wooing a girl

He knew how to woo a girl.  A composer and a musician, he wrote me songs and played them for me. In front of our family and friends, while I could barely speak because I was overcome with emotion, this man played his guitar and sang me a song during our wedding ceremony. He also was a cook, a handy dandy fix it man, he cleaned and changed diapers. He fiercely loved his parents, his siblings and his children. He loved the island that he grew up on and had first hand knowledge of all the crooks and crannies and together we would go on wild adventures on mountaintops or sometimes on water.  He would try anything and convince you he knew what he was doing.  He built our first home; he had never built a house before.  Without the ease of electricity, he built it by himself with hand tools.  We were into smaller homes without a mortgage before it was a fashionable thing to do.

Today, I treated myself to a pedicure.  As the attendant was applying lotion and massaging my feet, I choked back tears.  My husband gave me regular foot massages.  Some may characterize me as demanding, but my sweet husband never denied me a foot massage.  Never. Since his passing, it is the daily human touch that I miss most. I am accustomed to daily hugs and kisses.  Now, instead I get morning kisses from my dog Rex and nudges from my sweet cat Charlie, but it isn't the same.

For 37 years I was with a man who woke me with kisses and a variation of,
"Good morning Beautiful.  I love you."  How fortunate that we were partners in this life.  And I was so well loved.

I believe that he continues to love me for how else could I manage?

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.

A Short Selfie

A few pounds and born early

Make for a "hopeless case."

My mother prayed to St. Jude.

I lived.

As a kid I got car sick, 

Preferring the shade of forest trees,

Splashing in the salty sea or

Alone in a field

Fingers pink with wild berries-

I ate them as I picked.

I sing with the radio

Often the wrong words.

Baking pies is not my thing,

Picnics are.

I have slept

Floating in the middle of a lake,

Watching the stars fall.

War scares me.

I am not afraid of the dark.

Reading five books at once

Makes me nuts.

I like naps

And I consider myself 

Among the few 

Lucky enough to have found

True Love.

(Inspired by and Adapted from: A Short Collective Biography-Amy Krouse Rosenthal found in Textbook)

He Loves Me

Every birthday for the last 35, he would wake me gently, his lips pressing upon my ear, caressing. "I love you, gorgeous. I love you beautiful.  Happy Birthday." It was the first sweet greeting of another new year. 

Today is my birthday.  It is 2 am.  I can't sleep.  My mind wanders to the fact that this year Jerry will not whisper his love on my birthday.  The tears well up in the outer corner of my eyes, but don't flow.  My heart feels crushed.  It aches. Tears then run freely.

I lay in the darkness.  The dog near.  One cat on the extra pillow near my head.  Another nestled at my side.  I try to breathe, slow deep breaths to clear my head and inflate my heart.  I lay on my back, staring at the fluorescent stars on the ceiling of my son's former room, now mine.  "Come...in a dream.  Come please. Just come...it's my birthday..." My words desperate.  It would be my fix for the day. The perfect "gift."

Then, I think how Jerry had a mind of his own.  Once he had something in his head, there was no stopping him or convincing him of another course.   He would wander off and not tell me where he was for hours, despite my worry.  An independent, free spirit when he had something he wanted to do, he did it. He jumped out of a plane, waiting until I was on the west coast, and far away to do it. And he told me about it after he had done it. He knew I would worry and try to stop him. When we were trying to cut down on meat, he would come home now and again with a big slap of beef, the size my mother would feed to our entire family. He would sit down and eat it himself with butter melted on top.  My look of disgust, resulted in a remark, between bites, "I know what I like."

I am laughing out loud.  Alone.  I remember just how stubborn he was. 'Bet he still is, I ponder.

Then I realize, that despite my begging, he may come to me in a dream or maybe he won't. My mind desperate to find resolution and peace, wanders. I think of a pile of daisy petals fluttering to the ground.  He loves me.  He loves me, not. I know with certainty, he loves me and always will.

Rex with his nose nestled into his front paws is sleeping. I hear his breathing. Julie purrs, kneading the blankets until she finds a spot to curl.  I slip into a bed exhausted with the crazy ride of emotions and the fact that it is nearly 4 am. I feel so much better remembering I am blessed; I am loved.

All Will Be Well

After, we walked in silence back to his work place, so he could finish the day.  There was nothing much to say, that we couldn't say without words. I think that is what happens when you have waited so long to hear good news.  His hand in mine, we stopped and listened to the cardinals and scanned the tree tops for scarlet.   The song was from all directions.  We stood.  He bent down and kissed me on the lips gently.  "I love you, beautiful."  Overcome, the tears came and he wrapped his arms around me kissing the top of my head.

I had heard the cardinal song several times on the day of his cancer diagnosis, six weeks earlier.  It was as if they were following me from Bucksport, through Orland, Ellsworth and finally Bar Harbor.  I heard their song and felt a rush of peace and thought, Don't worry, all will be well.

True Love

My husband built me a bridge to span
Across rushing water
Barren and silent in summer,
Thinning ice in spring,
The stream swells
To overflowing.


He strung a hand hold of
Ropes up the muddy banking
So I could scramble
Alone
Up
And scale
Down
Without a slip.


This walk
Gave us both peace
Any season,
Roots twist like veins
Along the path
Leading to the wide open field,
Where Rex
His ears lay flat
Runs at full tilt.
Woods edge the field
Rex leads the way,
Through the forest,
Blueberry barrens and blow-downs.

A remembrance of true love,
A wooden bridge
Spans a stream,
Waiting for me to cross.

Wisdom of Years

To have a bad memory is a writer’s curse and perhaps a grand daughter’s curse too.  Sometimes I think that if I could step through the threshold of my grandmother’s apartment just once more, it would all come gushing out.  All of it.  The smells. The words that passed between us.  The stories.   I remember the cool darkness in the heat of the summer. Windows closed and shades drawn to keep out the heat.  My grandmother’s life was orderly and tidy (for the most part) so it was easy to negotiate through dim light.  

My grandmother was older than my grandfather, by a few weeks.  Sometimes my young mind gave this fact credence to their failed love.  They barely shared words.  Unspoken, I was my grandmother’s ally. Did this rob me of a deeper relationship with my grandfather?  For no good reason I was afraid of him.   One of my earliest memories of him or maybe it was the repeated stories I heard were of my grandfather cradling me in his arms and singing, “Ba-Ba Black Sheep” gently in my ear.  He was a tender man, but later sadly, I kept my distance.

Together alone, my grandparents' days were dimmed by their silence, as they rambled through rooms on opposite sides of the apartment.  There are some things that are hard to forget.

Today marks my grandmother’s 122nd birthday. It is my hope that those accumulated years have helped two souls gain wisdom, understanding and healing to find the peace and love they both deserve.

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.

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.

shifting

                                           Photo by travelinma

 The doctor announces, "He was near death when he came in."  A sobering fact.  I sat in the emergency room trying to grasp this message. Thinking shifts.  I almost lost my son.  Anaphylactic shock.  Unknown cause. "We may never know," a health practitioner added.  How do we all live with this possibility?  Without realizing, fear of death may restrict the joy of living.  Until we have more answers, living is cautious.  Carefully measured text messages: How you doing?  I love you.  Do you have your EPI pen on you?   I have awakened from a slumber.  Each moment is precious.

This Time

Every time I do it, I start with the notion that this time will be different.  

****************************

I was about eight sitting in the back yard in shorts.  I grabbed the inside of my thigh. Fat I thought.

*****************************************

Where did my convoluted self perception originate? And most importantly, why has it been perpetuated into middle age?

***************************************

I loved climbing trees and found the perfect set of branches to nail a few boards across.  Perched high above the world, I would stand and gaze in all directions; imagining that I could see all the way to the White Mountains.  With books piled high, I would sit and read.

Not all the neighborhood boys bullied me, but a pair of brothers did.  A large shed stood at the corner of their property. They liked to climb up on the flat roof.  They wouldn’t let me up because, “The roof will cave in.  Too fat,” they said laughing and snickering. I walked away and retreated to my own high place and dreamed.

********************************************************

Over the years, I have lost a few hundred pounds.  Losing weight has been easy.  I never starve myself, but begin determined to make lasting changes.  It just never sticks.

Now it will be different. I am working on accepting my imperfections and loving myself bits at a time.

 

top ten things I love today

10.  The fact that I still have wool socks in my top drawer for a quick change of "season."

9.   Watching how a charcoal sketch develops when I really don’t have a clue.

8.   Seeing a dear friend who kisses me on the head after a long, long hug.

7.   A hot cup of tea with soy, sometimes honey.

6.   Being surrounded by photos, paintings, sketches, carvings and pottery.

5.   Learning new things and recognizing the incredible capacity of my brain.

      (It still works!)

4.   Sunny, warm days, without black flies.

3.   Kitties, doggies and husbands who snuggle.

2.   Sunday morning waffles with a big crowd-my family.

1.   Rainy day naps.

An Unexpected Journey

The sleet pings against the window. The ground is white again. The wind howls. It is the last day of March.  The calendar tricked us all into thinking it was spring more than ten days ago.   There are some things you just can’t change.  So why complain? Yet, I sit here on my hands trying to stay warm and control myself.  This yucky weather is getting to me.

A few years ago when I began reading, Ann Voskamp’s A Thousand Gifts: Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are, I had no idea how it would begin to shape me.  In short, Ann was going through a difficult passage in her life.  At the time, she was a young mother, wife and the daughter of a minister.  She felt unhappy and unfulfilled.   Ann began the practice of documenting images, sounds and events in her life that filled her with gratitude.  Her goal was to accumulate 1,000 life-bites of gratitude.

Three years ago, I began the same practice.  When my heart stirs with discontent or sadness, I reach for my Gratitude Journal.  I may simply begin to connect with gratitude by reading my posts. I slow down, heighten my senses and begin to write.  Here are a few excerpts from my journal:

#1:  The pungent flavor, texture and smell of freshly ground pepper scattered across the surface of my omelet.

#4:  The perfect roll of cuff on my favorite wool sweater.

#183:  A forest path mottled with light.

#449: Scraping the windshield produces ribbons of frost.

#731:  Hugs from former students who are now taller than me.

#759:  Warm floorboards.

#831:  Husband’s whistling as he comes through the door.

Consciously for me, there are no guidelines or rules associated with this journal.  I don’t write in it everyday. As a matter of fact, I have misplaced the journal for days, weeks and  months. When I find it-I begin the practice again.

This has allowed me to focus on the good in my life. Gratitude opens my heart to love and the possibilities available to me.

Vanity?

I spend a lot of time thinking about how I struggle to take care of myself. How did I get here? So here’s the thing: I show up this morning at my all time favorite salon The Alchemist. A friend had recommended it a few years back. She didn’t tell me anything about it, just that, “It’s great!”

I walk into this oasis.  Where I am asked if I want herbal tea or water.  Jamie, my stylist takes the time to find out what I want and is not afraid to make suggestions.  “Do you mind if I give you a head massage?”

“No.” I respond thinking what kind of question is that?  Who in their right mind would refuse!

Minutes go by.  I close my eyes and begin to relax. A half hour later I think, Could these foil squares be used to wrap sandwiches? Those are the thoughts that tend to rumble on the conveyer belt in my mind. I am the mother of multiple teenaged boys, what can I say? My head is covered with foil neatly folded here and there. This is my time.

“Do you mind, if I give you a hand massage after I clean up at bit?”  

I feel the smoothness of her hands press against mine. “Jamie, take me, I’m yours.  I’ll do anything you want.” I am nearly drooling, I am SO relaxed.

My neck always hold painful memories of washing my hair.  The sink that cradles my head must harmonize with the height of the chair.  Jamie adjusts it perfectly.  The water temperature is well not to be redundant, but perfect as well.  Then more massaging.   My head is covered in foamy suds.  I think back to my mother.  Washcloth on my eyes blinking away the sting, my head titled back at an angle, it was never suppose to be. Then the SCRUB.  Oh, Jamie, I think, this is such an improvement!

At Jamie’s station, my back is to the mirror.  I chat. She cuts, blow-dries and cuts some more. She’s almost done. Jamie applies a little cheek color and lip color spinning my chair around for the unveiling. Looking in the mirror I well up.  I don’t feel vain, but I feel beautiful.  I blink back tears.  

-Photo courtesy of Jamie at The Alchemist

Sometimes I don’t see my beauty-inner or outer.  Allowing others to help me discover me-that is part of self-care, isn’t it?

(If you are a neighbor, I cannot say enough about the girls at The Alchemist in Ellsworth, Maine.  They are compassionate woman who truly care. Of course, a special thank you to Jamie.  I always look forward to seeing you!)

The Unthinkable

A tribute to all mothers who face the unthinkable.

Mother dropped

To her knees,

Sobbing,

Ragged waves

Of

Grief.

Six year olds

Aren’t suppose to

Die.

Among the Lucky

After working  over nine hours, my husband walked through the door covered in sheet rocking mud. His hands white in spots.

“Let’s go!” I said. “Eddaejia has an appointment.”

He had other ideas.  “I’m not going.”

“I haven’t seen you all day,” I replied, “I missed you.”

I moved closer to him so I could look in his eyes, smile and give him a hug.

“Sometimes, the car is the only place to be quiet and alone,” I reminded. “I love being with you.”

It is true.  I love being with my husband, at least most of the time.  After decades and decades of marriage, we still like each other.

My daughter recently got engaged.  She has been asking about our wedding that took place more than thirty years ago.  While fielding questions and searching my memory for answers, I was reflecting about how very fortunate we are since our marriage came ten months after we met.  Sometimes relationships never make it to long term.  We can be counted among the lucky.

The Measure of Love

Presently we are in amidst a whirl of birthdays in the family.  Yesterday my twin daughters turned 24, in four days my youngest 6’3” son cranks up to age 16 and his brother mid-month turns 17.  It makes me reminisce...

Carefully I turned down the thin, white bobby socks-edges trimmed in lace. I twisted my body sideways one way and then the other  buckling my patent leather shoes.  With a Kleenex and a glob of Vaseline they glistened. My mother encouraged rigorous buffing until I could just make out a wavy distorted image of myself.  It was my 9th birthday. My dress for the day had to be just right.  The grass saturated with snow melt recovering from the fury of winter was a brown mustard like color.  My bare legs pretended that spring was near.  I remember how cold I was early that morning my legs peppered in goose bumps.  I kept warmer and distracted  while jumping rope with my friends on the asphalt covered playground. The soles of my shiny shoes scraped the tar with every jump as I was careful not to scuff my toes and ruin the shine. “My bonnie lies over the ocean, My bonnie lies over the sea…”  

It was my birthday. And instead of the usual crisp $5.00 bill from my grandmother, she hired a friend to piece together a doll for me.  It’s embroidered face round while the body, arms and legs were strung together small twists of cloth yo-yo’s.  Somehow the notion of my grandmother orchestrating a birthday surprise for me with her friend, May Ryan somehow sealed the fact that I was loved. It is funny that out of all my childhood birthdays this one I remember vividly.  I am not sure why because I am not driven by materialism now nor was I particularly struck with it as a child, but that day was different. Every Irish Catholic girl on the playground wished her birthday were on this day.   I jumped out of the arching rope and tucked my green blouse into my wool skirt. Everyone wore green on St. Patrick’s Day. I felt loved and extra-special.

As an adult,  I do not measure love through gifts, yet I recognize my wealth through other means. Particularly, this time I year as I mark another birthday I mix gratitude with a tad of

melancholy for the culmination of all my relationships feed me all the love that I need. Yes, I still feel loved and extra-special.  I just hope I have passed this gift onto my children as well.  For they are all loved.

The Return

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

One More Moment

I turned to leave catching a glimpse of his brown eyes casting so much feeling, it made words unnecessary.  He was afraid.  Afraid to move after the fall.  This made everything worse. The Parkinson's Disease didn't help either.  The Physical Therapist had him in a hoist to support his weight giving him a sense of stability.  In a soft voice that I thought would be reassuring I cooed, "It will be OK Daddy.  You'll be OK." I guess I was in denial. I left.

When I was a little girl, the day after Halloween marked a day when I would slide into a pew at St. Mary's Church in Biddeford and pray for people I did not know.  All Soul's Day.  The list went back by generations-family that remained nameless.  "I pray for my grandmother's mother, my grandmother's father,  my grandmother's grandmother," I mouthed.  It didn't feel real.  Just an obligation.  Never did I realize at seven years old that I would one day be praying for the souls of my grandmother, my grandfather, my mother, my father, my aunts and my uncles.  

"I can't be here.  I can't," I managed to whisper breathlessly.  "I can't breathe.  An elephant is on my chest. I can't do it."  Closing my eyes, I remained motionless.  My body heavy and incapable of supporting my own weight in a seated position, never mind move to another room or the hall where I could forget.  

"If you leave.  You can never take this moment back," my sister confided. Choking back tears, I thought about how I had left my father a few days ago.  This time I stayed.  I needed to be here for my father.  Through this transition.  

Today my "All Soul's List" is just as long as when I was seven years old, but now I can remember how my father's bearded cheek scratched against my face when he snatched a kiss.  I remember the oversized hand that reached out to walk me safely across the road.  Old Spice after shave brings a flood of real memories. My heart aches in longing for one more moment.

Behind the Brick Facade

Ignorance is bliss. I know nothing about engineering or architecture, yet I can't help myself from collecting photos of buildings, mostly brick buildings. Brick buildings of my youth include the bank with smooth rounded veined marble pillars.  Somehow my cheek would find a way to access the coolness of the rock.  The ceilings high making the building hollow and echo.

Perhaps my affinity for brick, aged buildings comes from after church Sunday visits to Auntie and Gene's in Portland.  There was always lots of food.  Not the meat and potatoes that graced my table at home, but fresh produce from the farmer's market and pickled vegetables. I developed my sense of culinary adventure behind that brick facade.   Often we would bake short cakes to go with fresh strawberries or blueberries. I would walk down to the tiny store around the corner with my big sister to get a carton of cream that would be whipped into sweet peaks of delight.  Auntie's was the first place I had a taste of loose tea, mostly milk and spoonfuls of sugar.    Family stories, secrets between adults in French and food.  Auntie's was a place of constancy and love.