Horse Power~ part 1

Duchess and Chyna

there are times when windows open and you must pass through. even if you don't know where they will lead or why exactly you need to drop everything and follow the cracks of light suddenly seeping through your ordinariness. most times, in following the cracks of light you become flooded with sensations that stand on the very edge of definition. in your natural tendency to name everything, you think you might be able to label the sensation joy. perhaps rapture. certainly bone-deep delight.

these windows seem most inclined to pop open when you have a hunch and no expectations. when you can be fascinated by the simple cracks of light and need nothing beyond that shimmer. when you hold the nonsensical notion of draft horses in a small pocket of your brain, for instance, and hold that notion for years, not having the foggiest clue what these horses can mean to an ordinary and recently painful life, you might suddenly, inexplicably find yourself on the cusp of a pasture teaming with 30 drafts. the chain on the gate becomes your window and dreamlike, you are led directly into the thick of the herds. 

despite having held these hulking beasts in a corner of your brain, you are very uncomfortable with horses. you describe yourself as afraid of the equine culture. but you let the chain slip off the gate, let the window open and do something about it. you trust. and to your speechless surprise that trust is rewarded as the white ambassador singles you out for a greeting. 

you hear the woman in charge of the herds yell to you, "that's iron mike" and you swear another voice piggy-backs hers and says, boldly, "he is a representative of the archangel michael." but you can't be quite sure because you aren't all that familiar with angels, yet you decide to believe it on the spot because the horse is a shire, after all, and quite possibly the largest, most gentle creature you've met.

he sways you past your fears in an instant with his easy manners and over-sized head waiting to be rubbed. you feel something within you shatter, dwarfed as you are in front of him. you pet him and thank him and leave the shards of your fear in the manure. you go forth and walk amongst the herds, flanked at times by 16, 17, 18 hands high horses, your heart having found some peace and a home.

{Blue Star Equiculture, Palmer, Massachusetts}

a turn of the page

my brother and me, dueling cakes~ we are scorpios

i was dreading my birthday. now i am not.


plans have been made to stave off the sorrow~ dinner with friends beforehand, a lunch date with dad,
a gypsy king, prepping for draft horses.

and cake. because from a very young age it has been a favorite food group, helped on by a mother who excelled in confections.

i boldly asked for one to be made for me, by a friend who could shame martha stewart. dense orange cake with marmalade filling, slathered with orange buttercream. heaven and guaranteed moaning at first bite.



let a new chapter commence. let me tuck her firmly in my heart and create a new year for myself of stories worth telling and life lived with eyes wide open.

the metaphor

Jane's Carousel, Brooklyn

The night of October 29th, 2012

An island of joy and hope in the storm.

{photo credit~ unknown. sent to my email from instagram}

this is what i imagine

this is what i imagine.

that when you pass from this world, a veil is lifted.
you are granted a view of what transpired in your life without the
tactics of filters, defensive measures, or oblivion.

some may call this judgement day.
some may call this hell.
some may call this sweet relief or heaven.

what i imagine it is, is simple truth.

truth that can set your soul free.
truth that allows you to make adjustments to your soul's path.
maybe even truth that grants you insight to your fondest relations.



i have sensed her trying to get my attention.
the 4 women in 1 day all wearing her black rain coat with beige trim and hood.
the singular chickadee and 3 male cardinals swooping into my yard.
the conversation with her niece at vinegar hill house.

i wonder if she sees me differently now.
i imagine it would be impossible not to.

just as i see her differently~ her secret and sentimental life revealed to me,
1 greeting card saved and 1 broach at a time.
her citizenship papers and locks of hair.

she is more to me than ever.
i now know our relationship continues.
we are miners of each other,
scratching for gold with silvered forks
and i imagine, finding it.

the great escape

runaway train

brooklyn bridge

brownstone row

elevated life

 reigning queen of tea

a feast for all senses~ bellocq

brooklyn ferry

carousel under glass

jane's carousel

my heart

hi-line, nyc

always, flowers

an open mind

from where i stand, the world does not look the same.
because i am thinking differently.
because my mind is more open.
my understanding, larger.

watching some one die, slowly, is like taking a hand-crank can opener to your brain.
fussy forms of thinking and analyzing gain jagged, bleeding edges until you simply must
rip the old lid off, exposing your grey matter to chaos.

eventually, a protective sheath forms to filter out
the dust particles and leaf mush,
but there will never be a lid again.
you have no choice but to remain open.
and figure out what the hell to do next, knowing what you know.



there looms large the absurdity of material possessions.
the ones that became utterly useless, devoid of purpose and meaning in the slow blink of an eye.
what to do with them, hers and yours.
how much do you really need?
how much do you keep for honor and sentimentality?
my god, where do you put it all?

a shoebox of photos and a ring would suffice.
it's paralyzing.

let it all sit, just where it is.
pray for strength and clarity.

reach for your new life in any way you can. an open mind is a wonder.

i was not expecting this

 

There is no explaining grief.
But I will say it has gotten more difficult as the weeks go by,
as the void reveals itself and the chasm to be crossed, vast.

For me, everything has changed.
I was not expecting this.

I do know the happiness of her children is what will help her
find peace in her world made new.

And so, there are waters to navigate.
Old skins to shed.
Previously unimaginable choices to be made.

I wonder if a new freedom and new shades of orange wait on the further shore.
I wonder if I am already there in some form,
waiting with tulips and jonquils to lay at my unshod feet.

eat a peach

her birthday celebration at the lake~

ultimate chocolate cake,

 homemade raspberry pie x2,

wildflowers.

and the last of her brandied peaches

which tasted like heaven itself.

happy birthday, my darling mutti.

i miss you with all of my heart.

photos by my sister-cousin, lisa 'sweetpea' jane, and her magical iphone

Big Life 2012

My God, this is difficult to watch.

But we must understand what is going on

in other worlds, because it affects our own.

My God, the elephants.

The giraffes.

Please, do what you can.

Even a prayer makes a difference.

long moments of mercy

Today we gather to celebrate her birthday. There will be chocolate cake with her name in pink icing and the last 2 jars of her signature brandied peaches. There will be tears.

But there have been long moments of mercy this passing week~ the regularity of work and the kind souls keeping track of me, a hug and empathy from her oncologist who also lost parents to colon cancer, flowers from a friend, a gift of home made wine, greeting cards filled with words of understanding and remembrances, conversations with friends around a food-laden table, and the irreplaceable comfort of cats.

Make no mistake, there has been searing pain as the reality of her absence sinks in. Yet, the field of possibility I sensed back in July is beginning to make itself known. I have no direction, just vague inklings. My camera might find its way back into my handbag. Little trips to newness might occur.

The redtail hawk on the phone pole, who swooped in a dipping arc to the next pole, said to me, "Fly forward."

the solitary pursuit

grief is an uncomfortable and solitary pursuit. it digs down to your roots and festers in crevices. it robs you of breath when you open her closet door and find her scent clinging to sleeve and hem. it makes each photograph a punch in the gut, each impulse to still buy her flowers a slap.

grief makes you wonder, for 3 long instances at 4am, what it would be like to follow her. then the angel of mercy presses down on your breast bone and suddenly the drought has ended. you marvel, in surreal fashion, at the soft animal sounds that escape your lips. you wake hours later, swollen.

grief makes you socially repugnant. no one really has the stomach for it, what with all that sadness getting in the way of busyness and gratitude lists, of staying calm and carrying on. loneliness is a side effect of grief.

you understand there will come a shift that will ease you out of the pain and the longing and the regrets. you understand life will go on and the cliche of time will indeed let you sleep. but in the uncomfortable and solitary pursuit of mourning love and companionship lost, you wonder how the fuck did this happen.

untold treasures

view from the sitting tree~ almost dry

new view of the sitting tree~ middle of creek

evidence of leisure dining~ middle of creek

in less than 2 years, 20 months to be exact, 3 women in my family have left. my maternal grandmother, my aunt, and now, my mother. there are moments it seems too much to process, all these empty seats at the holiday tables. to stave off overwhelm, out the door i went, headed for the solace of the sitting tree.

this year, fittingly, the creek is almost dry from our ongoing drought. yet, the embrace of her roots felt the same. i stayed with her almost 2 hours. in that time came a new understanding.

there is great activity in a creek bed exposed, especially from very small creatures. the squirrel and the chipmunk took full advantage of the shortened route to the opposite bank, racing over the rocks with morsels in their mouths. it was as if they were determined to take the fullest advantage of this road-hardly-traveled to increase their stores of wealth. as well, the people came, on a weekday no less, and bounded back and forth over the bed, pleased with new-found favor. in time, i too wandered over rocks in the middle and stepped to the other side.

this is what i was told~ in fallow times, where the soul feels terribly exposed and life feels parched for life, there are untold treasures and pathways laid bare. there are places within and under that can only be reached in the seemingly harsh and brutal exposure of loss. look for the morsels exposed, take advantage of the shortened route to new opportunity. trust that joy can exist, everywhere.

my sweetie pie

My body aches less. The early morning anxiety remains; a now-familiar kick in the gut by 3 am. I've waited for release, sitting quietly as I did while her body stalled and reversed its way to other realms. Finally, I beg her forgiveness. Out loud. A modest drain of tears flow. I'm sorry for the suffering I was not able to prevent.

A voice, some one's, tells me to look at my nature journal~ the one that morphed from daily sightings to record of our last month together. I had written, bleary-eyed, at the end of each day the happenings and snippets of our conversations. From the pages I heard her voice as I read the words of progressive days:      "My sweetie pie, my sweetie pie."   "I know this is hard for you."

From the pages, my healing begins to take shape as I am reminded of my full presence in her hours and days of need, of the blueprint agreement my soul made to hold her in the light as her life went dark. I am reminded of our continual hand-holding, her wry humor, the countless declarations of love.

I begin to understand, my guilt over the small things I could not grasp quickly or could not prevent is unnecessary. That the largesse of my fussing and company likely rendered the small moments inconsequential.

And so, a layer of guilt is released. I wonder if more guilt lies dormant.

There is a yearning inside for life.

Danke fur alles

For the blog comments, for the texts, for the letters, the cards, the phone calls,

 the in-person support, the silent prayers, the emails, the donations to hospice,

the hugs, the tears, the cookies, the dinners, the flowers, the understanding, the love...

I thank you from the deepest place in my heart

 for your great kindnesses and your steadfast support.

 Every bit, every bit of what you offered made a difference.

 It gave me the strength to help grant my mother's last wish,

 to assimilate the journey and let the healing begin.

the dark lady

if you ask me if i have slept well, i have not.
for a month.
except for last night, finally.
exhaustion has settled in.

if you ask me how i am doing, i do not know.
there is nothing to compare this time to,
this time where my mother is gone.

if you ask me where she is now,
that is what i find so difficult, painful, heart-wrenching.
do not placate me with platitudes of heaven.
i want science.
~an explanation of where does life-energy go when it transforms.


if i call out to her now, does she hear me?

i question if there was anything more i could have done.

but now, just now, it is not mine to know.

i let the dark lady take me and shape me in quiet despair.
i lay down in her realms of night and endings and death,
blind on the path to reconceiving myself.

i wait to be born anew.

Draft Horse Solace

belgian 4 hitch line up~ ny state fair

grey percherons

percheron 4 hitch line up

lead belgians~ 4 hitch

lor-rob farms belgian team

east bethany, ny

champion~ ny state fair/ 3rd best team in the US

If my soul is to mend, there must be gentle giants...

waiting for quench

tribute flowers at the lake

it is 5 days since she left.

transformed.

died.

yesterday, there was the lake of solace.

i threw myself in it; cleansing, baptizing, paddling life back into my limbs.

there was family at the lake, thankfully.

we held her in prayer with sorrow, with smiles.

the kingfisher swooped by in benediction.

today, there is rot and sour in my fridge.

a month's neglect, everywhere.

i wander room to room, silently.

there is pain in my body, hers and mine.

child's pose offers 2 minutes relief.

then, in my backyard, the profusion of birds all recently born.

they swarm over the lawn, chattering.

the bath is filled, wing to wing,

with cleansing and quenching of thirst.

a young cardinal joins in the fray.

now, the rain.

at last.

i stand on the lawn with the brittle trees,

waiting for quench.

the rain feels cold on dry eyes.

tribute

my floral tribute for my mother

the last part of my eulogy~ 8-25-12

...But her true legacy lies in her lifelong talent of being a friend. It is no small responsibility, this business of being a friend, for under the umbrella of friendship lies all of humanities' greatest virtues~

love, laughter, sorrow, joy, listening, sharing, compassion, sacrifice, giving, receiving and honor.

My mother offered them all, far and wide. She used her many creative talents to support and nurture her friendships unceasingly. And in turn, she taught me how to be a true friend. It is a gift she gave that sustains me every single day.

This I would ask of you~

honor my mother by being a true friend, especially when it's inconvenient, especially when it's hard. Give more and receive more with graciousness. Write thank you notes. Bring flowers. Call more often than you currently do. Help me make up for her loss by adding more love and sharing and joy to this world.

she left

July 26th, 2012

"Wasn't this just the best day?!"

Elke Christine

Born~ September 24th, 1939

Transformed~ August 22, 2012

My Darling Mutti,

May God rest your merry soul.

only prayers

there is no poetry left.

only prayers that she can let go.

reverse birthing

Restless and distraught yesterday, she felt trapped. Solace came as she finally found sleep in the evening. It is the middle of today and still she sleeps, her eyebrows raising in question to visions I am not meant to know.

It is not quite 4 years of monumental effort to stave off the onslaught of cancer. She has lived longer than Western medicine allows, pulled along with German tenacity and rivers of love.

Of the many lessons this collective journey has afforded, one lies bold in its edict~ learn to honor and support the choices of another. My comfort lies in homeopathic sensibilities, hers in traditional. We've held hands through the maze of traditional.

Now we are here, honoring and supporting her choice, her hope to die at home. The lessons of this, the daily ice water shocks of decline have shivered me to my core. Reverse birthing, I call it. And it is the greatest privilege of my life.

sacred silence

I have not needed to keep busy.
I am compelled to silence; watching her, watching birds.

I have sat day after day in her presence~
attending her needs, bearing witness to the slow
release of word and bodily function.
It has been 2 days since she said my name.

I am not searching for answers in the silence.
I hear no wisdom,
nor words of comfort.

I have very little to say now,
having said all that matters.
I choose not to reminisce in her presence~
we know what good we have done.

I choose, rather, to simply be;
with her and near her,
waiting in sacred silence for what
I wish would never come.

1/2 blind

in her backyard, a finch.

 rosy colored, new, seemingly blind with swollen eyes.

i went to help tuck him under a bush for the night.

but, no.

as i approached, he flew up

and backwards,

like a moth dancing away from flame.

he settled back down in the brittle grass,

and i let him be.

i would look for him in the morning,

surely expired on brown blades.

but, no.

somehow, someway, he had survived the night

and was back in her yard,

sighted just enough to have found his way

 into the feeder on the 3rd try.

and so, the rosy finch has come each day,

1/2 blind in new territory,

finding his way to what will sustain him.

i thought he had come to speak for her.

to show her the way.

but, no.

he speaks for me,

and assures me 1/2 blind

is sight enough to sustain her and me

as we find our separate paths to home.

the island of last days

we are on the island of last days. insular, the size of her living room, with a wide bank of windows channeling light. the island boasts a fountain and feeders. hummingbirds, gold finches,cardinals. the over-fed rabbit abides.

i lay pressed against her, sniffing her soft, european scent~ the same scent as when i was 5.

you and they are wavering mirages on the edge of these last days. i, we have turned away from the profusion confusion of all that matters not.

it all matters not.

except the squeeze of our hands, entwined. the indignities coddled with grace. her changing green eyes, now the color of sea glass, that still flutter open and pierce my soul on the island of last days.

of earth and midnight sky

i lay on the floor by her new bed.

 in the dark, i count her breaths.

she is still here with me.

i guard her.

and hold her steady at the edge.

i am restless.

i grope in the dark for her prayer shawl,

the colors of earth and midnight sky,

knit and prayed over by friends.

i lay that earth and midnight sky underneath me.

only then do i sleep.

matching lipstick

again, she rallied.

we put on matching lipstick and toured the neighborhood in her blue travel chair.

we exchanged instructions and promises.

i put cream on her legs and we sobbed, quietly.

she asked if some one had just opened the front door.

no.


but, yes.


i am bracing myself.

savoring

the days and the losses are moving with unstoppable speed. we lay on her bed eating cherries, swirling the succulent flesh against our tongues, eyes closed; savoring.

today, we will lay on her bed again. i will rise. she will not.

i will sweep the cherry pits to the floor. the fruit of this life is all that matters.

a world made new

 

          succulents, roses, hypericum bouquet

There will be change.
You will cease to know your carefully laid-out world once the diagnosis comes.
You will fall to your knees in its wake.

The change will be painful and you will suck air through your teeth
over and over again.
You and she and they will not be the same.
You will feel shocked and clobbered by the
shifting and robbing of customs and personalities.
Your heart will break a fragment at a time, all along the irrevocable journey.

You will mourn the loss of all the small things
~the things and ways of blind comfort~
as one by one they become pronounced by their lack. 

There will be change and some of it will be glorious.
Yes, glorious.
Because when the diagnosis comes, walls and barriers extinguish.
Words and gestures tumble forth and strength beyond reason is revealed.
The truth of each soul affected is laid out before them
 and choices half-stalled are set loose.

In the words and the strength and the setting loose,
whether the diagnosis is overcome or not,
a great healing arrives;
a healing that finds its way to you and she and they
to lift the wings of your souls and carry you forward,
broken and whole,
into the ways of a world made new.

{originally published in my autumn soul in bloom magazine last year.}

and then there was grace

parkside candies, buffalo, ny

it came unexpectedly, the state called grace, showing up in my presence as she toddled into the kitchen; skirt, cane, full make up, smile. she had rallied for our possible date to the zoo. one last chance to see her beloved giraffes. she knows the end is near, but it would not be this day. this day there were memories to be made.

like magic, like grace, the 3 giraffes clustered into the back corner of their domain seemingly to look just at us. the yellow and black bird waiting for us as we wheeled off the lift in the rainforest. the lion that roared and despite the crowd, looked solely in our direction.

then lunch, because she is still interested in eating, at the deliciously-trapped-in-time candy store. she bought forty fours dollars worth of chocolate to take home, with glee like i have never seen. we took pictures of her and me in the half round booth, just a bit fuzzy, but treasures for my heart.

we walked slowly, hand in hand, to the lot in the back. half way there she sang, unexpectedly, one single sentence to me~ "all is well with my soul."

and there it was again, grace unlooked for and grace received. a day to never forget and the knowing that all will be well with our souls.

the profusion of birds

I have been counting the swallowtail butterflies. There are more than I ever remember. 3 days ago there were 3, and on that same day there were 9 turkey vultures hovering over the Canadian border as I waited my turn at the tolls. 3 for joy, 9 for endings.

The first-ever flicker at my bird bath, the cardinal, close by and beginning his molt, singing for all he was worth. The profusion of mourning doves. The singular bat.

I sat in the back, in the hot wind last evening. There were no birds, no bat. Only the winds of change blowing over me, long past dark.

She is leaving.

She is leaving me.


There is the mess of my heart splitting open as we walk to the border holding hands, waiting on the profusion of birds that signal final flight.

the dragonfly view

on the way

almost there

 

there

 in

in these days of other mothers dying and the ache from too much work, there is the lake, little and spring fed. there is the family who shares the good fortune with open invitation and the reluctant bathing suit, avoided for decades, finally bought (all of 5 minutes spent picking it out, because at this age who cares anyway). 

and the noodles. pink and green from dollar general. 

it took substantial time to get in. this is not my element, swimming. 

but noodling, oh noodling (!), with dearest family paddling along, the lake to be crossed, then shores to be trolled, dragonfly view with lips submerged, kicking, kicking, unhurried, wet, soothed, paradise found.

at last, paradise found.

as above, so below

Stars & Stripes Forever

THIS is Mayberry in holiday mode.

The kiddy coaster, the fried dough and

the "I Got It" caller announcing ball 7

all to the tune of one of my favorite songs

 played by the ever-enthusiastic

 Mayberry Community Band.

Happy Birthday, America!

the potted garden

in the early mornings, in the potted garden

 with tea under a crisp cerulean sky,

there are no disagreements, no sides taken,

 no poverty, no lack of soul.

there are wrens singing the live-long day,

 orioles ushering babies from limb to limb,

robins stealing raspberries off the vine.

and the monarch,

 imbibing and dancing on clover

for 12 undistracted minutes.

let the ugly world spin on its own

 in a parallel universe.

let this world,

 this world of color and song and peace,

be what fills me and calls my regard.