And hello.

Twenty four days ago I checked in to the hospital for surgery. Two full knee replacements. The surgery is a great trauma for the body. Transferred from the hospital to the nursing home for recovery and physical rehab.

Returned to my home yesterday. Death always hangs near in a nursing home. The pain I experience wakes me at 4 am and I see the gentleman down the hall is being taken elsewhere by a team of medics. In another moment I see the woman across the hall has a visit from her daughter. This morning as I wake I see her room is empty.

Death passes here quietly yet the racket is so loud it wakes you in the middle of the night. I am called to physical therapy even before I've finished breakfast. I
build my strength so that I may walk again on my own power. "They're my knees, nobody else will do it for me," I remark.

Working for the dead and dying is a special calling. This is in part what we all do here as we talk of techniques to explore afterlife territories (and beyond). It is, ultimately, work on self.

A retrieval benefits the retriever as much as the retrieved. When we work with the dead and dying we are doing inner work.

And as I draw closer to my release date from the nursing home, I note I am one who makes the choice to maintain and sustain what I started - new knees so that I may walk again without pain.

I see others in physical therapy who are CTD - Circling The Drain. There is a man who wears a POW-MIA hat all the time. I see he is of Viet Nam age. I have a life long personal rule about talking with vets: Never Ask. I listen,and I watch.

I, too, have tales to tell. "Vanilla Fudge" - I say, for they are a band that once inspired me. "Vanilla Ice?" a therapist replies. I change the reference frame: "Glen Campbell."

"Oh, I saw him!" and the lady doing her leg exercises beams. I see a brilliant, bright spirit full of joy and laughter holding on in a body that is too tired and worn to respond.

"Will you come play your bass for us?" one of the nurses asks. "Yes, I will," I reply.

I know the work. Music can reach patients who are at their departure points. It's just another way of helping them across.

It's all the same work, and we help ourselves as we help others. It's a gift we hold, however we do it.

Thank you, seagullresting 

The journey back has been brutal yet I hold the intent to continued presence. I saw my choice and made my journey my own. This morning, though, I forgot my physical therapy lessons for just a moment as I navigated a single stair and will not repeat that mistake again!

My actual reserve of stamina and my imagined reserve of stamina both made appearances today. A hard lesson to take.

Sat with my bass early this evening and noodled with chord tone sequences over two octaves over the descending circle of fifths. The circle of fifths (or fourths, depending on how you look at it) is an important door to all practical music theory. Ascending fourths increase the number of sharps and descending fifths increase the number of flats. Go through all the notes and come back to where you started.

I could go at such a thing for an hour and listeners would think it's a pretty thing to hear. The bass is not a melody instrument. It's a rhythm instrument that keeps time and articulates the chord changes. It can get very interesting as I approach the turnaround in the song. Or at least I think it's interesting. I like to make it very clear this is where we are and now we are back at the head and this is the 1 because I say so. The 1 is where we say it is, and this is grand fun.

That mis-step I took this morning really hurt deeply. Won't do that again in this lifetime.

Oh, the people at the nursing home gave me a gift when I left. Literally. Added to my belongs is a bag. I did not know what this was when I left, or how it got there or who put it there. Open it at home and I find a brand new set of surgical scubs.

Assisting the dead and dying is a calling, whether we engage in retrievals or spend some time with those who are about to leave.