Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: Celebrate, Anyway!

Celebrate summer–a surprised, perplexed but happy dog sure was!

Another 4th of July brings to mind celebrations of many sorts, not just of our beleaguered, beloved USA with its complex warp and weave of surprising variegations these days. Far be it from me to offer political commentary that is truly astute and reasonably calm. If that is what you want to muse over today, read on elsewhere and bless you. This is about humbler celebrations.

Many are the other experiences to which I can relate and articulate better. I am thinking of times that bear reconsideration after first being embraced and then, as circumstances fully dawn upon you, are slogged through step by step. There is the initial elation: unique challenges, freshness of change! And then may come a giant whump!… as gravity tugs, you may end up flattened a bit or at least bewildered, agape.

A metamorphosis is likely in the offing; sometimes the best you can do is try to step back and observe while surrendering to its quiet power. Transformation is not meant to be a snap but a complex process. The relief and encouragement of little successes mean something and deserve small celebrations we can share with others. Or even alone. No fireworks are required nor one hundred bright balloons set free into the ether or parades to toot one’s horn. Just an acknowledgement of another stone removed from the shoe, another hill crested, another day gotten through–a nod at more gratitude. It takes those first small steps towards victory. We can be like swimmers who finally survive by floating even as legs start to sink, or straining with a side stroke when arms tingle and go numb, the water threatening to submerge the whole attempt. I get it: you want to sink but keep on going. And eventually reach the shore–cue lighthouse beam cutting through the stormy ebony veils.

Cinematics aside, it has been like that off and on this spring/early summer. The big move; a hard birth for our daughter; the twins’ arrival after which came subsequent postpartum depression. Daily and sometimes odd hours with babies and new parents; becoming overtired and falling sick with a respiratory illness that began with a small cold passed around at their house. After two and a half weeks of feeling unwell, I have trouble getting through a day with enough energy, without a rattling cough. Lst week I was felled and spent three days in bed, on the couch, sleeping between spasms of coughing. But I saw the doctor today; she looked at me steadily, shook her head, eyebrows lifting (she may have been in her forties, about my kids’ age; I liked her). “Grand-mothering…! More germs to come. You need a steroid inhaler to ease those respiratory symptoms, I think. And get more rest.”

Right, check–will do. I start training for eight to ten hour days next week with the beautiful, amazing babies that make me so happy to give love. And also so tired. How did I raise the five I had? Well, they were spaced out some, not multiple infants all at once. Though I did raise four teenagers at once… for many years.

My daughter, the one who has surmounted so much, is soon returning to work, yet it seems so fast. (Her husband is seeking part-time work so he can help more, longer. Years longer, perhaps; two is like three times more baby some days.) Somehow we can figure this out so eventually I can do it alone: with the little ones’ feeding/sleep schedules, the right attire for varying temperatures according to dad, the correct degree of light in each room so they are not disturbed, the different baby monitors’ workings, the cat’s whereabouts so he doesn’t lick their tender feet or faces. The inconsolable crying–I lived through it before, didn’t I? Of course I did.

I am a person who is not averse to seeking help–I have had the therapy bills to prove it, as in one form or another it acts as basic self management. And there have been many events during which I did not stand tall and shine, to say the least. (One counselor decades ago stated bluntly she was amazed “you are alive, even standing upright– and well spoken and well groomed.” What? It was rather shocking. But the truth was that I was barely on my feet.) Everyone I have known has fought battles; more come out smelling like humble but gorgeous roses than those who do not. How can one accurately determine the “hard-harder-hardest” of hurdles when approaching each? Best not think about it–go forward to meet it.

I sure wasn’t in the market for pity back then (or now), and certainly not for the counselor’s weirdly near-admiring undercurrent. I, as ever, wanted knowledge of methods to make smarter choices, to become more adept at being the me I had actual faith in. I think I half-laughed at her, gave some facsimile of a smile (with tears masked–I acted tougher then). I had and have been worse, and better. Any time I’ve snagged a shard of light or a waft of humor–drier is better–I hold it steady in eye and mind, then use it as a tool, a lifesaving thing. Who else was going to do it? Resilience is often predicated on resourcefulness.

As I muse on these things I find a finer, stronger energy despite the rumbling cough– and a foolish romantic impulse to be a superwoman. Haven’t I learned by 69 that this is not a smart idea? Instead, I choose to celebrate what is coming together, then work on what is lagging. I tallied up the positives. Smaller steps that have cumulatively become greater steps forward. I, of course, know more challenges are to come; we will rise to each occasion as best we can. Who would not? Very few.

Below are a few ongoing mini-celebrations in my life: Cheers and hooray!

My daughter–new mother–has so rallied. I have never seen her more raw and distressed when all she wanted was to be joyous and confident. She not only came to grips little by little, she ultimately took the problem by its perilous horns, tamed it and rode it toward its demise, transforming it into more health. Every resource she could find was utilized from acupuncture and Reiki energy work, group support and therapy, meditation and prayer. She did not give up despite haunting urges to do so. It took two months. She reached out to those who loved her, became so vulnerable with her family and close friends. She learned new skills, took charge of what was biochemically powerful, and gave her recovery infusions of an analytical mind, a bright if aching spirit and a profound heart. And she showed up for her babies even as she wrestled with daunting fears, sadness and exhaustion. This is an ongoing investigation into unknown territory, this being first-time (ambitious, working) mother, and of twins. She deosnt; kid herself despite the healing. I watched her make sacrifices that I never imagined she might choose to make… but I have to note that fighting for betterment of life is not a new labor. As a child (and into adulthood) she had significant medical issues that did not deter her, or not for long. And she remains one of my heroines.

Her husband, our son in law, rallied. He actually quit a job in order to take over as he and I went into high gear at their home. He used his bent toward methodical perseverance to tackle boundless chores, increased demands. He schooled himself as he took charge and mapped out ways and means. He took meticulous notes, shared his concerns and insights. I recall one time when I broke down in tears. I was embarrassed by losing my generally calm demeanor but it was overwhelming for a moment. He came over, put his arms around me and said quietly with surety: “We will get through this, things will be better again, I promise.” Then he got busy again and so did I. It was what I had been telling my daughter every other hour, but when he said it, I believed it more. And he’d understood how I hurt, too; his kindness was never more evident. I appreciate his various strengths and genuine compassion.

My own husband has a sure knack for feeding and burping infants and diapering, even after a day of work and long commute back home. I had forgotten how good he was at these things. He has had a good nature about my absences, my random prickly, unbidden sensitivity, the worry and weariness. Just sitting on the sofa with me, watching an old mystery series one episode after another was fine with him…conversation can be overrated sometimes. And he still cooked dinner, sometimes for all of us at the kids’ place, even at eight at night. We still read aloud to each other here and there, and take daily walks as possible in the cool of overarching greenness. And listen to birds settling into twilight, our mugs of tea at hand. And he knows how to pray with me and apart from me.

And those twin girls are thriving, now two and a half months. They have double chins and fat knees now; grasping, soft hands; kicking-strong legs and arms. They coo and try to talk in their own ways, blow tiny bubbles, smile suddenly as they reach for our faces and hair. You know how there is a spark of happy recognition when a baby looks at you and you know she knows you? And likes you? They are unalike in temperament, we think, but time will tell their stories. They look uniquely themselves–one more fair with wide grey-blue eyes; the other reflecting other roots with large deep brown peepers, slightly tawnier skin. They still primarily need to be fed, diapered, soothed, cleaned up. But they also now enjoy playing, love to be sung to and danced with. What a pleasure to find their skill levels increasing, to share in their new journeys and their delight.

From hearts nearly breaking to a sense of peace hard won and a deepened hope: it has been a period unexpected and lived through together. And yet the same can be said of other human lives being lived a day at a time. Humans loving one another, not flawlessly but richly, and as a fierce and loyal team. It is a story that is replicated in every culture: taking care of business, caring for family, working against daunting odds at times.

Another scene that pops up: my oldest daughter visiting. We see her once or twice a year; she lives and teaches in the South Carolina, she travels, she is busy making art. One day she was having a full, lyrical conversation with Baby A, whom she was carrying around a long while, then feeding, then diapering, then burping. The little one gazed up at her, clung to her and nuzzled her neck and N. snuggled back gently. Her face against the baby’s was a snapshot of tenderness. She does not and will not likely children; she creates things, and when she departed for an art residency, she left with me an elegant indigo-dyed silk scarf from her new collection, a woodblock print of a blue butterfly, fine chocolate, and a very strong, quiet hug.

But the best moments came when her sister–the twins’ mama–played with the little girls spontaneously, sang them songs in her lilting voice and really laughed with them. Held them in wonder, eyes radiant with the loving hopefulness she had so needed to experience, to believe was true and lasting. As it was and is now.

And then finally, there is this: my only surviving sister has advancing dementia at only 74. I do not live close to her since our move. It has been a slow losing of one sort of person for a new rendition of my sister, for she was during her working life an executive mover and shaker, a real estate “flipper”, an greatly engaged person who spent much time on her hobbies as well. In short, a dynamo, bright as can be and given to easy laughter.

I brought her over for a large family gathering and she chatted as she could, and asked questions, and held babies, great-nieces! She never had her own kids. She hugged grown nieces and nephew. It was nearly like old times with the laughter and gabbing, except it is not old times. No, it is this moment, and it is what it is. And so wonderful to have her in our full circle, our embrace, to share her love. She is still my sister inside, despite memory loss, and the awkward shyness that never suited her before. I will be there as much as I can, though it is hard to find time now, as time can just leak away.

I often am given pause as I realize this world seems to be tilting ever more within our solar system and generally uncharted universe. Who are we, the homo sapiens living here? Who can we yet be? Time may be really running out. We hear the worst of things. We are asked to prepare for more devastations. And there are agitations everywhere, and schemes, wars of all sorts brewing. The terrible failures to communicate effectively and for our collective well being is glaring. The neglect of common courtesy proliferates while acts of good will seem sparse. I question that, though, as there are so many being kind everywhere. And yet, there is still this risky business of making one’s way on earth. I do wonder just hoq the babies and all others will find their way. But I believe in the Divine Creator, God, the source of all true wisdom and so pay attention and nurture trust, despite the noise around us.

So I will yet celebrate the smaller moments, the ones that do not show up in newsworthy spotlights: ordinary courage, a forward momentum when work needs to be done. A dragonfly’s small pause on a thin reed and summer wind singing in the big leaf maple’s shining crown. The sweet touch of one warm, even when trembling, hand on another. Water for the thirsty and healing moments for the broken–affirmations of faith when the long days are done. At the end of more loving/sometimes weeping, I close my eyes and feel it, the truth of goodness of things, all the redeeming moments there are. Ones we can create. I yet do celebrate each morning that still arrives with the rising sun. And all that is worth a modest party now and then, at the least.

PS Have a safe 4th of July, those who are marking the day!

(I am not labeling all our motley crew but there are three of four daughters present; my son and fiancee; my sister; son-in-law; my husband; me.)

A Weekend’s Quick Pick: Finding Home

This is a woman on an unassuming balcony that has served her well for 23 years. It overlooks a peach-colored house and the glittering, rambunctious city. And the balcony will be missed and it will miss her, perhaps. They have kept each other company this long: part of a lifetime.

This is the place she has gathered family and friends, let stories step forward to speak, danced barefoot in a blue skirt to music resonant in belly and brain, risen in the softening wash of dawn, sung to herself. Lain face upwards, hands open, staring at nothing after heart disease got her early and was told she might have a few years more. Which did not undo her, even weighted with fears. Got busy, a kind of salvation for much of human living. Sought to cheer others, another act of mercy for the woman who offered, not only a few others.

She gathered stars as they breathed in the cave of the dark; when did they not see all and give their all, wasn’t it their destiny? Could she aspire to any less in the end? And so she faced matters as they came hand, gave hope more space. Let God keep her, whole or not.

This is where she has lathered and spun two thousand socks and kitchen towels, saved ruby red petals that fell from geraniums in the wake of streaming rain. Where the books have lived clandestine lives and language admitted her to its domain with beckoning phrase and whisper, where her own language circuits rattled her teeth with odd feats and loosened dreaming..and night welcomed her, made garlands around the moon and her shoulders.

 

This is a place the years have been plumped and embroidered with many hearts, children or grown ones,  such hands opened and hands filled with spillage of love and barren with loss, an agitation of wants and needs, a palette of feeling and music that has risen from sky and the dense, sweetening earth.

The ache of being exposed to more love coupled with its miracle and the pleasure of more willingness: she was no longer a victim of anything. Two feet to stand on, two knees to kneel. This was what the place gave her: opportunity to transform, renew.

This was a place that was supposed to be just a change station, a slow, muscular crossing from one aspect of life to  another, a temporary platform for ideas and goals to be challenged and completed. And then left behind on the serpentine trail.

But it was not.

It was a steady embrace, a safe abode for time shared–even time given away. A galaxy of small things that startled, the relentless unknowns surrounding what seemed often a small, leaky boat carrying such few tools alongside the rowing woman.

And a larger tale wrote itself from humility’s gentling hurt, then from stillness amid rushes of hope. A revelation, this wide spot in the powerful river upon whose banks she built a life in a long slow reveal. Ordinary weeping, laughing, watching and waiting, simplest doings; surprises of living make their marks, a deepening identity. She stirs and rises to greet more.

And more change so soon. Why resist when acquiescence, adjustment, reconstruction all underlay the physics of living things? Of women and men?

A new home will fit itself about her, a daily insistence of tasks, and faith and patience will illumine. She will reconfigure doubts, smooth out contention, just breathe. Place fresh geraniums and old on a new, bigger balcony. Where can this woman live that some unexpected folly or a plan of victory do not happen? What human cannot make a found patch into a home? Even the beetles, even the moss. The eagles and Arctic foxes. Even those all alone in their wandering do it. The brave young, the tempered old. It is managed each day by greater or smaller so she can do it; it will be completed again.

Every one sooner or later leaves for something or someone else, or migrates due to wanderlust or seeks out of desire. Rebuilds to survive. No being is static, even if they believe it so. Step, pause, leap, slide, turn, hang on, reach, thrive. Create.

Yes, another wayside, a still unknown beginning, but there are these that entice: giant fir trees atop a bluff, wind like a call and response, sleekness of coyotes slipping undercover. More liveliness aroused–two whole new beings from a daughter’s unstoppable faith and petite belly. The work and the play of it arriving with anticipation, unbridled energy. Goodness abounds. The woman will gather bird songs and new slant of light, sigh inside darkness and bring babies’ coos close. Open up that heart, something tells her, let it match more rhythms with this living.

The place will slowly become a home, another way to the center of things. Is not the way of the earth and those who dwell here for this short human span?

That woman: myself. Readying for more. Preparing to learn and adapt, allow these happenings as my soul hesitates and rises. I want to stoke a good fire and create another circle for the hearing and telling of this and that. There is forever another story. May I live it as a willing conduit.

I must remember: Love is the path that makes a way in the wilderness; I am another pilgrim who seeks, is sought; finds, is found. The home I best inhabit is the one I carry within and also beyond. 

 

An Alpine Jewel/Over and Out

Trillium Lake, walks 034
All photographs copyright Cynthia Guenther Richardson 2018

My oft-stated “reluctance to travel” stance (due to a flying aversion, partly) is beginning to seem at least a white lie since I’ve been elsewhere much of the last few months. And soon I am off to the “Rocky Mountain High” of Colorado to visit more family. This, despite my concern about the major altitude in general and its impact on coronary artery disease. But, no way out–the cardio nurse said there is no reason to not go for it (“yes, you’ll feel the altitude but just slow down and rest”), so go I will.

Before I fly into the great wild blue (or is it wide blue…), I wanted to share a more local fun adventure. Marc and I hit the road yesterday to see Trillium Lake by our own mountain– Mt. Hood, of the Cascades. I have been on the mountain, as we say, many times (another post was written about Mirror Lake, near Trillium Lake) but had never had the pleasure of experiencing our mountain lake from early afternoon til evening. I’m grateful we went. But next time I want on a kayak, paddle board or just a big donut “floatie.” We also did enjoy an easy 2 mile hike at 3700 feet.

I could elaborate at length about the grandeur of alpine forests and the towering majesty of Mt. Hood; undulating, gentle water; languid campers and picnickers and floaters (no motorboats allowed); and the drenched, ebullient dogs romping among freedom-crazed kids. It was all beautiful to witness. And oh the deeply quiet, redolent trails through forest and marsh circling the lake–perfect.

But it is best to just show you. There were so many great vistas and people to observe and record that it was hard to pick these few shots. Please enjoy Oregon’s Trillium Lake–named for my favorite wildflower–and ruggedly attractive Mt. Hood (which draws skiers from all over each winter).

The first look after we parked and paid our $5 fee:

Trillium Lake, walks 039

And that nature-infused happiness billowed–even as I noted more and more people around the curving edges of the lake (that crowded parking situation highlighted that immediately). No matter; it’s just awesome.

Trillium Lake, walks 069

Trillium Lake, walks 073

Trillium Lake, walks 042

Then a relaxing hike around the perimeter of the lake. There was much more forest we hiked but it is hard (for me) to get great interior forest pictures. That boardwalk through the marsh was caving in at spots and had been, we think, closed off. But someone had tossed the warning sign aside and we decided to proceed and safely managed it. The varieties of bird song was worth it as well as the views.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Back at lakeside we decided to really relax, cool our dusty, dirty, black fly-nibbled, sweaty bodies and drink lots more water plus eat a snack. We settled into camp chairs in the piney shade. It was still in the mid-80s (F)–in Portland it was close to 100 degrees Sunday, hence this trip higher up–but we were blessed with swift breezes. Wonderful to sit among such trees and close to tranquil water. This is actually Marc smiling–a too-rare thing these days with his endless long work hours. From our perches we watched countless families, couples and friends play–and what a good time they all had.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The light began to throw off its brilliant gold, sank behind the treeline bit by bit, and prepared to put on its magic silver character. I was mesmerized. (Please click on the smaller squares for better viewing.)

Trillium Lake, walks 238

Trillium Lake, walks 303

The long drive back home past forests and moss-encrusted cabins and fine ski lodges was quiet. We were satiated, tired out in the way that is a deep comfort. Surely you, too, can find your own diversity of delights the coming week. Look about; it may not be Mt. Hood and Trillium Lake (plan to visit) but I guarantee that life-enhancing moments hide in plain sight.

Well, this is “over and out.” Be well, be kind. Catch you in a week or so (that is, before or after our annual summertime Oregon coast trip)!

Wednesday’s Words: On the Go Again

Sometimes we have to be flexible even if we don’t feel quite up to it. Our lives are altered despite out attempts to keep control, an elastic experience based on the one constancy of change. I didn’t expect to be flying out so soon again but events continue on a surprising trajectory. One adapts; humans excel at this, I remind myself.

In this case, we are soon to attend a memorial gathering for my recently deceased sister-in-law in Michigan. (My deceased musician brother has one, too, the end of July but that consists of driving to an area pub in Portland to enjoy great tunes and good words.) Of course, I had expected this MI. travel at some point, just not coupled with an immediate business trip that Marc deemed necessary. And it was cheapest for me to use reward miles to get anywhere and just go with him. So within a day we were booked on flights spanning the country’s width to North Carolina. By end of this week, we will be driving a very long day to be with family in MI., then back again for more days for his business agenda.

After sleeping maybe three hours the night before, we headed to the airport–wasn’t it still dark out?– for tedious hours in air and during a beastly layover in one airport. I shortly entered that state wherein the mind turns to grainy putty and the body moves into a mild but critical endurance mode. As I steadied myself during the 9 hour layover it came to me that this is why I don’t adore airplane travel. In fact, I am not very good at it which is surprising since as a youth and young woman I loved flying about. But that was a different time, a safer and simpler time. And I was an adventuress with a lingering naiveté about striding off toward a blurry but glorious horizon. And in search of my soul mate at every stop, on every plane. Ah, well.

In airports I bring forth adequate patience. I roam about, read; we converse, munch sandwiches and sweet or salty snacks and sip lukewarm coffee or water to slake our thirsts. Make up life stories about complete strangers slyly observed. I may talk to them sometimes; Marc hides in phone or computer. I felt for the guy who has moved from Newark, NJ to Jacksonville, FL (and was headed back there) because housing is no longer affordable in NJ but worse, government is, he says, crooked and who the heck even cares? Nobody, not even him, anymore. But he has hope for Florida, still. Or at least his neighborhood and new friends. He is impatient to get out of Newark again, yet he smiles back and offers me his chair. I decline. I preferred to stand and stretch after far too much sitting, something that makes me a little mad after an hour or so.

It’s the “puddle jumper” we next board that gives me the most pause. I watch many passengers duck their heads to get inside–it is that tight in there. Required for the hour ride to the final stop, we taxi down the runway. It creaks and sways from nose to wing tips to tail. It shimmies and cracks. I find myself quite unashamedly clutching Marc’s arm, trying to blot out sensory input as we lift into the air. All those squelched thoughts–just what holds us up? why do we pay to get on these? what about just hitch hiking next time?–assail me, then I give up and doze, exhaustion slackening my mouth. Until I begin to sneeze. That’s right, when the air cooling and circulating system is activated to loosen and offer its hidden dust, mildew and old air, I begin to sneeze and blow as if a gigantic cold has arrived. I can see people turning away from our seats, sinking into their books and computers. I always feel I should stand and shout, “Really, no virus here, it’s dust and mold allergies and you can’t catch those!” There are rarely enough tissues to get through these bouts. It’s embarrassing. It’s necessary to manage the situation but hold onto a shred of decorum so I try to blow discreetly, softly.

By the time we arrive I am too tired to appreciate the attractive rental car. I want to stay alert but it is after midnight. Even though our point of departure’s time zone is three hours earlier so my body theoretically should be okay, it feels as if I have migrated into a surreal time zone. Landscape is black-blue-yawning grey. My husband, even more sleep deprived, seems immune to this state, but I know better from trying experiences. I have to keep him between those faded white lines on the freeway for at least an hour. We make it safely and tumble into bed.

Well, “tumble” is far too generous a verb. This is the cranky nighttime part though I well know these are a fortunate person’s complaints. But there are temperature and fan settings to fuss with, a hard bed with a vast amount of pillows and I forgot to bring chamomile tea for pre-bedtime. Traffic noise. At 3 am I re-stuff the ear plugs and take a small amount of drugged-sleep-inducing  OTC sleep medicine. It takes a day or two for this body to re-calibrate. I also have some chronic health matters that require attention anywhere I am; decent rest is necessary.  Marc of course has to adjust but with less discomfort by far. He operates on fumes, almost believes sleep is optional–he maintains out of necessity and habit, of course, but I sometimes suspect he may be from another planet.  Then I think of pilots’ travel and regenerative habits. Not so reassuring as I try to relax. Finally consciousness gives over to sleep’s powerful pull.

The next day we move to a quieter room with a balcony. But we’ve had freeloaders there as the photos indicate.

It is a weird lifestyle, travel and living in a hotel, and I wonder over how Marc can cope with it since he loves familiarity and his set ways. He has always had to travel often for work. Since we arrived I have determined to make do: no car and no access to anything but a small fitness room and outdoor pool, my computer, a TV,  a hotel restaurant of sorts. I have not yet gone swimming. Each day I have slept in too late, eaten my bagel, drunk my Decaf Chai. When out on the balcony it feels as if I have stepped into a sauna. My hair droops even as it frizzes. But I can hear and see pretty rusty-orange-with-blue birds as they trill and flit about. And there are gently waltzing treetops. I have been watching wasps create a hive underneath the metal railing, and they are so meticulous and focused they have so far ignored my camera and me. Fascinating labor to see up rather close but I may not go out, anymore.  I have been bitten before; they’re not easy bites as they grab a small chunk of flesh. Best are the singing/buzzing katydids at night; they remind me of soft Missouri nights, where I was born and my family often visited.

After sweating in the exercise room, I visit with friendly staff with their lilting southern speech patterns and later report the wasp nest which will be dealt with tomorrow (which makes me a bit sad but I can’t imagine outmaneuvering wasps trapped in a hotel room). Now as I write I keep one eye on the weather report re: possible thunderstorms today, maybe tomorrow. Well, I have trusty Netflix. And my bright floral swimsuit is at the ready as soon as the sun shines hot and clear of dense clouds for at least an hour.

And in two days what will the trip to Michigan bring? Funerals and weddings and other such reunions are often fraught with complex emotional eruptions–like beautiful, well designed pinatas that are poked and prodded until surprise innards explode forth and, thus, provoked upwellings of excitement, appreciation and/or dismay. So I don’t know what is next. I am doing all this travel out of respect for Sherril’s memory and love for her bereft husband and his brother, Marc my husband. But I do know relationships and the known order of things change, like it or not, when someone passes on. A human life is that deeply meaningful–that when it is no more on earth its essence hangs here while the absence is yet keenly felt. Yet his or her disappearance creates a real vacuum, too, and we scramble to find our way about it, and not be tossed into the dark well of grief. To not flail about, at odds with the remnants of memory or this breathing, beating life for which we yet need to be present.

So I am travelling unexpectedly in many ways, as we all do. In fiction I can orchestrate things, flesh out skimpy parts and design a new scene and even as characters whisk me along it is an exhilarating thing, a finely tuned way of perceiving, envisioning and being. I know we–yes, the characters, the story and myself– are in concert on some level. In real life it is harder to track the slippery truths and the end is not always nearly heroic. It just comes, and I had better embrace it and live with it in all its mystery or revamp my attitude. As I noted, it may yet storm tonight but tomorrow my swimsuit will remain optional attire. And I feel excellent–strong, happy– as I splash and slice through cool, calm turquoise water, as I float with face to the sky. In fact, I feel pretty good now as sun dips below trees– so when all is said and done, I am thankful once more, God-Who-is-ever-with-us.

 

(I will not be able to post this Friday. Next week, I plan to post after the US holiday of Fourth of July. Be well, wherever you roam or gather!)

Wednesday’s Word: Great Ocean, Take My Grief

I wanted to write a short story today. I really did, something richly arresting, bright-toned but real. And almost did, as my writing habits are so ingrained a story would have let me shape it and set it free upon this page. Yet what sort of story would it have become?–for elegies of loss are lately becoming a deafening refrain.

But my sister-in-law passed away this afternoon from the damage wrought by that heinous thing, cancer. She has been one of my valued sister warriors. A survivor of life’s harrowing and strange times. A woman whose heart had such breadth and width, whose mind was tough, quick, coiled and ready to work. Any work–even work for abandoned or forgotten creatures. She stood steady amid the draining minutiae of living and knew how to yet find the glimmers of good.

We haven’t seen each other much in decades; we moved, they moved, days rushed us forward, took time away from us. We visited her and my brother-in-law last autumn in Michigan. She was frail then, and persistently alive. Quiet as in a cocoon yet available as she could be. We used to talk a mile a minute, smoking and drinking coffee. Laughing. Her eyes missed nothing, spoke of all she did not say.

I think she still missed nothing of importance. She listened well. But no more.

This is the second loss in a month. First, my brother Gary, now Sherril. The ache is a flame that cannot cauterize such pain; it can feel like danger, this diminishing of the heart’s natural fullness. The remainder after death: an abyss of a surprisingly darker sort. And in it  the rising volume of sorrow. Tears can barely do their job, there are too many, and yet not ever enough.

I know, of course–how can we avoid knowing it despite attempts to do so? it waits in our personal realm, our daily news — that we live. And then we die. But each time a dying takes something out of us, a gigantic thing not a small one as it leaves the new absence. Like a drowning in the wake behind a mighty ship. We struggle to keep afloat despite the impulse to slip under. I think some days I am weeping for the world, not just my family, not just friends, but all of us.

There is this bone-deep yearning for more time, more love and stories, more moments when you even do no t one noteworthy thing…. but simply be with one another. Experience has such quality if we only give it its due. Nothing should be ignored or wasted, not the hurt, not bafflement or even outrage. Never the energy of compassion, the ease of simple appreciation. No words ought to be tossed here and there or out the window as if they are useless, or recyclable. They are not, not ever, not really. They are potent. Meant to tell us things we need to hear–and to say. Otherwise, we require the sort of silence out of which Divine Love, a harmony we do not even understand can rise. Inform us of more that needs to be known and done.

The words that she and I shared were quite good enough, even really good. Those conversations, those times are held close, pull me into them as if only yesterday…A dry wit. A rapid fire comeback. We exchanged lines that rang with our truths hidden in a raised eyebrow and fast look, little truths that swelled inside our words with balloons of life and respect.

We always wanted Sherril and my brother-in-law, Bill, to come to Oregon, explore the Northwest, share adventures and belly laughs and even music we might make right here, but it just never got to happen. So today I am posting pictures of the Pacific Ocean that Marc and I enjoyed Sunday for Father’s Day.

I am wanting sea spray to flick its feathery tails at Sherril, for glossy sunshine to slide about her being, the great blueness to carry her far and to whole soul joy. But she is already there, wherever she is. I’m just counting on it.

Let a hallelujah love transform you, be ever prefect as the perfection that fills each star and all gaps between. Oh warrior sister you’ve made it through this quick bitter this long sweet life and now it is done it is done

This slideshow requires JavaScript.