Like the clouds, my mind drifts, to thoughts of people perpetually shut away for reasons of age or neglect or illness…their environments controlled by thermostats and switches.  I remember telling my little kids to go outside, and occasionally, to “GET OUTSIDE!”  That was the occasionally desperate wisdom of a young mother perhaps, but this old daughter still thinks the same.

Bull.  I have so many objections to this phrase that I don’t have enough fingers on which to count them.  I wonder how old Nietzsche was when he uttered his now famous words.  Was he old enough to see the ravages of age on mind and body?  Had he had enough days on this earth to witness the path of a dear one becoming shorter, and much more difficult to navigate?

For me, I prefer Viktor Frankl’s quote, “The last of the human freedoms is to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”  Tough, but this is one I can understand.  Frankl, a Nazi death camp survivor, based his thinking on his observation that people with meaning in their lives—a vision of hope—were the ones to survive.  He understood that meaningfulness could be found in suffering (though this was not to say suffering itself was to be sought).

My not-so-famous bumper sticker:  ”The Struggle Continues”, celebrates this tricky concept.  I’ve been told by some people that the idea is a negative one.  This makes me smile a bit…because I bear witness in my own life and the lives of those around me that embracing the struggle, as counter-intuitive as it may sound to the uninitiated heart, is exactly the next step to a vision of hope and meaning.

Pushing back against the inevitable onslaught of aging is what the American mega-media system is telling us to do.  More is better:  more medicines, more surgeries, more food, more make-up, more fun, more excess.  Where is the message that encourages us to embrace and explore and choose?  Watching my dear parents grapple with these difficult and trying issues reminds me to try to listen, learn and remember that I have the freedom to choose my attitude.  (Is there a pill for that??)

Exit laughing.

I slept well my first night here—waking only to note my dad’s uneven footsteps in the room above me.  I make note that he did get up at his typical early hour to eat breakfast and take his morning pills before returning to bed, a good thing.  And so, perhaps, a rhythm begins for us.  And a strange rhythm it is—this return to help aging parents remain as functional as possible while living in their own house.  Talk is swirling about when Dad will have to be cared for in a nursing home and my insides bristle and weep at the thought.

And so I’m here for now.  Today is what we’ve got and I’m casting my net out on these waters hoping to haul in enough mercy and grace to help us function together for awhile longer.

But driving at night brought out the lonelies and that is a different beast altogether.  Driving in the dark made me wish for a partner, someone to sit beside me—spell me at the wheel—and distract me from the little fears that creep out when the sun goes down.  No thanks.  Time to find a motel.  The first town I tried was full of drivers who had sensibly stopped before me.  The next town, fifty miles later, was the same.  By this time I was nervous.  I’d driven by six motels when I finally got a suggestion.  I was pointed a mile down the road to a tiny motel off the beaten track.  I found a room:  no internet service, no free breakfast or swimming pool, get ice in the office…just a nice clean room with a small air conditioner which I turned on to block the noise.  Perfect.

This road trip has been about big trucks, trains, and cowboys on billboards.  I saw a sign for the Heartland Museum of Military Vehicles (tempted…nah) and for the birthplace of Koolaid.  I’m ready to get somewhere and it has nothing to do with trucks, trains, or cowboys…or Koolaid, for that matter.

The court rooms in this modern day courthouse all lead off of a common hallway lined with benches.  Most of the seats are filled with all manner of human awaiting the 1:30 call to order.  I’m fighting a bias that sees many of them as losers in this game of life.  I hate that my brain even plays with the thought, but there you have it.  Do I get a partial pass due to the fact that most of these folk have been summoned here due to a run-in with the justice system?!

Entering Courtroom 2, the little band of witnesses I’ve joined heads for the front row.  We are the eager ones, I see.  The back row sitters are the ones who come to be judged.  Soon my cool observation turns to interest as I watch case after case called, information presented, and judgements passed down.  I watch this woman judge, trying to determine how she will rule in the case I’ve come here for.  (That seems promising…that seems fair, perhaps too fair…that seems hopeless.)

Two hours in our case comes up.  I am called, sworn in (my right hand…right), and I speak my truth—so help me God.  ”She was a vibrant person, we love her, she was there for my kids when their dad died, she’s a giver, she cares deeply, she’s a mother (dear God, she’s a mother!), she’s a friend.”  I step down, another steps forward, and in the end the sentence is not finalized but instead a thread of hope is given:  ”Come back in three weeks with documentation from a treatment facility willing to accept you for a year’s time.”  This, along with probation and even yet perhaps some prison time, is the best we could have expected.  My part in this drama (for indeed this has dramatic consequences for small children and a husband, to name a few) is done and I give a quick hug, hop into my car and begin the long drive back through the ranch lands, feasting on the beauty and my freedom.