O Say Can You See?

Blog for July 1^st, 2009

The Fourth of July Weekend is approaching. I plan to avoid the noise and the smoke and the crowds and head down to Camp Island. That is not to say I will not be celebrating. How could I miss the chance to celebrate Independence Day and the ideals of our Constitution?

I really mean that. I have been thinking about the importance of democracy quite often these days. The Petersburg City Council is in conflict and our town is in turmoil. In the middle of the summer salmon season, you would think it was February with all the talk of recall petitions and lawsuits. Too many meetings end in recrimination, and angry commentaries blare across KFSK’s airwaves and Letters to the Editor.

Some council members seem to think their personal agenda for the city is infallible, and they do not want to be bothered with the messy and slow democratic process. Fire the city manager if he opposes you. Why wait until the entire council votes on whether to hire an interim city manager when you can get a potential candidate on the phone today? If city department heads don’t go along with your plans, make them quit or fire them. This kind of rogue behavior is a slap in the face to democracy.

This situation reminds me that the principles of our Constitution call us to a higher standard of behavior and that freedom is hard won and never safe. Democracy is a legacy that requires our vigilance and participation, because greed and selfishness are a constant threat.

This is not to say that the councilors in question are particularly venal or oppressive. They are just self-righteous, and convinced they know more than anyone else does. Hey, I have been there. I remember last summer taking care of my father, when I was convinced I was the only one who knew what to do. Soon I was railing against the nurses, the doctors, my siblings, and health aides…In short, everyone else was wrong. That is when it helps to do the math. I was right, and 25 people were all wrong. When the odds are stacked like that, a “You might be deluded” light should go on in your head.

“Don’t let the Best be the Enemy of the Good”, a friend told me then. This is true, especially when you are trying to build consensus, which is the foundation of democracy.

Yes, the democratic process is messy and convoluted. So much listening has to take place. Building consensus takes time, compromise, and a huge amount of patience. Progress is slow but without this process, there is the danger that one person‘s short-sighted vision and urge for power will create a landscape of fear and oppression. It happens over and over on the small scale of interpersonal relationships, and on a global scale.

On the Fourth of July, we shoot off fireworks and remember wars fought, but “Bombs bursting in Midair” is not the only or even the most important way to support and protect our freedom. Voting serves democracy, and sitting on local councils. Educating ourselves on issues, listening to opposing viewpoints and trying to come to consensus should merit a medal. So should speaking out against those who abuse power, because it protects democracy at its most basic level.

This Independence Day, I am grateful for all those people who came before me, who served democracy in large ways and small. I salute the courage and patience it takes to preserve this ideal, and pledge to support it however I can. Maybe drink beer and light stuff on fire too. After all, it is the 4^th of July…

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Sittin’ on the dock of the Bay

 

 

Blog for June 25^{th, 2009}

Sitting in the harbor on the Heron, I am staring out of the pilothouse windows at the boats moving back and forth between the docks. Summer is in high gear. The seiners are in town between salmon openings, and I am listening to the scream of hydraulics and the deep roar of the diesel-powered skiffs. Kids swing on a purse line over a pile of nets, but the actions of most people I see are purposeful and rapid. The season is short, and there is more to do than time to do it.

I feel like the grasshopper that sat and watched the ants putting away their winter stores. Foreboding lurks just under the surface. I remember that story did not end well. There is nothing I can do about it though. This summer charter season is slow. People are cutting back on spending. Vacations are expendable in an economy teetering on collapse.

I worry more about my attitude than the money. I have seen money come and go. Courage matters more. How do I find the flexibility to face changing circumstances with creativity and optimism? It was easier in my early twenties. I am fifty-two. I just want to take a nap.

The first years we had the Heron were much like this. We had no real income. The boat made little money. Everything was new. I was not confident of my ability as a cook or a guide. I worried constantly that we would not get enough trips, then I worried if we could make people happy, and keep them safe. The weight of fear made me ill.

Years later, when the business was successful, I was sorry to think of all the time and energy I wasted worrying. Yet here I am again, circling in the waters of uncertainty, and doubt is the undercurrent of my days. It takes a conscious and energetic effort to beat back fear.

I know so many friends in this predicament, some whose concerns are far more serious, waiting the outcome of a biopsy, praying for recovery, worrying how they will pay for college while deep in debt, trying to imagine how they will keep their house, or heat it next winter. Many sleepless people staring down the Night Hours these days.

Courage is what we need, and a hearty dose of joy. That is my focus these days. Looking for inspiration in the lives around me and in my past.

I think of my parents, whose disastrous personal finances coincided with a recession when they were my age. They dropped what they were doing and moved to Zaire in Central Africa. Dad started organizing labor unions for the AFL-CIO, something he had never had any experience with, and my Mom started teaching English as a second language. They completely reinvented their lives, and never looked back.

I don’t plan on anything so drastic, but it reminds me that it is possible to reinvent oneself, given enough imagination and heart.

I don’t have to measure my success by what I don’t have, or by what has been lost. I can choose to expand into the possibilities change is offering me or live in a crabbed and frightened corner of my life. The fullness of the present offers itself again and again if I have the courage to accept it.

It means I have to step off the well-worn path of the routines of summers past, and head off into unmarked territory. This is the challenge we all face at various points in our lives. What do you pack on that kind of journey?

An anchor is no use when you are drifting in deep water. The desire for the old life is useless. So I will try to scrounge up some humor, and leave complaining behind, along with fear. Try to slam the door on doubt, and catch up with Faith, which is strides ahead most days, just beyond my sight. See you on the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hundreds of Ways to Kneel and Kiss the Ground

Blog for May 27^th, 2009

 I am rebelling today against the list-driven life. For some reason, my ambition has flown out the window, and my desire to check off tasks has disappeared. As Greg Brown sings, “The spring wind blew my list of things to do away…”

 This rarely happens to me. I live in a town of hardworking people, who pride themselves on how much they have to do, and how much they can get done.

 Years ago, I was walking down the dock with a fishing pole one sunny spring day, past a bunch of guys with sanders, and they said, “Someone got all their boat work done…” Of course, I hadn’t, and they played me just like a fish. I went sport fishing, but the thought of my undone chores followed me all the way up the creek. That one comment seems to sum up an underlying ethic here in town. It would not work today though. Nothing  is compelling me to answer the call to apply myself.

It might be a Fun hangover from the three-day weekend at Camp Island. We had the 3^rd annual Camp Island Memorial Day Campout, and I am still reveling in the memories of tents in the yard, bonfires on the beach and babies in the grass. I pegged the Fun Meter all weekend. The sun was shining as we wandered the tide flats admiring huge icebergs, and explored the island. I found a new eagle tree, and fell asleep in the deep, soft moss, waiting for the adults to return to their nest.

 My favorite moments were late at night when the tide came in and doused the bonfire. We piled the flames high with drift logs and threw on spruce branches that exploded in a shower of sparks. The tide seeped in unseen in the dark, under the logs, and lifted the fire as water boiled around the glowing coals. The logs on top were still flaming as the coals sizzled, popped and groaned. “It sounds like the Cremation of Sam Magee!” said Eric. Fred finished off the fire by hurling an iceberg into the smoke.

 The wild Easterly wind out of LeConte Bay drove thousands of icebergs onto the beach. I kayaked across the bay with Sharon, and Joe paddled with young Van Abbott against the wind, through the bobbing ice to the grass flats to look for bears. Ben has seen a couple of black bears grazing in the morning. We finally found the lee, and wandered the flats, but all we saw was bear scat. Lots of it. “Hey, don’t worry”, we told Van. “This is several hours old…”There was plenty of it though. I think we have quite a few burly neighbors across the water from Camp Island.

 The next morning we wandered through a labyrinth of blue ice. Bergs the size of houses lined the beach. It was eerie threading a path between dripping icebergs, listening for the sudden crack and roar as one rolled in the tide, or broke under its own weight.

 We explored the tide pools exposed by a minus four-foot tide, and found scarlet prawns, and orange starfish, purple urchins and striped anemones.

 My soul was transported to another reality over the weekend and it has not come back. My body is in town, and my boat is in the shipyard. That should be enough reality to snap me to attention. But nothing is working.

 I always feared this would happen one day, that the rigorous discipline and work ethic I imposed on myself would disintegrate, and I would become a vagabond, a drifter. It doesn’t feel  bad actually.  I may have a future as a  Lotus Eater. As Rumi says:

   “Today like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument. Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. “

 

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The Gift of Healing

 

Blog for August 23^rd 2008

My siblings have been reading this blog. Their comments are mostly unprintable, but the gist of what they have told me is the story is beautiful, but too sad.

Hmm. That certainly could be. I am a minor key kind of person. The plot line revolves around sorrow, loss and death, but those are just the dark colors. I hope I have been mixing in the light along with the shadow, because there is plenty of both. Miracles abounding!

My older brother has come up for the weekend with his grown children. He has come to be with Dad and support me, and maybe grab some sweet corn at the Fair when he can.

To say it obliquely, my brother and father have had a challenging relationship. Lots of misunderstandings flying in both directions. Hurt feelings, disappointment, but hey, it’s a family.

This summer has been a watershed for healing though, for all of us. My brother’s visits have been full of laughter, tensions, remembering, and some frank conversations about our common traits, probably more readily identified as pathologies..

I always knew I had a tendency towards losing items, and an inability to prioritize and focus. Suddenly I was surrounded by my tribe. I watched my brothers and sister hunting over and over for cell phones, wallets and keys ..

My brother Robert wants to get us all t-shirts that say “I do NOT have ADH…. Oh Look! There’s a rabbit!”

My father always used to make pronouncements about “YOU PEOPLE”. That is the name of our tribe. You People use towels once and leave them on the floor. They spill every liquid they touch and leave the lights on. They start one project and move on to two more meanwhile they lose papers, keys etc.. etc..

This summer, the Tribe of You People came home, all at the same time. We had a convention. But it was not centered on our common flaws. It was focused in love, on my father and our common family ties. We share a rich history, and a legacy of humor. We reveled in it, and we drove each other crazy.

I owned that perhaps I could be a little bossy. I voluntarily relinquish the title of Dictator Queen of the Rebellious Tribe of You People. I have decided to give over control over the outcome of every situation. A good friend told me “Don’t let the Best be the Enemy of the Good”. I think the subtext to that is, I might discover that “Best” has many faces, not just mine, and Good comes in many forms.

I had gone to stay with Ann at her Inn overnight, and asked Dad how the night had been. Dad told me about how strong my brother Robert is. “He picks me right up”, Dad said, with relief and pride. “Robert was very helpful. He came to check on me through the night, and I slept well. After 55 years, we finally have a good relationship”.

I could tell that he felt safe with Robert. Dad looked rested and calm when I showed up. Hallelujah! They seem to have reached a place of peace with one another, and the tribe of You People has a new Shepherd.

My Dad has been energized by the presence of his family. He has said how much it means to him to have his children near. He likes listening to us talking to each other, and laughing. Dad said many times that his favorite moment on his birthday was watching my two brothers work together assembling a grill. Dad thinks of Heaven right now as a place where his kids are nearby and they are getting along. I think of it as a Miracle.

There has been nothing ordinary about this journey. It has given me many gifts, but one I treasure most is the Gift of Healing in my family.

 

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Fill Your Mug, then fill the Mugs around you..

 

Blog for August 5^th:

The lovely ceramic mug with a dragonfly came from my friend Tara. She sent it from Alaska, saying she was not sure it was an appropriate gift, but it was her way of sending comfort.

It has brought me comfort. Since I have my own mug, I went out and bought special coffee beans. Now that I have a mug, I take the time in the morning to fill it with coffee and sit on the porch before Dad wakes up. Sometimes I write, other times I listen to the birds. The baby cardinals are flitting through the bushes of their nestling days. Golden finches perch on nearby branches. Even small hawks swoop through the trees. I listen to the wind through the leaves and feel autumn in the back of the northwest wind. I am savoring these last weeks of summer.

I heard from my friend Edna this week. She is busy in Kake, Alaska putting fish up for the winter. This is an all-consuming job and she says a pot of coffee is just what it takes to pull her through. She asks the same question I do: Why is there never enough time? We speed up, and the days slip away even faster. Maybe the trick is to slow down.

I have been accused of doing too much/giving too much/wearing myself out to the point of destructiveness. Usually it is men that tell me this. I think men have been telling women this since time began. There is some truth to it. I will own that, although I admit that men usually benefit from this arrangement and only complain when women get crabby.

I am like many other women. We see what needs to be done, and when our portion is finished, we take on someone else’s work. There is a dangerous beauty to this. Sometimes I think if all the women in the world sat down when they were tired, the world as we know it would stop. Maybe that would be OK.

I know my world would not be as clean, or organized, or as full of good things to eat. Nevertheless, it might be calmer. I would not be as widely admired as a person that gets things done, but perhaps I would be easier to live with. Maybe my list-driven life is not improving the world as much as a more peaceful approach. I am ready to try it.

I always think of that saying by Rabindranath Tagore:

“God respects when I work, but he loves me when I sing”.

Reader, it may not seem possible for you to drop one thing you are carrying on burdened shoulders. I wish you strength. I also hope that you can find refuge in sleep that restores your spirit, and a moment to reflect, maybe just half a mug’s worth, and it brings you some peace. As for me, I am going to refill my mug…

 

 

 

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Caretaking the Family Museum

Blog for August 4, 2008

People must wonder what I do all day here at the house. After all, it is just Dad, Fifi, and me.

This morning I spent an hour and a half on the phone trying to figure out how to get a part for Dad’s special amplified telephone. After getting lost in the wilderness of the voice mail service of Verizon, talking to the computerized voice at the “Resolution Center”, I finally got a human being. I think it was after I screamed “FOUR! FOUR! FOUR!” into the receiver that the robotic voice said “I think you said you want to talk to a representative”. That actually was not Selection Four, but something in my tone tipped her off that it was time to hand me over to another human.

Hand me over the robot did, and the humans were not much more helpful. I spoke with several people who all said the same thing: “The person you were just talking to had the answer to your question. Let me forward your call.” Then I would talk to someone new, or get bounced back, between Jill and James and Who knows Who…

After two hours, Dad said he was getting a headache from listening to me and the answer turned out to be a new a/c adapter from Radio Shack. I tried to call them to see if they had the part in stock, because I was going to have to leave Dad alone, drive through bumper-to-bumper August traffic to go stand in line to find out they did not have it. Of course, the Radio Shack people could not answer the phone because they were too busy. “We know you are frustrated, but don’t leave a message” was the recording on their phone.

This broken house gets the better of me some days. The phone only works in some positions. There is a bad connection. This is also true of Dad’s satellite radio, which plays his favorite tunes from the Forties. We hear “Some….Over the…..bow…up…there’s a …lullaby…”I can get the radio to work, if I jiggle the wires, but then if anything moves, the sound breaks up again. Radio Shack does not have that part.

The ceiling in the living room is about to cave in. The leak above the lamp over the dining table has loaded the sheetrock with water, and during the last thunderstorm, water ran down the light cord onto the table, soaking everything in its path. I was afraid that if I touched the ceiling, it would come down on me.

Dad kept trying to call some guy called “The Gator” who had done some home repairs on the house trying to fix the rotting dormer that may be the source of the leak. Oh, I could just picture him. One of a long line of snaggle- toothed guys in old pickup trucks who do “home repairs” with no ability. We have supported a generation of them.

There was the guy that nailed plastic trim over cracks in the bathroom wall. He also put in a fan over the stove that vents into the kitchen, so any smoke generated by cooking blows right back in your face. Many repairs involve “patches” which basically cover up an awful truth.

The awful truth Gator tried to bury is that the dormers were badly designed, and do not cover the ledge where water pools, so it runs right down the inner walls.

I hope Gator does not come back. I will just use buckets and prayer. At least it will be cheaper, and probably work at least as well.

I finally managed to drive to Radio Shack in Vineyard Haven after my sister came down to sit with Dad so I could do errands. They had the part I needed. I bought the last one. I repaired the phone, and Dad was thrilled.

We come from a long line of people who are not tool-users, so when I actually fix something, Dad acts like I just invented Fire. The reverse is also true though. When I fail to fix something, I am treated like Captain Cook when the Hawaiians figured out he was not the great God Lono. I get a very baleful stare, but at least he does not get out the Long Knives. Today was a success.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this old house. It is a family museum. Everywhere I encounter things of dubious value but much sentimental meaning. By common agreement, nothing is thrown out, which makes it feel dark and cluttered. On the other hand, I am still able to read my Mom’s “To Do List” from August 1976, and am surrounded by artifacts that contain stories of our family.

In front of me is a rock Mom picked up on Omaha Beach, a puppet Dad bought in Czechoslovakia in 1950, a shadow box with a photo of Dad in WWII with his medals. There also are cheap Christmas ornaments that never were taken down from three years ago, numerous dog toys, stacks of mail, and a closet full of my Mother’s clothes.

Nobody has the heart to get rid of any of it, but they do not really want all the stuff at their house. We also want to avoid the inevitable “YOU want that? I want that too…” conversation. So we have the museum, sheltered in our old family house. The “collection” will make no sense to anyone else. Meanwhile, these things hold the echoes of our family history like seashells hold the echoes of the ocean. These days that I am caretaker for the museum are numbered. This thought brings me both sorrow and comfort. It just depends on the moment.

 

 

 

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The Suburbs of God

Blog for July 30, 2008

Ah the Stone Cottage idyll did not last. I was able to spend two evenings there last week while my brothers were at the house, but then I moved back in with Dad.

The last few weeks have been draining. Some family dynamics knocked me to my knees. I woke up yesterday morning so depressed I could not get out of bed. I had no strength, and I ached all over.

I called my sister, and made some gurgling sounds on the phone. She immediately swung into action. “You are stronger than this!” she scolded. “Besides, don’t you believe in God? Where is God right now?”

I had to admit that the presence of God was very likely in the neighborhood somewhere…

“That’s right”, she said. “Now get to the basics. Light and air. Go get some sun on your face and breathe deeply”.

So this Child of God pulled on some shorts and opened the curtains, and went out to start the day.

Immediately, the day improved. I met a close friend unexpectedly in front of the Post Office. He had traveled this same path with both his parents and he offered encouragement for the road ahead. A letter with photos from a close friend in Alaska waited for me in the post office box. My sister came down from the Inn and offered to watch Dad so I could go to the beach in the afternoon.

I swam in the cold salt water and slept in the sand like a turtle below the white clay cliffs. Over my head ospreys soared looking for fish in the waves. Hours of sleep and the sound of the surf restored my soul.

There are hours in the broken house that try my temper. There is so much that falls apart in my hands, and I am tired of trying to cobble together solutions. It is hot and muggy here and most days the sweat beads up on my face and back. Having my family together was an amazing experience, but exhausting. All four of us kids have not spent this much time together since childhood. Our paths and our styles are very different. Still, a core similarity sometimes makes me gasp with recognition, not always with joy. At least this time we were able to see those shared traits, such as they are, and recognize our common history. It helped us reach across the gaps. We were able to agree that what matters most is keeping Dad as healthy and happy as possible.

Now Dad and I are alone again. I think he misses the general hubbub and noise of his family. He loved having everyone here.

I am getting him up for adventures every morning. We have our coffee on different beaches each day. Today we went up to Menemsha, the fishing village at the other end of the island. We met a Frenchman who started speaking French with Dad, and suddenly they were discussing their African Adventures, taking trains to Timbuktu, talking about Mali and Niger… It cheered Dad up immensely.

I am grateful for these days when he still says “Why not?” whenever I mention an adventure. I cherish the time we spend together, and the whimsical way he is talking since the stroke. He sees the sunset and says, “Look! Moon blood!” He calls muffins “corn meadows”. He is grateful and cheerful, so how can I be otherwise?

When this time is over, no amount of calling will ever bring it back. I try to remember that as I move through these weeks.

In the words of Hafiz, the Persian poet of the 13^th century: “Complaint is only possible when living in the suburbs of God”.

I picture myself taking up residence from time to time in a tract house of ingratitude. My sister was right. Get up, breathe deep, search out the Light. It is all around us.

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Blog for July 22, 2008

It is two-thirty in the morning, and I know better than to lie in the dark during the Hour of the Wolf. I may as well face it by lamplight, listening to the crickets and the wind blowing across the pastures.

My sister offered me a room at the Inn she is managing this summer. My brothers are visiting Dad and the house is full. Staying here has been a very welcome respite from the heat and the crowds at the other end of the island. My brothers have offered me this break from nursing and are doing their best to keep Dad comfortable. Meanwhile I am staying in a lovely stone cottage overlooking Bliss Pond, watching the horses grazing beyond the stone walls. I feel the peace of this place seeping into my bones.

It had been a rugged week. There have been times when I thought my head would explode. In fact, my mouth has broken out in a rash that puzzled both doctors at the Walk-in clinic. “Yes, that is quite some rash you have there. Haven’t seen anything like it in 30 years,” they said. They prescribed a mouthwash that tastes like a combination of Pepto-Bismol and Novocain and makes my lips so numb I cannot talk.

My experience with the Vineyard Nursing Association has nearly put me over the edge, with their inconsistent care, erratic scheduling and lack of communication. The latest episode was the worst. They sent a nurse out to re-evaluate Dad following his stroke. The man left with my purse by accident. He said it looked just like the green bag he used to carry supplies. When he called, he told me he would return it in 15 minutes. An hour and a half went by. I called him back on his cell phone to tell him I was stranded without my wallet, which contained my driver’s license and my money. He told me he was not coming back to my town for hours, and that he would drop it off at the VNA office at lunchtime.

This meant that I had to get Dad in the car. I could not leave him alone and he had just returned from the hospital. Then I had to drive through heavy noontime traffic to the next town in the muggy heat to get to the office to fetch my bag. I was driving without a license, which worried me. It is bad enough that the car is still registered and insured to my mother who passed away seven years ago. If I had an accident, they would throw me in jail and throw away the key. I was furious and frustrated, and on the verge of biting someone. My brother pointed out I was a little tightly wound.

It was perfect to move up to Chilmark, at the peaceful end of the island, away from the crowds and mopeds and sirens. The night sounds here are timeless. I hear geese muttering on the pond, and moths hitting the screens. The wind rustles the wide oak leaves, and surf roars against the south shore. This old farm has stood for centuries, lichen spreading across the stone walls over the years. The paths worn in the land by our quick little lives fade like the summer roses wilting in the heat. I feel like I am regaining some perspective.

This summer, I feel as though I have been riding a ridgeline between Heaven and Hell. Tonight in these dark hours, I am filled with peace. These have been the Green Pastures that have restored my soul, and I am grateful.

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Blog for July 14^th, 2008

It is Bastille Day, and I have a little bird that can whistle the Marseillaise, but he is far away, in Alaska cruising the Inside Passage with Scott on the Heron. That life seems so far away.

Here it is muggy and tourists crowd the towns and beaches. When I spoke with Scott, he had just been watching mother bears with their cubs fishing for salmon in a creek.

I miss the quiet and the wilderness in Alaska. I miss beaches with only the footprints of wolves in the sand. Every day I am reminded why I left the Vineyard, but I am also aware of the deep and abiding love that pulls me back.

I think I have loved some places as much as I have loved people. The light slanting across the pastures in the late afternoon up island catches my heart with a pang of longing and love usually sparked by the sight of a beloved face. The dusty blue wildflowers on the side of the road evoke memories of endless barefoot summer days. The small things and the large weave together a tapestry of time and my heartstrings are the threads.

I love this island, but I do not think it could be home any more. The crowding makes me feel like an animal in a trap. There are too many stories here, and they get in the way of my relationship to the natural world. There are the stories of the thousands of people who live here, and the tens of thousands who visit. Everyone seems to be making their own little movie, and the rest of us are props.

There is too much traffic on the narrow little roads, and too many people lined up in the restaurants and stores. There is the constant Gershwin howl of sirens and voices through the trees all night coming from the porches and open windows. I long for silence and a breath of cool air. Then I jump in the sea and the salt on my skin and the pull of the surf is exhilarating. I look back at the towering clay cliffs gleaming in the sun, and at that moment, I cannot imagine another place in the world I want to be.

I went quahogging yesterday. My friend Jane and I stood waist deep in the Lagoon and scraped the sandy pond bottom with rusty clam rakes. I had forgotten what joy there is in feeling the tines scratch the chalky hard shells of a quahog. We filled the basket half full, and brought them home. I steamed them up, and we had them for dinner along with two bottles of champagne.

My brother Steven is home now. My sister Ann was at the house most of the day. We were all celebrating Dad’s return home. He is tired, but relieved to be back in the house. He told me he was happy to hear us talking and laughing. I am happy to have him restored to us. I take nothing for granted now.

This is a fleeting season, not just the summer, but also these days with Dad, this last chapter in our family home. Like the lilacs long since bloomed and gone, or the rhododendrons whose brilliant blossoms dropped off weeks ago, the beauty of these days is stalked by the passage of time.

My friend Laura sent me a package yesterday, which I opened just before bed. It was full of poetry and music, and her choices struck a deep chord in me. She chose songs for the cd that are some of my favorites. The poem she chose was by Mary Oliver and is one that has been running through my mind since I arrived here in May. This poem speaks to me of loving deeply without grasping, and living in the moment without yearning:

Here is part of In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver:

“To live in this world

You must be able

To do three things:

To love what is mortal;

To hold it

Against your bones knowing

That your own life depends on it;

And, when the times comes to let it go,

To let it go.”

I am savoring this summer, these days with Dad, this time on the island, holding it close to my bones, hoping I will have the courage and the wisdom to let it go when the time comes.

 

 

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Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree

Blog for July 12, 2008

Dad seems to be regaining his footing. He still is a bit disoriented, and cannot read. He uses the wrong words when he speaks, and he cannot remember dates, but his affect is good. His personal hard drive is just not functioning quite right. The GPS is down, and the word processor in his brain is fried.

I put my MP3 player ear buds in his ears though, and played some familiar music and he knew it right away. I played Glenn Miller’s “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me” for him, and his face lit up. He taught me that song when I was very small and we used to sing it together. This morning he sang along, and although his words made no sense, he almost carried the tune. It was the high point of the day.

Annie and I brought Fifi in for a visit. Dad was very happy to see her, and she was frantic with joy. I was worried she might pull out his transfusion IV with her scrabbling display of affection. I am not a dog person, but even I realize that the love they share is probably an even more potent transfusion than anything the hospital can give.

 

 

 

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