One Rose

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I live in the desert. After a long and dry summer, I sat in my front yard one day. There I set up an area with chairs and a bench to converse with neighbors and friends during the COVID-19 lockdown. I sat down, chest heavy, shoulders tight, and with tears that refused to come out. My diagnosis, treatment, and weight on my family overtook my body with force. I could barely breathe and process daily tasks and responsibilities. I did not want to move. My feet dug dip into the desert sand—hard ground. Sand covering my feet. There is nothing here. Water and life did not visit this area in a while. I looked and observed the dirt, and the sand, each particle one at a time. I spent time just looking, touching, and smelling. But there was no aroma around.

116 F heat almost every day for weeks. Nothing lives without water, and we water our landscape very minimally as we try to be environmentally conscious. So, our ground is dryer than most landscapes around, green and colorful.

All my flowers and plants were dry from the drought. My rose bushes looked like tumbleweeds, about to unroot and roll above the ground. There stood one red rose. I let it capture me and be in the moment, one. One with the rose, with this dry ground, with my diagnosis. This was when I let go and was present, not only as myself but connected to a larger entity, Earth. There I could breathe. There I was, a point. There I could move. There I was, nothing and everything.

Musical Road in Lancaster, CA

Searching for Music – The Musical Road

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I live in movement, and my kids know rhythms and notes, especially drums call me. Time has been taken away by many medical appointments. I sought mindful activities, from guided meditations to nature walks, art activities, and prayer. I needed to move at times, and when my body failed, I used the car to guide me to places such as the “musical road” in Lancaster, California.

We have done this with my children, slow down at 50 mph, drive, roll down the windows, and listen to William Tell Overture. We drove around and around, laughing again and again. I needed to release energy and laugh, so I went. It was a moment between the music and me.

I felt the notes travel through my veins and tickle underneath my skin. Scleroderma affects tissues, skin, muscles, and organs. There is no cure, and one may only be able to slow it down, but that is it. It was a spiritual experience to feel each note underneath the skin, writing within me, imprinting – as if there were trying to combat my autoimmune cells and compose a new melody. Trombones, violins, …I can feel the symphony within. And drums. I didn’t know if they were in the original symphony…but I added them in my imagination, for music and colors can play within us in all sorts of ways, the music within my body.

Apple Tree in black and white

Someone Stole our Apple Tree

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In Early Fall, I decided to walk in my backyard after my diagnosis. It used to be a place of peace, meditation, and gardening—a place I slowly created each year and built upon with my children. I wanted to be amongst my roses and fruit trees. I tried to pray and reflect upon my life, health, and family. Each rose bush is planted in the ground for someone dear in the family. Nikolai and Becca have different types of pink rose bushes. Gabriel chose a blue rose bush, which flowers each year gorgeous violet-colored roses. Anastasia’s favorite color is orange. Her roses vary in shades from yellows to whites, peaches, and oranges. Our cypress trees were little when we planted them, and so were our fruit trees: apples and pears.

That day, there was a hole, a crater in the ground. Someone used a shovel and unrooted one of our apple trees. It was supposed to bear fruit for the first time this year, and it was devastating, just like the news from Dr. K’s office a few hours ago. The soil was dry, and with my hand, I could feel root remains dried up and assimilating into the color of the desert ground. There was no more life in this crater, only signs of the past.

I stood there, like a statue with no emotions on her face, confused, angry, and scared. Who would walk into my backyard and un-root an apple tree? Who would take memories of my children and me planting an apple tree into the ground, watering it, talking to it, and visiting it on our backyard walks?

Life has been taken. A hole is what is left.