The DragonWagon's Mum - Part 2

"Must have" items on a world-walk!

            As I calculate 10 miles a day, I pin shiny little yellow tacks onto my mental roadmap from Palm Bay, Florida, to Orlando via SR 192.  It’s a four-lane highway that takes a daily beating as cars, trucks, vans and semi’s hurtle their way towards St. Cloud and Kissimmee to the West and Melbourne to the East.  However, the first 40 miles of SR 192, West of I-95, are very barren.  Cows, pasture and palm trees are all the excitement to be had, unless you count the vehicles flying past.

            As part of our deal on this trial run to Orlando, as he irons out kinks in his trip, Christian has promised to call us or send smoke signal by Friday so we might track him down on Saturday (Day 6.)  So day by day I pin yellow tacks inside my head - sometimes there's a LOT OF TACKS.  Where does he pitch his tent?  Do trucks throw up stones and rocks as they hurtle by him?  Is his water tank leaking?

DAY 1 – The DragonWagon rolled away at 2pm on a fantastic sunny afternoon, headed north on Minton Road towards Melbourne, FL.  I happened to have an event that very afternoon, at school – which is located (coincidentally) on Minton Road in Melbourne. I’m not sure how it turned out this way, but Christian would still be walking up that street when I was due to be at school. 

What to do?  What would you do?  Would you take another road?  Would you drive past him and way, casual-like?  Ignore him?  All these questions knocked around inside my head, until I made my decision.  I would take my normal way to school.  Up Minton Road. 

There he was, calm as ever, walking along at his casual-stride, the DragonWagon faithfully following behind.  Yeah, I got a lump in my throat and then I punched myself mentally.  Seriously?  He’d only been gone an hour … For goodness sake!  I slowed down, pulled out the phone to take a snapshot.  No, no, I’ll shoot a little movie.  Wanted to see him moving along, doing his thing and then I saw him … holding something.  What?  A paper wrapper.  Eating the milanesas already?  My car slowed to a crawl and that’s when I saw the tell-tale McD wrapper. 

My heart plummeted.  Already?  He'd stopped to get McD’s less than an hour into the trip?  What kind of a trip was this?  Questions started piling one on top of the other inside my head before I’d even stopped the car completely.

“Hi!” he grinned through a mouthful, “whatcha doing here?”

“Hi, on my way to school.  I was going to suggest that you stop off and for hot dogs, but I see you’re …” I point to the offensive wrapper.

“OMG, you have no idea what happened, Mum.”

In the next twenty seconds, I was put to shame.  What was even worse is that the voice that comes out of my mouth is so fake … I was blown away by Christian’s story, and Sheridan’s actions that’s for sure, but in the same breath I hate myself for thinking all those earlier thoughts.

Oh, Christian, I’m sorry.  What a rotten mother.

When I got to school, I retold the story - adding one or two of my ugly thoughts in a feeble attempt to make amends ... or did I do it to make it more colorful? 

One of the teachers clapped her hand over her mouth and gasped,

"I saw it happen! I was driving along and I saw this man get out of a car and give something to the walker with the wagon."

What a small world.  We were all in shock and more so later on when two other people witnessed the event. I'm sure we're going to find out one day who Sheridan was and we're going to be able to thank him personally for being the first kindness on Christian's road on Sunday, October 26th, 2014. 

The event is 20,000 people strong every single one of them is dressed up for a pre-Halloween party and the line is wrapped around the block so Christian doesn’t even get a second glance, although many of my co-workers clapped loudly as he walked toward our table and they cheered as he set off again.  We hugged one last time and I filmed him as he melted into the crowd.

As I turned, I got some grit in my eyes.

The DragonWagon's Mum

He left today; hitched up the DragonWagon and walked off.  “You’ll write your blog, won’t you, Mum?” he called without pausing.

Life is full of tests and surprises.  As we carelessly move from one day to another, reading books, talking to friends, living a day at a time and trying to get to the next without spilling too much or getting too creased, we never imagine the possible surprises that lurk just around the corner. In films there is a skillful musical underscore that helps the viewer along with the plot – tinkling, incidental music when everything is going well; ominous, foreboding music when something unexpected is about to happen, a foreshadowing of sorts. But in life?  There’s no music, there’s no script and there’s no rewind.  You take it as it comes: on the chin, on the head, or in the heart – and there definitely is no PAUSE button.

Christian’s decision to walk out of society as we know it today, didn’t altogether surprise me – in fact I often wondered why he hadn’t done it sooner.  He'd done it in little bursts, sometimes by not calling or texting for weeks on end; sometimes by going off and spending a weekend in the woods, camping and living in the wild, doing what he does there.  But this choice, this time it was the real thing.  If you haven’t read his blog, The DragonWagon, have a read and know that he hasn’t even read Henry David Thoreau yet. 

One by one he got rid of his worldly possessions:

Apartment

     Address

          Furniture

I shivered a little.  There’s a time for talk and a time for action … and my feelings were all muddled up in the middle.  After some couch-surfing with friends in Orlando, he came to live with us for a few weeks before setting sail.  What bliss.  That was like a balm any parent can understand.  Long, lazy weekend lunches, peaceful evening dinners followed by card games, discussion and walks in the dark after the heat of the day had burned off.  Deep conversations, the ones you always mean to have, but never do, because life just pushes you on without them. 

Then went the:

            Car

                        His credit cards

                            His telephone

The phone was the pivotal moment for me.  When the phone was gone there was a ring of truth to the whole adventure.  He and I talked about its meaning more and more, dodging and diving, touching the raw parts, then backing off ever so slightly.  There’s a part of me that sometimes didn’t want to speak and share these amazing, intimate moments, because my frail human self kept wondering “What if? What if?”  Shame on me.  Where was my faith?  A day-by-day alignment of my feelings and especially my ego to bring my encroaching fear in check.

Fear, that evil, corroding fabric shot through me like an icicle.  If I gave in, it would stick to me like a tick on a hot day.  That was NO way to live!  I’ve rescued a four-year old Christian from the bottom of a pool, purple and asphyxiated, breathed life back into him, then put him back in the same pool 48 hours later to overcome his fear.  Cheered him on ten years later when he joined the school swim team.  Propped him up when no one understood his passionate dislike of rugby and football (soccer to my American friends;) watched him go off to high school, college then war. Fear. War. Wasn't that a team game? A mere boy of 18 off to war – skinnier than the massive gun he was carrying – but he there he stood, weapon in hand, a soldier.

My heart bursts with pride when, now, ten years later, I watch him take charge of his life, on his own terms, walking out on society in search of that “thing” that eludes so many.  Some think it’s madness, others say foolish – but I believe it’s the truest thing he’s done for himself in a long, long time.  Yes, he’s climbed rock walls, jumped out of perfectly good airplanes and risked his life in a number of hair-raising adventures and pranks.  He's worked through College and gone straight into a crippling 12-18 hour-a-day job, six and sometimes seven days a week (read his own account here.) But those adventures were all crumbs compared to this one.  

I am his greatest champion and have been from the start, whether his journey lasts two days, a week or years, Shakespeare said it best, "to thine own self be true." Despite my occasional fears and motherly foolishness, I relish his adventure. His laughter booms in my ear as I sit here in the dark, having just come in from an evening walk around the neighborhood, wondering if he also saw the fingernail moon. I sit here, ashamed that I didn't write this blog yesterday.  I tried, but I was too raw.  I tried but I wanted to curtain my emotions.  I tried but I chose to hide. Why do we hide our pain? Why do we couch the truth? Tonight I wondered if his fire was lit and if he'd had enough to eat when I realized I needed to write this.

Three minutes without air.

Three days without water.

Three weeks without food.

We both knew that drill. We rehearsed the three-by-three conversation as we walked together in the dark and in the dappled shade, neither looking into the other's eye but knowing full well what we were discussing.

“You’ll write your blog, won’t you, Mum?” he called without pausing. 
We'd spoken about the blog too, about my agony versus his joy, the hilarity of my worried blog versus his bliss-filled blog.  “Of course I will.” I responded, begging my voice not to break.

“Awesome!” I could hear his grin.  “I love you, Mum,” Christian cheered and punched the air with the long snake-stick my Dad had brought him from England so many years ago after his horrible encounter with the snake in the lake ... but that's another story altogether.
“I love you, Christian,” I called out, but was a bit of a whisper as I watched him walk out of our lives toward his adventure in that inimitable style that only he could pull off: calm and determined; but with a twinkle in his eye.

Who's the guest?

Who’s the guest?

Who’s the guest?

Summer storms 

Blowing dandelion seeds and

Chasing ribbon wrapped

chocolate clouds across the

Dark horizon.

Who’s the guest?

Lipstick, dipstick,

Bananas and gold croutons.

A perfect sand dollar

And long,

Long brown legs.

Who’s the guest?

A dish of caviar?

A warm baguette?

A new moon or

The circle around a

Fat summer moon?

Who’s the guest?

Ding-dong, ding-dong

What would you like

Some aquamarine silk

or maybe a song?

Music notes plucked

From her ear for

You.

Hush, Mummy … Hush

Don’t worry about the guest;

Her sense of not belonging

Furrows across her face

A taste of fear

Fills the air

As she wrings her hands

Tears welling at the tip of

Her bottom eyelids.

Who was with her

When that happened?

The chirpy cuckoo clock?

The lady who doesn’t know her name

Or was it you?

Did you see her cry

As her heart broke?

As her confidence crumbled?

Did your heart break too?

Did you care or just shrug and

Say “Meh, she won’t remember this

Tomorrow?”

Were you the guest?

I sit and rub her

Wringing hands

Caressing them, left first

Then right then left again.

She sighs, confused yet

Aware some pressure is gone;

I am the guest right now

And it is Love

I bring.

No questions nor surprises;

No things that I like,

Nor images of my world.

It is

Love

I bring

In its entire 

Largess.

I am the guest today.

A daughter willing to pass

Unrecognized by

Her own mother.

Calming and loving as I

Sooth her wringing hands,

With a lotion of lemon-grass,

Over and over and over.

Soothing her soul

With a complete portion of Love.

Over and over and over.

Over and

over 

again.

Let love

Let love

(For us)

     By Cath Rathbone

Focus not

On what she’s lost

But love

What she has left.

Look not

At how her clothes

Are stained

But that she still can eat.

Step down

And look her in the eye

Connect with

What’s inside;

Less judging

Of what used to be

Will open

Up your heart.

Love’s patient, kind and healing,

Love softens and outlives;

Lean into Love, release your fear

Let Love acceptance be.

Accept her

Light is going out,

Accept she’s

Going back;

Accept that

She is different now

And ne’er

The same shall be.

Relax and

Put your stuff away;

Your rules,

Your phone, your life.

Sit quiet

And let her set the pace

Enjoy her

For her while.

Love’s patient, kind and healing,

Love softens and outlives;

Lean into Love, release your fear

Let Love acceptance be.

Love her

Who precious gift gave you,

The life

Which you now have;

Love her

Who loved you hour by hour,

None which

You can recall.

Love her

with all your heart and strength

Love for

The both of you;

Love her

With everything you have

She's waiting

In that place.

Lean into Love, release your fear

Lean into Love right now.

Lean in Love and cherish her

Let Love acceptance be.

You're Still Leaving

You're Still Leaving

I wasn’t ready as you began to leave, Mum,

When those awful bony fingers

Began plucking out your abilities,

Your memories, and your character

Taking them one by one by one.

As if to taunt me, they’d replace one

For a minute, or two, or ten…

But then the pickers would pluck them back

Again, without a care; and

Take them one by one by one.

I prayed I could cope with it daily;

Accepting the snatchers would snatch

Again, reaching into your sacred bank

Of treasured moments, and

Take them, one by one by one.

I read and searched like Dad had shown me.

Learning everything I could, so I might be

Prepared, Mum.  Prepared for what? For my

Inability to stop the thief stealing you?

As it took you one by one by one.

The crazy thing is you’re still leaving, Mum.

The grifter telling its sneaky story, selling its ugly lie

That you’re still here but the thief waits by your side to

Plunder, pillage, rob.  You regress as they grow bold,

Taking you, one by one by one.

Where do you go? To Heaven, I bet, Mum

Like a slow version of Star Trek’s

Beaming station – and at the other end, Dad

And Grampie and Mizzy are collecting them

As they arrive, one by one by one

I’m accepting and without expectation today,

After 11 months apart, your face though older’ll

Be the same – the you I knew, will not.

Alzheimer’s, that thief, has done its job

Taking you one by one by one.

I’ll hold your hands, I’ll rub your feet,

And hug you make you laugh – then hold

Your face in both my hands, til eyes

Locked tight, I reach the well of untouchable

Love, Mum, and refill it, one by one by one.

For in the end it’s all that’s left, all that

Matters and all that mattered.  Love. 

You can’t make it, you can’t fake it and

The swindler Alzheimer’s cannot shake it.

I’ll love you for us both, Mum. One by one by one.

By Cath Rathbone

The Boy Who...

The Boy Who Cried

The boy who cried

Came into the room

Sat down

Hunched over

And did

What he did

Best.

He cried.

His mother said “Stop.”

His father said “Stop.”

His teacher said “Stop.”

But the boy just

Cried and cried

The boy who cried

Came into my room

Sat down

Hunched over

And did

What he did

Best.

He cried.

I put my arm around his shoulder,

Some tissues in his hand

Then whispered “God loves you

And so do I.”

The boy who cried

Sniffled and

Looked up

“He does?”

I nodded.

“You do?”

I nodded.

And today he

Loves because

He’s loved.

The Runaway Sultan

The Runaway Sultan

Chapter One

A Portent

“He’s here!” a voice cried out, echoing down the dark, silent corridors of Qataban Palace.

            Jolted awake from a dead sleep, fifteen year-old BB, Prince Bashir Baha al Din, hurled himself out of his bed.

            “It’s a boy.  It’s a boy!  I’m saved!” he crowed as he ran barefooted, clad only in his pajama bottoms .  “It’s a boy. So after Ahmed it’s the boy, NOT ME.” His laughter followed him, echoing like the messenger’s voice all the way to his brother’s wing in opposite end of the Palace.

            Throwing open the enormous carved door, BB leapt onto his brother’s sleeping form, waking him instantly.  “Ahmed! Did you hear?  Your son is here!”

             “Bonbon?  What the blazes…?  Get off me, get off!” Ahmed flung BB off his back, sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

BB bounced up, too excited to feel hurt from the tumble or being called his childhood nickname. “I heard them calling!  You have a boy! A son, a son – it’s just been announced. I have to tell Father!”

“Don’t be a ass,” he growled, “There’s no baby boy, Bashir, I'm going to kill you for this prank …”

“No you won’t.  There is so a boy!”

The pattering of more feet interrupted the night silence.

 “Prince Bashir!” two servants burst in, coming to a dead halt and folding into a deep bow. “Oh, forgive us, Your Highness,” they bowed again to Ahmed, “Permission to speak to Prince Bashir, if it pleases you sir.”

“It does NOT please me. Get out. Get out!  I don’t who care who speaks to whom, get the hell out!”

Without a second thought, they all ran, lest Ahmed begin hurling things at them.

“Hurry, Your Majesty, he’s here,” the servant pointed to one of the back staircases.

“This way is faster!” BB pointed.

“No, Highness.  These back stairs will get you to the Royal Stables much faster.”

BB stopped dead.  Three whole seconds ticked by in his head before he turned to face the men.  “The Royal Stables? But …”

“Yes, Isabella is fretting for you.”

“Isabella?”

“Yes,” bowed the servant again, “Isabella has produced her foal.  It’s male.”

“Oh no.  Oh NO.  So it’s not Ahmed’s baby? It’s Isabella’s foal… what about the Royal baby?”

The servants hung their heads, neither looked up at the Prince.  Neither made eye contact.  That could only mean one thing: one terrible thing.  “Ahmed did not have a boy then?”

They shook their heads, still not looking up.

“A girl?”

They nodded in unison.

“Argh!  Nooo.  No, no no.” BB beat his temples and stamped his feet.  “Jumping jiggery-pokery.  Argh.  Never mind; I still won’t be Sultan.  Come on – I need to celebrate with my lovely Isabella.  What are you waiting for?”

Hold on, I’m coming. I’m coming. BB’s forearms and neck prickled as he skidded into the vast stable. The entrance was ablaze with flickering torchlight, excited whispers and the sweet smell of fresh straw. Men parted and quieted as he hurtled toward the ample birthing section.

I’m coming. He ran smack into someone. “S- sorry…” Winded, BB doubled over, clutching his knees.

“No, it is I you who begs your pardon, Prince BB,” Agad bowed and stepped aside, revealing Isabella.

There she stood, silver-white and shining in the late-night moonlight.

BB gaped.

She nickered the moment she spotted him, pushing the musky smell of her recent foaling toward him, warm and milky.

“Hi … I’m here.” He looked straight at her.

She bobbed her head.

Ignoring the bloodied straw and afterbirth, he inched forward, wrapped his arms around her sweaty neck and buried his face in her matted mane.

“You did it, you wonderful, beautiful, clever girl,” BB rubbed her arched neck and then blew into her nostrils.  Snorting and blowing in response, Isabella nickered, turning her head to one side.

BB stepped back, “Ah, you have something to show me?” he teased.

Huddled in the cool safety of her shadow, still damp but upright on wobbly legs, was Isabella’s foal.  She licked its head and nudged it forward so BB could have a better look.

“Isabella,” he whispered falling to his knees. “He’s beautiful … perfect and beautiful.  Come here little one, yes, that’s it.  I’m not going to hurt you,” BB placed a hand on the newborn’s damp back.  “Eleven months we’ve been waiting for you, did you know that, little chap?”

Without a sounds, someone handed BB a clean towel and he began the slow and gentle process of cleaning off the sticky amniotic fluid.  “You’re so handsome little one and by the time the sun comes up, you’ll be ready to run around outside, did you know that?” A gentle ripple of laughter warmed his heart.  Everyone loved an easy birth.

He was almost finished rubbing the foal’s face, when he gasped, “Double faint-star?  Isabella, did you make a double faint-star?” he turned to look at his mare and then returned to her foal’s forehead.

Isabella whinnied and curled back her lips, tossing her neck, flailing her mane, delighted.

“Come, Agad,” BB called to the head groom, “Tell me about these markings.”

Crouching low, Agad put his hands together and faced BB. “Begging your pardon, Prince BB, but you must not inspect the horse before putting its horse-cloth on.”

“Horse-cloth? Agad, I don’t care about the horse-cloth, or the value of the foal.  Horse-cloths are for people who are buying horses.  This one’s not for sale and never will be.” BB waved a dismissive hand, “I want you to tell me about these,” he pointed to the two pinprick markings on the foal’s forehead.

“Very well then.  Let us take a closer look. Inspection torch,” he called out, making the foal jump.

“Shh.” BB stroked the skittish baby, “Be gentle, Agad if you please.”

“Ah, he doesn’t mind,” Agad grinned.

“But I mind.  I don’t want him startled.  Not now. Not ever.  Please treat him with kindness and consideration.”

Agad dropped his head, “Of course, Prince BB.  I’m foolishly excited and lost my head.”

BB patted the man’s arm, “I know.  Now tell me what you see.”

“Hmm.” The head-groom’s voice seemed stuck in his throat as he illuminated the shivering body nostril to rump.

“What do you mean, ‘Hmm’?  Spit it out, man.”

“Hmm.  Yes definitely twin faint-stars, which would usually be good but …” Agad’s voice trailed off.

“But, what? Agad?”

Every movement froze.  Every sound stilled.  Even Isabella seemed to be holding her huge breath.

“Oh, Prince BB, this is difficult.  So difficult.  There is more, but I do not wish to be the bearer of this portent.  It is too heavy even for me to say aloud.” Agad bowed his head.

“Nonsense.” BB returned to rubbing the damp foal pulling him closer.  “Everything looks perfect.  I know a double faint-star is a sign of good things to come.  What the blazes do you see that I don’t?” BB motioned for the Royal Veterinarian to come close.  “Come, come.  You look too and don’t dare tell me he doesn’t look perfect.”

The two men muttered, poked, lifted, splayed and further examined the colt until BB could contain himself no further. “That’s enough!  Tell me what you’ve found.  Whatever it is, I’m going to keep the foal, I tell you.”

“Well, it’s not that easy,” the veterinarian pushed back his white hair.  Agad mirrored his expression and shook his head.

“It’s this right here,” the older man pointed to the foal’s armpit.

“What?  Smelly armpits already?” BB chortled a ripple of laughter echoed behind him. “Really Isabella, I’m shocked,” BB looked up at her feigning a stern look.  She tossed her head and continued to stare down at them.

“Your Highness, Prince Bashir …” Agad began.  BB sobered up, knowing that the head groom meant business when he addressed him by his full name. “This marking in the armpit, this feather-marking is called a Kukhapit.  It is a powerful portent.”

The silence that followed was brittle.

Everyone seemed to lean in.

The foal edged closer to its dam.

“Portent?” BB’s voice cracked.

“Yes.  It means all relatives of owner will die before him.”