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.