Bike Path*

 My mother died a few weeks ago and mainly I have been focusing on the positive experiences we gave each other during her 92 years. I have intentionally been spending most of my days alone trying to understand the meaning of my own swiftly passing living and what legacy I want to leave my daughter and my community.

 When someone dies I realize we mourn not only their leaving, but also our aging. But this essay is more about discovery, the discovery of the gifts both death and life offer us on a daily basis if we open our eyes wider.

 After returning from my mother's and sister's state of Arizona, as only loss can do, my senses became sharpened to the beauty and wonder of my days in Oregon. The trees were taller, the blooms broader, the wing span of birds floating above amazing. I wrote, I looked at pictures, I gardened, I cleaned.

After a while, however, my solitary reflections begin to take on a boring glow. Was my life too routine: walk the dog, breakfast, dishes, delve into my current novel, write, be with my husband, maybe go to a movie? Was my time spent well or absentmindedly spent? Was I creating new dreams or spinning inside old ones?

Then came several days and evenings of what I call perfect summer, three-bear weather: not too hot or too cool, but just right. That morning I had decided to break my usual habit of walking my dog up the neighborhood street and instead took her on a nearby bike path. We passed the elementary school site where my daughter had been a student and found ourselves scanning the canal for ducks. Foliage, rocks, the trickling of water, the community gardens and ripening berry bushes all seemed new.

I hadn't walked this path for years though it was minutes from my home. My dog and I made a full meandering circle, arriving back at our original starting point.

The morning's walk on the bike path had given me a precious lesson: to begin again, to see my days anew, to feel gratitude for the ordinary. But it wasn't enough. When my husband came home and after our dinner that evening I could feel how thirsty I was for more treasures.

“Let's go for a bike ride on the old bike path,” I suggested.

So we donned our helmets and climbed on our bikes and sped through our neighborhood streets, winding our way around the elementary school building to the path. I quickly took the lead. The breeze blowing on my face, my legs pumping up and down, the wildlife coming into view, everything gave me renewed energy. I was a moving force of the universe; I could literally feel how alive I was.

We biked farther than I had walked in the morning. As we crossed a main street to reach the continuing bike path, I saw these huge trees crowding the canal to my right. Are those the same trees I saw being planted as cuttings years ago? Has it been that long since we biked or walked here?

I mentioned this passing of time to my husband. I remember strolling here when my daughter was young. One day we happened upon a man planting tree starts along the far bank. To cover a junk yard, this lone twenty something man was planting trees. My daughter and I returned several times over the following months and this man was always there, always planting trees. Then I had little faith these trees would grow, much less create a lovely, natural backdrop, obscuring the human-made debris.

But here I was whizzing by these gigantic and majestic pines; they were beautiful and no one would guess at what lay behind them.

I wasn't as close to my mother as I might have wanted. We were different. My mother tended to see the debris behind the trees. But in the last few years we found a sameness in our core love for each other.

Time, love and purpose never cease with death. We plant one tree, one idea, one connection at a time. I kept biking and I kept filling up with new beginnings and new energy. Yes, time doesn't stand still; trees keep growing and new natural wonders are there for the seeing.

*(This essay appeared in the Eugene Register Guard's Write On Column October 24, 2010 with the title, “Both life and death offer us gifts.”)

Seasons

Autumn 2009

When I was a child in the north woods, before I learned there were four seasons to a year, I thought there were dozens. - - Clarissa Pinkola Estes

My mother is ninety-one. I call her three evenings a week. On Autumn Equinox I bring my cell phone to a ritual I'm participating in on a Butte overlooking Eugene.  I stand on a hillside facing gigantic trees with the golden sliver of the moon staring back at me and dial my mother's number. Mom answers and as I always do I say, “Good evening” in a long, drawn-out, over-polite voice.  Mom echoes me back and I see her smile as she repeats my words.   I tell her about the beautiful moon and that I'm outdoors for Autumn Equinox.  My mother has no idea what I'm talking about and I simply say I'm celebrating the change of seasons from Summer to Autumn. “I am ready for the Arizona heat to be gone,” replies my mom. I ask her how she is doing and she answers “pretty good” before she realizes she has done so. Often she tells me about her ailments and her difficult days but I keep striving for the upbeat and this, to my gratification, seems to be seeping into Mom's consciousness.

Some evenings all she wants is my “angel meditation.” This meditation has angels fanning their wings and surrounding her bed, giving her wonderful dreams and a cool, restful sleep. These angels even accompany my mom throughout her day to give her positive experiences.  This evening when I know I can't talk long, mom is open to conversation.  I don't want to shorten her words because I don't know how many words she has left to give me. We end up talking about growing older and our silver hair. I inherited her hair and this makes us look alike. I tell her how my hair is completely silver now and my mother says she is so glad she quit dyeing her hair. When I tell her sometimes I think I might dye my hair to look younger, she tells me not to. It makes your hair thinner, she says. I tell her I notice my hair is already thinner. She adds you can see the gray peeking through the artificial color. Mom extols the beauty of silver hair, and I agree.

After the angels tuck Mom in for the night I tell her “I love you” and she replies, “And I love you too.”

                                                                     

 Summer, 2010

The psyches and souls of women have their own cycles and seasons...of being of the world and returning to the soul-place. - - Christina Pinkola Estes

Sitting in the dark, meditating upon my back deck among my cedar trees, I implore, “Mom, if you can hold on, I'll be there tomorrow.” I ask whatever spirits are roaming in the night to cradle my mother. I am then swaying in a glow of golden light, tears streaking down my cheeks, whispering, “I'm coming, Mom.”

Friday morning the plane lands in Tucson. My sister and I open the hospice door, sighing relief; Mom has found a place of peace. As I enter the bedroom, my mother's sallow eyelids and crackled breathing show she is already far up the road. The nurse lowers the railing and brings me a chair as she lovingly sweeps the hair back from my mother's face. I immediately take Mom's hand, kiss her forehead and say, “I'm here.” Remaining in character as the loquacious daughter, I share remembrances and give Mom love notes from other family members. My stoic sister cries.

Alone with her, I am not sure what to do. Believing my words are heard, I keep telling stories. I keep my hand on her heart and sense the labor of her breathing. Stroking her head, I tell her it's OK to go. For years I have called Mom four times weekly and given her angel meditations before she fell asleep. Now I give her one last celebration of the angels surrounding her bed, caressing her with soft wings and gently lifting her home.

Unexpectedly, I'm singing Mom's favorite show tunes, “Look for the Silver Lining,” and “April Showers.” The lyrics to “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” swirl in my brain and I sing the words out loud. When I arrived Mom's shoulders had been twitching and her facial expression, anxious. Now the twitching is gone and her face shows a youthfulness I haven't seen in years.

At dinner my sister and I clink our goblets, toasting Mom. Nothing matters, I think. Not the petty family history of arguments or worries. Nothing matters but loving one another and ourselves. Mom dies that evening at 10 p.m. She is 92 years, 5 months and four days old. With her last breath, I feel this warm glow within and know my mother is there. I place my hand over my heart.

Listening to Tchaikovsky

 

The performance hall is full; the lights are lowered and the stage is lit. The softness of the violins and cellos become grounded by the bass. Gradually the violas, oboes and flutes join in. A radiant expectation illuminates the face of the piano soloist. He strikes each key and chord as if this is the last chance he has to play this beautiful piece, Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto. The music grabs my soul and doesn't let go. Suddenly like warp speed I am a millions miles away, a thousand years into a nebulous future. My mind gathers each cherished note like a fragile bird about to fly away. Then the notes become whispers and the whispers become thoughts as I am brought back into my body.

I am a child of eight and my father has signed our family up to buy phonograph records at the super market. Our subscription will bring us a new classical record each month. Dad has recently purchased a stereo system in a small shiny maple box and one extremely special record. “This piece of music,” my Dad tells me, “is the golden egg. You will never hear anything more beautiful than this.” He lovingly places this record on the turntable and then it begins to spin. Instantly, I enter a world I never knew existed. “There are the horns,” mentions my father. A few minutes later there is this amazing, invigorating dance-like melody. Then this melody transforms into a lilting jubilation of strings. My father beams as he sees the shadow of magical awe cross my small face. “This is Tchaikovsky! He was born in Russia but he loved to travel. He once traveled to Italy and fell in love with all the warm weather smells and the colorful, lush scenery. This piece called “Capriccio Italien” is my favorite.”

I place my hand gently on my husband's knee. He smiles as he sees the brightness of my eyes. I think about how much I love him and love my daughter who is now grown and a few hundred miles north. I remember taking her as a child to this very performance hall, introducing her to Beethoven and Brahms, Mozart and yes, Tchaikovsky. There were piano lessons and then her love of cello for several years. But I couldn't awaken her classical soul like my father did mine. I sit listening to the pianist's passionate trilling of the keys and wonder why I couldn't transfer this magic. The daughter does love music, especially Inde Rock, and has found her passion through playing and writing songs for the guitar. I hear her timid voice and the complexity of her chords. She has her father's gift of instinctively knowing music at its core rather than through the written page.

The clouds of thought continue to fill my brain. Where do I want to go now? I am in my sixties. My father died in his sixties. I do feel as though I am on the last leg of my journey. The orchestra and piano lean towards and away from each other, each part of the piece, a slice of the whole. I have had my slices of youthful travel, falling in love, studying, mothering, teaching. Tchaikovsky echoes my restlessness. I have never been able to sit still for long...except to listen, except to write, except to love.

My dad was a spontaneous wanderer. He scooped us children up one holiday weekend and told us we were going to see a ballet. There we were at the outdoor Los Angeles Greek Theater ticket office trying to buy tickets to a nearly sold out performance. My younger sister and I sat close to the stage, my father a few rows behind us. We had never been to a ballet before and this was the New York City Ballet doing Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite. What I remember to this day is the decorated Christmas tree rising majestically from the middle of the stage. This gigantic tree became my childhood symbol of pure happiness, for those moments of watching the dancers and hearing the traditional classical suite lifted me all the way to the heavens.

The sweetness of the Andante is coming to a close. How to slow down these precious moments of living. How to remember to take more time for the things I love, for listening to Tchaikovsky. I want to remain right where I am in Orchestra Row P on the right hand side, mesmerized by the skills of the musicians forever. This is one of those “moments of being” the writer Virginia Woolf talks about in A Room of One's Own. My body is swaying with the rhythms of the music and my hands are itching towards movement. The Allegro begins and I am a child standing in our living room, one of the subscription records blasting from the stereo. My hands are distinctly waving and chopping the air in front of me. I am on a podium in front of a full orchestra and I am the conductor. I feel the power as I bend the musicians to my will.

I want to learn piano but my family has little money for lessons. My father buys a wood worn and scratched upright piano for $200. He says he wants to see if I really do want to play piano. I get beginner books; I find a long and narrow cardboard fold-out that can be placed just above the keys and show the notes with numbers. At first I pick out the numbers on the page with the numbers assigned to the keys. My mother once took piano lessons and she gives me her knowledge in small doses. I end up reading music and playing some classical and Broadway show tunes. Later at college I will find an empty piano practice room and play to unwind from the academic stress.

Tchaikovsky's amazing concerto is ending and the sadness of my soul is palpable. Music has carried me through family traumas, my growing up years and my own parenting sagas. My father was both a beautiful and terrifying man. He surprised me one birthday with a brand new maple spinet piano which now lovingly sits in my living room. Then throughout my adolescence I waited inside the house in fear when I heard my father's creaking of the backyard gate. Would his face be flushed with red hot anger or full of tender gentleness? My father's complex, volatile nature both enriched and took away from what could have been a completely happy childhood. But aging and maturing has given me the insight that we each learn in the course of our living to put our childhoods to bed. I choose to remember the beauty. I choose to sway with the music. I choose to listen to Tchaikovsky.

Tears Speak to Balance

I've been missing my daughter, missing her face, missing our connection... But is this missing just my missing being a mother? I continue to struggle with where I am now: a member of the not so elite empty nest and woman-in-her-sixties club. When I lose my footing, the tears come. My tears are speaking to me, telling me I am off balance. For the daughter is doing extremely well: working 20-25 hours a week and attending college classes. She is coming into her own. I waiver on a tightrope, wanting to come into my own, wanting to drop all the anchors that make my balancing act difficult. These emotional anchors of sadness and loneliness won't let go. So I tip to one side and then I tip to the other side. I haven't fallen, but I've come close.

The connection I want with my daughter, is the connection I long for with women friends. I called Anna this morning. She has become a dear friend and I know I have my women's full moon circle. I have been e-mailing updates and finding each month's priestess because I need this circle. If I want to be a part of something I have to give a part of my soul to its development.

I am subscribing to a couple of writers blogs and they are both inspiring. The post this morning from Ollin* was particularly thoughtful. It was about being ¼ writer when we don't deal with the happenings in our lives. He keeps a daily journal, has his blog and is working on a novel. How do I motivate myself to accomplish more? I am running away from beginning my own blog. I am not sure how to begin, what the first post should be. And I am not sure if I even want to have a blog. I am struggling with the issue of public versus private. I want people to read my writing and I want to write entries that will give people an emotional, spiritual, aha insight. My writing is capable of this and I know it. But doing a blog is apparently a huge step for me and I am tip toeing to the starting gate.

My morning high school student called and she has a doctor's appointment this morning. I rescheduled her for later in the afternoon and now I am thinking this might be a better switch for her. I've been depressed by her home situation but here is a kid who has been responsible in letting me know changes in her schedule and here is a kid who yesterday asked for some work in math because she needs/wants it. My hope for her is rising. I am reminding myself that I usually see the positive in all my students. Her having a baby is motivating her to be a better, more educated person and thus a better mother. And who am I to label her situation depressing? She has been raised in a different atmosphere and with other values but she has been loved to the degree that her mother can love her. My job is to support her strength and to value her beauty.

Why have I been down? The gray weather is a factor and the wanting to have a fuller life is a factor. As Dan and I searched for entertainment this last weekend, it became symbolic of my search for the activities I love and fill me up with energetic joy. I rediscovered hiking on Monday. As Ollin pointed out in his post as writers and humans we need to care for and fill up all the parts of ourselves: the emotional, the physical, the spiritual, the intellectual. I see these attributes as a whole and often indistinguishable from one another. So maybe I have to remember to fill my cup from a combination of all four.  And then maybe I'll walk upright with balance on my tightrope.
*Courage2Create ollinmorales.wordpress.com