; the ones I’d repeat every time she needed to be cleaned. I felt like an imposter. Was I a daughter, a caregiver, an angel, a failure? Mama wasn’t getting better and I knew it. Failure pretty well summed it up.

Mama stared up, her eyes fixed on me, heavy in their sockets. And then I saw it; a tear. Never in my life—not once, had I seen my mother cry.

I pushed myself away from the hospital bed. I couldn’t bear to see—to feel, my mother’s distress. I headed to the kitchen sink and turned on the water. Washing my hands—that would ground me, and bring me back to sanity. As I waited for the water to warm, I glanced out the window, and my eyes landed on the rafters of Mama’s carport. A strange, wonderful, terrifying, exhilarating thought came to me: I wondered if the aging rafters could support my weight. The rafters would end all this. They’d bring sleep. Oh, glorious sleep. I stared at them affectionately. No child should have to choose between sleep and a parent. Screw this pandemic. I just couldn’t do this alone. Not anymore.

Through tears, I turned towards Mama and then returned my gaze to the window. Could I do it? How would I do it? Familiar tears returned to my eyes. I wept for her—and me. At that, an insatiable burning filled my throat and I lowered my head just in time to vomit into the sink. Stunned, yet relieved, I cupped my hands beneath the stream of water—now warm, that had been flowing in the sink, sipped it, and then washed my vomit down the drain.

“I’ll be right back, Mama,” I called over my shoulder, then toweled off my mouth and entered my room to pull on some clothes. I’d slept on top of my bed, and though wrinkled, it was made and the throw pillows were untouched. The small joy raised a smile on my face. I stooped to pick up my robe and hung it on the door peg. Oh, how I loved this room. It was my sanctuary—a sliver of solitude and restoration within this foreign world of prescription charts, bed pads, and pureed foods. Here, I could retreat and meditate, read, write, talk with a friend, or, at least, exhale.

It was a beautiful room. Its single window faced east and in the mornings, the rising sunlight would touch teardrop crystals I’d hung between swags of sheer fabric draped above my bed, casting a panorama of rainbows onto the walls.

The meditation cushion was well used. Books, crystals, and candles rested on the tidy shelves, and the framed photographs of friends and grown children, filled my lonesome heart with the memory that these people remained in my life, though I was far from them and the world they lived in.

I glanced at the wall clock: 7:20 AM. God, not another day. Please help me. I opened a dresser drawer and absently pulled on a sports bra and leggings, grabbed some tissue from the Kleenex box, and walked to my bathroom.

I stood at the sink for a moment, thoroughly dried my face, and took a deep, measured breath. Thirty seconds at a time is how I’d made it through the most intense moments of Army basic training. I could do this—I just needed to get through thirty seconds and then another thirty seconds.

I grabbed a can of disinfectant spray and medical gloves, then walked to the stack of linens, collected what I needed, and gathered supplies for a bed bath into a bucket. As I neared the dining room, I reminded myself that I could do this. Like a parachute that had opened 500 feet from death, the mantra caught me. Hope that lived within some invisible speck drifting aimlessly in the air settled on my breath and found its path to my tired heart. It fed fresh light to my weary soul, propping me up.

The decision to place Mama in the dining room was a conscious one. Natural light, even on drizzly April days like today, streamed through the large windows, and from there, she could watch the world, and I could keep an eye on her. My siblings and I had decided that Mama did not belong tucked away in a bedroom, away from life. It was out here, where the cooking, laundry folding, and conversations lived that filled her heart and lifted her mood, which lifted mine.

Usually.

A canopy of white mosquito netting hung from the ceiling above her bed, separating her space from the adjacent living room. It cascaded onto the rails of her bed and to the hardwood floor. It was lovely—airy and feminine, and she often remarked that she felt like the “Queen of Sheba,” sleeping beneath it.

Nearly a dozen orchids lined the windowsill and her most treasured mementos sat on the shelves of a built-in dining hutch, repurposed to hold medical equipment and hygiene essentials. The room was beautiful, and it delighted Mama. The orchids were my touch and had arrived with me from Portland.

Truthfully, there were few days when I didn’t question my decision to move back home. Once the reality set in, the choice felt hasty—reckless, even. It was a gamble I seemed to be losing. This new life had taken me by surprise, crashing into me like a tsunami, sweeping away the life I had so carefully built. I had worked hard to create a life that allowed me space—space in my home, in my relationships, and in my day. There was a reason my life had the flexibility it did. Now, all of that was gone.

For months, I fought to hold onto the remnants, guarding the sacred parts of my old life. But the tsunami of change would not allow it—it took everything. This decision was demanding that I release my grip on everything familiar: my livelihood, my purpose, my relationships, and enter an unknown world. I could have gone quietly and surrendered to what was, but I resisted, caught in the tension between my past and future, never fully living in the present. Deep down, I knew that clinging to my old life, wishing things were different, was draining my soul. And yet, I held on, refusing to let go. It came at a cost—I suffered, and the suffering was of my own making.

Finally, after months of fighting reality, I let go. I softened. I began taking walks along the river, finding solace in its steady flow. I rested my soul on its grassy banks, watching blue herons, bald eagles, ospreys, egrets, and ducks as they went about their lives with calm patience. I kicked off my shoes and placed my bare feet on the earth, wading into the creek, and watching the clouds drift by. I listened to the crickets, frogs, and geese.

In the evenings, after washing the supper dishes, I slipped out the backdoor and walked the country road, listening to Sarah Blondin’s meditation, “Accepting Change,” on repeat. I sat on the front steps, pouring my heart out to the evening sky, and she sat with me, listening in quiet companionship.

I lay beneath the branches of an old mulberry tree, free of judgment, and it whispered its wisdom to me. Gently, it urged me to step out of my restless mind and notice the fertile ground I had been given. Mama wouldn’t always be here, but while she was, I could embrace this time with her—be present, fill her days with joy.

Nature—my first mother—became my redeemer. I spoke with her often, feeling her strength and resilience, her rhythm and divine timing. She knew how to let go, unaffected by delays or imperfections. Slowly, my perspective shifted and softened. And at last, I embraced the days that made up my life.

And then, there were mornings like this.

I returned to Mama, comforted and cleaned her, then placed the soiled bedding into a large plastic bag, tied it off, and set it just outside the back door. I’d deal with it later. I pulled off the medical gloves, tossed them into the garbage, and washed my forearms and hands. When I looked in on Mama, she was already nodding off, so I stroked her hair.

With Mama bathed and settled, I slipped into the shower and ran the water warmer than usual. Streaming over my head and skin, I became aware of my body for the first time today.

“Help me, please,” I said, surrendering my tears to the rushing water. My life felt unremarkable. Unimportant. Unsustainable.I hoped this thought would pass. I needed to be strong—needed to continue. A neighbor would be coming in tomorrow to relieve me, giving me a few hours of respite, and I fantasized about the sleep I knew this would afford me.

Toweling off, I took inventory of my day. It would be a day like every other.

Until it wasn’t.