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.

Urgings

As a child my daily routine included long walks along the brook that led me deep into the woods near my house.  There was a constancy in the forest.  While the level of the brook changed with the rains, a fat log, smoothed through years bridged Shaw’s hill where we sledded in the winter with the path that led to Indian Cliff.  Once on the opposite bank, I held my arms up and shimmied through a thorny stand of bushes thinking that maybe this time I would emerge unscathed. This opened into a field with a defined path that may have once been a gravel road.  Likely it served purpose to the one lone farm house within my vision; an intrusion that seemed to loom over me, as I turned my face toward the woods. Indian Cliff afforded an exhilarating rush of water, a near waterfall, more woods that if you walked far enough led to encroaching housing developments. Most time was spent near the water or exploring woods nearby.

As a child I listened.  I listened to the birds, to the crickets and to the rush of water.  But most importantly, I listened to myself. I listened to the nudges.  I listened to the urgings.  Go to the woods. Feed yourself with the earth. Inhale the intoxicating powers that surround you. I need to find that freedom to listen again. To go.  Be.

Waiting

Tonight the house is filled with
Just boys (and me)
Raiding the refrigerator.
Bowls piled with bananas, grapes, yogurt
The spoon a shovel.

I miss the smell of nail polish,
The ordering,
The tidying.
The questions
And the plans.

My girl is growing up,
Independent.
Persistent.
Herself.

She'll be back
Yearning for more
Adventures
And
Discovery.
It waits.

Paradise

The appearance of the cruise ships in Frenchman's Bay marks the beginning of summer.  (That and the black flies. Reports are that they are thick.) This morning we shared the shore path with a few tourists who stopped now and again to take photos.  I wondered if after all these years if I still viewed this place like a wide-eyed tourist.  Most days I think I do. Sometimes I stop walking and just gawk. Struck by the ever-changing beauty.

My adult children have moved away at one point in their lives, but have all returned home; to this. They are drawn to the diverse beauty-the sea, islands, mountains and lakes.  We have it all. Paradise.

Gone

The Shore Path crawls with strangers and their dogs.  Rex breaks the ice as he wags and sniffs.  We strangers laugh and smile. What would we do without dogs and their non snobby ways?  The Shore Path would crawl with strangers minus the dogs.  With hands in pockets, the strangers would brush pass each other looking at their feet. The potential for connection is gone.

Waiting

We waited for days like today.  Reluctant mounds of snow melting.  Puddles.  Mud.  With the first few days of spring, sometimes earlier we knew it would come any day. Bike riding weather.  At least a month before we would shine up our bikes, inflate the tires and sometimes add a horn or glittery streamers for the handle bars.  

Every kid in the neighborhood had a bike with a banana seat and sissy bar handlebars.  Despite urging my mother to conform, I rode my second hand, heavy red bike with fat wide tires. Hand brakes were fashionable, but I had a one speed with a mechanism that activated the brake with a backward stroke of the pedals. The weight of the bike made it difficult to keep up with my friends. It seemed that I worked doubly hard with others who had three speeds- I had one speed:  slow. My mother held onto the belief that, “if it's not broken, why replace it.”  Quinn’s Bike Shop was near St. Mary’s School and I would start my journey home window shopping.  Sometimes I would go in and stroke the gleaming bikes. Then check the price tag.

When I was in 6th or 7th grade, I saved babysitting money I earned to buy myself a three-speed blue bike from Sears.  That bike frequently took me to the beach 15 or so miles away.  The hours it took to get there and back required short liberated visits, a quick walk on the beach followed by a picnic lunch.  It was nearly an all day excursion.   I went alone, frequently trying a different route and discovered that all roads have their share of hills.

On days like this-sunny with the earth thawing I think of the thrill of those first bike rides.  Soon the carriage roads, now soft with whispers of winter will be ready for riders.  I sure could use my rugged, red bike with wide tires.  

The Importance of Place and Time

There have been missed opportunities.  Storms have stacked up this winter one after another like bills, left in piles-expected, but not entirely embraced.  Out of shape, I am unsure that I can slog through the depths with snow shoes.  As I drive passed my favorite rolling hills with a perimeter of deep, magical woodland I long for those walks and Rex my dog gets excited. I feel guilty and recall a special day in April.

We decided to walk later in the afternoon when daylight stretched before us. Doggies in tow panting with noses smudging the car windows. Once at the field the dogs let loose running and zig zagging.  Trudging up the hill through the once tall grass pressed by winter weight, we sat. Then we lay on our backs.  Quiet.  Content.  Breathing. We squinted through the sun. Clouds filled the sky. We lost track of time.

The Return

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

Holding Pattern

The runners threaded through the blueberry barrens aflame with the colors that autumn brings while the crowds  gathered on the edge of the field to cheer the participants. Some were bundled for the brisk air while others ran in shorts and tank tops, cheeks rosy.  I think the chill took everyone by surprise this afternoon, although it shouldn't-it is nearly November.  My winter clothes are still folded neatly in some plastic tub somewhere. The weather in Maine has been unseasonably warm, until today.  For weeks now I have pieced together a wardrobe  rotating two skirts and a few tops with a jean jacket to cover my bare arms in case it turns cooler.   As much as I like summer, there is something comforting about scratchy wool sweaters that require layers beneath, thick cozy socks and scarves-how I love my scarves!  With the change of seasons, I get this impatient itchiness to slow down, yet I still race from meeting to meeting and appointment to appointment-waiting for hibernation.  There are stacks of books to be read by the warmth of the fire, knitting projects to contemplate and crusty, yeasty breads to slide out of the oven.   I will be ready for fall as soon as I find that tub of cold weather pants, tops and sweaters.  For now, my wardrobe will consist of layers of summer. Right now, I'm in a holding pattern while everything around me changes.

Imaginings

My mother's arms stroked figure eights in the salty sea.  I never saw her swim conventionally, but she would sit with her legs extended facing the shore as though reclining in an easy chair. I was always fascinated with the fact that the salt content in the Atlantic intensified buoyancy and made it easy to float and dog paddle despite the swells rhythmic and sometimes unpredictable.  Unlike a lake with the placid quiet waters, the Atlantic was always teaming with energy.  Unlike my mother, I liked to gaze out onto the line of blue smudge and imagine swimming to a far off island or building a raft with drift wood pieces lashed together by seaweed.

My great grandfather, his brother, his son and his grandson (my uncle) were all lobstermen.  With a house for three generations at the mouth of the Saco River where the ocean and muddy waters met, my ancestors woke in darkness and spent their day surrounded by shades of blue and green hauling lobsters into big crates to bring to market.

Bobbing in the water, I shaded my eyes against the glare of the sun as it danced off the surface, I swear I could see my grandfather the lobster boat's engine softly purring, muscles tightening from the strain of the lifting the trap, his face thickly lined from the weather.  If only it were true.

(I spent most of my childhood on the beach at Camp Ellis where my family's homestead stood.  I met my grandfather when I was a newborn.  He died the day I was to come home from the hospital.  Growing up with stories of Grampy helped me to develop love for a man I never knew.)

Heading Home

Ribbons of asphalt,
Cars gliding back and forth
Like performers in an orchestrated dance recital.
Mounds of yellow and rust,
Fall trees bend forward.

Gentle winds
Colored leaves applaud
And say,
Welcome home!
Welcome home!

Lessons for Today

Due to the generosity of a friend, I was able to go to Green Acre Bahai School this weekend to study, pray and reflect.  Not surprisingly, it was just what I needed.  My vision is clearer and I have some spiritual goals in place.  Thankfully, I gained insight.  I need to be patient with myself and my human condition.  Sometimes my vision will be blurred and other times I will focus on trivial matters that are not important to my spiritual development.  I will stumble and fall, but I will pick myself up again. The importance of consistent effort cannot be understated.

The Journey

As a kid, I talked to God all the time.   Now, I just can't seem to do it.  I pray, mostly when someone asks for help. I seldom pray for myself.  It is clear that I need to work on my relationship with God.  It receded as the tide when my parents died within three months of each other.  Interestingly, I cannot talk to my parents either.  I have lost my anchor and my rudders.  With determination, I will find my way to port.

Through the kindness of a dear friend, I am on holy ground where all souls are seeking the truth for themselves.  I have spent so many, many days here in transformation along with my family.  Alone, this is my journey-one that I must work and sort out by myself.  Presently, I feel empty. Dead.  Perhaps I need to feel the emptiness to appreciate the full bounties of God's love for me, while discovering my spiritual potentiality.

 Where do I begin?  How do I find my way?  I pray that I do.

A Beginning

‘Not quite sure what I am going to do when I grow up. My daughter’s response, “You are grown up.  You’re OLD.”  The problem is I don't want to be old.  I want to be young and spunky, yet I can now order from the Senior Menu (lighter portions for my sedentary ways) and some of my other friends still get carded.  Looking in the mirror, I see young and vibrant, while I find wiry blond hair (I am sure of it) springing from my temples and new lines that were not there yesterday.  I’m not ready to be old and to measure life by how much time remains.  I must admit though, that there is a new urgency since I have been writing daily.  There are new places on this earth to discover, stacks of books to read, and miles to paddle, walk and climb.  A new curiosity has risen within me, giving me a life that is just beginning.

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/

Summer Routine

One thing I am going to miss about the summer is our early morning routine.  Shuffling through the grass wet with dew, coffee cup balanced, we make our way to the corner of the garden.  We sit, listen and observe.  Starlings, sparrows and woodpeckers squawk and assert their territorial rights from our once majestic maples in the front yard.  Hummingbirds thrumb their wings darting close, sipping sweet nectar from the blooms rimming the vegetable garden.  The conditions are perfect for prayer and gratitude.  We sit some more and continue the gentle awakening as we slowly sip and savor our coffee.  We may talk about our plans for the day or what is happening with our kids. 

I try to sort out the elements of what makes these moments ones I do not want to forget.  I am alone with my husband of nearly thirty-three years surrounded by the miracle that takes place in our garden as it changes from day to day.  It is truly a spiritual place, a blessed place. Starting our day in gratitude and prayer in this setting makes for better days.  All these elements combine to make this daily thirty-minute period memorable.  Somehow, we need to replicate it in February.  That might take some doing.

Losing

Fear shakes me from

Slumber,

Losing you

Fresh,

The heartache lingers.

It was just a dream,

But so vivid,

Real.

I wake with a

Thirsty heart,

Every moment

Precious.

Don’t leave me.

I love you.

Embracing the Time

There is a different slant of light.  The kettle whistles nearby as my husband and I discuss the weather.  Despite the cool air, this morning, in protest I wear a tank top. My arms exposed and chilled.  As we sit out in the garden swallowed by pink, yellow, and purple evidence of summer, uneasiness settles within.  My mind wanders to the near future. Some plants have withered and will soon transform to varying shades of brown with the entire plot following.  Natural process.   It is always the same these last few weeks in August, yet I get the same feeling in my gut.  I just don’t like it.   Once fall fully emerges, I actually embrace the colors, the crisp air, the cozy layering and all that goes with it.  With this straddling of summer and fall-I must accept and find the beauty in this divine cycle.

Waking on Donnell's Pond

6:00 am

6:30 am

I must be the only one up on the pond,

Besides Rex

And the

woodpecker,

Busy nearby,

So early.

The summer sun,

Barely up,

Breaking through

Morning

As mist rises.

In winter,

This scene

Plays over

And

Over.

The warm months,

Nearly gone,

Finally,

I wake at camp

On Donnell’s Pond.

Mornings here

Provide

Certain

Constancy,

The kind

I

Yearn.

Mid-Rush Pause

This first official full day of summer was a rush, rush kind of day- pacing from one appointment to another with a mix of errands for variety.  Outside the doctor's office, there was a long stand of wild roses.  I literally stopped, closed my eyes and imagined the sweet scent.  As I inched toward the car, I leaned into rose after rose sighing between encounters until I slowly crawled into the front seat infused with a sense of well-being.