And there was a light. . .

           “Mommy, Mommy!  There’s a light in the refrigerator.”  I remember hearing the thrill of my five-year-old daughter’s call from the make-shift kitchen of our ancient farm house rental in Watsonville close to 37 years ago.  I had been divorced two years, struggling to get by while working swing shift at a local convalescent hospital.  We were renting one half of a 100 year old farmhouse.  I’d finally gotten around to scraping the layers of wallpaper off the bathroom walls, patching the falling plaster, and painting.  However, any further repairs were hampered by an overwhelming tiredness brought on by working swing-shift full-time, raising two small children alone, and trying to reconcile myself to being divorced at 30.

            I’m feeling the same numbing dullness now at 67 as a widow of almost two years.  Awake at 5am I check email and play ‘Words With Friends’ on my Iphone until I can almost fall back to sleep.  If I can’t, I accept the positive view of at least I got six hours of being horizontal.  Some mornings I stand my body up and begin my day.  Others find me rolling around in the rack battling memories.

            This morning I entertained myself with the panorama of questions around the idea of moving.  I realized wherever I go, there I will be.  That’s no problem.  What baffles me is: Do I rent?  Buy?  Couch Surf?  Do I sell?  Rent?  Hire a Caretaker?  Hell, I don’t know.  One possibility has surfaced that is intriguing.  It involves trading houses, mine for one in Willits.  Attention to that scenario holds the emotional nuances of “OMG! That could really happen!”  I sidestepped my worries of what I might be getting into with that solution along with some of the sorrow about leaving the home Y and I had built by searching for some kind of bright thought that could lead me into my future.

            That’s when I stumbled over the memory of my daughter’s thrill of a light in the refrigerator.  We’d been using a frightfully old one with no light since we’d moved in, and a friend had brought a used one he’d had in his garage to replace it.  Lynnette had gotten out of bed before me and must’ve become curious so opened the new door that morning.

            Funny how a small thing like a light in the refrigerator can blossom into a high point.  Every time I have opened any refrigerator since then, I’ve remembered the timbre of her pleased voice.  The whole idea has even more importance when one understands that in 1981we moved into a 20-year-old trailer in the woods where we didn’t even have a fridge, just a hole in the earth with a trash can inside to hold our perishables.  I’ve had various propane refrigerators ever since.  None of them have had a light because it requires electricity, and small propane refrigerators rarely have light bulbs.

            When I move, I could have a refrigerator with a light in it.

A Wee Bit of a Message

A frog was sitting on the threshold of my home yesterday, facing the corner of the hinged side of my red front door.

            Now that wouldn’t have been unusual if it weren’t for the fact that it’s the third time this has happened.  The first frog was a wee, itty-bitty one.  The second, at least twice its size, and, this time, this frog could fit into the palm of my hand.

            The other thing that got my attention was the heat.  Frogs don’t usually expose themselves to hot resting places.  Granted, he wasn’t in the direct sun, but it was over 100 degrees, even on the threshold.

            So I squatted, and we had a chat.  He let me pet him, and I laid a kiss from my lips to my finger to his back for good measure.   You know, just in case he was a prince under some kind of magic spell.

            What he told me, I can’t say for sure.  What transferred from him to me was a kind of knowing that lightened my heart.  Just his presence out of sync with my expectations of the ‘regular’ world led me to a memory of a shared vision a friend and I received many years ago during a drumming journey.  The main jist of that experience was, “When the frogs come back, healing will occur.”

            Well, the frogs are back.

Switching Mental Gears

These days I am paying more attention to the nuances of life around me as summer passes.  Fresh morning air has never been sweeter, especially coming after a heated day of mugginess.  At 5:30 am, just as the sun is lighting its way up to the horizon, birds call out their encouragement with single notes or complicated trills.  The resident ravens add their caws and clunks.  I love to watch the sun brighten each leaf or needle at the top of trees then see its edge of bright light drop inch by inch. 

I know this house and land so intimately; it’s like my body.  I am relishing every day, every moment here, because soon I will face the ultimate decision of leaving.   I’m not quite ready to face that fact so I psych myself into doing more in the way of outdoor work while covering over repair work with an attitude of denial.  Yes, I can do another day of weed eating to keep the grasses down.  No, I don’t want to climb the hill again to weather-strip the lid to the water tank so frogs don’t climb in and die.

Yes, I will feed the flowers and veggies and reattach the solar panel to the fan in the green house.  No, I don’t want to rearrange the wood in the wood shed so I can get in another cord of black oak for winter.

Yes, I will pressure wash the deck and waterproof it.  No, I have no idea how to replace the rotted step.  I’ll just walk around and use the others.

            This game is making my home into something less than an ideal place to live.  I can handle a lot, but I can’t handle all of it and honestly, I don’t want to handle it at all for the rest of my life.  My home could become my prison.  I see that now.  I could spend the rest of my days working, worrying, and repairing.  The comfortable cocoon I’ve enjoyed for the last two years is close to becoming a shell separating me from whatever else there might be for me to be or do.

So I’m collecting memories of the slanted sunlight and the moon-filled meadow, all the sights and sounds of my most recent life.  Next will be the project of untying the threads that bind by clearing the corners Y and I so carefully filled with stuff we thought we couldn’t live without.

It might get tough.  Maybe it would be easier if I turned toward what I want for my future so I can let go of things that don’t fit that picture.  Maybe that will make these decisions easier.

A Lesson From My Mom

The day after July 4^th, I found myself singing in my nightshirt as the hot water dripped through the coffer and filter.  All the while I was dancing to “Put a Little Love in Your Heart”.  After a few repetitions, I stopped and asked myself, “What happened?”

For several days prior to the holiday and for a brief moment on the day, I had been having a tough time, or rather, I had given myself a tough time.  In retrospect, the Fourth was a lot easier than the day before and the night between them.  So on that morning, I had to ask myself, “How did I get from whimpering loneliness through pissy anger to a morning song about love?”

            Had it been Divine Intervention?  I surely had prayed long and hard enough over those days and nights.  No doubt there was some kind of helping hand there, although I also believe in the power of naming and releasing, something prayer also accomplishes.

            Maybe my stars had been out of alignment or something had hiccoughed in the Universal Plan?  If I had called my friends who are sensitive to these things (as I am) would we have compared notes and discovered we were all struggling through some mental tar pit?

            Perhaps it just the nature of grief and me facing change and another solitary holiday?  If so, then I realize now I have my mother to thank for the very practical solution to the downer I experienced on everyone elses’ Fourth of July Celebration.        

            After marching behind the Grandmothers for Peace float in the Willit’s parade and singing Holly Near’s song, “1000 Grandmothers for Peace”, I came home to my empty house and plummeted.  Family was in all different directions.  Friends I’d invited for a grilled meal had other obligations, and there I was, starting to pull the familiar grey quilt, I’d already been huddling under, over my head.

            My wise mom, who had weathered years of a husband overseas as a Marine and 24 hour duty as a policeman, didn’t just whisper in my ear.  She shouted, “Pretend today isn’t a holiday.”

            So I washed clothes and swept floors.  I finished sewing five pillow cases for Hospice and ironed them.  (Since the generator was on for the washer, I had plenty of power.)  I hemmed the two new scarves I’d created out of remnant material.  I turned on the radio (something I rarely do because I got out of the habit while Y was alive as he didn’t like the noise.)  I listened to a special on Woody Guthrie and learned more than I ever knew about his music and political activism.  After I ate my grilled pork chop and corn, with a smattering of homemade potato salad, I settled in the recliner with the computer in my lap and watched a movie.  (My TV has died.)

            I made it through the day without another tear or a moment of self pity.  I realigned my own stars, changed my perspective, and went to bed blessing my mom.  No wonder I woke up singing!

Alone with My Thoughts

In so many ways, my late husband and I were a perfect match.   I could see a problem; he could fix it or was willing to brainstorm with me possible corrective scenarios.

            If either of us needed to wander the land or a national park or any new vista, we’d determine first if it was a solitary wander we needed.  If it wasn’t, we’d go hand in hand.

            We both liked cobblers, pies, and crisps rather than cakes, although he loved German Chocolate Cake.  Food likes were on opposite sides of the scale with him loving meat and potatoes and me liking salads and stir fry.  We both, however, loved hamburgers, French fries, malts and strawberry shortcake with ice cream and whipped cream.

            He loved to debate; I love to argue.  He loved to debate so much that he would switch sides just to keep it going if he thought you weren’t proving your point well enough or just for the fun of it.  That’s why I baffled him with my itch for a good verbal battle.   I seem to need to pound a drum either while standing on a soap box or standing firm trying to prove an emotional point.

            It took him a while to learn not to take my tirades personally.  Instead, he would poke holes in my theories either to make me think about what I was saying or make me madder.  He would get out of the way if I needed to throw something and ultimately hold me when I ran out of steam.  I often ended by laughing hysterically or sobbing.

            I have no idea why this defines some portion of my personality.  I thought it might be because of a dysfunctional family, but then everyone has one of those these days.  I thought maybe I was working through some kind of past life when a Chinese astrological reading unearthed my category as a metal monkey which involves the attribute of being quick to anger.  Of course, I denied it, at first, then had to shrug and own this tendency.

            Another form of astrological analysis crowned me with the designation, “unexpected thunderstorm.”  I’m seeing this in myself more and more and am trying to find my balance with it.

            These thoughts were stimulated by my defense of a recent blog topic and surfaced as I weed-eated a path up the hill to where Y’s ashes are buried.  The location is/was a favorite of his, and he spent many hours tending sweat lodge fires there before pouring water for that ceremony for himself and anyone who attended.

            The container of his ashes is an unfired clay pot which will gradually deteriorate into the land as he wanted.  The used lava rocks which cover this spot are dwindling in number.  Every time I make the trip to feel the energy of his hill, I return with one or two stones in my hands.  My intention is that some day there will be no marker.  Then I will be ready to know, with all my being, that he is matching me stride for stride in my new life from his side of it.