Nursery Logs

While on a trip with four of my friends, I took a shuttle bus to a Vancouver, British Columbia park – Capilano, a rain forest. I got there early, before the masses. A solitary guide, Katy, stood by the entrance to a walk around a pond.

She led me around the little body of water, introducing me to its wonders: ferns, salmonberries, and a nursery log.

Fallen to the forest floor, the remains of a magnificent tree had become the breeding ground for future life. Look closely and you can see the beginnings of redwoods, and pines and ferns and salmonberries.

Wandering off to other parts of the park, I saw other nursery logs – reminders of the amazing cycles of life and death that surround us. All the time. And it’s all good. And still too sad.

 

Many of my dearest friends are dying. So many of them from some form of cancer. Others, from Parkinson’s or some insidious form of dementia. I guess we/they are old enough – whatever that means. But it still seems wrong, unjust, unfair and far too sad.

And not sad. It occurs to me that we are each an amalgam of all that we learn from each other, and from the places we visit. Each of us is a nursery log – sprouting the ideas, words, smiles, tears and laughter that others have shared. And each of us is richer for it. Each of us – in some way – perpetuates the lives of those we love. It’s just more fun when we can see their faces

Meet Me In St. Louis

I remember watching “Meet Me in St. Louis” (on television, I’m not that old) and thinking, what a wonderful way to live. The big house was full of people – three generations as I recall. Neighbors talked to each other and looked out for each other. Doctors made house calls.

It looked fun and friendly.

About 30 or so years ago, I became part of a support group. All women. All about the same age. Some married or in relationships. Some divorced. All of us had kids. None of us lived in that Hollywood version of the 1904 world.

Support groups are based on honest communication. It takes a while to get past the ‘current events’ phase – stuff going on at work, plumbing problems, teenage tantrums or truancy. But you do. If you keep at it. And keep it honest. Eventually we came to realize that our whole society had isolated nuclear families in theoretically self-sustaining units and the ‘villages’ required to raise a child (or sustain individual sanity) no longer existed. Not in modern American cities and suburbs. None of us could turn our kids over to their grandparents or aunts when we needed a break. There were no breaks.

The only solution, as we saw it, was to create intentional networks or support systems. People who would listen and help because they wanted to – not because it was dictated by some genealogical chart. And it was a solution. Not ideal, but functional. It worked.

Their listening helped me realize that one of my sons might need hospitalization. They came over when I learned my mother had dementia. We celebrated when one of us got her graduate degree. Whenever, whatever, we knew there were people in our world who really knew us and really gave a damn.

We live in three different states now but we’re still a group – still an extended family. We have a history filled with laughter as well as tears. We know we can always count on each other. Living far apart, we know enough to make friends in our new locales and find some kind of network to tap into. And never forget each other.

At least once every year, we gather – strengthening with contact the connections sustained by phone calls, letters and emails.

At least once every year, we recreate “Meet Me In St. Louis.”