A Caregiver's Spirit in Control

With the awakening of constant consciousness, you become something of a divine schizophrenic, in the popular sense of "split-minded," because you have access to both the Witness and the ego. You are actually "whole-minded," but it sounds like it's split, because you are aware of the constant Witness or Spirit in you, and you are also perfectly aware of the movie of life, the ego and all its ups and downs. So you still feel pain and suffering and sorrow, but they can no longer convince you of their importance--you are no longer the victim of life, but its Witness.

-- Ken Wilber, One Taste: Daily Reflections on Integral Spirituality

"What just happened?" I found myself wondering one day last summer as Romeo showed another sign of decline. At the time, my habitual reaction to a new piece of evidence on his dementia path was to let out a yelp or scream, a sort of wringing of the hands with fear and anger, a denial of cosmic proportions.

However, I had just experienced a completely new reaction, a completely new way to relate to another dementia dive. On that day, you see, Romeo was unable to tie his own shoes for the first time. Every part of me wanted to scream, "Noooooo!" Every part of me wanted to protest, "##@@&&%%%!" Every part of me wanted to put my fist through the nearest wall with all my force. "Freakin' no! Romeo can't tie his shoes!"

Instead, something completely unexpected happened. Instead of verbalizing my frustration and anger, like usual, at Romeo losing yet another ability, I noticed a heightened sense of awareness in me. I felt both my Witness or Spirit as well as my egoistic self. That's happened before. So what was different this time?

The difference was that this time, the Witness and the ego had changed places. The Witness usually watches from outside of my body. It watches the ego, which operates my body. The Witness watches the ego carrying on with its drama, the ego moving my arms and legs, facial muscles, my entire body.

The difference was that this time, the ego was not in control of the body. This time, the ego did not make my body scream, "Noooooo!" This time, the ego did not make my body protest, "##@@&&%%%!" This time, the ego did not make my body want to put my fist through the nearest wall with all my force. This time, the ego did not make me say out loud, "Freakin' no! Romeo can't tie his shoes!"

The difference was that this time, the Witness was present inside of my body. It was not merely a Witness residing outside of it. This time, the Witness and the ego had changed places. The ego was now outside of my body.

I as the Witness watched calmly as the ego went through its drama, which was visible only to the Witness. I as the Witness waited patiently until the ego was done. Then I as the Witness calmly turned to Romeo and hugged him. I as the Witness calmly told Romeo how much I loved him. I as the Witness fell to my knees in front of Romeo and lovingly tied his shoes for him. I as the Witness felt love exploding from every cell in my body, finally understanding the honor to serve Romeo in this way, to be able to tie Romeo's shoes for him.

Delusions in Dementiaville

Romeo is now having frequent, almost daily, delusions. New behaviors for him begin slowly, an occurrence here, one there, sometimes weeks apart, then increasing in frequency to perhaps three or four times a week, sometimes becoming permanent.

Early on in Romeo's journey with dementia, I could quickly attribute his delusions to minor forgetfulness or misconceptions. That was when he would "confuse" a minor fact or two, a mere fact or two.

Things have changed, and big time. Romeo's recall has now expanded to him "remembering" entire incidents that occurred nowhere else but in his world, in his fractured memory. Some of his remembrances are pleasant, some not.

For example, during one of my recent visits that extended to Romeo's bedtime, he complained (and insisted) that his roommate was having a party and had the TV on loudly and that it was disturbing him. In reality, no such thing was happening. What was really taking place is: yes, the TV was on, but it was quite soft; yes, there were people in the room -- one nursing assistant helping Romeo's roommate to bed. That's it. Nothing more.

So how did I handle this situation with Romeo when he complained to me about it? I agreed with him. Yes, there was a party going on. And I assured him that it would be over in a few minutes. It did the trick. It settled him. Can't help but wonder, however, how he would have reacted if instead I had told him what a friend had suggested. She wondered what he would have said if I had told him, "It's a pity they didn't invite you." Would he have been angry that he hadn't been invited? Would he have laughed? Would it have been so outside of his thought that he would have forgotten about it?

On a more refreshing note, one of Romeo's pleasant delusions involved him taking a ride to the mountains with friends and stopped for lunch, then for tea. This is something Romeo and I did often -- driving into the mountains, having lunch and/or dinner, taking a hike or walk, having tea. On this day, however, there was no such trip. It simply did not occur.

As Romeo told me the story of this most recent "trip," however, there was a twinkle in his eyes and fresh delight in his voice. So of course I went along with whatever he said, enjoying a somewhat normal conversation with him, even if it was about an outing that happened only in his mind.

It did not matter what Romeo said. What was important is what he felt. His emotions, his happiness -- these feed into his quality of life, which can always use some help. This boost of joy and delight, his perceived trip to the mountains, made his day and several days afterward. He buzzed with excitement, and it touched me deeply. My Romeo man-child in near ecstasy.

Another Celebration in the Nursing Home

Today is another anniversary. It is the fifth anniversary of Romeo's marriage proposal to me. I brought Romeo more cheesecake today to celebrate.

Five years ago today, the day after we met, after a vegetable stir-fry dinner we prepared together, Romeo said to me, "I know this is way too early to ask. I'm going to ask you later, but I want to ask you now, too."

I looked at him, knowing what was coming.

Romeo said, "Will you marry me?"

Yes, that probably seems odd to you -- a marriage proposal the day after we met. The day after we met!

But it did not seem odd to me. It seemed late. I thought to myself, "What took you so long to ask?"

Everything about the two of us together was right, and we both knew it. Yes, why not a marriage proposal the day after we met?

My answer to him that evening was, "Yes, without a doubt in my mind."

The "official" proposal (with ring) came a month later, on my birthday, and the wedding was a week before Christmas, almost four months after we met. The rest, as they say, is history.

Celebration in the Nursing Home

Five years ago today, neither Romeo nor I knew where we would be today. Five years ago today, our history began. Five years ago today, Romeo and I met.

Today I went to his nursing home and brought him a special treat to celebrate: cheesecake. Good cheesecake. He gobbled it up happily and said, "It doesn't seem like it was five years ago, does it?"

Indeed it does not. There was no dementia then. Or shall I say it hadn't shown any noticeable signs.

Officially, we met online, then spoke on the phone, then made a date to meet in person for tea. Every year, until now, we celebrated our actual physical meeting by going to that same tea shop and enjoying green tea (for Romeo) and rooibus chai with soy milk (for me), toasting our good fortune, and honoring that first meeting.

If I could turn back the clock and back myself out of the situation, as if it had never happened, as if our meeting had never taken place, would I? Would Romeo? The answer for both of us is that being together has been the richest, lushest, most loving times of our lives, with the most spiritual growth each has ever experienced. Give up all of that? Nope, never.

A Caregiver's Gratitude Journal

For numerous years, on and off, I have kept a gratitude journal. If you don't know what that is, it's simply a list you make each day of five things that you are thankful for. Why would anyone keep a gratitude journal? There are a number of benefits. Many people I know who keep a gratitude journal have noted that it helps to:

• keep you in the present.
• relieve stress (so important for caregivers!).
• direct your attention to the abundance in your life.
• balance you emotionally.
• manifest the sort of life you would like (this relates to the Law of Attraction).
• improve the quality of your spiritual life.

So how do you go about keeping a gratitude journal? Let's start with the journal itself and your writing implement. You can keep a gratitude journal on anything from pieces of scrap paper to an expensive leather journal, and anything in between. You can even make one yourself, or keep it on your computer or iPhone. I prefer to use a lined blank journal with an artsy cover. I especially love the lined journals that have magnetic closures.

Next, how often and when should you write in your gratitude journal? Daily is recommended. However, if you want to write more than once a day, go for it! Many people prefer to set aside a few minutes before they go to bed to do their writing, others prefer in the morning. Anytime you'd like is fine, as long as you set aside 5-10 minutes of quiet time to do this.

To begin, sit silently for a minute or so quieting your mind. Then focus on things in your life you're grateful for. It could be anything, from a loving, nurturing relationship, to the paper you're writing on. Begin to write. Write down five things you're thankful for, starting each sentence with "I am grateful for," or "I am thankful for," or any other variation such as "I am truly grateful for," or "I am so thankful for."

It is most important while you're writing that you think about what it is you're writing, to FEEL the gratitude, to FEEL the emotion of it, and stay in the feeling. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the feel of gratitude that I think of many more things for which I'm grateful, so I write them down as well, staying with the gratitude emotion.

That's it. That's all there is to keeping a gratitude journal. You'll see benefits the first time you try it.

A short meditation with Deepak Chopra on gratitude:

Prescription for a Caregiver

Yesterday my naturopathic doctor wrote me a prescription. It says:

PLAY A LOT.
Do anything and everything
to nurture yourself
and have fun!

This prescription came about precisely because I haven't been nurturing myself or taking care of myself very well. Instead, I've been focused on taking care of Romeo. I know better, of course, but now I KNOW better. Each cell in my body KNOWS now to play and nurture myself much more than I have been.

It's been a few days since my doc wrote that play prescription, so what have I done so far to play and nurture myself and have fun? I've played my djembe drum every day, played with my grandchildren, took regular soaks in my spa tub, worked on my art, meditated more. These activities are ones I do regularly anyway -- but now I'm doing them more often and for longer periods of time. Yippeee!

And I have noticed the change in me, even after a mere few days. Specifically, I've noticed that I no longer feel that taking care of Romeo is a heavy burden. Crises he reports to me aren't crises at all, but small issues or problems that are easily handled. As a result, I feel more energy running through me, and I've noticed a clarity of thinking that makes it easy for me to make decisions.

In addition, my new play and nurture model has given me a fresh outlook and a renewed sense of optimism. I'm jazzed about my art again, I'm motivated to play my drum, and I'm clear on setting boundaries to protect my play and nurture time.

As a result, new possibilities are opening up to me. New ideas for recreating every aspect of my life have appeared on my radar, along with the awareness of what that life might look like. Yes, my life goes on without Romeo, and it will look very different without him. But it's all good because it came to me through play and nurturing.

Ice Cream in the Nursing Home

Ice-cream is exquisite - what a pity it isn't illegal.

-- Voltaire

Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos.

-- Don Kardong

Romeo loves ice cream, so he's very happy that the nursing home has an ice cream parlor that's open for a short while four days a week.

While flavors vary with each day, some of the usuals include black cherry, strawberry, vanilla, rocky road, strawberry cheesecake, chocolate chip, mint chocolate chip, fudge ripple, praline, neopolitan, and butter pecan. There are also two or three choices available in sugar-free ice cream.

Romeo's favorite flavor is anything with chunks of fruit in it. Strawberry, black cherry, peach. It's his way of keeping it healthy. We'll let him live his fantasy.

Romeo savors each spoonful of ice cream he takes. His face breaks out in a Cheshire cat-like smile that's hard to discern among the moustache hair, and I would imagine his toes wiggle at the delight of that creamy, fruity goodness. Ice cream is one of the few things left that truly make him happy, and I'm grateful he has it to delight him.

Attached in Dementiaville

There are four questions of value in life...
What is sacred?
Of what is the spirit made?
What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for?
The answer to each is the same.
Only love.
-- Johnny Depp
as Don Juan deMarco (1995)

When Romeo and I first met, we could hardly stand to be away from each other. And by "away," I mean that we didn't even like to part for the few seconds it took to go to opposite sides of the car to get in. Really. I couldn't believe it myself at the time.

But these were true feelings, the feeling to be attached at all times, that came from deep within each of us. Why we felt like this was a mystery to us both. Still, we followed our instincts and held hands wherever we went. Grocery shopping, running errands, sightseeing, taking walks. We were attached in a way neither of us had ever been attached before. This was bonding in an extremely healthy way.

Romeo and I were living love, we WERE love, and we seemed to magnify those loving feelings wherever we were without trying. Strangers on the street would see us, and they would nod and smile hugely, walking away with a spring in their step that wasn't there a few seconds ago. People would stop us and comment about how much in love we seemed to be. People would ask how long we had been married. I told the truth at the time "Six months." Secretly, I was thinking that it was more like 600 years, in the good sense.

Now, five years later, much has changed. We don't go grocery shopping together, we don't run errands together, we don't go sightseeing together. The only walks we take together are when I get Romeo up for short jaunts around the nursing home or outside of it on the deck. People still stop us and comment about how much in love we seem to be. People still ask how long we've been married. Now I reply, "Almost five years." And I still secretly think that it's more like 600 years, in the good sense.

The Tower and the Caregiver

We turn to God for help
when our foundations are shaking,
only to learn it is God
who is shaking them.
-- Charles C. West

Last night I had an "aha" moment, a lightning flash of revelation, if you will, where I realized, where I really KNEW that I had just experienced a shift in consciousness. I am done, finished, living my life as I have been.

And today I randomly pulled this tarot card -- The Tower -- and oh dear. Yep, it's true. There's that lightning flash, there's the fire destroying everything I have built to this point. If catharsis is not yet complete, it's close.

This is a true upheaval, a crisis of the soul. Yet, since this shift in consciousness last night, I am calm in the face of the chaos. I move forward, intensely rededicated and refocused to certain aspects of my life, while leaving room for other possibilities to surface.

The rebuilding has begun even before the tower has been completely toppled. I expect that these foundations which I cherished will also liberate me as they crumble. I expect the rude awakenings that have come my way, one after another, after another, after another, have accelerated my growth. Seldom do I experience many of life's upheavals. Instead, I either stand by, an unconnected third party unable to tear my eyes from the morbid scene, and simply watch the unfolding, or participate only as an actor on the stage of my life.

Yes, I am going through major changes now that Romeo lives in a nursing home. Things will never be the same again. Yet, I now have the chance to rethink, reevaluate, and rebuild my life to what I want it to be. I now have the chance to realign with my true self. And while this is a tumultuous process, there is a new sort of freedom and spiritual growth sprouting from the base of that tower.

An Event Remembered in Dementialand

I walked into Romeo's room in the nursing home around 8:45 a.m. He was due to be up and in a private office in the reception area to receive a special phone call from his brother in Thailand in about 15 minutes. The call was supposed to have taken place the previous day but didn't due to numerous flub-ups on the part of the nursing home staff.

Romeo immediately began to tell me about an incident that happened during the previous night. It was another big flub-up by the nursing home staff that I'd need to sort out.

"Romeo, I'm sorry to interrupt you. I know what you're telling me is very important, but right now we need to get you up and into that private office for that phone call with Colin. After the call we'll talk about this and figure out what to do."

He nodded his understanding.

"Besides," I said, "something else is wrong and I haven't had time to scream and cry about it yet."

"What is it?"

"Jason got bit by a rattlesnake. He's in the ICU at Children's Hospital." I could hardly speak the words from choking back the emotion. Jason is my six year-old grandson.

"What! Is he okay?"

"He's stabilized right now. They're giving him antivenin, and he's on morphine for the pain." More choking back.

We had pressed Romeo's call button, but I had no faith that anyone would come quickly to get him out of bed and into his wheelchair. They were supposed to have gotten him up before I arrived. I went to the front desk and told the receptionist the situation, requested someone unlock the private office we were to use, and put a fire under the nursing staff to get someone into Romeo's room NOW to get him up.

The logistics for the call went smoothly after I lit a fire under everyone. Afterward, Romeo and I discussed the problem he experienced the previous night, then discussed it with a nursing supervisor who could actually do something about it (more about this in another post). Then, I told Romeo that I would have to leave to go be with Jason and the rest of the family at the hospital. I thought I would have to explain Jason's situation once again to Romeo and justify my leaving and never quite getting through to him (which is usually the case because of Romeo's dementia).

When Romeo remembers things, especially something as major as Jason being bit by a rattlesnake, I feel a beautiful flowering of my heart, and the love I feel is nearly overwhelming. Romeo's remembering such things is a sign to me that despite his dementia, he is still present for us, he is still with us for the important things in life. He remembers.

Comfort Cooking by a Caregiver: Carrot and Tofu Saute

For the past week, I've been cooking more than usual. Maybe it's because there's a little bit of autumn in the air and it feels good to spend time in the kitchen, maybe it's because my creativity is being pulled in that direction, maybe it's because I have a bounty of organic veggies (some given to me by gardening friends, some purchased at the local farmers' market), maybe it's because it simply feels good to take care of myself by preparing healthy, nutritious food that smells soooo good as it cooks.

This week, one of the dishes I made (and am still happily munching on the leftovers) is a carrot and tofu saute. Simple to make, and scrumptillyishious. Here's my vegan, gluten-free recipe:

1 lb. extra-firm tofu, crumbled
2 tsp vegetable oil
1 lb. grated carrots
1/3 cup low-sodium tamari
1 tsp toasted sesame oil
(always use organic ingredients)

Heat vegetable oil over medium heat in a 12" skillet.
Add carrots and saute for 4-5 minutes.
Add tofu and saute for another 4-5 minutes.
Stir in tamari and saute for 1-2 minutes.
Stir in sesame oil.

Serve hot over quinoa or the rice of your choice.
Garnish with sliced green onions.

Enjoy! And remember that each and every one of us needs to take care of ourselves, not just us caregivers.

Inbox Q and A: Why Aren't There Any Posts by Romeo in Dementiaville?

This is a great question. I would love to have Romeo write something for this blog. He'd be able to give us an insider's view of what it's like having dementia, living in a nursing home. He'd be able to tell us how his thoughts form, how it feels to lose them, what he feels when he can't remember something.

The only answer to why there aren't any blog posts by Romeo is simply: he can't put the words together, he can't find the words to say more than a phrase or two, and even those are largely incoherent.

It takes much time for me to pull information out of him. What I manage to "catch" must also then be sifted -- is it really what he means? is he remembering it correctly? is it true, or does it come from Dementiaville?

So that's why his words on this blog are limited to only a few. It's how he speaks, it's what is real. He couldn't write an entire post, he lacks the thought processes to think in terms of an entire post, and he has no desire to sort out his thoughts and words because he gets lost in the random jumble of them. The only way out for him is to jump out of the thought process completely, to abandon it, to leave it as his personality is surely leaving him.

Pre-Dementia Romeo Calls From the Nursing Home

It's near bedtime, and the phone rings. It's Romeo. Again, he asked one of the nursing staff to dial my home number. He hasn't been able to dial a phone for two years or so.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Yes, everything is fine." His voice is clear. There is no hint of brain fog.

"I just wanted to hear your voice," he croons into the phone.

This is the Romeo who first wooed me. This is the Romeo whose voice is clear, confident, in charge, sexy. This is the Romeo I haven't heard in a very, very long time. It is the alpha Romeo with the sensitivity and the presence of a god.

"You sound great," I say.

"Do I? I don't feel any different."

"You sound like the Romeo I met five years ago."

There's a smile in his voice. "Really?

"Mmmmm."

We chat for 15 or 20 minutes. I soak up every bit of him that comes through his voice, his clear voice, his amazingly clear voice, his voice talking to me right now. I'll remember this call always. The night the old Romeo called. The night the old Romeo called because he wanted to hear my voice. The night the old Romeo spoke as the clear-headed, unfoggy Romeo.

Eventually, we hang up. Romeo, still the old Romeo, goes to sleep in his bed in the nursing home. And I fall asleep in my bed in my home, smiling, remembering.

Sleepless in the Nursing Home

The phone rang at 10:00 a.m. It was Romeo. He had asked one of the nursing staff to dial my home number. He wanted to talk with me.

"Hello?"

"Juliet, I couldn't sleep last night."

"What was wrong?"

"They put me in a very small bed. It was too small for me, and I was scrunched up and couldn't get comfortable. I didn't sleep all night."

I considered Romeo's complaint. Hmmm...all the beds are the same size, the standard twin. Romeo's information is incorrect, and he can't think things through to make sense of the fact that
the nursing home wouldn't have a bed smaller than a twin size. He can't think to recall that the bed he slept in last night is the same bed he's slept in since he moved there.

"Romeo," I said, "I'm sorry you weren't comfortable. Are you in bed now?"

"No, I'm in my wheelchair."

"Good. Are you comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Okay, that's good. Do you know what I'm wondering?"

"No."

"I wonder if last night you were scrunched up toward the bottom, toward the foot of your bed and that's why you weren't comfortable?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, that could be it."

"Yes, it might be what happened."

But Romeo is still in the habit of telling all of his complaints to me instead of the nursing staff, the people who are there with him and who can help him when he needs it.

I continued, "Romeo, whenever you need something or whenever you're uncomfortable, press your call button. When someone comes, tell them what's going on with you. They'll do whatever they can to make you comfortable."

"Oh, I see."

"So if you had pressed the call button last night when you couldn't sleep, someone would have come and helped you to get comfortable. You would have been able to sleep then."

"Oh, yes. Okay. I'll do that next time."

Will he? Will he remember?

Chocolate in Dementiaville

Romeo loves chocolate. Dark chocolate. Not inexpensive dark chocolate, but high quality dark chocolate. He likes every flavor he's ever tried, except mint. He particularly enjoys everything from raspberry flavored dark chocolate to crystallized ginger in dark chocolate, and he's also happy to eat it without any flavor whatsoever. Plain dark chocolate may be his favorite.

Chocolate has a long history in the realms of love, power, and devotion. You've probably heard that chocolate is a well-known aphrodisiac. Yep, that's why we give chocolate on Valentine's Day. But did you know Montezuma II, that sly devil of an Aztec ruler, would drink an extra cup of chocolate before he dashed off to consort with any one of his favorite ladies? Sounds as good an excuse as any.

Those Aztecs knew their way around chocolate. Because it was rare, rich, and thus expensive, it represented luxury. Only high-ranking figures were able to afford it, and so it became a status symbol for the wealthy and powerful.

Finally, as a symbol of devotion, the Aztecs would place cacao seeds on altars for their deities. They also drank it often as part of special religious events.

Eating and drinking chocolate can certainly be a religious experience, but Romeo does not see chocolate as a devotional, power, or love token. He simply loves dark chocolate. It doesn't appear that the taste buds are affected by dementia.

When Friends Visit Romeo in the Nursing Home

When I visit Romeo at the nursing home, it reminds him that he'd rather not be there, that he'd rather be with me all of the time, wherever I am. And then he's sad for the rest of my visit and doesn't really enjoy our time together. He wants me to be there, but he also wants to be with me when I'm not there.

That's natural. It's also impossible. He needs care 24/7. I can't give it to him. As a result of our not being able to be together all the time, our visits take on a sad, serious undertone. There are times of levity, but he is somber much of the time I am with him.

By contrast, however, Romeo has a grand time when friends visit him. Unlike the time he and I spend together, his time with friends reminds him that he indeed has a life. It is not quite what he may have envisioned, but he still has a life.

One of Romeo's friends, Frank, regularly visits and emails me reports of their time together. I appreciate this, as it gives me a glimpse into a world unfamiliar to me, the world Romeo lives when I'm not with him. Here is a recent report from Frank:

You may be pleased to know that Romeo looked and acted more like the old Romeo than ever before today. He was bright and chipper and fulla good mirth. We laughed and joked quite a bit, as well as discussed current events: the 3rd War at the Arizona border. It's weird. He knows he has "dementia episodes" but today he was as sharp as ever. We had lunch and time on the patio.

And another visit:

I spent several hours with Romeo talking, having lunch and enjoying two little old ladies flirting with me, telling me how much they admired my "lovely pants." Too funny.

I told Romeo the story of the Aryan Vandals who conquered Carthage, decimated the Roman army and naval fleet circa 450 A.D. The Byzantine empire sent from Constantinople a fleet to retake Carthage, a key Mediterranean center, but the Vandals decimated their ships by fixing the rudders on many of their unmanned ships, setting fire to them and letting them drift into the tight cluster of Byzantine ships, an amazing sea battle in which the Vandals simply anchored their manned ships and watched the enemy burn...a complete and humiliating victory.

Romeo loved the story...like a little boy he listened with rapt attention and exclaimed "Wow!" at the conclusion. I know he loves history, the more obscure, the more interesting.

After a few hours he settled down for a nap, asking me to remind Juliet to bring ear plugs/muffs because at 6:00 a.m. there's a lot of sudden clanging of metal carts and whatnot.

He had totally forgotten my visit last Friday. I told him just to remember that Fr-Fr-Fr-Friday means Fr-Fr-Fr-Frankday. He said, "Fine, I'll totally forget this visit and when you come next week it will be such a good surprise," with his usual dark humor. He made me laugh. I told him I'd call if I wasn't coming on any Friday.

Overall, he was chipper and happy to have a conversation.

Chipper and happy -- something I don't see much of in him. I am grateful that he has good times, that he can laugh. Thank you, Frank, and thank you to all of Romeo's visitors for giving Romeo this time, the chance to be happy, the chance to lose himself with childlike wonder in a story, the chance to laugh at his own dementia.

Letting Dementia Be

As much as possible, I let Romeo's dementia simply be. I don't try to teach him anything; he can't learn. I don't ask him if he remembers X; he usually won't. I don't suggest he try to do a certain task differently; he can't grasp the idea.

Instead, I soothe him, reassure him, tell him that he's fine and that I love him. And I must do it multiple times for it to "take," for him to understand. This is one aspect of dementia.

All in all, I think Romeo has adjusted to life with dementia and living it in the nursing home. He's fine with letting someone do practically everything for him. He can do only a few things himself. He can brush his teeth, he can wash his face and hands, he can feed himself, although he usually leaves a mess on the table.

At times, he can't find his fork (it's in his hand). Sometimes I watch as he, in a dementia fog, tries to figure out how to pick up a spoon. It's heartbreaking to watch him first try to locate the spoon, then move his hand toward it and miss the target. He is concentrating hard. If I spoke to him now, it wouldn't register for a minute or two. It takes that long to get through the fog.

Let it be. Simply let it be. He's fine. He's occupied. He has purpose. I step in only when he gives up, sits back in his chair. His version of giving up, of letting it be, tugs at my heart. He has no anger, shows no sign of frustration. He simply sits back, looks at his mess, looks at me, and smiles. Yes, we let the dementia be. There is so much more to experience. Dementia isn't all there is. There is love.

A Caregiver's First Retreat

I had been burned out for some time. The stress and pressure of seeing to Romeo's needs, of advocating for him in the nursing home, as well as the sheer amount of time I had spent there each day (four to six hours a day -- sometimes less, often more), and the stress caused by receiving, deflecting, and sometimes ignoring well-intended suggestions from others about Romeo's care had taken its toll. I was drained.

What to do? Time for a little vacation, a break, a personal retreat. I had never traveled without Romeo since he was diagnosed with dementia, except for business -- and that was work. Every trip Romeo and I took was stressful for me. The last trip we took in October 2009, I had decided, was the last trip I could take with him. It was simply too much to look after him every step of the way. He needed help with everything -- from getting his breakfast to getting the water temperature right for his shower, to getting in and out of the shower, to finding whichever room he wanted to go to, and on and on and on. By the time we got home, I was exhausted and needed a vacation from the vacation.

I decided to book a room in Taos, New Mexico, for the first four weekday nights I could find. I've been to Taos many times before. The energy of the plaza, the pueblo, the museums, restaurants, art galleries -- all of it feels like home to me.

I booked a casita -- a 550 square foot room with a kitchen and laundry area, living area, bedroom, and bathroom. And a private covered patio overlooking the garden and yard. The perfect place to rest, relax, rejuvenate.

Ahhh, what to do now that I'm here? What my heart tells me, of course. I read, I wrote, meditated, played my drum, and I was silent. I had questions and I sensed my soul had insights for me. Now here, finally, was the solitude and quiet I needed to hear everything. And it came. The answers and the insights came, as they always do.

"You're spending too much time with Romeo at the nursing home."

Yes, I see that now.

"Take care of yourself better. Cut back on the number of hours you visit Romeo. If you're not with him so much, you can make your own meals at home instead of grabbing whatever you can on the run. It will also be good for him. If you're not there all the time, he'll get out of his room more and participate in the planned activities at the nursing home.

"Have massages periodically. Go out and have fun more often. Get back to playing your drum every day. Keep writing. Get back to your art. Take walks more often. Sit more often. And take trips like this every few months, mini retreats. Live your own life. You don't need care 24/7. You don't live in a nursing home. Romeo does.

"You can still visit Romeo, but cut the hours way back. He'll be fine. He will be fine. He will be fine. He has to deal with this too, and he needs the space to do it."

And I knew everything I heard was right.

Now that I've been back for two weeks and implemented those changes, I see how much stress I had been under. It crept up on me. I didn't see it, didn't realize how it had built. I was under so much stress that I didn't recognize the symptoms as they showed themselves. A lesson learned in a most difficult way, but learned nonetheless.

A Caregiver's Pregnant Sadness

The more time I spend at home, the more I feel Romeo's absence. Or rather, the space in my life he occupied. The space is empty. And noticeably empty.

It feels to me like sadness. My sadness. It's my sadness for the new lifestyle Romeo and I must live. We are necessarily living separate lives -- Romeo in the nursing home, me at home. It would sadden any couple with the deep connection Romeo and I have.

Even so, I can sense a number of goals, activities, interests, things I want to do, rising to the surface, nearly ready to push away that sadness, nearly ready to show themselves once the sadness is completely out in the air. These elements that rise to the surface are the backbone of my new life. They represent the direction of my new life. They say, "Live, Juliet, live!"

Am I curious, excited, anxious to know what that direction is? Not at all. I trust that everything will be revealed to me in time, as it needs to, as it makes sense. The sadness will be gone, and it will be right.

Wheelchairs and Dementia

Romeo doesn't walk much. He's unsteady on his feet. The staff at his nursing home takes him for walks during the day, and I also get him up and walking around a bit each time I visit.

Romeo seldom uses a walker, as he can't get his mind around how to use it. So he's in a wheelchair much of the time. Even so, he can wheel himself around for only a short time. He forgets how to do it. It also takes him a long time to find the brakes and set them, if he can manage at all. And when he goes tooling down the hallways, he gets lost and doesn't think to ask for help. Eventually, someone comes by and asks him if he needs a push to his room or wherever he wants to go.

Romeo's wheelchair is alarmed (so is his bed). Whenever he gets up, an alarm sounds to alert the staff. Romeo is not to get up without assistance, and rightly so because of his balance issues. The first week he was in the nursing home, he fell twice because he didn't remember he needed someone to help him. The alarms went off, and the staff came running and the doctor came and X-rays were taken to make sure he was okay. He was. Nothing broken, no other injuries. Romeo is a lucky man.

When I get Romeo out of his wheelchair, I hold his arm with one hand as he rises and silence the alarm with the other. When we go for a walk, Romeo makes his way down the hall like a newly-crowned beauty queen, beaming with light and offering himself to passersby for their admiration and worship. They give it to him.

Romeo's wheelchair, like most wheelchairs I suspect, have removable attachments that hold footrests, a place for Romeo to rest his feet while he's being wheeled around. And there's also a problem with using them. Romeo simply can't follow directions like "put your right foot on the footrest." Dementia doesn't allow him to do it. He hears the instruction, but his foot does not receive the instruction. So he just sits there, or he'll move his left foot -- rather, he'll jerk his left foot around.

So when I'm getting Romeo to go out in his wheelchair, I'll kneel down by his feet, hold onto the foot we'll place on the footrest, and I'll tell him we'll put his right foot on the footrest, touching his leg as I do. Of course, this usually doesn't work either. He also can't understand the instruction to lower his foot, even while I'm applying steady pressure downward. He resists. Eventually, though, we get it there. We follow the same process for the left foot.

Complicating issues (there seems to nearly always be a complication with anything Romeo does) is his frequent muscle spasms. His arms, legs, or entire body can spasm at any time. We're working with his doctor to remedy this. In the meantime, when his legs spasm it throws his feet off the footrests. When I'm pushing him in the wheelchair, I can't see when this happens. I'll either feel a drag, or he'll make a noise. I stop the wheelchair to investigate and then start the entire process over. Putting his feet on the footrests is a major undertaking, and I am as gentle as possible with him.

Romeo, of course, can't control the spasms, just as he can't control the progression of his dementia. Going with the flow, accepting what's happening to him, is still difficult for him, as it would be for anyone. At this point in his slow descent, he is aware of what's happening to him, but he can't control it. He's falling and can't seem to relax into the ride. Who can blame him? Who wouldn't be afraid?

For now, I'm simply enjoying the fact that he can get into a wheelchair and I can push him here and there -- outside on the sun deck, down the hall to a lounge or computer room or activity room. The day may come when we won't be able to get Romeo into a wheelchair, when he'll be confined to bed, not knowing who I or anyone else is, not knowing who he is. Simply being in his confusion.

The Problem With Vegetarianism in Nursing Homes

My Romeo has been a vegetarian since...well, a long time, he tells me. (If you're wondering, I am vegan and gluten-free.) His eating habits are stellar, although he has a sweet tooth that we indulge periodically. Romeo eats nutritiously and has done so for quite some time. So it was quite a shock when he moved into the nursing home, and we discovered that he is the only resident who is vegetarian.

Now, you wouldn't think this would be much of a problem -- especially living near Boulder, Colorado, (we're in Longmont, a little east of Boulder) a vegetarian and environmental and spiritual mecca. The reality is that most of the people in Romeo's nursing home are about 20 years older than he, and there aren't many vegetarians in the 85+ age group.

As a result, I'm discovering that most nursing homes are simply naive about vegetarianism and aren't able to deal with serving nutritional vegetarian meals. It's so far out of their box of knowledge that it hasn't yet been institutionalized, perhaps they don't notice the glimmer on the horizon. Romeo's nursing home, at least, has us to practice on. We're the guinea pigs.

What that has meant for us is a lot of heartache and headache, banging our heads against the wall. And for me, being a ruthless advocate for Romeo.

You may think that they could feed him anything on the food cart without meat. Nope, doesn't work. They usually always have salad available. Romeo eats salad only occasionally. Besides, there's much more to vegetarianism than salad. The nursing home is big on white bread. Romeo does wheat, of course. They always have grilled cheese available. He will eat that, unless he notices it's made with white bread. But one week, they served it to him for lunch and dinner for three days in a row. I can't always be there during his mealtimes, of course, so this one got past me until one of the nursing supervisors brought it to my attention. Bless her heart.

Finally, finally, finally, we got to the dietitian on staff to discuss Romeo's diet. She agreed to sit down with us to plan his meals for the week ahead. We do this every week now, and this part of the process has been working well. I expect soon that she won't need to meet with us about this, that she'll have a firm grasp on what Romeo eats. She does a great job of seeing that his meals are nutritious and balanced.

However, there were (and still are at times) other hurdles in the entire food serving process for Romeo. For example, the cooks sometimes didn't prepare what was on his menu, so Romeo would simply not receive the protein portion of his meal. On one occasion, actually during the time he should have been eating lunch, one of the kitchen staff was at the store purchasing the ingredients (again, protein) for Romeo's meal. He had a very late lunch that day.

Another frequent problem involved the staff working the food cart. Their job is to look at his menu for that meal and plate it for him. Except they don't do it very well. They have served him pasta topped with beef tips and gravy. They have served him only asparagus and wheat bread, leaving out the tempeh and quinoa. They have served him meals without any vegetables.

Yet another broken piece of serving vegetarian food to Romeo involves the nursing assistants and nurses who take the food from the cart to Romeo's table. They'll bring him what food service has plated, then with all good intentions, they ask Romeo if everything looks okay. Well, he has dementia and doesn't know what he's supposed to have. Even when I'm with him for a meal, I refer to the menu the dietitian worked up with our help. Who can remember those details from meal to meal, from day to day? Not me. So when Romeo is asked if everything is fine, he says yes, being the British gentleman he is. His plate could come to him missing an important piece of the meal and he wouldn't know. So now a nursing supervisor checks his meal to be sure it's complete and will hunt down the missing parts if it isn't.

Romeo has been living in the nursing home now for more than two months. I think his meal process is pretty much fixed. Things seem to be running a lot better, although there has been an infrequent lapse.

I've beat myself up over this whole thing, I've beat other people up over this whole thing, I've been the advocate from hell. I want things to be right for Romeo. Just as meat eaters deserve to be fed well-balanced, nutritious meals, my Romeo deserves to be fed well-balanced, nutritious vegetarian meals. Any vegetarian in a nursing home deserves to be fed well-balanced, nutritious meals. What's up with vegetarians having to struggle for this? What's the big problem?

The Caregiver's Strategy - The Second Part

Without humor in my tool belt, a new strategy to lift Romeo's moods has come forward. It's love. Rather, it's finding a crack in his frame of mind to insert love. It's searching for an opening where I can hold his hand, get his attention so he'll look at me, and talk about love and who he really is, what our relationship really is.

The crack where I can enter his space, his mind, is a barely perceptible instant when he lets go of his pain and sorrow. These cracks are rare, and when I find one, I must act immediately. I must slip him into his body, into his present, and love him and tell him about himself, about us. This, then, connects him to the truth and quiets and soothes him.

I spot a crack. "Romeo," I say, "I love you with my whole being." He doesn't look at me. He often doesn't look at me. "Romeo, would you please look at me?"

"I can't."

Me, gently: "Why not? Can you tell me why not?"

He begins to weep softly. "Because...because...it hurts me and I cry."

"Why does it hurt you, my love, why do you cry?"

"Because I love you so much and we've only been married a short time. We've had so little time together."

It's true. We met five years ago, in the afternoon of August 27, 2005. He asked me to marry him the next evening. And I thought to myself, "What took you so long?" Our bond is strong. To me, it feels like we've always been together -- for 5,000 years, not this mere five years of physical time.

"Oh, yes, I see, Romeo. I'm not sure if I believe in reincarnation; even so, do you know how much we have been together in past lives? A lot. They're probably trying to get us to stay away from each other more, to experience being with others throughout our lifetimes."

I have his attention, and he locks his gaze with mine, his blue eyes looking through mine, searching deeply, wanting more.

"Romeo, you are so much more."

He's lapping it up, poised to hear what else I'll say.

"Yes, you have dementia. Yes, you are confined to living in a nursing home."

The crack is still open.

"And most of you is living elsewhere."

He has a bolt of realization. The truth is here.

I nod and tell him, "Yes, yes! Most of your being, your soul, your essence, doesn't live here. It never did. Even before you had dementia, only a tiny part of your awareness was focused here."

He is still holding my gaze. I go on because there is more.

"In fact, you aren't even you. Do you know who you are, who any of us really are?"

Yes, he knows, he nods.

"You, me, all of us. We are It. We are the One. We are the Universe. We are everyone and everything. We are love."

He reaches out, wanting me to come nearer, to hug me. This is a convoluted affair, trying to embrace, with Romeo in his wheelchair.

"Can you think of that -- who you really are -- sometimes?"

"Sometimes, yes" he says, tears dripping from his eyes. These are not tears of sadness, but tears of realization, of hope, joy, comfort, peace.

"Good. Try to go with it when you can remember. When you remember, think of yourself, think of how your consciousness is free and unemcumbered by your physical body. You don't really need it during times like these. You don't need to feel separated from me, because we aren't...not really."

"Yes, I know this," he says with the conviction of one who truly knows.

I smile and ask if I can read to him. With his consent, I read one of Drew Dellinger's poems, Hymn to the Sacred Body of the Universe. Afterwards, Romeo rests in contentment, peace, bliss. Afterwards, I am exhausted and drained.

Here is Drew:

The Caregiver's Strategy - The First Part

For about two years, I took on the mission of making Romeo laugh. He was sad often. I became his personal jester. I clowned around with him, made funny faces, said unexpected things, told him silly jokes (which he usually didn't get), and got physical with him -- I'd pretend I was a roller derby queen and "shove" him out of the way; I'd tell him silly stories about passersby; at home, I'd hop onto his lap, straddling him while reciting part of the witches' cauldron scene from Shakespeare's Macbeth in the witchiest voice I could call forth:

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
Filet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,--
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.

And all the while I would tickle him and mess with him -- pretending to pluck out his eyes (even though he isn't a newt), to pop a lizard's leg in my mouth, to stir the hell-broth -- even offering to make it for dinner that evening. He would laugh at all of it. Mission accomplished.

But, being the evil witch that I am, this was simply not enough for me. I had to go farther. So I performed my famous witch cackle until he cracked up, which didn't take long. My witch laugh is better than anything I've heard on the internet (yep, I promise to upload it somewhere at some point). My witch cackle pushed him over the top. He would laugh hard and push me away so he could hold his stomach in laughter. I would fall off the couch and roll around on the floor. Who knows what the neighbors thought? We didn't care.

Romeo was now out of his funk, and this lighter mood of his would stick until the next day. It was hard work in those days, keeping him happy.

These techniques don't work any longer. Romeo's moods go deeper these days. Humor no longer lifts him. What to do now?

Stay tuned for the rest of the story in The Caregiver's Strategy - The Second Part.

On Giving Advice to Caregivers

As difficult as it may be for some of you to read this particular post, to understand what I'm saying, here it is anyway. No apologies, for it is the truth. And however cold it may seem, please know I offer it in love and with a genuine concern for the well-being of caregivers and dementia patients everywhere.

It is this: If you have never been involved in taking care of someone with dementia or have never spent at the very least a 24-hour period with someone who has dementia, then you don't get it. You don't understand what both the caregiver and the dementia patient are dealing with daily. You don't get the nature of the condition. You can't fathom the level of stress for both the caregiver and the patient on even the best of days.

As a result, any suggestions you make to the caregiver, to the dementia patient, however well-intended, come from your lack of understanding, from your innocent ignorance of the situation. What you say will not help and could even make the situation worse, could add more stress. So please, kindly stop. Hold back.

Taking care of someone with dementia is far beyond what you can imagine, and it's best you accept and admit this to the caregiver instead of making suggestions on how she should deal with a situation she may have been explaining to you. It could quite possible endear you to her further.

Instead, the best action you can take is to listen to the caregiver and try to understand. This one simple act will be more helpful than communicating any ideas you may have on how the caregiver should handle the situation -- for your innocent ideas will miss the mark horribly and will further serve to separate the caregiver from you. It will reinforce the feeling of isolation she already experiences -- the feeling that no one understands. And that is no help at all.

Above all, don't interpret whatever a caregiver says as a call for help. Give advice only if she asks you directly. (At the very least, ask her if she wants advice before you give it.) She may be vulnerable, but she is not helpless. She can --and will, we hope -- ask for help, for advice, for validation, for anything else when she needs it.

And please, please remember that hugs all around always work.

If you're reading this and have had a different experience, a different viewpoint, or simply want to vent, please send a comment and tell us. Romeo and I want to provide a voice to anyone who desires to weigh in on this.

A Caregiver Lives Here Alone

In the past week or two, four or five people have said to me, "You just referred to your home as 'our house.' Who else lives there with you? Your parents? Do you have children at home?"

Oh . . . I hadn't thought about needing to change this simple wording. In chit-chatty conversations I'll casually mention our house, our home. But now there is no more we or our when it comes to our living arrangements. Romeo lives in a nearby nursing home, and I live in my home without him.

I'll work on remembering this, changing this speech pattern.

But now I wonder . . . what else must be changed? Romeo recorded the voice mail greeting on our house phone (oops, I mean my house phone). I think I'll keep it there. After all, people can still leave him messages on it. Also, many of my friends have commented on how much they love to hear his voice, his British accent on the greeting. I love it, too. It is rather sexy . . . except . . . I no longer need to call him at home because he doesn't live there anymore. I live in my home, alone.

Compliment in Dementiaville

I'm in Romeo's room at the nursing home, thinking about going home for the evening.

"It's past ten o'clock," I said.

He was quick with his reply. "Time for all young girls to be in bed."

"Mmmm...how young?"

"About your age."

He's saying I'm a young girl. I like that. "Nice compliment, Romeo. Thank you."

He smiles and takes my hand, raises it to his lips, and plants a gentlemanly kiss. Because of his dementia, compliments from Romeo are rare. He simply doesn't think to express his feelings that way.

I sit for a moment, soaking up his words, loving them, cherishing them, making them reverberate through my mind until they're amplified and locked in my memory, filed away where I can access them in an instant. These words from Romeo are tiny gifts, each wrapped in silver foil and tied off with white satin ribbon. Genuine, sincere, heart-felt. My Romeo. What a sweet man.

A Caregiver's Release and Gratitude

Debbie sat on the floor next to me in the back of the room by the soundboard. We were nearly done for the day, and I was getting a head start at packing up, listening to the music playing during our break. It was day two of a two-day spiritual course and event I was helping with, that I regularly help with.

"I took the rose petals," Debbie said, "from the chairs for the cosmic beings yesterday and put them all around Romeo's photograph on the alter. It's so cute."

I wanted to see it. I gave her a hug, took a few deep breaths, and walked to the alter at the side of the room where I placed the photo earlier in the day. The white rose petals framed Romeo's face and gave him a playful, loving aura, like a sweet Santa Claus, a woodland Pan. It made me laugh.

I continued to chuckle inside of myself and stood staring at the photo, spontaneously connecting with Romeo's spirit, his soul, again, as I had been doing on and off throughout the day. I remained standing, gazing at the photo, the rose petals, the candles, feeling Romeo's presence and the Presence that is always there no matter where we are. I turned quiet and serious.

I told these two Presences, "You know, Romeo has been struggling lately with the fact that his dementia is now so severe that I can't take care of him any longer, that he has to live in a nursing home. The struggle consumes his days. He is suffering because of it. He doesn't want to suffer. I don't want him to suffer. Our friends and family don't want him to suffer. Please help him to surrender, to accept what is. Please lift his suffering." And I cried.

My tears flowed freely. I don't know how long I stood there, my love magnifying while the emotions cranked up, skipped to a higher level. I let them. The song playing now was Kabir's Song, by Snatam Kaur:

Oh, my Soul, you come and you go
Through the paths of time and space.
In useless play you'll not find the way
So set your course and go.

Sing such a song with all your life
You'll never have to sing again.

Love such a one with all your heart
You'll never need to love again....

Walk such a path with all of your faith
You'll never have to wander again...

Breathe, my Soul, breathe, my Soul,
Breathe from the quiet center...

I continued to stand there, crying and talking to the Presences. Soon, a physical presence, standing behind me, arms around me, holding me and holding the space for me. It was another friend, Mitch, allowing me to do this, to release, to talk with the Presences. His grace, his attention gave me the space to accept the magnifying love of the Presences that came to me in wave after wave of energy.

That day, yesterday, was large and full. Many people -- some of them not really knowing how much they've helped -- came to me with words that I needed to hear, with hugs that I lapped up, with a simple presence that I leaned on. Dear friends -- Debbie, Matt, Mitch, Dan, Regena, Nancy, Kristi, Kathryn, and many, many others throughout the past few months -- your steady support, your understanding, your spirit means more to me than you can ever know. I have so much gratitude in my heart for all of you that I don't know what to do with it. It overflows and releases in the form of my tears. I love all of you deeply. Thank you. Each of us travel a long road, and we all feel the strain of the journey. Bless each of you.

Here is part of Kabir's Song, by Snatam Kaur.

Toward a Balanced Caregiver

Sometimes I'm slow to pick up on what's happening in my own life. Something may have been rising to the surface without me noticing until -- wham! -- it's here. This isn't always bad...or good. More often than not, though, it comes as a subtle surprise.

I realized last week that something has been bubbling to the surface for weeks, perhaps several months. It's my feminine side, long repressed by the need for me to take care of Romeo. I'm letting go of the male action-oriented, take-charge attitude and way of being that necessity amplified for four years.

Romeo couldn't drive; I did all the driving. Romeo couldn't do any home repairs; I did all the home repairs. Romeo couldn't climb up on a ladder and change the batteries in the smoke alarms; I climbed up on a ladder and changed the batteries in the smoke alarms. Romeo couldn't balance his checkbook, plan a trip, create a file in his email program, turn on the TV or adjust the volume on the sound system, troubleshoot a burned out light bulb; I took care of all of that, and so much more. My masculine side was in overdrive. Constantly. It meant pushing myself, always under stress. It was me who had to seek clarity and a certainty of direction, always. Always me. Only me, always.

I still have to take care of most of that, but now that Romeo lives in a nursing home, my feminine side has been rising to the surface, naturally, organically, on its own, in its own way, on its own terms. The masculine doesn't have to work as much. It's receding. It shows most obviously in areas where previously I automatically took control, in areas where it makes sense: in a carpool, I now let others drive; I let others plan an outing; I let others research, organize, and get back to me with answers.

The feminine in me wants to be really, really girlie, and it's seeking to bring forth my forgotten and lost radiance. I'm loving details I've never been into before: lace and frills and flowers. Pink nail polish and silk lingerie, bubble bath and perfume, diamond earrings and sapphire bracelets. And it's enjoying all of it with exuberance and abandon. It wants to marinate in itself, to love itself. It's ever-changing, ever-moving, and always will be. True feminine energy cannot be contained in one of anything. Ever. I seem to be harvesting all I can.

This feminine in me is overacting perhaps, working harder because it's been suppressed, swept under my skin, for several years. At some point, balance will be struck. Just the right amount of masculine and feminine will come forward as each is called for. At times, I may need to call up more of the masculine qualities than feminine, sometimes more feminine than masculine. But neither side will tip the scales, and there will be integration. Some day.

Some day (perhaps that day is now?) I will remember to stay open to receive and trust and embrace that feminine essence that pushes toward the surface, as well as the masculine essence that is now retreating in me. There will be, there is, a balance, an energetic dance occurring in the ethers. I intend to capture it. Balance, beautiful balance, blessed balance.