I live in a small house and I lead a small life. But I gave birth to a towering beauty of a daughter who boldly walks around the edge of a circle instead of in the middle. And my six foot four loving husband has the most compassionate, all encompassing spiritual heart I have ever experienced.
A light coming from my vagina seeped out into the entire birthing room when my daughter was born. I am daily illuminated by a presence beyond the ordinary. I see huge reasons for being in every person I meet. With age I find I have nothing and everything to fear. I read hearts and can put strangers at ease. If there is blackness I keep my distance. But usually every encounter has the possibility of immeasurable joy and reflective wisdom. These encounters include the soft caress of wind and clouds, the songs of birds, the touch of feline and canine fur. My eyes become dazzled by the new green of trees, the brilliance of continual invading color, the pelting rain and the expanse of space; and my brain bursts as I contemplate the shadowed layers of mountains, the depth of oceanic horizons, the unfathomable mystery of humans.
When I sit inside my hovel of a home and hear the pounding of the rain against the thin skinned windowpane, I shrink into a dot on the universal map. But outside, simply walking outside, makes me feel as though there are never ending possibilities of meaning. Who will I meet today? What newness will I see? What thoughts will meander in and out of my consciousness? It's not that I'm not grieved by dark days because I am. Then I am wound back inside myself and have no outer vision. I miss the color and I miss the sounds. I hear only my own complaints and feel only my constant judgment.
In darkness I'm small. I forget to say thank you. I forget to read lips. I wish I were somewhere else and forget my truth. When I'm small I'm weighed down with self imposed burdens. My ego clouds the source. It's there...whatever “it” is. It's not bothered by darkness or burdens or ego. Sometimes I can see it when the patterned rain slants on the windowpane or my daughter's protective nature permits her to open an inner drawer. Look quick before this drawer shuts again. She hides her love; she hides her truth. She rightfully saws constantly at the umbilical cord. I want to snap it in half and be done, but then I'm sitting there with needle and thread.
This reflective, sensitive, push pull life isn't easy. Words give and words take away. But I can't stop my tongue, my brain, my hopping up and down. Maybe I can erase, crumple, sculpture the troubled times into something whole. My lover does this for me. He stands firmly on the ground and reels me in. He patiently tucks me into bed and tells me everything will be alright. Will it? His never changing love tells me to hold on. Tells me my world is larger than it seems. Tells me there will be breakfast in the morning.
Tears can be larger than smiles. They swell my heart to twice its size. When my daughter left I wondered whether my world would shrink. Or would I become newly born? From far away I watch her like a mother lion who knows that with every twig creak and with every wing flutter, there comes both magic and danger. The layered vastness of this universe invades my psyche as my daughter and I continue to open our gates.
Home is safe; home is small. And then I go outside and remember. I remember the touch, the look, the infinite measure of beauty. I remember the treks around the globe and each time I return I pile gem on gem. My heart has been rubbed raw and my heart has become like a cherished, sweet and warm cup of coffee. There is no smallness without expansion and no darkness without soul. For every step through the door, my daughter carries out and leaves behind a beaker full of love and learning. I remain permanently pregnant. Try as I may, I have never been the same. This daughter who is not mine has stretched my emotions to the furthest corners of this unfathomable universe.
I want to let smallness go. I want to passionately grab my husband and breathe in unison. I want to grab the creative self walking beside me and tell her it's time: the umbilical cord has been retied. I watch the light from my vagina seep under the door out into a wide and waiting world. And I say thank you.
© 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Mountain Lion Eyes
Growing up with a spontaneous, moody father made my childhood both rich and uncertain. In early elementary school, I came home one day to find my dad had procured a kitten. This was no ordinary kitten. My father told us her name was Haywee and he had been given Haywee as a present from an “Indian Chief.” At this time my father worked for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. Out on an isolated stretch of land far up the Angeles Crest Highway, he had come upon this authentic “Indian Chief.” They talked as two open-hearted men might, my father sharing in loving detail about his three small children. Taking an immediate liking to my handsome, gregarious, six-foot father, the Chief wanted to give him a present for his children. Thus, Haywee became a part of our household.
Every kid wants a dog, and we were no exception. Only the way we got this dog was never straight forward. My dad appeared one evening with this purebred “Norwegian Elk” puppy and said his name was Viking. This would be an incredible dog, my dad explained, for his genes went back to an ancient, northern, fiord land in Scandinavia called Norway. With his thick white fur, upturned tail and splashes of black, Viking was beautiful. My younger sister became the attached, primary caregiver and grieved uncontrollably when Viking, poisoned by a spiteful, unhappy neighbor, died two years later.
Dad, a self-employed landscaper, often took us with him on his gardening route. By our elementary school years he had a collection of rather rich clients, many of whom had, in the heat of a California summer, cool, refreshing swimming pools. With permission, we became swimmers in some of the finest pools in La Canada. Dad also made it a point to bring us to his most beautiful gardens. Lectures ensued about the names of plants, and what plants belonged in what climate. My father's face visibly softened, losing its contorted anger-at-the-world rage as he spoke about his landscape designs. A natural storyteller, he loved sharing background stories about the people we would meet. He proudly introduced us to his fellow gardeners during our many coffee shop breaks. We had no idea what Dad's work routine was like without us, but when we were with him, we stopped frequently for “treats.”
The love of nature and gardens was in Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small manmade bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.
Another favorite family outing was the more formal Huntington Gardens in Pasadena. Our first stop was the infamous art collection, where we stared at Da Vinci's original “Mona Lisa.” We made up stories about why her captivating smile intrigued Leonardo. As we strolled the garden byways, we then made our way through the Japanese themed landscape to the jungle-like river. Here Dad pointed out how the first Tarzan, Johnny Wisemuller, made the beloved and exciting Tarzan movies. We stood on the banks in awe, imaging ourselves swinging by the tree twined ropes.
On a par with Dad's love of nature, was his appreciation of the arts. When Dad pooled our savings money from Grandmother Hadley to create an addition to our small living room, we all helped him build solid wood, wall high bookshelves. On the top of these shelves, Dad carefully placed the precious German books Grandma Koch had brought over from her native Germany. Throughout my childhood, I yearningly stared at these heirlooms. Some day, I promised, I will learn German and visit the places of my ancestors' birth, and in my twenties, I spent several years studying and traveling abroad. On the shelf beneath was Dad's collection of antique, leather bound Shakespeare plays, special editions of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and his Modern Library Classics. Years later he would purchase the Britannica Great Book collection. With a bachelor of arts in English and German literature, I became the first in my family to receive a college diploma.
I remember our family being poor growing up, but somehow my dad always found a way to introduce us to great ballet and great music. On a star-studded evening, Dad quickly herded us into the car after dinner. We drove through darkened streets with no word about where we were going. Up the Los Angeles hills, past Griffith Park we drove and into the parking lot of the Greek Theater. The lot was full and the crowds bustled to enter the outdoor tiered rows. Dad stepped up to the box office and came away with four tickets. Three of these tickets were near the front while one ticket was a few rows back. We sat near the stage and Dad promised he would be guarding us from behind. As the volume of the full orchestra reached a crescendo, as the curtain rose, we were magically captivated by the beginnings of the New York City Ballet's “Nutcracker.” As the Christmas tree rose from the floor to the ceiling, we wide eyed, innocent children became part of an immortal memory.
There would be the incredible Russian Bolshoi Ballet at the Shrine Auditorium, classical/pop Hollywood Bowl concerts, and excursions to the Los Angeles Museums and the La Brea Tar Pits. Each brought an awe inspiring remembrance that would soothe the tougher, occasional violent times of our childhood. But the adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”
Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!
In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.
On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.
If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.
During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.
We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.
Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.
We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.
© 2011
Every kid wants a dog, and we were no exception. Only the way we got this dog was never straight forward. My dad appeared one evening with this purebred “Norwegian Elk” puppy and said his name was Viking. This would be an incredible dog, my dad explained, for his genes went back to an ancient, northern, fiord land in Scandinavia called Norway. With his thick white fur, upturned tail and splashes of black, Viking was beautiful. My younger sister became the attached, primary caregiver and grieved uncontrollably when Viking, poisoned by a spiteful, unhappy neighbor, died two years later.
Dad, a self-employed landscaper, often took us with him on his gardening route. By our elementary school years he had a collection of rather rich clients, many of whom had, in the heat of a California summer, cool, refreshing swimming pools. With permission, we became swimmers in some of the finest pools in La Canada. Dad also made it a point to bring us to his most beautiful gardens. Lectures ensued about the names of plants, and what plants belonged in what climate. My father's face visibly softened, losing its contorted anger-at-the-world rage as he spoke about his landscape designs. A natural storyteller, he loved sharing background stories about the people we would meet. He proudly introduced us to his fellow gardeners during our many coffee shop breaks. We had no idea what Dad's work routine was like without us, but when we were with him, we stopped frequently for “treats.”
The love of nature and gardens was in Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small manmade bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.
Another favorite family outing was the more formal Huntington Gardens in Pasadena. Our first stop was the infamous art collection, where we stared at Da Vinci's original “Mona Lisa.” We made up stories about why her captivating smile intrigued Leonardo. As we strolled the garden byways, we then made our way through the Japanese themed landscape to the jungle-like river. Here Dad pointed out how the first Tarzan, Johnny Wisemuller, made the beloved and exciting Tarzan movies. We stood on the banks in awe, imaging ourselves swinging by the tree twined ropes.
On a par with Dad's love of nature, was his appreciation of the arts. When Dad pooled our savings money from Grandmother Hadley to create an addition to our small living room, we all helped him build solid wood, wall high bookshelves. On the top of these shelves, Dad carefully placed the precious German books Grandma Koch had brought over from her native Germany. Throughout my childhood, I yearningly stared at these heirlooms. Some day, I promised, I will learn German and visit the places of my ancestors' birth, and in my twenties, I spent several years studying and traveling abroad. On the shelf beneath was Dad's collection of antique, leather bound Shakespeare plays, special editions of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and his Modern Library Classics. Years later he would purchase the Britannica Great Book collection. With a bachelor of arts in English and German literature, I became the first in my family to receive a college diploma.
I remember our family being poor growing up, but somehow my dad always found a way to introduce us to great ballet and great music. On a star-studded evening, Dad quickly herded us into the car after dinner. We drove through darkened streets with no word about where we were going. Up the Los Angeles hills, past Griffith Park we drove and into the parking lot of the Greek Theater. The lot was full and the crowds bustled to enter the outdoor tiered rows. Dad stepped up to the box office and came away with four tickets. Three of these tickets were near the front while one ticket was a few rows back. We sat near the stage and Dad promised he would be guarding us from behind. As the volume of the full orchestra reached a crescendo, as the curtain rose, we were magically captivated by the beginnings of the New York City Ballet's “Nutcracker.” As the Christmas tree rose from the floor to the ceiling, we wide eyed, innocent children became part of an immortal memory.
There would be the incredible Russian Bolshoi Ballet at the Shrine Auditorium, classical/pop Hollywood Bowl concerts, and excursions to the Los Angeles Museums and the La Brea Tar Pits. Each brought an awe inspiring remembrance that would soothe the tougher, occasional violent times of our childhood. But the adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”
Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!
In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.
On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.
If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.
During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.
We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.
Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.
We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.
© 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
What I'll Miss When I Die
July 6, 2011: After I entered my sixth decade and especially after my mother died last July, thoughts of my own death have been pounding on my brain. My heart skips a beat and my anxiety level rises when I envision myself dying. Like the elephant in the room of life, death, our mortality, is ever present. But when I say these end of life thoughts are clambering to get through to me, I don't mean I am not listening. It's just that months ago I went through a period of difficulty falling asleep...meaning I didn't want to close my eyes for fear I wouldn't see the light again. So though I continue to have death on my shoulder, I have tried to tell myself to make the most of my current living and to not worry about the finale until I am well into my eighties.
But whenever I tell myself to embrace the joy, to find my present happiness and to forget about dying, this rarely works. Whatever we are not suppose to think about, we inevitably will. So I've decided to look my death in the eye and say here I am.
What will I miss when I die? I'll miss seeing my daughter continue to grow and change and mature, even if by then she is well past her forties or into her fifties. We don't ever stop growing and the term “being a grown up” is a misnomer. She only lives a hundred miles away yet this could easily be ten thousand miles. Every time we see each other I relish the precious minutes of observing her facial expressions, catching her wisdom and sarcasm, watching her gain people skills and insights. Every time I leave her it feels as though a part of me has been torn asunder. Has anyone ever been able to adequately describe the bond between a mother and daughter? To me it is both overwhelmingly joyous and harshly devastating.
I have no idea whether I or Dan, my loving life mate, will die first. I sat next to a ninety-three year old gentleman at a concert recently and when he talked about his wife's death twelve years ago, he described a heart-wrenching time for him that was saved by becoming part of Elder Hostel and filling his days with his loves, one of which is classical music. Oddly enough we were at a Joan of Arc Concert with Marin Alsop with the dominant theme of Joan's burning death at the stake. I cannot escape death even when I try my damnedest. If and when Dan leaves me, I will feel split down the middle. Though we are two very individual humans, we have grown closer together as we have aged. I know I depend upon him in ways I never thought I would. I am not traditionally religious but the words to describe Dan come to me from the Bible: “He is my rod and my staff and he comforts me.”
Beyond missing friends and everyday, touching conversations with strangers (like my recent ninety-three year old acquaintance), I will simply miss looking at the sky: the blue, the clouds, the darkness, the stars, the moon caught between tall trees, the brilliant colors of a sunset, the birds soaring in V's across the open expanse. I come across as such a gosh darn romantic and I am. I will miss the sounds of wind...I can hear the leaves rustling in my front garden as I write. I will miss color: the multiple shades of green. I never knew until I moved to Oregon how many different shades of green there are. I will miss gardens and flowers and most of all I will miss trees. I named my daughter after a tree and perhaps this has given me a new appreciation of their majesty and strength. Trees seem like people to me. I feel comforted, loved and protected by trees. I will miss hiking in the mountains and at the coast...reaching the sandy shores with the tide rolling in or out...the white, foamy waves curving their spines and splashing their powerful arms towards us insignificant humans walking beside the waters. Earth, Air, Fire, Water, all the elements of this life, reside in my heart.
I will miss my home. For home is my center base, the soul seat of my physical living. We have created a home of abundant color and comfort. We have created an extremely personal space with mementos and memories of the lives we have lived. Dan has built decks and fences and I have stained them. We have painted, sanded and cleaned together. We have collected books and antiques, collected art from daughter and friends, collected rocks and shells, brought the outside to the inside. My father's legacy has been the fruitful meaning of home and family and I have embraced this inheritance and hopefully passed it on.
Often as I am sitting on my front or back deck drinking my first cup of early morning coffee, I think I will definitely miss this coffee drinking beginning to my day. I slowly sip my coffee, eyes darting from the beauty of sky and trees and flowers to cars passing by or people strolling the neighborhood or children screaming. It is really the simplest of things, sometimes the most mundane I will miss like enjoying a good home cooked meal with Dan, sharing a glass of wine, devouring a Sweet Life desert together, talking in the living room with Dan in his leather chair and me plopped on the soft, rose couch. I will miss hugging and kissing and laughing and crying.
Will I miss sadness? Will I miss heart-break? Will I miss the challenges I have overcome? Will I miss growing pains both symbolically and physically? Do I miss and will I miss my own youthful adventures of travel and loves lost, my dramatic introspective nature both then and now? Tolstoy once wrote that if we were given the chance to live our lives over again we would live them exactly the same as we have. Would this be true if I were given a rewind? I think I would learn from my mistakes. I think I would try to undertake more, have higher dreams, doubt myself less. But my heart tells me I have lived my life exactly the way I was meant to live it. So when I die I know I will miss all of it, whatever my “it” may have been and turn out to be.
July 8, 2011: The day I write about death, I go out in the back garden to water and naturally bring our dog Lacey with me. As I am watering the side yard, this blue Scrub Jay is vehemently chattering away. I search for where the noise is coming from and see this bird hopping around in the neighbor's apple tree. “What's going on?” I reply. “What are you trying to tell me?” As Lacey comes to the side where I am watering, the bird seems to become more anxious and the chattering turns to screaming. I figure birds and dogs are not a good mix.
The next thing I know, this baby bird is fluttering to the ground and Lacey, with her arthritic older age, suddenly has her youth back and is pouncing on the baby before I can move a muscle. It's my turn now to scream. The legs of the baby are dangling from my dog's mouth and is alive. I am telling Lacey to let go and she's becoming her primitive dog self and is not listening. She's literally walking away from me and chopping down on bird bones. I finally find something I can swat her with and she does let go. But I can see as the bird hits the ground, it's already dead.
I am totally devastated and apologize to the mother Scrub Jay wherever she may be. I've been thinking about death nearly constantly and there she is landing right in front of me. Most of our found dead animals have been carried by Dan to the garbage can. It's my turn. I get a plastic bag and stand before this baby which I see is really an adolescent bird. I give her or him a moment of silence and then I scoop him or her into the bag. Is it that the lessons we are to learn are always brought before us?
(c)2011
But whenever I tell myself to embrace the joy, to find my present happiness and to forget about dying, this rarely works. Whatever we are not suppose to think about, we inevitably will. So I've decided to look my death in the eye and say here I am.
What will I miss when I die? I'll miss seeing my daughter continue to grow and change and mature, even if by then she is well past her forties or into her fifties. We don't ever stop growing and the term “being a grown up” is a misnomer. She only lives a hundred miles away yet this could easily be ten thousand miles. Every time we see each other I relish the precious minutes of observing her facial expressions, catching her wisdom and sarcasm, watching her gain people skills and insights. Every time I leave her it feels as though a part of me has been torn asunder. Has anyone ever been able to adequately describe the bond between a mother and daughter? To me it is both overwhelmingly joyous and harshly devastating.
I have no idea whether I or Dan, my loving life mate, will die first. I sat next to a ninety-three year old gentleman at a concert recently and when he talked about his wife's death twelve years ago, he described a heart-wrenching time for him that was saved by becoming part of Elder Hostel and filling his days with his loves, one of which is classical music. Oddly enough we were at a Joan of Arc Concert with Marin Alsop with the dominant theme of Joan's burning death at the stake. I cannot escape death even when I try my damnedest. If and when Dan leaves me, I will feel split down the middle. Though we are two very individual humans, we have grown closer together as we have aged. I know I depend upon him in ways I never thought I would. I am not traditionally religious but the words to describe Dan come to me from the Bible: “He is my rod and my staff and he comforts me.”
Beyond missing friends and everyday, touching conversations with strangers (like my recent ninety-three year old acquaintance), I will simply miss looking at the sky: the blue, the clouds, the darkness, the stars, the moon caught between tall trees, the brilliant colors of a sunset, the birds soaring in V's across the open expanse. I come across as such a gosh darn romantic and I am. I will miss the sounds of wind...I can hear the leaves rustling in my front garden as I write. I will miss color: the multiple shades of green. I never knew until I moved to Oregon how many different shades of green there are. I will miss gardens and flowers and most of all I will miss trees. I named my daughter after a tree and perhaps this has given me a new appreciation of their majesty and strength. Trees seem like people to me. I feel comforted, loved and protected by trees. I will miss hiking in the mountains and at the coast...reaching the sandy shores with the tide rolling in or out...the white, foamy waves curving their spines and splashing their powerful arms towards us insignificant humans walking beside the waters. Earth, Air, Fire, Water, all the elements of this life, reside in my heart.
I will miss my home. For home is my center base, the soul seat of my physical living. We have created a home of abundant color and comfort. We have created an extremely personal space with mementos and memories of the lives we have lived. Dan has built decks and fences and I have stained them. We have painted, sanded and cleaned together. We have collected books and antiques, collected art from daughter and friends, collected rocks and shells, brought the outside to the inside. My father's legacy has been the fruitful meaning of home and family and I have embraced this inheritance and hopefully passed it on.
Often as I am sitting on my front or back deck drinking my first cup of early morning coffee, I think I will definitely miss this coffee drinking beginning to my day. I slowly sip my coffee, eyes darting from the beauty of sky and trees and flowers to cars passing by or people strolling the neighborhood or children screaming. It is really the simplest of things, sometimes the most mundane I will miss like enjoying a good home cooked meal with Dan, sharing a glass of wine, devouring a Sweet Life desert together, talking in the living room with Dan in his leather chair and me plopped on the soft, rose couch. I will miss hugging and kissing and laughing and crying.
Will I miss sadness? Will I miss heart-break? Will I miss the challenges I have overcome? Will I miss growing pains both symbolically and physically? Do I miss and will I miss my own youthful adventures of travel and loves lost, my dramatic introspective nature both then and now? Tolstoy once wrote that if we were given the chance to live our lives over again we would live them exactly the same as we have. Would this be true if I were given a rewind? I think I would learn from my mistakes. I think I would try to undertake more, have higher dreams, doubt myself less. But my heart tells me I have lived my life exactly the way I was meant to live it. So when I die I know I will miss all of it, whatever my “it” may have been and turn out to be.
July 8, 2011: The day I write about death, I go out in the back garden to water and naturally bring our dog Lacey with me. As I am watering the side yard, this blue Scrub Jay is vehemently chattering away. I search for where the noise is coming from and see this bird hopping around in the neighbor's apple tree. “What's going on?” I reply. “What are you trying to tell me?” As Lacey comes to the side where I am watering, the bird seems to become more anxious and the chattering turns to screaming. I figure birds and dogs are not a good mix.
The next thing I know, this baby bird is fluttering to the ground and Lacey, with her arthritic older age, suddenly has her youth back and is pouncing on the baby before I can move a muscle. It's my turn now to scream. The legs of the baby are dangling from my dog's mouth and is alive. I am telling Lacey to let go and she's becoming her primitive dog self and is not listening. She's literally walking away from me and chopping down on bird bones. I finally find something I can swat her with and she does let go. But I can see as the bird hits the ground, it's already dead.
I am totally devastated and apologize to the mother Scrub Jay wherever she may be. I've been thinking about death nearly constantly and there she is landing right in front of me. Most of our found dead animals have been carried by Dan to the garbage can. It's my turn. I get a plastic bag and stand before this baby which I see is really an adolescent bird. I give her or him a moment of silence and then I scoop him or her into the bag. Is it that the lessons we are to learn are always brought before us?
(c)2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Sunday Visit
(written October 2009)
I'm sitting in the car's passenger seat staring out the window as we wing our way to Portland, Oregon. We have driven this beautifully lush highway more times than I can count. Now with our daughter living there the scenery is becoming embedded in our memories. I have been an empty nester for a little over a year and have both the excitement and anguish of an expectant mother upon seeing her newborn child. The grass is so green I think as I stare at the meadows and farmlands. The cows and their calves gather on one field and the goats and sheep are on another. Why are these animals so separate? And why do I feel so apart from my twenty year old daughter? The teen years changed our relationship. We no longer cuddled; we hardly spoke. The hugs have returned but sometimes she stresses out when I try to “talk” with her. So I step back and shrink my words. I am gregarious and she can be reserved. Yes, we appear to be separate animals.
I want to be able to relax around my daughter; I want her to be proud of who I am. She would no doubt relate the exact same words about being around her mother. The sky is blue; the rain is holding off. I breathe in the fields and the hills, the barns and the fences; I breathe in my life. What do I want to do in my sixth decade? Mothering vanished in the blink of an eyelash and I feel bereft. How do I begin creatively dreaming again? I'm smart; I'm capable; but I've fallen down a rabbit hole filled with brown dirt rather than colorful fantasies.
A hawk waits for his dinner. A crow flies across the sky. In one enormous black wave, starlings flutter up from the fields. I keep watching and wonder at the brilliance of birds flying in formation. It never fails. Every group of birds I see starts out in a cluster but then arrange themselves into a large V. Is this for visibility and protection? The old adage: birds of a feather flock together comes to mind. Will my daughter eventually flock to her bird family? She knows we are watching out for her. Her more frequent use of the four letter L word tells me she is circling back.
Our restaurant silence contains huge levels of meaning as we sit across from each other for lunch. The daughter's smooth fair skin, deep blue eyes and long darkening auburn hair make her genuinely lovely. She chews her nails, nervously glances up and then down. She seeks my approval and I seek hers. The love is there, just underground. We've come so Dan, my husband, can share some positive news about a health scare he has gone through. We have been the protective parents and didn't want to worry the daughter until more information was secured. Gratefully, it is a good outcome. Now our daughter will be drawn into our flock of knowledge.
I leave the two of them alone at her apartment and wander the funky, fun street of Hawthorne Blvd. After window shopping I walk the fifteen blocks back. Walking takes the edge off my loneliness. I sense I'm coming to the other side of this empty nest phase. The health scare has brought me closer to Dan and closer to the meaning of my life's elder phase. The sands of time have become the rapidly gushing forth of time. I can't hold life still even while leading a slow existence.
My daughter calls my cell and wonders where I am. They have had their talk and set up her wireless network. We chat as I walk down the misty street towards her. Our conversation is relaxed, and when I enter her apartment I feel a deep letting go. It's coming, this uninhibited being with each other, this seeing beyond mother/daughter labels. My words flow and they are the right words: “Take time to play your guitar, take time for your music... for music is your soul.” Her wide eyed facial expression tells me she recognizes I understand her more than she thought I did. Nine and a half months and nineteen years of living together must count for something.
We hug; we kiss. She walks us to our car and our reciprocal “I love yous” becomes a thin thread attached to the bumper of our car, following us all the way back from her home in Portland to our home in Eugene.
© 2011
I'm sitting in the car's passenger seat staring out the window as we wing our way to Portland, Oregon. We have driven this beautifully lush highway more times than I can count. Now with our daughter living there the scenery is becoming embedded in our memories. I have been an empty nester for a little over a year and have both the excitement and anguish of an expectant mother upon seeing her newborn child. The grass is so green I think as I stare at the meadows and farmlands. The cows and their calves gather on one field and the goats and sheep are on another. Why are these animals so separate? And why do I feel so apart from my twenty year old daughter? The teen years changed our relationship. We no longer cuddled; we hardly spoke. The hugs have returned but sometimes she stresses out when I try to “talk” with her. So I step back and shrink my words. I am gregarious and she can be reserved. Yes, we appear to be separate animals.
I want to be able to relax around my daughter; I want her to be proud of who I am. She would no doubt relate the exact same words about being around her mother. The sky is blue; the rain is holding off. I breathe in the fields and the hills, the barns and the fences; I breathe in my life. What do I want to do in my sixth decade? Mothering vanished in the blink of an eyelash and I feel bereft. How do I begin creatively dreaming again? I'm smart; I'm capable; but I've fallen down a rabbit hole filled with brown dirt rather than colorful fantasies.
A hawk waits for his dinner. A crow flies across the sky. In one enormous black wave, starlings flutter up from the fields. I keep watching and wonder at the brilliance of birds flying in formation. It never fails. Every group of birds I see starts out in a cluster but then arrange themselves into a large V. Is this for visibility and protection? The old adage: birds of a feather flock together comes to mind. Will my daughter eventually flock to her bird family? She knows we are watching out for her. Her more frequent use of the four letter L word tells me she is circling back.
Our restaurant silence contains huge levels of meaning as we sit across from each other for lunch. The daughter's smooth fair skin, deep blue eyes and long darkening auburn hair make her genuinely lovely. She chews her nails, nervously glances up and then down. She seeks my approval and I seek hers. The love is there, just underground. We've come so Dan, my husband, can share some positive news about a health scare he has gone through. We have been the protective parents and didn't want to worry the daughter until more information was secured. Gratefully, it is a good outcome. Now our daughter will be drawn into our flock of knowledge.
I leave the two of them alone at her apartment and wander the funky, fun street of Hawthorne Blvd. After window shopping I walk the fifteen blocks back. Walking takes the edge off my loneliness. I sense I'm coming to the other side of this empty nest phase. The health scare has brought me closer to Dan and closer to the meaning of my life's elder phase. The sands of time have become the rapidly gushing forth of time. I can't hold life still even while leading a slow existence.
My daughter calls my cell and wonders where I am. They have had their talk and set up her wireless network. We chat as I walk down the misty street towards her. Our conversation is relaxed, and when I enter her apartment I feel a deep letting go. It's coming, this uninhibited being with each other, this seeing beyond mother/daughter labels. My words flow and they are the right words: “Take time to play your guitar, take time for your music... for music is your soul.” Her wide eyed facial expression tells me she recognizes I understand her more than she thought I did. Nine and a half months and nineteen years of living together must count for something.
We hug; we kiss. She walks us to our car and our reciprocal “I love yous” becomes a thin thread attached to the bumper of our car, following us all the way back from her home in Portland to our home in Eugene.
© 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)