Are You Still Sad?

My good friend died – how long has it been now – about ten days ago.

Someone asked me if I was still sad.

I didn’t know there was a time limit.

I don’t think I answered. If I had I would have said ‘not all the time’.

For obvious reasons I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately.

One of the things that people say is that death is just part of life. I know what they mean but it doesn’t really make sense. And then it does. As in winter is just part of the year.

And I have been privy to several deaths. My sister-in-law’s three years ago. My good friend. And (at various physical distances) my mother’s, my father’s, my grandparents, other friends. And at greater emotional distances: John F. Kennedy, George Solti, Mother Theresa, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Bobby Kennedy. And the hundreds/thousands who die in wars. And hundreds of blacks from police or other violence. And the Ebola victims.

No. I’m not going to name them all. I can’t name them all. But they all contributed in some way to my world, to my understanding of the world, to my understanding of myself.

This is the Solstice eve, the eve of the longest night in the northern hemisphere.

I think it’s okay to dwell on death in this darkness.

And to remember that the light always comes back – however slowly, it returns and we bloom again.

And it’s okay to be sad because people we loved and/or admired are no longer with us. [Except that they are part of us.]

So, yes, I’m still sad some of the time.

Another Holy Night

I have a neighbor friend, Judy, who has been the one I go talk to when I need to go talk to someone. She went into the hospital Nov. 17 and came home on hospice Nov. 19. Her older son flew in from Rochester, New York (he had to return home on Dec. 2) and her younger son lives about half an hour away.

At Judy's request I staged an early (potluck) Thanksgiving on Nov. 25 for 10 members of her family. At Judy's request, the tree was up (her sons did that for me) and everyone who came put an ornament on. When they wheeled her into my living room, her whole being lighted up.

Since then, I've been visiting her almost every day. I didn’t really want to visit her yesterday. I was tired. And it was hard to see her fail … and to watch Eldon, her husband of more than 50 years, see her fail. But I went.

There were other people there—a couple. I could immediately see that Judy was much worse – unresponsive. The couple said they were expecting the hospice musician. (I didn't know there were hospice musicians but it's a great idea). They left when the musician arrived. Eldon and their local son, Star, arrived almost simultaneously.

Once Eldon found an extension cord, the musician (I believe her name was Jungshea) set up her Casio keyboard and tablet and asked what Judy might like to hear. None of us could think of anything. The musician played something somber and we struggled to remember happier songs. I think we came up with The Tennessee Waltz, Green Sleeves, Deck the Halls, Country Road, and She’ll Be Coming ‘round the Mountain When She Comes. Oh, and Ode to Joy by Beethoven. We were in their bedroom – Eldon sitting next to Judy’s hospital bed, stroking her hair, Star in a chair at the doorway, me on their bed. Their cat wandered around the doorway every once in awhile.

I could see and feel the love in Eldon’s touch and Star’s focused attention and the compassion in the musician’s face. Love permeated the room. It felt holy.

When the session was over, I walked the musician and her Casio to her car and walked home.

Judy died last night. I wouldn’t have missed a minute of her last days. And will be forever grateful that I sat in on a portion of her holy night.

Crete -- a generous act remembered

One morning during the Goddess Pilgrimage to Crete which I took last fall, our bus driver, Babi, offered to take us to his village. We walked down into its charm and after exploring its streets and church, found the local coffee shop.

With the generosity that is typical of the people of Crete, the owner of the shop bought all us of coffee which we enjoyed in the dappled sunlight of the shop's courtyard. 

 

A small portion of a lovely day, of a lovely tour of a land permeated with the feminine.

 A treasured memory.

Golden Autumn

One day last week I spent some time harvesting the gold falling from the huge maple in front of my house. I cleared a path. The tree was still brimming.

The sun was shining; the temperature temperate. I was immersed in beauty. However messy, it was beauty nonetheless.

Later the same day I learned of horrific physical problems assaulting two dear friends. One, who, with her husband, has always been there when I needed help of any kind, was in excruciating pain and facing surgery, perhaps death. Another, whose gentleness had permeated my days, was in excruciating pain and facing possible paralysis. I was stunned – I sleepwalked through the evening – doing the things I routinely do -- feeding the cats, fixing dinner, eating, reading, watching the end of a Netflix movie – sort of present, sort of not.

I know it’s all part of the cycle of life – leaves falling, people dying. I know Thich Naht Hanh (and other Buddhists) affirm that there is no death, no birth – that everything is part of some great continuum. I even have days when I believe that/understand that.

Still.

It is so hard to see people you care about suffer. And you worry about the one friend's husband and the other friends new kitten. Who will take care of them?

By the next morning, the stunned-ness had melted into a gentle sorrow, floating on the edges of my day and I focused – as much as I could – on my routines – feeding the cats, fixing breakfast.

I was sitting at the table looking out my back window when a large bird flew at the birdfeeder hanging outside. My birdfeeder is designed to provide for small birds and to prevent squirrels from stealing the food. When a small bird perches on the ledge, it can access the seeds. When a squirrel tries it, its weight shuts the feeder.

The bird – a flicker – was almost as large as the feeder. It flew at the transparent portion of the feeder, banging at the inaccessible seeds. And flew away. A few moments later, it came back .. .and balancing below the feeder’s ledge it triggered the seed dispensing . . . and ate.

I had several moments to see the intricate patterns on its long slender body – the touch of crimson on its chest – the dark roundness of its eyes – before it flew away.

And I was back. I became aware that my egg, scrambled with mushrooms and a little cheese, was delicious. That the sun was magnifying the gold of my backyard tree. And the sky was perfectly blue and beautiful.

Now I could acknowledge both my fears and prayers for my friends. Now I could acknowledge the miracle of the every day.

And it is good.

believing poetry

Before I went to Nova Scotia, I read Longfellow's Evangeline. It was compelling, if a little melodramatic. I thought he was exaggerating, possibly to increase sales.

He was not.

The story of the "Great Expulsion" was all too true.

The Acadians had settled Nova Scotia in the mid-1600s. When the British conquered the province in 1710, they had no great affection for the French-speaking farmers. Suspicion grew into contempt then distrust then intolerance.

From 1755 - 1764, they kicked the Acadians out -- 11,500 men, women, and children were forcibly deported -- scattered along the eastern seaboard of the United States (or some to France).  Families were separated. Farms and homes destroyed. One third of them died.

It was not until July 28, 2003 -- more than two centuries later -- that Canada's Governor General (representing the Queen of England) declared July 28 "A Day of Commemoration of the Great Upheaval."

Now there is a national park at Grand Pre, Nova Scotia.

In the park, there is a statue of Evangeline -- a fictional character representing the thousands forced from the lands they had transformed into farms and homes.

 

And in the memorial chapel, there is a blue stained glass window depicting the people being separated from the land . . . and from each other.

Sometimes it is important to believe in poetry.

Acadian Story

Sometime in the early 1600s the people who would be known as Acadians had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to new and unfamiliar land (Nova Scotia) on a huge bay (the Bay of Fundy). There were people there before them – the Mi’kmaq – friendly Native Americans who apparently felt there was room enough for all.

The Acadians looked around at the land – a mix of thick forests and sea marshes. And watched the tides. None of them had ever seen tides like these. Every 6 hours and 13 minutes the ocean rose or fell – often 30 feet or more. And when they rose, the tides flooded the sea marshes with salt water.

To survive, the settlers would have to either clear the forests or transform the marshes. The Acadians transformed the marshes. They created a system of drainage ditches combined with a one-way water gate called an aboiteau. The aboiteau was a hinged valve in the dike which allowed fresh water to run off the marshes at low tide but which prevented salt water from flowing onto the land as the tide rose. After letting snow and rain wash the salt from the marshes for between two and four years the Acadians were left with fertile soil which yielded abundant crops.

There were other ways to take advantage of the tides. Using branches, the Acadians built huge cages at the edge of the bay. These would be submerged when the tide came in. When the tide retreated, the Acadians would pluck fish (mostly cod) from the weir like picking apples from a tree.

They came, they paid attention, and found ways to create a comfortable life in the new land.

 

 

 

Personal Ad

My teeth are good.

I’m near-sighted, hard of hearing and overweight.

And short.

I also have diverticulitis – a condition, not a disease – that can slow (or basically, prolong) a necessary bodily function.

But my teeth are good and my hair is still okay.

Oh yes, I also have Reynaud Syndrome which affects circulation in my feet – they can get so cold or so hot that it is impossible to sleep.

And I am borderline diabetic which means I should limit my intake of carbohydrates.

I also have two cats who often sleep with me. And I talk to them.

And I am old.

But my teeth are good.

On days and evenings when I’ve had enough sleep, I can be amusing, sometimes even witty.

I can’t dance worth a damn (but I’m willing to try).

I do not like horror movies of any kind. Nor do I like movies whose main theme is violence. No to most film noir. And no to sappy romantic comedies.

I love good theater but have had enough Neil Simon for my particular lifetime. I actually enjoy Shakespeare and Ibsen and an occasional Samuel Beckett.

I go to church but am not holier than anyone. I’m a Unitarian Universalist which means that I am (most days) willing to learn from whatever religious, spiritual, agnostic or atheist path you may follow. I spent ten years studying and practicing Native American spirituality and I’ve also learned a lot about ancient goddess religions and find many parallels, and great value, in those two world views.

I do not tolerate intolerance. In my view, all people deserve respect (until they cease showing respect to others).

I like good food (and savor great food) red wine and dark chocolate. I am a pretty good (not gourmet) cook (I’ve never made a good pie crust).

I write stuff when I have time but volunteer for too many things so sometimes I go a long time without writing, which feels crappy.

I love to travel – to spend time in a completely different environment and learn other ways of looking at things. And I love to stay home (and play with my cats).

I live near mountains and visit them when I can. I am not a good hiker or really anything remotely athletic (which is a factor in my being overweight). Plus I am old so that’s probably not going to get any better.

I love great art and music – just for being what they are and also for what they can teach me.

I love beauty. It surrounds us all, all the time if we just pay attention. I have two grown sons (who live 1,000 miles away) and some amazing friends, all of whom I love.

I enjoy taking pictures and walks.

I subscribe to the New York Times – Monday through Friday only -- and to the local paper and PBS television.

I play some card games when there’s someone to play with and sometimes play too much computer solitaire.

I love to laugh.

And I love my cats.

So that’s it.

I’ve been divorced for 38 years so marriage isn’t a high priority but I’d be interested keeping company with someone -- if I could just be who I am and he could be just who he is. Someone I could have great conversations with, or a fine meal, or share a play or concert or walk in the woods. It would be nice to be held with affection. Even old people like those things.

And, as previously mentioned, my teeth are good.