9.3.14 Goodnight, ENORMOUS orange sun. Right? Phew.

9.3.14 I Just Drank Those Heavens In

This afternoon, I was walking around downtown Northampton, 

looked up, 

and was like 'HEY!!!'.

What a light show, right under everyone's noses.

I felt like yelling and waving my arms and pointing. 

But they all looked in a hurry. 

So I just stood there, and drank those heavens in

9.4.14 A Small Prayer for Shiva Louisa

Please, if you will, say a small prayer for Shiva.

 I have to go away for two weeks. 

It's hard to be 16 1/2. It really is . 

I brought her on a favorite walk tonight ,

 and told her that I trust she will do what is best,

 at the best time for her.

 I told her I'll pray for the very best, 

whatever that may be. 

That we will be in each other 's hearts forever, no matter. 

Such a such a loving loved being.

9.2.14 Coursing Right Along Overhead

Leaving my house in the sky was...

and more so...

While , crossing the river on into Northhampton, here was the front of all that weather, coursing right along overhead

.

9.2.14 Relishing Writer Bailey White

Relishing Writer Bailey White: Before we had phones with remote receivers, so that you could wander all over the house. Before cell phones. Before computers and iPads and all sorts of other things? 

There was radio. And when I was bringing up my children, with the exception of a few years where I tolerated television, radio was what you got. 

It seems there was always so much to do, so that the only time I listened was in the car.
And periodically, just by luck, I would catch writer Bailey White, with her inimitable voice, reading one of her small pieces.

Her writing was always unique and unusual, with a pinch in there somewhere. 

And when I heard the introduction, I would do just about anything to ensure there was quiet in the car, something nearly impossible. And then ? I got to hear the whole thing.

You see, she talks about simple days. The intricacies of a common life. Only she reveals the remarkable, within the banal. 

Peaking our interest, dragging us along adventures, causing us to prolapse in hysteria, wrapped in tenderness . 

Somehow, like a newly hatched bird, I bonded to her. Her tenacity. Her acquiescence with her unusual life. Her raised eyebrow ( I imagined) with every mildly shared challenge. 

As if she was saying "Just part of life. But it's quite enough to deal with, and yeah- I'm going to share it with you." And so she did.

Every single word the antithesis of what everyone here and now yearns for most of all .

It's not that there isn't wisdom in having a home that's solid and is not about to rot apart. It's not that there isn't value in having a well functioning car, or all sorts of other things. Working hard while your kids are in after school; buying a new car every few years . Plasma screen TV's- sure. Nicer and nicer and more and more. 

Yet, the point is, sometimes, despite your best efforts, this is not the case. 

Houses do become old and creaky. People are unable to have the money to fix anything they want or purchase anything they want or do anything they want. And if your life is not like this, you need to know about the other half.

AND, guess what? If I'm distracted by my nice nice stuff and the monthly new new stuff, I won't know people different than me. It's uncomfortable , you know ? And that conformity lurking within hungry acquisition ? Possibly creating sterile crafted hybrid flowers out if each and every one of us. 

But in her stories? People have spirit. They make do. Not only do they make do; they make remarkable and fascinating choices. They make interesting lives.

Bailey White has a good handful of compelling books, and NPR has a nice audio collection. 

Need a smile brought to your face on a difficult, lonely day? Have a hankering for an after dinner treat or a nice lay-me-down bedtime story to end your day with?

Go find one of her pieces. Written by a brethren with a love of the small and the true.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1131971

http://www.baileywhite.com/index.shtml

9.1.14 Eventually, I Got Smart

A few years ago, I was taking my somewhat customary walk, after work, down along the Arroyo of the Connecticut River, near my office and home , when I came upon a woman I had known years ago, though daughters being best friend. She was seated with her sister, on a folded blanket, by the side of the dike, drinking wine, having a snack dinner, and laughing as the sun began it’s descent.

She recognized me at first by name, re-introducing me to her sister, whom I was introduced to maybe 15 years ago also, and then promptly forgot my name as she made small talk with me.

I wished them a pleasant time having a riverside sunset dinner, and walked on down the one mile to the path’s end, the ancient Oak, the deer path down to the river, and the perennial flock of Cedar Waxwing birds’ home in the vines beneath the trees.

Years ago, my middle child was 7, and began going to a charter school in the hill towns of this area. She flourished there, and in that small class she was in for so many years was another child to become a dear friend. Eventually they were at each other’s homes, and I was often driving them to and fro, as their mom was.

And so it came to pass that, as a parent, I would encounter this fellow parent over and over, in our town, at school, and eventually at a campground , where their family and ours often spent a week or so camping with our kids each year.

At the time, we had lived in a series of homes- two of which we owned, and then a total eventually of 21-  19 rentals. I had great difficulty living in apartment complexes where people parented in less than stellar ways. I simply, with an upbringing one could call ‘unthinkable’, could not manage. Thus we always were renting houses that then became unavailable eventually, when they were sold or rebuilt. 

We sometimes rented houses that had been, unbeknownst to us, “over” ‘treated’ with a pesticide, and as the symptoms (swollen lips, bronchitis the family-side, pale faces, twitchiness, and more ) became apparent, my time spent researching (with two babies and one older child, pre-internet time) increased until I realized the situation and forcibly pressed my poor husband out of that rental, with three children, two dogs and three cats, and into another. Which was new, and made of all kinds of fake, off gassing materials, which of course made us sick in new ways noone understood at the time, so we then had to enlist the help of all of our loyal friends and family to help us move once again to an additional rental. And another. And another, as circumstances changes, despite my abiding efforts to secure us a home that we could stay in.

When these two children met and became fast friends, I would go deliver my child to their immaculate, new but very fashionable home,  just enough in the woods to be lovely, but still accessible to town and school. The floors were clean, the laundry always in the process of really being folded, versus stationed somewhere looking as if someone was just about to fold it..any minute….really….actually, probably not. And this child’s mother made  wonderful meals on time,  and kept her perfectly clean, organized, decorated, multi-bath roomed, home. She would greet me during child exchanges, and as these things go, at times we would begin to talk about this and that.

Now, we parents all know that sometimes this blossoms…into something fun and light, or a deeper connection- that, when the children no longer like each other, can either end or be continued by adult choice. And sometimes it simply does not fit.

 So she and I would talk, and she would talk the way most of the very nice, normal mothers I was surrounded by talked. About school events, and recipes and child activities and tv shows and …I guess ….so many things that , at times, we had in common, and for the most part, was like two people with half a shared language struggling to find common ground.

 

Which was fine. Very nice person having my kid over while her kid came over, being a responsible parent I-could-trust-with-my-kid-even-when-they got-the-inevitable-school-age-lice-together. Over and over. And Over. And then went to camp together, at the last minute . She pesticiding the crap out of her kid’s head once and for all (she hoped) so that kid WOULD be happily ensconced somewhere ELSE for a week away and she would have 1/3 of a breather. Right?

 In the meantime, at said moment, I was sitting on the hood of our car, 2 miles down from the camp in question, in the same situation, with a partially hysterical husband irritated and overwhelmed out of his mind, one older kid at home, and the younger one twiddling his fingers trying to tolerate the situation while I slowly and methodically, one last time, dipped my kid’s head in essential oils, to kill the suckers, and then slowly and painstakingly located and removed every single little sucker egg from her sweet, semi-tantruming, mortified head, in order to deliver her to the beginning of the camp, trying somehow to look NOT like she had just spent hours on the hood of her car with her family in various states of emotional disarray while her mom nit picked her, successfully , I might add.

I often was in the position of being with other mothers, and feeling quite like a different species altogether. At Gymnastics, they would line up, perfectly dressed,  smaller children playing quietly and politely, while we all gazed obediently through the huge windows toward our soon-to-become-completely-famous small children, in their gymnastic clothing, going through the paces.

At times, the owner of the school would pull a mother aside at the beginning or end of a session, and quietly talk to them of the child’s acceptance into the next , more elite level of classes. In which case, no one would ever say one word, but the child and mother would disappear from the group experience, to reappear at another time with another group.

We parents were carefully urged to increase the number of classes a week, as a way of ensuring the eventual arrival of our beloved progeny into an elite group of pre-Olympic gifted individuals, with more and more pressure exerted upon both parent and child. Until the sane ones, in my mind, agreed with the kid and said ‘uncle’, and left off the whole escalating deal, never sure why the middle ground of love of gymnastics and development of upper body strength and agility could not have been enough.

It was with these parents that I learned the different-species deal, although when my husband brought kids, he fit right in with all those moms- discussing recipes and things that simply baffled my mind. Here were the main topics at the start of one lesson- 

1. How terrible it was to try to get your husband to eat vegetables. 

It simply never occurred to me to try to get my husband to eat anything. I mean, we were friends and lovers and partners and parents. Why would I think about trying to make him eat anything?

2. How terrible it was when one’s daughter tried to go to school with a wool pleated skirt on the bottom, and a velour top.

Really. I kid you not. And it went on, so many things they cared about and agreed on, and felt passionately about, none of which I had ever given a thought to, being a different species interested in different sorts of things, I guess. 

Eventually, I got smart, smiled, and would park myself on the bench, taking out a million things that either I was studying or needed to do or organize in a notebook, intermittently standing up and going to lean on the huge glass windows and watch my passionate kids doing their hard gymnastic work.

As years passed, I learned to understand the fellow/parent dance- the code words, the tell tale signs of resonance of interests or complete lack of anything in common.

When one then gets to know , somewhat surreptitiously, the parents and homes just enough to decide it is an ok place for the kid to hang out and play, and eventually measure up to the additional standard of ok to have overnights at.

I learned to have the prerequisite conversations that were polite and sincere and just enough with groups of parents that might have been from Pluto, and then settle myself down and do what I wanted- watch the kid soccer game or singing lesson or horseback riding lesson or basketball game or martial arts class- you name it. Watching enough to be involved and care and be there watching your sweet kid when they look over at you at a particularly stunning or miserable moment, but having things to do in bits and pieces that you could fill your own needs too.

I remember often filling capsules with herb formulas at indoor soccer games. The other parents would sidle over, and ask me what that amazing aromatic smell was. I would explain the Cardiovascular or Blood Sugar, or Bone Density or Sleep formula, they would look at me as if I were , again, from another planet, smile and then slowly back away.

My kids laugh about me sitting at some soccer games with our rescued Australian Shepherd, whose coat was too thick to shear, and whose bite was too much for any groomer. I therefore found myself slowly, over many games , cutting swatches of thick fur from the poor girl’s body, gathering it up into bags, and eventually having her comfortably and messily sheared, somewhat, for the summer heat.

Over the years, children grow up. After bringing my child to the cape, with her other children, each with a friend along, to set up tents by herself, and tarps, and feed and care for them all, my daughter recently commented on how ridiculous it was that this mom managed this alone for so long.

It amazed me too, but often, if you are ok enough and supported enough, you end up doing these nutso, hard work things for your kids….things that use up your deep stored savings account a bit each time, unbeknownst to you. You dig deep and manage one kid thing after another, with as much grace and love and realistic honesty as you can manage, to give them the upbringing and then send-off that might hold them in good stead. And of course, because you love them so.

Last night, I finished the 2 mile walk by our big old river, and passed the mom and her sister on the way to my car. She and her husband divorced years ago, and I had not seen her since. By now, the wine was empty, and they were laughing and bending over with sisterly delight, their snacks gone and the sun almost out of sight. I wished them goodnight, and she called   “Hey, can you take a picture of us?”

I agreed, took the phone, and snapped a number of shots, the last one including the descending deep red sun looming behind their backs, as they held each other and looked up with their familial delight.

9.1.14 Seems What Matters Wholly Is Being

I am interested in any and all individual's sense of what death may be- of what dying may be like.

I am interested in traditions and stories of 'death and back'; of fables and myths and rituals and belief systems and experiences and dreams and any individual sense of what is death. 

I have known those who died and are alive again today. One who took their life and was come upon and brought back . "Here you go. Back with us. Come on. Let's help you feel more at home here. Come on."

It must mark us, and deeply; regardless of the circumstances, to lose and them regain your own life , no matter the circumstance.
Far more common is to have a life- for a moment or a week or a few years or perhaps into adulthood, and sometimes-sometimes- into old age. 

Having birthed my three children at home , it stills me , the unknown. Brings me right up short. How we know not when we shall enter , nor exit, our lives. 

In fact, for some of us ,of great and regrettable origins , life is fraught with difficulty, married up tight with glorious tender regard for each precious moment.

For this reason , I have never taken it for granted. Being here. Being adult and safe and free. Well fed and sheltered, and eventually? Loved. 

Getting to have children! The shock of ending up with a devoted beloved . Of being alive this long. None of these did I assume would be part of my being here, certainly.

But the more this preciousness has invoked my life , even as other factors continually limit it, the more I feel this almost primal need- to both truly appreciate what I am able to do- right now.
And to educate and prepare myself for whenever I will no longer be this able.

Seems logical , then, for the unimaginable gradual loss of our capacities at some point - to inform ourselves of the grandeur of the ability to stand , at this moment . To sleep well. To stretch and walk and run and lift weights and do what we can to increase our agility and circulation and cardiac strength and nervous system ease. 

To engage with the sun salutation, and pause in our days for awhile, for mindFULLness. 

To relish the taste of freshly picked and lightly steamed Kale. To be able to PICK and cook and clean up. 

The array of sensations as a Blackberry bursts in our mouths. The press of our lips upon another's . The grasp of a friend's hand, firm surrounding ours, as we whisper with tears or howl with laughter, pinching each other.

All of which is why I think so often of dying. Kind of a - Move toward that which could be most difficult. Move gently and wisely, but do move, eyes open, heart and mind learning, and aware.

I have not known many family or friends who have died.
I have held innumerable animals, and one snake on the roadside, as they died. 

I have known closely many many clients -children and adults-who were dying , and died. 

I once was a Caseworker who drove through the hills of Leverett and Shutesbury and Montague, visiting older people, listening to them want to live, or yearn to die.

I have been given dreams from those dying, to discover the next day that they were dying when they sent me that dream, saying everything was ok, now. And visions of those about to die or who have recently died . 

I do nothing with these , save say Thankyou. And honor their lives .
They certainly are not experiences to try to 'figure out 'or make sense of or struggle to align with beliefs. They just 'are'.
Simply. Like a cloud or an ant or a bear or a smile. The flutter of a cat's eyes in sleep. Pounding storms. Love. Grace . It all is.

I do , myself, sometimes have this feeling that our actual dying involves whatever our own convictions have been. Funny, huh? Whereas after? 

I myself do have my own very clear 'knowing ' ,as Jung would retort, and possibly you have your own also. 

Or not. Some people I meet have no need . In fact, some I meet need to have no notion, and rather ,have a profound sense of END upon death , which they find solidifying . No precepts . No unknown factors . 

Straightforward. I can see the appeal. 

There are those I've conversed with who feel a distinct disdain for what they see ,as a human frailty and yearning for some fantasy ever-after story , which they refuse to be privy to, on the grounds that , like much organized religion, it simply stands in, as a crutch, for the harshness of 'once here, and then nevermore'. 

As in, hold the pabulum. Which, from that vantage point of 'organized religion' and 'control of the masses' and 'profits' and 'church- sanctioned murder and control of others and slavery ' I - uh- certainly get. 

I am uncertain if this holds true when they find themselves dying, or quick as the speed if light, die , or not. 

Robert Bly is not the only one who wrote-gossipy or thoughtful -I'm uncertain - of how his friend Wallace Stevens eschewed all things religious; yet summoned a holy person of some kind to his death bed. We DO get to change our minds, you know-change and change and change again. No matter at all. No rules, save those that silly humans pretend.

So I often feel with me , and contemplate the movement and being of age old stories. Of traditions. Clan and tribal songs and ways. 

To me, it is no pabulum; no fairy tale to avoid the harshness of pain and death and dying, but rather old wise ways of growing our awareness of the connections we have been made of, and made from, all along.

Woven into all of us; our DNA. Our genes and breath and sleep. A divine song , over all that is; a tapestry of faith and love and generations. A simple quiet end of breath or tree or microbe or star? 

Seems what matters wholly is being, and being aware, at this precipitously given moment.