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.

I AM REALLY HERE

          Sitting in the middle seat of my daughter’s white mini-van, I listened to her chatter with her long time friend.  The next day, I sat in the same seat and eavesdropped on her conversation with her daughter, my granddaugher.  Every once in awhile, a comment burst into my head, but, before I got a chance to speak, they were onto another topic or story or shared memory.

            For two days I felt invisible.  It was mostly not a bad thing since I understand being with my family was usually all about joining in their lives and doing what was happening:  a birthday, a holiday, a graduation.

            What caused a mixture of feelings to gather in my chest and threaten to spill out my mouth as words or my eyes as tears, was the realization that I was invisible.  I wasn’t even being talked ‘at’ or ‘with’ or ‘around’ but through.  I was just there, being cared for, since I was fed and a bed was provided.

            No one seemed interested in my story of how I got the weed eater to work or how the two weddings I wrote and facilitated went nor did anyone want to hear me read my new short story (the first in three years)?  I did get, “You look nice, Mom!” as a general approval statement.  I searched for any nuance of a sigh that told me she was grateful I wouldn’t embarrass her and was pleased not to find one.

            On one hand, being invisible has its advantages.  I’m free to leaf through my own picture book of memories if the topic of conversation has nothing to do with me.  I can roam around my brain and trace story lines for my next novel or rearrange my furniture.  Just about any kind of mental picture can erupt, as long as I don’t prattle about it out loud.  Rather like my stream of consciousness when I rode behind my late husband on his motorcycle.  Though then, I felt alive with all the physical sensations of wind and changes of temperature and the feel of his sturdy body between my legs and against my chest.  My arms often were wrapped around him, so I remember feeling solid and substantial.

            Now I’m an appendage at times, one more person to find room for in the car.  One more mouth to feed.  Sometimes one more pair of hands to count on for help with a family project.

            I’m not liking the totality of this being invisible though; as if I’m a fading apparition who will eventually dissipate into a memory.

            I’d like to count for something to somebody.  This is what’s spurring me to find some way to be concrete and to contribute to the greater good, either through my blog, my marching with 1000 Grandmothers for Peace, singing with Emandal Chorale, and maybe volunteering at the Mendocino Museum or Phoenix Hospice.  I will allow invisibility with my family if that makes them feel more able to deal with me and what has happened in the last several years.  I won’t allow it in the rest of my dealings with life.

Sky Miracle

     I was late. Couldn’t wait. Out the door I ran but stopped as the phone rang. I hesitated and relented, reaching back to answer after I hear the machine recording a voice saying, “This is Dr. Oliver’s office returning your call.” She was still talking as I lifted the receiver to my ear. “We can see you and your broken crown in 30 minutes.”
     I sighed into the phone, “OK,” and began my list of people to call and appointments to push down my schedule toward the afternoon.
     That was why I ended up standing looking out the window at the Public Health Department in the early afternoon. The broken crown from chewing Super Bowl popcorn and the emergency repair had brought me to an indescribable moment of staring at the pale blue sky and a white puffy cloud thinning as it traveled somewhere and radiated a changing panorama of rainbow colors.
     Amazement filled my chest as I watched the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and lavender illuminated through the crystals of that cloud. Just the right temperature. Just the right angle of the sun to the crystals. Just me standing at the correct angle so I could be a witness to this miracle I’d only heard described in detail on the TV two nights previously.
     Whatever the reason I found myself standing there at that precise moment, I promised myself I would not miss a chance to look at the sky again. I promised I would look up to make the action become my punctuation mark for beginning and ending my day. I decided it would help me remember there is an overview to this experience here on earth. Looking at the sky in the morning, at odd times, at night time, in sun and rain and fog and wind, I have witnessed miraculous images and patterns play across an expanse that’s only limited by where I’m standing on the Earth; by trees perhaps, or buildings, hills, or nothing at all.
     Whenever I stand in the quiet, I can know I am part of it all, of something, of everything, of more than I will ever see or understand. I can practice surrendering to the tides and turns of where I am and what I think I want. Plus, as I settle into my sky-watching perhaps, one day, I will see another perfect miracle of a cloud turning into a rainbow just for me.

It Just Happened!

Maybe it was during the night; perhaps it occurred during the day when I wasn’t paying attention. In all likelihood, it may change back. Whatever! It happened. I realized this morning that I was thinking like a person who was living on my own. There was no one to blame, no one to call to task for being responsible for making my life different than it had been. I wasn’t in a funk. I wasn’t necessarily ecstatic. But I was singing a trumped up tune I enjoyed humming over and over again until I got the final note just perfect.

This understanding came about as I was closing drawers, closets, and cabinet doors after me without thinking about what Y would say if he came behind me and closed them himself. I chose, this morning, to answer the alarm clock with a sigh, reset if for another hour of sleep, and turn over. I had no guilt and didn’t even feel a guilty pleasure in the action. I just did it.

The laundry was in a pile so I started the water heater and the generator without first wondering if it was a good time to make all the noise.

A breakfast of apple crisp didn’t bring with it the need to carefully take my portion and set his aside so we’d have equal sharings. One weekend morning I played Sudoku in bed on my Iphone from 5:45am til 7am then went back to sleep til 10am. The next day I was up at 7am organizing a drawer.

I’ve never lived only in relationship with myself. I was either in my parent’s home and going to school and junior college (20 years) or married to two different husbands at different times (total of 39 years) or living in a dorm (3 years) or divorced with two children (4 years). That’s 66 years. That’s exactly how old I was when this entire disaster engulfed me. Now at 67, I can say I’m merely a woman on my own.

Sometime ago I pasted a few days one spot in my life and two weeks from another spot, and so on, into a lump that reported I had been sporadically on my own for a total of 8 months out of those 66 years. Now I see this current experience was way past due, and I also recognize I have had no idea how to handle it, let alone the idea of being a widow with grief.

So it had to be one thing at a time.

Up until this week, I’ve handled the whole affair as a widow, giving a smattering of attention to thoughts of bills and expenses, bank accounts and CDs, how to purchase wood for the wood stove and dig ditches. Somehow in the beginning I felt as if all I had to do was tread water, and he’d come back, or someone would come back, and I could return to living my life as part of a twosome. Then I began to take classes I’ve always wanted to take like herbal salve making and acting, etc. I’ve driven an hour on a whim to shop or called a friend and talked for an hour over dinner time. I’ve had scrambled eggs at 2am because I was hungry and overbooked myself for volunteer work to the point where the house was a disaster, and I ran out of underwear. I never would have done that married or as a mother.

Just recently I’ve been like a little kid with a new toy, and I can truly say I’ve been enjoying a new kind of freedom. However, always in the back of my mind, I’ve held the belief that this wasn’t permanent. Somehow my old life would come back, except now, I know in every fiber of my being that it won’t.

Selling the tools and machinery is easier this way. Just as it’s less hurtful to clear out his drawers in the roll top desk we were refinishing on our first wedding anniversary. I’m saying words like ‘mine’ now instead of ours. If I slip up and do say ‘our’, it’s no big deal either. I understand what I’m meaning, and it’s finally OK to be with just me.