Questions and More Questions

From the way I have been talking anyone would think that H's death mattered chiefly for its effect on myself. Her point of view has seemed to have dropped out of sight. -CS Lewis, A Grief Observed

Even before I read the above quote, the exact notion had been on my mind for a long time.  My blog posts are all about me.  All about my pain and grief.  Twinges of guilt surface.  I am preoccupied with the complications of living alone in this world. Suddenly thoughts of Jerry are overshadowed, yet I think about him constantly.  It is hard to explain.

I know what images my Catholic upbringing creates for heaven, hell and limbo. The nuns used to give the impression that limbo was the worst-a place where there is no movement toward heaven and no movement closer to hell. My current understanding is that heaven is nearness to God and hell is remoteness from God and that limbo does not exist,but that prayers can aid the soul to progress closer to God.  While praying this morning I broke down.  A portion of the Prayer for the Departed caught in my throat, ".....dispel their sorrows, change their darkness into light..."  I have been saying this prayer a zillion times a day and only this morning, I wondered:  Is Jerry sorrowful?  Is Jerry in darkness?   All these months I have worried little about Jerry.  He is no longer in pain.  His health is restored.  He is near God.  He was not without faults (being a human), but suddenly I wonder, he is more than OK, right?

There has just been so much to deal with here on this earth.  Often I am overwhelmed.  So to compartmentalize my life and Jerry's new life with the trust that he is more than flourishing, I have been able to survive.  Lewis also comes to a point when he questions what state his wife is in after her passing.  They tell me that H is at peace. What makes them so sure of this?...Why should the separation (if nothing else) which so agonizes the lover who is left behind be painless to the lover who departs?  Does Jerry ache for me as much as I ache for him?  Somehow I picture him knowing my every thought, watching my every move, but how can I be so sure? I think that he has better access to me than I do currently to him.  It is all so confusing and there is so much that is really unknown.  I have so so many questions.

And then I remembered the dreams, so vivid, where he visited me reassuring me that he was whole, that he was always with me and that he loved me deeply.

I  continue to pray.  Thoughts of Jerry are a constant. I pray for reassurance that he is OK and that my family with time will be OK too.

The Risk

Love is a light that never dwelleth in a heart possessed by fear.-Baha’u’llah

Fear is a fortress

Capturing the heart and mind,

In a protective illusion

Of safety.

Merely living is a risk,

All for the chance

At

Love.

One day.

Google It

My grandmother hid under the bed during thunder storms.  My husband watches storms from the shelter of our porch.  I am somewhere in between, but I can easily imagine coaxing my grandmother to move over to make room for my quaking body under her twin bed.  Now it is pouring.  Moments ago I thought I heard a rumble.  My brain tripped to a notion of safety-devices off, stay away from open windows and don’t take a bath.  Don’t sit under a tree, don’t walk in an open field and don’t decide to take up golf. Don’t.  Don’t. Don’t.

I realize I don’t know the do’s. You would think that such a fear filled brain would be able to recite the steps in dealing with any natural disaster and man made one.  I don’t know what to do in the event of a tornado.  Head for the basement?  When do I stand at the threshold of a door relying on the strength of the frame to protect me?  I don’t know. Is that during an earthquake? Some people sit in empty bathtubs, don't they?  My father was the protector.  He clearly trained me in the “don’t do’s”, but failed to solidify the ‘ disaster do’s.”

I have not heard any more rumbles.  Perhaps it was an isolated thunder event in the distance?  Maybe it was a truck driving past, but then again maybe it was an earthquake? How do I prepare?  Maybe I will just “Google it.”

Somewhere

All air was sucked out of the room,

Yet I couldn’t leave

And

I couldn’t stay.

I stood to leave,

You pulled me back.

Your last few

Moments,

Few ragged breaths,

I was there

As you were whisked

Off  to somewhere.

Trust

Fear holds me.

Anxiety binds my spirit

Limiting my vision 

Of what lies ahead. 

I can only see as far as I can see,

And then

I must trust,

Simply trust.

Trusting the Silence

This poem is in response to my inability in remembering detail.  I have forgotten the sound of my mother's voice, moments when my dying friend admitted to fear and the number of steps to my grandmother's apartment.   I want to so desperately to remember everything, and as I  frantically try to recall, I remember nothing.   I must trust the silence.



Hues of color bleed through the darkness,
When not long ago,
Pricks of light shone,
Through black, nothingness.

Fresh memories empty into
Silence.
Silence reveals the
Extra-ordinary
Existence of
Wind
And
Bird song.

pandemonium in my mind

News has gotten me on edge.  Last night someone posted on Facebook that healthy dogs have been suddenly dying from a strange virus.  Instead of reading it and critically determining the viability of this post or calling the vet for an official confirmation or denial of the article, I ignored it- at least until Rex sneezed on me during the night and woke me up each time.  I think it is called pandemonium in my mind or maybe just plain anxiety.   It was just a week ago that our Rex was rushed to the vet.  He was on a bland diet and  is on the tail end of antibiotic, yet he has developed new symptoms: repeatedly sneezing.  Unlike last week's illness, at least Rex is exercising his tail, wanting to cuddle and has not forgotten the bad habit of begging.  Hopefully, all is right with our world and that article was a hoax.

Through the Brambles

                                                                       

Lately, I have been thinking about how I handle stress, disappointment and life's surprises-of which I have had many.  Grit?  It is always a question as to how much I have.  It seems that I have more when I have accessed my resources and supports than when my reserves for "curve balls" has been depleted by lack of self-attention.  It has long been my contention that not only do the daily habits of a spiritual being like praying, meditating and engaging in kindnesses support each soul, but for me, creative pursuits contribute greatly to my well-being.  That is why I write.  It sounds corny, but it feeds my soul.

Writing for the purpose of posting to my blog has become a habit.  The hard part is working on other writing projects that require long term effort, persistence and facing the fact that I don't always know what I am doing as I tread on new territory.  My motivation for my current project is to honor a strong woman who became my dear friend, an unlikely pairing. Part of what thwarts me is the fear that my words will not do her justice.  Part of my fear is that my memory of her remains unclear, foggy. When I think of this project there is a mix of excitement, apprehension and pure fear.  It is easier to think plenty about this project than to plunge ahead and give it a go.  I am hopeful that with all my supports at the ready and by creating a plan for persistent effort, I will find my way through the brambles.

In Sickness and In Health.....

                                                -Rex's bland diet

Each night our double bed is overflowing with life inhaling, exhaling stretching and snoring.  I slip under the layers of sheet, blanket and comforter and I start to yank, fighting for cover and more than a postage sized space to lay prone.  It is quite a process to investigate the real estate claimed by canine and feline.  Cats on the pillows,  all curled with nose touching tail.  Others stretch wherever there is space. stepping over dog, whose ears twitch in recognition and certainly not in irritation.  We are a family where there is room for all.

Hunched, I sat on the side of the bed last night.  My hand covering my eyes, elbow on knee, I was worried about my sick pup.  Rex had not moved all night.  Like checking a newborns breath, my hand rested gently on his aching side and I watched my hand move with each breath.  Shallow, quick breaths.  He recognized my presence his eyes opened glassy and sick.  His tail between his legs.  He lay motionless.  Pitiful.

I lay on my side, moving my body like a contortionist to fit in the tiny space that was left on the bed.  I kissed my boy, nestling my nose into his neck and was soothed by long gentle strokes along satiny fur.  Whispering of my love and  I spoke of fishing at camp, runs at the Stone Barn and long trips in the car.  My armed craned over his body, I closed my eyes and prayed.

On The Black Box

It has always been one of the most unnatural things for me to do-to stare into the eye of a lens for the sake of capturing my image.  This difficulty has been fodder for family stories for decades and it drew my mother's ire.  With care she gathered together all my school photos and hung them in the hallway across from the cellar door.  Whenever photo day came near, she would beckon me to study the expression in each photo.  There was no smile, but an odd pull of the lips that disappeared into a set of twin dimples.  No teeth were shown.

"Here, smile like this. Show your teeth," my mother would demonstrate accentuating her smile with a pointed finger."You do it, now," she coaxed.  I practiced in the tiny hallway, just me and my mother long enough to satisfy her.  We parted, each hoping for a different outcome.

While sitting at the kitchen table, she unhinged the glass protecting each portrait-the expression was the same year after year. As I stood in line waiting for the photo to be taken, I  practiced smiling as my mother had shown me. Sitting on that big black box and staring into the lens made me self-conscious and nervous.  I always deferred to the default 'no smile, no teeth'-my mother's disappointment.

 Even today, portraits are such a difficult undertaking. Everyone is coaxing me to smile. And, I just can't.  I really don't know why.

The Return

Your return
Makes
The old
Wounds
New,
Fresh.
I run,
But
Cannot
Hide,
I am meant
To
Love
You.
It hurts.

The Admission

With this admission, I realized that there was so much more that I didn't know about her.

Everything was red and big. Red lipstick was drawn just passed the natural curve of her lips.   Hair dyed, twisted into a tight bun, morphed by the bow clip  that loomed like wings of a great bird ready for take-off. Earrings made of shiny metals and ribbons rocked at her lobes looking weighty as she shuffled around the halls in shoes that were slightly too big and would not stay on her feet.  All this warned us of her approach. She yelled as she walked.   She never apologized for her booming voice and explained that she was Italian, as if that excused it all.  She always talked over everyone.  Her presence was made known right from the beginning.

"I have to find another job," I confided in my friend, a fellow teacher.  "I can't work with that woman!" I swallowed hard, not really sure what I was going to do.

There was no way of missing her in the halls of school or on the road either.  Her cars through the years were big, large tanks.  She always insisted on driving. Her oversized hands gripped the wheel seconds at a time.  Sometimes both hands were off the steering wheel to emphasize a point.  The tank seemed to drive itself.  "I can't look at the road," she began to explain loudly, "It distracts me!"

"For goodness sake, hang onto the wheel, would ya," I screamed.  My eyes darting left, right and ahead in a futile attempt to control.  Nothing about this woman was controllable, and I often wondered why her husband retired, kept opposite hours.  

Spending time with her at the beginning was out of professional necessity and then over time, it was by choice, I realized that she was often a misunderstood woman with a big big heart.  

"Come to my house for supper, " I offered.

"I can't," she answered without much forethought, then added, "Do you still have cats?"

She knew I had cats.  "Ya, why?" I asked.

"I can't come," she stated firmly.  

"You're not allergic to cats are you?" She had a dog which offered her company and wild chasing when it got loose. She was used to pets.

She didn't answer and there was an uncomfortable silence. I was dumbfounded and couldn't think of why she wouldn't be able come to my house.  I was the one to always visit her at her house. She had never come to my house, although we had been friends for years now.

"I, I am..." oddly she stumbled over the words, "I am afraid of cats.  I can't come."

I thought that I was the one that wrestled with irrational fears.  This fearless woman who I thought I knew so well was afraid.  I couldn't believe it. 

This admission only opened the way for more honest talk.

The Light Within

The thin curve of my upper lip,
The nose that looks like the milk man's.
Bit by bit,
Learning to love it all
Through the Light within.

Loving Through Images

Thumbing through stacks of photos while visiting my childhood home recently, reminded me just how important it is to preserve and treasure family history through images.  I found images of my father as a pudgy five year old in knickers with a pageboy haircut. In another photo my mother at about the same age, smiles in the direction of the camera the blue of her eyes lost in the black and white processing.  There were decks of newer photos too.  My mother was the photographer,  that is when she remembered the camera. She captured mostly holidays or special occasions.  The composition of all her her photos were problematic, the subjects rested on the bottom eighth of the photo showing the tops of heads, while most of the square print was wall and ceiling.  Standing in the middle of my old bedroom, holding the image of Auntie and Gene with their smiles running off the edge of the photo made me smile. Suddenly, I recalled that despite protests (my mother painstakingly took forever to snap a "bad" photo) she continued to be the family photographer.  When I was old enough, I  wrangled the camera from her. From then on I was absent from family photos.

I have a friend that takes self-portraits almost daily.  I stare her image. How does she do that? I couldn't. I thought. She holds all that she has become until that moment in the image. All the joys, the lessons and the pain.  I realize for the most part, I remain absent from photographs.  Although said to be photogenic, I do not like to like to have my photo taken.  Hyper-critical, whenever I am forced to be in front of a lens I hide behind the torso of another and peek. Just little bits of me show.

What would happen if I began the practice of a self portrait a day?  Would I come to discover the light within and learn to accept myself as I am?  Does how I look really have much to do with all the "inside" work?  I could learn to love.

One day my daughters may discover the series of self-portraits and hold them tightly and view them as gifts to be treasured.

Fuzzy

Fear is a feeling that has been my companion for a long long time, along with worry.  I come from a long line of worriers and anxious folk.  This is just one conversation I had with myself just the other morning.  Today I can just laugh about it. I think this is a common scene among Baby Boomers.

Oh gosh, I think to myself as I'm gripping the wheel at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock on my drive into school.   I've got to write that Thank-You note. Wait.  Did I write that note and give it him already?  Or... did I just think about it? Nah, I wrote it and gave it to him.  I think.  Wait.  What would the parents think if they received two thank-you's?  They'd understand.  They're busy people.  No, I can't let anyone know.  Sometimes, I think...it's hard.  I'm losing my memory. I worry about early onset, you know.  I used to be able to remember everything. Things are just a little fuzzy.

One Day Fearless

Fear was my father's constant companion and its' dark shadow casts a chilling message that I hear to this day, "Be careful you might get hurt," or "Get off that ladder, you'll fall."  I take few risks physically and I think of myself as a klutz.  As a mother, I did not want my children to lug this message-a heavy burden with them into adulthood. Watching my children carry a confidence and an understanding of their physical strength and capabilities helps me to keep my mouth shut, most of the time.

One day, I do remember playing football with the neighborhood boys.  We hadn't begun to play yet, when two brothers started hurling insults about my weight.  I think I was about eight years old, in that chubby state that I never seemed to grow out of for long.  They always seemed to be picking on me and reminded me how inferior I was to them, since I was a girl and a fat one at that.  My backyard afforded just a big enough flat surface at the bottom of a slight slope of grass to play football.  I remember the heckling and frustration I felt as a result.  Normally, we played touch football, but we had collectively decided that we would allow tackling.  Determined and fearless, I  had a plan to tackle hard.  The youngest brother who really was a bit of a wimpish bully was carrying the ball.  My focus was to wrap my arms around his legs and trip him up.  That will send him and his brother a message to not mess with me, I thought.   The next thing I knew we both hit the ground with a thud, my nose taking the brunt of the impact.  In like motion and timing, we quickly got to our feet,  leaning forward while cupping our hands to catch the stream of red.  He ran home wailing.  I quietly stepped inside my house as I glanced out the window both teams had quickly dispersed and the back yard was empty.

Telling my father about the tackle, he applied a dry compress under my upper lip to stop the bleeding. I was prone on the couch my head propped up by pillows.  My father was patiently explaining what he was doing and why.  I was mesmerized.

"This is how they do it in the locker room," he shared, his voice seemed to be filled with pride.   That day, I felt a special connection with my father.  During those hours, he cared for me we never spoke of fear because we had it all under control. We were both fearless.

This Moment

My friend began laughing, "You.  Shy?" Describing myself as shy is akin to admitting that I can sit down and eat my weight in ice cream in one sitting.  I wish I wasn't so painfully shy in crowds and with people I do not know well, but I am what I am.  As I lean against the wall busying myself with a cup full of water, I watch others in the large room effortlessly move from person to person and group to group.  Someone rushes passed me, I am unnoticed as though I  blend in with the wallpaper.  My eyes shift along the perimeter of the room searching for a clock.  This has to be over soon, I mutter to myself.  I wasn't always this way.

It is dark when the alarm goes off.  My girls still asleep, will only rouse when the first light pierces the night sky.   I am curled on my side, just resting and waiting for daybreak.  Every morning is the same.  The gentle cooing of the birds is often the first thing I hear in the morning as I shuffle my way to the coop.  Once I open the door,  a spring of wings and feathers is released and they flood toward me.  Some begin pecking at my broken boot strap that hangs loosely.  Some mornings, I talk.  Some mornings I move through the mental list of chores for my hens in a silent monk-like state. Mostly, I move slowly and deliberately so I don't step on a bird.  They depend upon my care.

By the time I return into the house, Rex my dog has ambled out of bed and is ready to give kisses, to go out and to be fed.  Before I rush off to work, my large lap dog will sprawl across my lap, while one cat curls on available lap space while the other sprawls against my shoulder like a fox stole.  My morning has been punctuated by crowds of creatures with the only alone time recorded to be while showering.  Yet, I am in a state of peaceful acceptance for who I am at this moment.  Time might as well stop.

"A Woman's Place"

We live in a culture of unspoken rules.  There is a set of expectations that define a woman and  a mother.  Cultural standards may contribute to order and the wellbeing of society, but the rules are often confusing and limiting.  I was talking to a friend who admitted to struggling emotionally, physically, spiritually and financially.  Ordinarily, a very private person, earlier in the day she opened up to a mutual friend who from our perspective is “well put together” and executes life with ease.  Outward appearances do not tell the inner truth.  Why do women seem so hesitant to unite and support each other in common struggles?   The rules are clear, but do not ultimately serve a purpose.  For instance, women are to think of others at all times and take care of themselves last. Driven by guilt, for years I put myself last.  It didn't work and resulted in extra stress, extra weight and a few more medical bills.  Taking care of myself does not come naturally, I have to work at it, yet it gives me the positive energy to ultimately fulfill my responsibilities of caring for others in my roles as mother and teacher. One day self care will be legitimized and society will celebrate the efforts of ordinary women. It will become the expectation of womanhood, as natural as the pull of the tides.

Thrilled

It is difficult to express how thrilled I am to have a piece of my writing featured in BOOMERCAFE which is an online magazine for Baby Boomers.  It was upon the gentle coaxing from my friend Phyllis Edgerly Ring, a fellow writer that I submitted 'Yellow Flowers Blooming' a remembrance of my mother.  I had never heard of Boomercafe and have since decided to subscribe to the free publication which offers an array of topics of special interest to Baby Boomers.  (Yes, I am THAT old.)  Well, I hope you read this piece if you haven't already.  Remember feedback is most helpful, if you find the time to comment.  A big, big thank you to all my faithful readers.

http://www.boomercafe.com/2013/08/26/the-passing-of-a-parent-is-one-of-those-life-events-many-boomers-share/

Adrift

The boat is adrift,

While I wait

Ashore,

Pondering a save,

Plunging into

The dark,

The deep.

I fear

You

May not

Recognize

I just want to

Help.

I love

You.