10/24/2009

To Diane

Thinking of you today...

xoxo

But I Can Still Write About It.

My Mom and Dad

See how they are both smiling?  Well, that's not what they'll be doing when they read this. They will kill me for this.  Absolutely kill me.  I just sent them an email promising I would stay in the back seat and shut up.  And I will. But technically this is writing and not talking, and so technically I'm not breaking a promise. And as long as I don't get too specific about anything (like their h**lth) then I think they'll recover from my blog-o-blabber (as well as from their unspecified recent "things" having to do with their h**lth). 

Oh me, oh my.  Parents these days.  The things they do.  As they get, um, more mature, they also get a little more, um, shall we say certain of themselves.  [Older and stubborn are words that don't belong here, whatsoever. No siree, nope, no way. ] Recently when they both experienced not-to-be-mentioned unspecified "events" that required the attention of folks who happen to do "rounds", they became as impenetrable as the Pentagon,  expert in all matters and, after years of adversarial cut-throat NYT crossword puzzle stand-offs against each other, they were suddenly, well, like an old married couple.  On the same page. Totally on the same page. 

And if you happen to be a daughterslashblogger who is trying to stay in the back seat and remain supportively quiet from a slightly long-ish distance away, even though it looks like they have all their hands firmly on the big steering wheel, there are moments when it doesn't quite feel like it.  I mean, don't get me wrong--I'm all for risk-taking. Try to get a seat at Arnold's on a Saturday night or--I dare you-- try to wedge into that spot just outside of Mark's in P-town, or even try to sneak popcorn while Maeve is asleep.  Go ahead--go for it.   But my parents have a way of suddenly ( and I mean suddenly) going from all conservative-y about what they do, to getting all "wild" with things I wish they could approach in a softer, more measured way--especially those matters having to do with their h**lth.   

So here I sit in the back seat. I'm keeping one eye shut on this trip.  I'm trying to hide the fact my knuckles are white from gripping the door handle and I've bitten all my nails.  My right foot keeps hitting the invisible brake hard enough to drive it through the floor. I'd like a smoke and I don't smoke. Making this a bit more nerve-wracking is the fact I happen to teach "driving" for a living--the very same kind of "driving" that might (I only said might) be helpful in caring for their (fill-in-the-blank) circumstances pertaining to their h**lth.  But alas, I am still the kid (a very gray and menopausal 50-year-old kid) and I can already see that they have things under (their) control and so that pretty much leaves me one thing to do.

(Closing eyes and assuming lotus position)

Innnnnhale....

Exhhhhale....

Innnnnhale....

Exhhhhale.....

Innnnh--Hey, up there! I can drive anytime you want to take a little break.  If you want.  Just sayin'.

Curves

This is one of my most favorite places to walk.  It's just a few steps from my door and the dogs love to run there once they see where we are headed.  This is the kind of landscape that I too could tumble across--the kind that makes me want to venture beyond its horizon, tracing the curves of the landscape with my feet and vertical curiosity.  These curves roll right into each other without ownership or apology. For a year I walked here nearly every day and watched the seasons transform the land the way a painter does a canvas, one subtle layer at a time.  The effect is a masterpiece of earth and sky. Today's visit was like stepping into an old familiar hug; the path was quiet and gray, and the trees with their tattered sleeves of golds and reds and greens and browns invited quiet companionship.  I wandered close to their branches and acknowledged the friendliness of familiarity. Except for these trees, I was solo today. I listened to the wind. 

In the distance is a barn.  I like to imagine the farmer who used to whistle every morning as he rummaged around inside.  I watch my dogs as they vigorously sniff the area, imagining their own tales about what has gone on here.  The landscape offers tiny clues.  A pond.  An old orchard.  Stone walls.  Berries.  A telephone pole.  The wood pile. A path worn with tire tracks.  Broken glass.

As I walked back out of the woods towards home, I scanned the landscape again.  Soon these same trees would be bare and the field would be brown.  Or white. I have it memorized--the sight of a gray sky over a brown and white field, punctuated by the lonely, cold and gray silhouettes of the trees.  I chuckled and then shuddered to myself.  But those days aren't here yet, I said out loud to the wind.  For now, the trees offer bouquets of warmth and friendship.  The path home curves the entire way so it's often hard to see what's coming up ahead.  Between now and then is a mystery lined with gold.

Blessings

This little bunny is a blessing.  So are the other rabbits, and so are the chickens.  Hmmm.  Hello, dear creatures.

I find it to be such an oddity.  Though I am a therapist, there are days and weeks when my work feels more like roller derby than a place of reflective and deep listening.  This week was particularly difficult.  There was a pile-up of catastrophes and instinctively, I retreat from headlines and the public and private conflicts in order to stay afloat.  Solitude is my retreat, and quiet be-ing helps.

But this oddity....it appears like a gentle wind, and right on time.  I took care of the bunnies today.  There is a barn full of them for me this weekend.  Last week I spent time with such sweet and lovely chickens, with their pale green eggs. But today I stepped into the barn and was greeted by silence.  It's a meditative routine; fill the feed pails with grain, fill the watering cans with water, and push the cart to each hutch.  The barn floor is solid and gentle, soft, and so, so kind. I wear barn boots but this kindness works its way up through my soles and through my soul. It kindly bears my burdens and I am grateful for it.  The grain is sweet smelling and simple.  Each bunny is curious.  In silent acknowledgement, we share communion.  I feed each one, but I am fed. How odd and how right to find it here....

Such creatures are blessings. A piece of reverence, the peace of reverence.

Show and Tell Time

Routine starts in our feet.  Boo and I got back to ours this week.  We spent Labor Day weekend together and are now back in the swing of school.  We spent the long weekend playing Show and Tell about summer and all that took place there.  Sounds like Boo had fun in the pond and with his girls.  It also looks like he enjoyed some yummy food and long, lazy days, judging from his harness and its fit.  It was a happy reunion for us both.  He did his customary lean against my foot while I worked at the computer and occasionally he would sit up and offer his paw for a little benevolence.

Summer tends to fling itself in many directions and so our reunion signified the return of our soles onto the earth.  Grounded-ness in the face of whirling and swirling change.  As we walked and I followed behind, I was reassured by this old and familiar routine.  Boo presses on--you can feel it in his leash. He has destination in his feet.  As we do every September, we both dodge those falling acorns as they bullet their way to earth, and then laugh at the sky when we manage to succeed.  There's really no way of outsmarting gravity--it's pure chance as we amble along.

But nonetheless, we defied gravity several ways this summer, as I shared with Boo.  Sara took flight in July, and Libby and Mere followed in August.  Off they go, looking back only occasionally while aiming towards new horizons.  No, I'm not sad. I am awed. Empty nest isn't what I thought it would be. Empty nest isn't really empty, nor is it actually even a place.  Emptiness is full with possibility, and our nest is found in the soles of our feet--and in the tips of our wings.  We are all together (there's gravity in that), no matter where that is (how we defy it). That's how it feels.

And as I also shared with Boo, the house still sits waiting for a buyer to come along and make it home.  Brian, a life-time friend who is also a sucker for trampolines, performed magic when he wrapped mine in plastic wrap and put the whole shebang in the trunk of his car. Our old trampoline-turned-tanning bed-turned-retrampoline now boings Fred and Zoe into orbit in Rochester, NY. One trampoline up for them, one trampoline down for me.  Gravity defeated!

And then I told Boo about one more thing.  I told him I had been struck hard over the summer.    Like a meteor from very far way, love landed smack dab in the middle of my path.  I have fallen hard (there's gravity in that) and I am letting it lead my way (how we defy it).  Madchen's Man is a study in gravity defied.  He doesn't amble--instead he trips along, and yet like Boo, destination is in his feet.  Rooted in the Unknown and the Uncertain we were each committed to not finding the other. Looking only at our own feet, we have both been unexpectedly launched into a gravity-defying, deep, deep orbit together.

As I return to fall and the start of school, my soul finds its way again along the September path of routine.  Benevolence. There's nothing routine about this routine.  In fact, I'm laughing at the sky.

Hey Mere

Mere,


I have my shades on because I can't quite take this all in. You caught me in the kitchen this morning--it looked like I was crying about my banana and yogurt blender storm, but then you stopped and noticed, and then you cried too (silly kid).  I can't quite believe that this week has arrived although I know we both saw it coming in plain view.  Remember when it was always a long ways off?


We've knocked around the house for the last eighteen years.  Sometimes those knocks were more like booms, and other times they were like tiny whispers.  And somehow, to our mutual delight and occasional horror, we went to school together--every school you ever attended, and every day. Thank goodness we could laugh about that.


It's not easy being the baby of the family.  You got left behind a few times.  Where's Meredith? someone would ask.  Silence, followed by a gasp, followed by a frantic rush as we quickly scrambled to pick you up from wherever we had inadvertently stranded you.  Back-to-school shopping for you always started in the hand-me-down pile.  As a baby, you slept on the fly. Or we simply didn't let you sleep.  You were making your own sandwiches by the time you were three.  One day we noticed you could drive.


Our family changed shape right when you were old enough to understand the significance of shapes and their changes.  Some shapes and some changes were harder than others. Being the youngest, you watched from the front door or your bedroom window as everyone else moved out and on with their lives.  Once, you looked at me and said that it seemed to you as though everyone had up and left, that the house was empty, that you missed having them home so much, so so much. You were left here to keep on keeping on, making this house a home, making your family still a family. 


And yet, just look at you, darlin', all grown up and smart and beautiful.  This time it's your turn to head out the door and holy cow, you are so ready. You stagger me with your confidence and poise!  Your bags are packed and the hours are ticking by.  But listen--I'm not coming to school with you this time--this will be have to be your adventure.  This shaping change of yours is one we all notice and feel deeply.  You, the baby of the family, leave an enormous echo, as only the youngest can.  You unknowingly launch us all on a new adventure while we still keep on keeping on, and making this family still a family. Silence, followed by a gasp, followed by a tear or two or three, followed by an enormous hug....


Be on your way.  Shine.  Be here now, darlin', wherever you go.


Love,
Mom

Threshold Thirty One

I arrived and Paul was in the fields, mowing.  Harris was in the kitchen.  A large vase of dancing,  handpicked flowers waved from the table.  And the birds are back...

Harris was laughing, her eyes sparkled.  Paul wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled at her when she wasn't looking.  Bellows appeared for the fireplace. And the greenhouse was at long last open to the summer breeze. And Diane's echo....

Tools in boxes awaited their places on the wood worker's table and shelves.  Man-Town, he called it while she giggled. The barn floated on lady's mantle, its doors opened wide. And horses and chickens will soon be back...

Thirty-one, your threshold beams.  Hopeful feet step across into a worn, ready nest.   The pegs hold hats, again.  The twinkly tin light still chirps hello.  The sink is full of freshly cut greens. Pictures hang from those stoic nails on storied walls. And a faith-filled friend is back.....