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.