Stories

Sunday morning, wondering why I awaken with a story playing in my head even before I arise. As I age, I begin to see more clearly that there was a 'story' was given to me, so long ago, and in bits. It is built into a quagmire of thoughts which holds court in my brain when I am not even aware. It probably permeates my dreams.

Gerry, you come to me front and center on this morning of the week, Sunday. The day I spent years attending mass, not by choice. You are now one more dear one from my past who has gone on this fall. You were my mother-in-law, Gram to my kids. You were a Catholic girl, like my own Mom, and you both bore 9 children, 4 boys and 5 girls each. You had a photo of the Pope on your mantel, but when Big Jim left you, you took the photo down. I believe at some point after that you invented yourself again. You never remarried, and maintained a life alone.

 You had a story you believed about yourself, that you were slighted, cast aside, undervalued by your parents. The story continued from your childhood into your marriage. Whenever I spent time with you, I consciously tried to counteract that story. Making you feel happy was a challenge I took on, because of the way my own mother was. You were kind to me, and I so appreciated that. You appreciated the way I raised your grandsons.

Snapshot memories are what I have now, because we lived 1000 miles apart.

 Christmas 1976: I showed at the Belmont, CA family home with Jim, at the last minute, and unexpected. Jim had an aversion to calling ahead. Nonetheless, you welcomed me warmly and made sure that I had a gift to open when the family exchanged presents. You gave me a pair of warm red gloves. They were useful, and I kept them a long time to remember your kindness.

 Snapshot:1984.  We are sitting at the Lake Crescent Lodge restaurant, having lunch.  You ordered the clam chowder, and prefaced that by saying, "I've never had good clam chowder in a restaurant. I make the best chowder myself."

 That statement reinforced what I had begun to fear. That going against your story would be a losing battle. Your story was one which set the stage for reasons to be discontented. There was bacon in the chowder, and that was a no no. You were right, it was not up to snuff. Luckily the water was pretty, the car didn't break down and the children were good. We sat below the Olympic Mountains on the edge of a magnificent glacial lake. This made me think, why should it be so hard to just be happy?

1989: The saddest snapshot is you and I dressing for Jimmy's memorial at our home in the Elwha Valley. I had suddenly lost a husband, and you had lost a son. I hugged you and said, "I am so sorry you lost your baby."

 You hugged me back, you didn't dissolve into tears. You patted me, and I felt our connection. You, the tough mama, used to taking punches. Later you will relate that year felt like as though you were hit by a Mac Truck.  That was as apt a description as I, myself, might have used. We were hit hard, tough cookies we are, but still, we can be undermined. You and I carried that burden of loss, the mother's pain.

Snapshot 2002: You meet me dressed up, in a purple dress and a red hat. We have our picture taken by another resident of San Mateo Retirement Village. Years ago I had sent you the book " When I am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple". This resonated with you.  You loved the sentiment. Being old meant you could forget what anyone thought. Maybe at this point in your life, you were letting go, just a bit, of your story. 

Snapshot: 2013, our last visit. We go to lunch at the shopping center in Belmont. Afterwards we sit in your room at the assisted living facility. You ask me to stay, change into a house dress and lie down on your couch. Now, you say, lets talk. We talk about the past, the many years since I first became a part of the 'Curtis Family'. We talk about Jimmy, the boys, the big families which comprise 22 aunts and 23 uncles for my sons. The afternoon passes pleasantly. There is a timeless element to this visit. We laugh, and we cry.

You hand me some photos I had sent you over the years. One is a little album of you and my sons, and your son, their father. You say, "Here, I want you to take this." No more need be said. You want to make sure the photos all go back to those to whom they mean the most. You are preparing to leave this life. You still have the same feisty retorts and opinionated comments that I recall from you 37 years ago when I first met you. Not much dementia has hampered your personality. Any curmudgeonly aspects are those which you have nurtured and cultivated for over 80 years.

In the final analysis, you loved your family with all the you had. You tried, I believe, in your own way, to write your story into a plot you could live with. You sent me lovely cards every now and then, reaching out when you had the energy.

I offer this writing as my formal good bye. You've gone on, to the cosmos where everything can only be one. There is no separation, there is no mind to separate, there is only memory we hold of all that has gone to make us where we are now.

Alma

Alma is a beautiful woman who works in the dining room of the assisted living building where my parents now live. When she works at our table, I exclaim, "Buenos dias, como estas!"

She smiles, and answers. "Muy bien, gracias, y tu?"

When she takes my mom's dinner order, she squats down low to be at face level, and close because Mom's voice is quiet and a bit weak from the Parkinson's. I adore this dear woman, even if she did not let me speak my childish Spanish, and look gratefully and happily upon my endeavors to play at language.

 I look 'Alma' up, and see a definition that means 'core'. I think soul and grace also define Alma. When I see her face, I want to thank her own kind parents for bringing this lovely soul into the world, who made it somehow from Mexico City and Estado Hidalgo, MX to Bellevue, Washington, USA. She is not alone, there are many staff at Overlake Terrace who are not ethnically white, European, US born. This is a plus, because it seems that every culture values the elders more than my own.

When I watch Alma I think of how I am with small children in a classroom, I bend low to have my face at the same level as theirs. It is a response of heart softening, of grace for all beings to feel equanimity. It is instinctive for a mother, a father, a person who feels empathy and respect for those most vulnerable. When I see the staff do this with my parents, I want to jump up and hug them, I want to leave a tip, I want to call their parents and rave about how much I appreciate their kid. I want to write about how good people are, how very good and kind.

Alma tells us we are her favorites, because we are "sociable, amigable". My Mom and Dad smile. We all smile. It is a lovely life moment, to feel such universal love.

Words

He asks me, my earnest 11 year old student, "If blunder means the same as mistake, why are there two words for the same thing?"

I have to think fast. "Well, I was wrong. They aren't the same thing.  If I say that I committed a blunder, that would be a more formal way to say that I made a mistake. Words are nuanced."

 This puts me into a deeper hole out of which to explain myself.

He asks, "Why do there have to be so many words that mean the same thing?" This is an honest question. I start in on my story of the 1600 years of English, all the tribes and countries that shared language between them, continuously adding words that are marvelously specific. This only makes my young student look at me quizzically.

"What is formal?" He asks.

Now I have to think. How would you describe 'formal'? It means many things, and has several connotations as well as denotations. Words are not cold stone, they are molten lava.

I give it my best, describing what I would wear if I were dressing up to be formal. I ask him what he would wear to be formal. He doesn't know. He doesn't have anything to dress up for yet. I try another analogy, of how people talk or write in order to sound formal. I think he gets this one.

There are over 250,000 distinct words cataloged in the Oxford English Dictionary. This does not include some technical jargon terms and slang. For me, as a writer and speaker, this is impressive and makes me proud of my native tongue. On the teaching end it is a huge challenge to keep new learners from feeling rightfully overwhelmed.

It remains a privilege to be able to spend the better part of an hour discussing words with young minds, even with all the ambiguities, varied synonyms and cultural connotations which are included in the process of understanding how to actually use a word in a sentence. Somehow I feel as though I am influencing the future in a lovely way. I imagine the words we cover to be little lights, stars to see the future by, to describe mysteries, to tell of love and loss and all that goes between. At some point in time this young man will know the difference between love and romance, nuance and difference, formal and casual, blunder and mistake. For now we navigate the strange vast land of Words on a cool fall evening in October, as the light gives way to some softness a word might aptly describe, if I could find it.

Goodbye LaVonne

Today I learned of your passing, dear pal. I think you tried to call me last week, and I tried to call you back, but the response was busy over and over again.

I need to talk with you, because the last time we spoke was 4 months ago... too long. If I had known, if I had only known that your bad heart would take you this soon.

Let me tell your sons about you as a 15 year old High School Junior. That is when I met you. Intro to Biology, Mr. Ainsworth. We were the only Juniors in a class of Sophomores. You were new to town. We became lab partners. Later in the year we honed the scientific skill of rationalizing reasons to skip class. Spring of '73 was the time we spent procuring beer, and ducking off campus before the class day was over. Biology, which happened to fall into last class of the day status was the usual casualty. If I recall correctly, even after spring fever hit, I still was able to earn a B. 

Neither of us liked biology. I was into creative writing and my boyfriend.  You were restless and not college bound. Your family was of the solid working class, and you got an office job as a secretary before you even graduated from Sammamish High.

I remember tooling around Bellevue in your Mom's maroon '64 Impala. You drove like an old pro. I had not even gotten my learner's permit yet. You impressed me with your chutzpah, bravado, courage and impulsive devil-may-care attitude. In retrospect, I see that you were like my alter ego.

Strangely, after we graduated there were years we never kept in touch. Our paths diverged. Fate and time brought us together again in Port Angeles. You had moved to Morse Creek with  husband Craig, and I was in Joyce with my soon to be husband, Jim. I had been the maid of honor at your wedding to Craig. I remember that pretty, fancy white dress, and a tall head piece you wore. We had a funny time figuring out how to arrange it properly on your head.  Jim took the photos for the wedding. We smoked a joint while I was helping you get dressed. You were very nervous about your family all around, especially your brothers.

You died on the last day of summer, days before you would match me in the age of 58 years. Now I am recalling the last visit we had, how much we laughed. We laughed until we felt as young as we could ever be, the abandonment of time and space. I will miss how you could take me there. 

Hot Days of Fall

I checked The NWS, it is 94 degrees here in Milwaukie today.  It feels just like that too.

Leaves are beginning to fall from the giant sweet gum tree in the front yard. They dry into a crackly tan color in the heat. I throw watermelon rinds to the neighbor's chickens, who hang out in our yard most of the day. They go at them with excited beaks, grateful for the moisture and the sugar.

I ride my bike today, along the neighborhood streets and along the Springwater bike trail. Biking in the heat is a great alternative to being in a car. I cannot overstate that fact. The hot wind like a fan against the skin, the open air. I feel young too, on a bike. It has the element of freedom, running up on the sidewalk, whipping through otherwise cumbersome intersections. So far the cars are quite kind. This makes me feel the universe is indeed a mostly benevolent place.

The garden grown tomatoes from my friend are so red, they look more like Christmas than the end of summer. I eat them like candy, they are so sweet.

My little rudbekia plant has the bright yellow flowers I look forward to all summer . The Common name for this flower is 'black-eyed susan".  Baby Kaitlyn loves black-eyed susans too. A neighbor near her house has a lovely garden at the sidewalk edge which is filled with them and hibiscus. Kaitlyn loves to look at this yard on our walks. If I stop in front of it, she just quietly stares, and I feel these flowers would hold her wavering baby attention for long minutes, much longer than a 'toy'. Next year she will be in my garden, helping me to pick zinnias, sunflowers, astors and veggies.

This gypsy has no yard of her own today, but next year, if the universe smiles, she will. She will love it all the more for the wanting.

City Life

My last post in June was written from Chehalem Mountain, where I have lived most of the past 10 years. A month ago I moved into "town" - Portland town - Milwaukie to be exact. The Milwaukie in Oregon,  not the Milwaukee in Wisconsin. This is the town where my parents met. I live not far from where I must have been conceived, the low income apartments where my family lived when I was born.

It is a transition, to be in the city. Summer is a good time though, with the windows wide open, the sound of  the trains passing below in the night as I sleep, or don't sleep as the case may be. Insomnia has not changed with being in town. Not better, not worse.

Tonight we took a little bike ride across the pedestrian/bike bridge into Sellwood.  On the way many runners were diligently making their way west. I asked a staff-type person posted at a corner what the event was. In between his cheering of each runner that passed he answered ,"Hood to Coast."

Ah, yes I know that race. I used to live near the coast end of it. There were vans all painted up and the limping team members wandering Seaside, enjoying being tourists after the long relay haul. Tonight we biked in between the many runners. The neighborhood families in houses along the way cheered the racers on. That gives a feeling of cheer to me as well. This is a fortunate example of being in town.

Crickets chirp in the big lots behind us. The light has lowered to darkness. Do I miss the mountain? I miss my neighbors very much, and the view of how the light changes, and my flower garden to care for. I miss my compost pile. The owner of the house we rent won't let us have a compost pile because of rats. Rats.

There is no place which has everything. There is only the sense of peace and contentment at the end of the day. It certainly helps that I also have yoga classes within walking or biking distance. Now that I have a new bike, all I have to do besides ride it is figure out how to lock it and keep it safe. The city is what it is, elements of people in all forms. My practice, to find my own place, how I fit, what I have to give, and how to keep my compost and my bike safe.... Om Shanti.

Racing the Warm Rain

Workday is almost done,
Just the final touches on the stairway cleaning
last weeds to collect and mulch.

Raindrops fall big and warm on my bare shoulders,
The garden watering can be crossed off the list.

The work is done for now,
The painting and cleaning, hanging laundry, fixing floor trim.

Summer rain is like a gift,
Coming to open the dirt clods parched,
in a dry spring.

Last week it was the children - my attempts at
teaching them mindfulness with the yoga I know better.
The week began in rain, and we did our poses inside.
By the last day it was hot, and so we walked
the peace path to do
poses at the stations.
Walking toward the Rosa Parks quote, I ask..
"Does anyone know who Rosa Parks was?"
A little girl answers, "I do!
She made the first flag!"

We stand at the station for Rosa, and I explain:
"Rosa sat in her seat, she disobeyed a bad law. "
One can say these kinds of things at the
Quaker Peace Village
Thank god, and God and Goddess

We offered our chair pose to Rosa,
the little kids and me.
The sun beat down upon the path,
we walked with our hearts held high back
to the church-
stopping briefly under the big cypress cedar's shade
to practice the splits.

What We Came From

We are driving the old roads
Where we used to live at the beach,
my son eating his special taco from the
favorite Stand, at stop lights while driving.

My kid, who hung out in summers with me
in ancient time now
by the river at his Uncle's house.
Three years old, and I can still see him
playing in the sticks and mud at
creekside.
I have strawberries in the back seat.
He reaches back to eat one
periodically as we travel the coast highway we know so well.

I ask if he wants me
to wash one, the berries came straight from a field.
He says , "Dirt is good for you."
and then, all I see is his little face
5 months old
covered in dirt when he crawled off
the blanket next to our cabin
where he was born one night
in the woods.

Cruelest April

Another cold
spring morning dawns, when the spring question
asks itself again, and again after more than half
a century of spring questions

What is this mind I
walk around in?
What am I looking for ?

I am - I am who I am looking for.
I am who I want to be.

What if
every one of us 7 billion
wanted most to be
ourselves, and knew
knew like warm sun on the face what that feels like
without trying.

What if we wanted just this body here,
not someone else's, not rich
not younger - only
who and what our first baby soul felt
when we first smiled tentatively at the world.

Snowstorm Musings

 I am trapped in my home by a long snow storm, which has buried my driveway, frozen my water pipes, and impinged on my 58th birthday plans to visit my new little grand daughter. Mother nature reminds me of who is in charge. I have time, and so I write. Practice is the way, practice. That is what we do in yoga as well, we practice. Life in practice, practice is life. Instead of railing to the cosmos that I am trapped, I will let my words out.

Instead of gadding about I have the time to write, a passion of mine since I was about 10.  I am pursuing the concept of Heaven. Heaven as an idea, as a state of mind, as fresh garlic, thyme, and sweet summer tomato sauce over homemade pasta in the total silence of a snowy night, as the face of a newborn child who looks like one’s own son in his babyhood 30 years ago, as a poem which turns the heart, as a moment realized that this is life - all we have. We can’t know what the next moment will bring. How then can we know what will happen after we draw our last breath?

I know a man, a man I am very close to, a man I have known all my life. He will be 89 years old this week, and he has written the entire schedule to his memorial service in detail with the proper headings all laid out exactly in the form it should appear on the program.  With brevity this might be called expedient. If the last party postmortem is to be right in the opinion of the deceased, then composing it all in advance is the path to satisfaction, satisfaction before the fact. The satisfaction of knowing what songs will be sung, who will sing them, who will carry the body from the church, what church it will be - those details.

On his handwritten page, toward the closing of the ceremony, he notes a short eulogy should occur, which he has assigned to me. Already I am composing this eulogy for one who is still very much alive. Why, I ask myself, is this the way he wants to spend his last years? There always remains, for humans, the mystery of what follows death which causes deep emotion. For some it is fear, but that is too simple an explanation. The not knowing becomes an obsession, especially for those who believe that heaven awaits as a solace, an end to this 'vale of tears'. Heaven - this concept in the minds of men which guides the waking hours across the plains of life like a cowboy guides his cattle. We think we are walking and running with free will, but always at the edges is this black hole, death, the final end
.
The idea of a wonderful realm where there is peace, joy, lack of want, rapture, everything good and forever, this idea is sweet. Even the word is lovely - heaven. It slides over the tongue -cielo, nirvana. I am guessing that the concept is a lovely word in every language which has a word for it. The idea, the word, the image, the visuals, the emotion, the desires, the relief - heaven. A place where the water pipes never freeze. We need the idea of heaven, but we need it now while we still live and breath, and that is more easily written than achieved. Words are magic though, they can cause thought which can be almost anything anywhere. Let my words search for heaven even as I still kick about here in the physical world. Even as I compose a eulogy for a dear guy I cannot imagine being away forever.

I am interested in what you think. If you read this, send me a comment. Tell me if I am missing important elements in this existential question. 

Snow and the Little Birdies

The second day of snow falls as the afternoon light lowers into a Friday night with a city closed down.  This morning there was a break, and I went out to sweep in front of my doorway. The little junkos, sparrows and towhees come looking. I scour my cupboards to find something for them, these valiant little beings in a cold world. I throw poppy seeds from summer flowers and soy flower. It takes them a few hours to find the spot, but as the day wears on more and more arrive.

I have firewood, and my warm space inside. I look out the windows at the second blizzard. The air is in white-out form, reminiscent of the white-out on the summit of Mt. Hood  many years ago, when I climbed it with the man I loved.  We scaled the mountain for his 23rd birthday and camped on the summit for 2 nights. He would be 60 this year if he were alive.

The snow piles up, and I make soup. The beans and corn carry me back to summer harvest. The season of warm air, the time of gathering garlic to dry, shucking the beans, picking corn, making tomato sauce. It seems like another world from this white mountain tonight.

There is an acceptance of being stuck here, of having the usual diversions cancelled. Suddenly the time is only now, this moment with the birdies and the the soup simmering over the woodstove.  In only one day I celebrate a birthday, my 58th. I don't remember ever having a snowstorm to mark my birthday. Some years it has even been sunny. Mother nature has her way. This pleases me. It gives everyone the little reminder: our world is not our world, it belongs to the cosmos, and we belong to it.

Woman Born With Her Eyes Open

My little grand daughter, Kaitlyn, she, baby of the world
Born with her eyes open two days before
the full moon.

Her small face looking at her parents, a recognition, yes, there you are now,
We all meet face to face
she held her beautiful and perfectly shaped head up and took in this air, this stark place
a room full of love
two gramas, an auntie, an uncle,
3 midwives, two white Husky doggies,
and holding her, an enraptured Mom and Dad.

Kaitlyn Jean, baby of the world,
 I awake thinking of what world you have, of how you see and feel this -
this place of your beginning.
Your first breath a slight cry, so small to wake no night birdies
Barely a call, from the deep beyond of the womb
A call into this new air, this place of light and sound.

I knew you in my heart before you came.
I saw your face and, ah, of course.....you.
You have always been there.
Always