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.”)
No comments:
Post a Comment