A time for memories

 My brother and his teenage daughters came to visit for the weekend.  Because I live so close to Washington, DC he wanted to head up there and see the sites with his girls.  A day of sunny blue skies and crisp fall air lead the way for our travels.

Our first stop was Arlington Cemetery to see our dads headstone.  Sticking with tradition we placed our stones of remembrance on top....although I bring seashells, rule breaker that I am.  The whole of Arlington was at peace and felt like the resting place it needed to be for those who fought for our freedom. Dad rest under the large tree above.  The light shining through it seemed to set it aglow. Memories flowed around us all.  Today was the 18th anniversary of our moms death as well.  With my hand on the headstone I addressed mom and dad both and encouraged them to be kind to one another.

We watched wreath laying and the changing of the guard at the tomb of the unknown soldier and were surrounded by veterans who were celebrated and honored. I could almost feel the living and the dead standing side by side in this venue and again...it was full of peace.

We also visited the Holocaust Museum.  No pictures are allowed and I wouldn't want to take any there.  This was such a contrast to the peacefulness of Arlington.  It felt as if the departed refused to rest as long as their story could be told.  The faces of those who were callously murdered stared out at the visitors and both were silenced by the deeds done.  It was the end of our day and it cast a somber note and reminded us that our life is precious.  As a family, we walked to the Metro in the dimming light and let those we had been reminded of throughout the day rest easy in our minds. 

   For 18 years I have gone to one particular Christmas Craft Show here in Virginia.  Three huge buildings that hold handmade Christmas decorations and more options for Christmas gifts than I can fathom.  The moment I walk in I am greeted by aromas of fresh baked goods, almonds cooked in cinnamon and the sounds of Christmas music floating on the air like clouds.  The population includes women dressed in interesting (I didn't say ugly) Christmas sweaters, women with babies in strollers (always watch for your ankles), men who wait patiently for their wives to finish shopping (special place in heaven for those gents),  and occasionally a woman strolling with a small dog like it's an accessory.
   Today I got to go with a friend whose laughter bubbles out of her with such joy you must laugh with her.  A woman with a heart of gold who loves her friends with such passion you never doubt how she feels about you. 
   We oohed and ahhhed over many of the booths and displays. We purchased and tasted and purchased and tasted.
   As we came down the aisle to this one booth on the corner, we both saw the leather bound books and stopped.  I was mesmerized by the look of each book.  By the smell of the rawhide.  By the feel of the engravings.  And then I opened one up and found that they were full of handmade paper.  Some pages even had specks of grass and wildflowers embedded within the fiber.  I thought I had found a piece of heaven.  And then, I panicked.  I quickly put one of the gems back down and turned to my friend and just told her to WALK!  "WALK AWAY", I thought before you buy one of these. There were gifts to buy for others.  Many gifts.  I had already spent money on myself earlier.  I couldn't buy myself two things. 
But my girlfriend didn't see my inward struggle of worth.  She saw the treasure in my hand.  She saw me writing in it at the beach, in the mountains, on my back deck.....she saw me writing everywhere.  She took it upon herself to ignore my firm command to walk away from the booth of leather goodness.  And then had the audacity to ask to vendor how much? 
   I moved in and began to fondle...yes fondle, these beauties.  The vendor, being a good salesman, picked one up and handed it to me...."Here is one with the tree of life."  I was sold.  Rather, the book was sold.
   I am now the proud owner of a genuine leather, handcrafted journal with handmade paper.  I am thrilled.  But mostly, I am thankful.  I am thankful that I had a friend with me who knew what I needed more than I did and who nudged me in the right direction.
   I love you, Robin.  Thank you.

The Memories Don't Fade and The Missing Doesn't Stop

I realized, just this morning, that this week, 18 years ago, was the last week of my mother's life.  It was a week of odd humor, resignation, acceptance, and goodbyes. I was a thirty eight year old woman whose mother was dying of terminal lung cancer. I was too young to lose her and she was too young to die.

She came to live with me six weeks earlier.  Just in time for fall.  This is the time frame that I remember the most and while it doesn't sting as badly and isn't as fresh, I try to recall every moment despite any sadness or pain.

 

I remember the leaves my children gathered for her.  They had odd colorings and imprints.  She loved them and we buried them with her.

I remember my husband stopping by the side of the road to get the daylilies that were everywhere and bringing her a bouquet. 

I remember she thought she was dying a full week earlier and she asked me to call her sisters so she could say goodbye.  Then to call my brothers so she could see them both.  One of them traveled from North Carolina and another from a few minutes away.  It was hard watching them say goodbye.

I remember peeking in to her room when I heard singing outside her door.

I found my youngest brother holding her and signing to her. It was one of his finest moments.

I remember she stopped eating.

Then talking.

And that she could no longer keep her eyes open.

But she could hear me.

And the morning she died, I climbed in bed with her and held her in my arms.

I watched her face in between the agonizing and lengthening spaces between breaths.

And I remember telling her I loved her and that Jesus loved her.

One last breath.

One last smile.

Her soul flew over my right shoulder and was gone.

The room, so quiet now, held only two souls.

Mine and my husbands.

That was beautiful, I said.

And he nodded.

 

That whole last week was.

 

What Speaks To My Soul

 My only son lives here in town within miles of our home.  He comes by whenever he has his daughters and we get to spend time with all three of them.  Tonight he invited us to his house for a fire pit and some moonlight reading. 

 The fire was blazing when we got there and the girls were anxious to show off a bench the three of them had built that day.  The marshmallows were doled out and promptly eaten. Games of tag and coral the horse were played and then it was time to get down to business.

 He pulled out Scuppers The Sailor Dog.  A character that was his favorite as a young boy. I watched him gather his daughters around him and start the story.  I heard him reading, but what I enjoyed the most was listening with my heart. 
I heard the wind blowing through the trees all around us.  I watched as embers blew with the breeze above the faces so intent on the words their daddy was reading. 

Their bellies were full of a good dinner and sweet roasted goodness.  But their souls and mine were being fed by firelight and the music was the cadence of their daddy's voice.  I saw my son in his fatherly role and was at peace taking in the scene before me.  He makes the most of every moment he has with them and he makes their time one of learning and love. He made a book to be used for pressing flowers that the three of them find on their adventures.  A catalog of memories they all share.
Sometimes he wakes them early enough to catch the sunrise across an open field and he encourages them to chase lightening bugs at sunset and sit on the porch to watch a thunderstorm roll in.

Tonight was not a special night.  In fact, it is a school night.  But instead of the frenetic energy of getting preparations ready for tomorrow, he took the time to quiet them with fresh air, a building project they can be proud of and the simplicity of a story being read around a fire.  My husband and I count ourselves blessed to have sat at the fire tonight and watched their story being written.  And there were times when I felt the extended family that have gone before us watching and approving from the shadows.

When you look at your life, the greatest happinesses are family happinesses.

                                            Joyce Brothers

How I lost my mind in 30 seconds....

 



I took a test today.

 

I failed a test today.

 

I really thought I could pass this test too. 

 

I mean, I took the evening appointment in the hopes I would be too tired to remember what kind of test I was taking.

 

After signing in and being taken to the back waiting room, I was asked to take off my bra, earrings and jeans. Other than the fact that I had to watch where I stepped now that my bra was off and I was in scrubs four sizes too big, I still felt like I would be fine.

 

The male technician escorted me into a room I had been in before.....I room where I had passed the same kind of test before.  But this time was different......my senses were on high alert and I could feel the panic before I ever climbed onto the table.  A table, I might add that was made for skinnier people than myself.

 

I was beginning to think that MRI stood for Mental Resistance to Inclining while being shoved in a tube.

 

First they made me comfortable. A pillow for my head.  A pillow under my knees.  And then.........

a metal cage that was LOCKED into place over my hips.  The high point to this was the fact that when the tech felt around my pelvis to see where to put the cage, he found my hip bones.  I didn't even know those suckers were still there.  I haven't seen or felt them in a long time.

 

But I digress.

 

At this point, the table was elevated and I could see the tube that was going to be about three inches above my face as my destination. I was given a blindfold as if I were being led before a firing squad.   Earphones with music piped through them, so I could take my mind off of the small and enclosed space I was being delivered into, were placed tightly against my head. 

 

Shaking my head back and forth, I immediately began saying...

 

"Ummmm, I don't think I can do this." 

 

"This isn't going to work." 

 

 "In fact, I am about to lose my  $%!#"

 

Both of the technicians kindly removed the blindfold and earphones.  They did not give the impression that they were exasperated or peeved.  In fact, I don't think I was the first unnerved, middle aged, shaking woman they had pulled off the table that day.

 

I was kindly informed that I could reschedule this lovely experience and be given drugs to calm me down.  I was told that an Ativan should be enough to help with the anxiety.  I laughed and said I was a child of the "70's and it would take an Ativan and an IV drip of beer to get me back up on that table.

And while that initially sounded like a good idea, I immediately realized that once in that tube, where you cannot move, I would be relaxed and drunk enough to think every song was my favorite and I would need to use the bathroom.

 

Five minutes after walking back to take the test, I returned to my waiting husband with a modest shake of my head before darting into the changing room.  I needed my bra like I needed a vodka martini. 

 

My lovely husband was supportive and encouraging.  He didn't want me to beat myself up over the same kind of test he took not too long ago.  A test he used as a personal vacation where he slept through the procedure....without drugs.  "Everyone has little idiosyncrasies," he said.  "I have a brother in law who can't swallow a pill.  The man is over 50 years old and looks like a cat with a spoonful of peanut butter in its mouth when he tries."

 

Thanks honey, that and an Ativan or two should help me next time.

 

The Call to Home

"In the chilly season, when the air grows cold and the spiders die, comes a thin time.  The days are short, so all the light of them is concentrated, squeezed between the dawn and the dark.  This is why the light is different, and each thing has a Shadow.  This is when the other worlds draw close, and the barriers between grow thin.  In a thin time, they say, you much be careful, because you might walk through a cobweb unthinking, and find yourself Elsewhere."

Diana Gabaldon

 

 

When the calendar page rolls over to November, I begin to feel the inward tug to slow down and the call of my soul to turn inward.

It's not as if the month is any less busy than the previous ones or  that anyone thing changes in my schedule.  I work the same number of hours a day and my weekends still find me at soccer games, grocery shopping and preparing for the following week.

During the spring and summer months I yearn to be outside.  I find any excuse to sit on my deck surrounded by woods, plants and herbs sipping coffee.

In fact, coming inside feels almost claustrophobic and stifling.  

I want to smell freshly turned earth.

I want to feel a spade in my hand and experience the act of planting flowers and herbs that will bring me joy in the months to come.

But November brings

cold temperatures and blustery winds.

The elements drive me inside.

I have been released and given the permission I need to come inside.

To sit.

To read.

To write.

The season itself is a burst of color and has its own appeal to the senses.

The air brings a coolness and  smell of a grateful earth...

finally liberated from the rays of the scorching sun.

It grants the observer one final display of colorful beauty

in the showers of wind blown leaves that give a rich visionary palette even in their death.

 

My hands no longer yearn to toil in the earth. 

The tools are put away and the garden has been put to rest.

 I carve out time for solitude.

I cultivate the skill of capturing expressions of my heart and soul.

I take the stories that whirl around inside of me and pour them onto paper.

 

 

November is the month of my birth.

Each year it is also the birth of new stories to be told and opportunities to create.

This November finds a wiser woman ..... a more seasoned woman....a woman

ready to walk into the light of truth.

To Everything There Is A Season

   My last blog post was submitted almost a year to the day of this newest post.  I have asked myself why I haven't posted on this blog or written anything of much consequence and have found that the excuses ..... they are legion!

But just because I haven't written doesn't mean I haven't been thinking, planning, jotting or exercising this gift.  I feel I have come through a storm, of sorts, and have come out a stronger individual who is more inclined to give herself permission to make the boundaries that are needed  for self preservation. 
  
I began the journey back to my true self several months ago when I began reading a book that my daughter gave me called,  Women Who Run With the Wolves  by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D. At first, I was unsure about the nature of the book.  It gave me such a different way of looking at myself and the world around me, that I wasn't sure I would have much use for the content.  But my continuing struggle to carve out time and follow my dream, forced me to look deeper within myself and at the words I was trying to assimilate into my life.  But one day I read these words.....

     "The world is lonely for comfort, and for the hips and breasts of women.  It calls out in a thousand-handed, million voiced way, waving to us, plucking and pulling at us, asking for our attention.  Sometimes it seems that everywhere we turn there is a someone or a something of the world that needs, wants, wishes.  Some of the people, issues, and things of the world are appealing and charming; others may be demanding and angry; and yet others seem so heartrendingly helpless that, against our wills, our empathy overflows, our milk runs down our bellies.  But unless it is a life and death matter, take the time, make the time, to "put on the brass brassiere." Stop running the milk train. Do the work of turning home."

   These were the words that forged my courage and forced me to look at the "milk train" I was running.  My choices were no longer about me, but about everyone around me. I have a large family of four children and nine grandchildren.  I am a nurturer by nature and while this is wonderful trait that benefited those around me, I had allowed my desires to be placed on the back burner.  I allowed the never ending task of housework to overrule the need to sit down and write.  And if all of that wasn't enough to cause my writing to peter out, somewhere along the journey of my life I had begun to believe that writing was frivolous and unnecessary. Before long I laid down my pen and stepped away from the computer.  I couldn't find my way out of the labyrinth of excuses I had developed. 

   the ARTIST"S WAY by Julia Cameron was given to me by a dear friend who had seen my struggle.  The exercises in this book put the pen back in my hand and gently set the rule that I had to produce three long hand written pages of stream of consciousness writing. These are called "The Morning Pages".  It was in the writing of those pages that I unlocked secret doors to the inner censor that told me my writing had no value.  The writing flung open the closet doors and the skeletons hiding there were thrown into the light and the doors were removed from the hinges.....no more dark corners for the lies to take up residence.

   It has been a busy year.  A year of introspection.  A year of truth. 

  I reached out to two fellow bloggers whose work I respect and whose words move me whenever they graciously share them with the world. I asked for their wisdom and their virtual friendship.  I asked to be considered a sister in writing.  They lovingly answered with encouragement.  And now, with the gentle nudging of  fellow blogger  and friend I have never met, I sit down at my computer and once again allow the words to pour forth.  I hope that the numerous thoughts that bounce around in my head like popcorn in a pan of hot oil will feed my soul as I follow my desires. I excitedly look forward to this month of November and look forward to the challenge of a daily post!