I Believe!

I Believe

From a prone position, I tuck my knees into my chest and roll myself upright. “I believe. I believe. I believe,” I murmur as I take in the light from overhead, the cacophony of grunts, heehaws, and quacks from the yard, and note the position of the dogs.

Ruben is crawling across the king-sized bed to me, which means it’s late. He only comes upstairs if there’s a storm or I’m in bed past 6:30 a.m. Finn, who was pressed up tightly against my side moments before I woke, is now on his back, four paws in the air and spotted pink belly exposed, waiting for his morning belly rubs. But Téte is the reason we’re all awake. Her stomach tells her it’s time to eat, and she informs us with moans and sighs that will soon turn into loud, yippy barks. Meanwhile, the donkeys are braying, and if I look up, the skylight also tells me I’ve slept in. It’s 7 a.m.

I’ve gotten into the habit of saying “I believe” three times every morning, since I committed to rereading my tattered, marked-up copies of Norman Vincent Peale’s books. He suggests saying these words upon waking and throughout the day as a mantra, although I can’t remember why—or, at the moment, what I believe in.

It’s been a month when things seem cattywampus. Most days, I feel like I’ve been treading in the deep end, with water in both ears and up my nose.

This sinking feeling started before the first blade of grass turned green, when I began hobbling to get up hills. My left hip, again, seemed to rebel against even taking a step. Yet I had been skipping through the woods and around the ponds only days before.

“I believe, I believe, I believe,” started with me visualizing my left hip happy and well-adjusted in my body, where five years ago it was replaced—for the second time.

Then, coming across my journal entry, “Here Is What I Know at This Moment,” from March 2020 sent me spiraling.

I miss my mom. I mourn how my sister was before her disease. I think of Tickles and The Professor daily because the Duck Hall still stands empty.

I miss being able to fly through the woods while my ankle heals.

I worry about my granddaughter, who has CF; my brother, who has COPD; and my friends who are in health care or working essential jobs. I worry about all of you in different ways.

I worry about the world in general, but that is nothing new. I could go on, but we all could go on and on.

I try not to.

Today, I'm going to search for bloodroot, one of the first flowers to come out in spring. I'll feel grateful if I find one, and I'll search harder tomorrow if I don't.

Five years. 

I’m sitting on the side of my bed now, not ready yet to stand and join the day, I keep thinking, five years… Five years seems like a lifetime ago, but also like yesterday.

March 2020 was COVID time. Life was unpredictable. My mom had just died, and less than a month after I’d written that journal entry, my sister Jill died.

My brother, Jack, is now in memory care, as Jill was five years ago. Helena has joined Mom and Jill somewhere where I hope I can someday see them all again.

Five years! Facebook has just sent me a five-year-old memory of Helena sitting with her good-natured cat, Stewart, on her lap, dancing while the family cheered them on.

I’m stuck on this five-year mark as I slump on the edge of the bed, having overslept because I didn’t sleep well. Shaking my head, I try thinking optimistically.

My ankle has healed. I can hear the Duck Hall noises when Téte gives it a rest. They speak of healthy ducks and geese. Five years ago, it sat empty after my beloved flock was massacred by a raccoon. When I feel more motivated, I’ll collect the new flock’s eggs.

But despite trying to be optimistic, I’m more worried than ever about my family, friends, and the world.

Taking that last push up and off the bed, I repeat, “I believe, I believe, I believe,” then gather my book and glasses and head down the stairs. Téte, more than ready, leads the way, Ruben follows, and Finnegan and I bring up the rear.

What I know at this moment is that once the animals are fed and my morning class is over, I’ll go with Dane and the pups to the woods and search for bloodroot. We’ve yet to see one this spring. If we don’t find any, we’ll search even harder tomorrow.