Have you overheard the conversations between middle aged women lately?
There is a specific lack of names.
“Did you see that movie with what’s her name, you know, the one from that other movie about that girl who fall in love with that actor, you know, the guy who used to be on that television show that our kids watched Friday night?”
“Yes, I know her, she is the one with the hair, you know, she was in those commercials and then she stopped making movies for a while because she had to go, you know , where was that again – the place people go when they can’t stop drinking?”
“Yes, what is her name again? I can see her face and her name is on the tip of my tongue.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It will come back and I know who you mean. I just saw her on t.v. the other day on that talk show. You know the one – the one with the short blonde - oh, what is her name? – she has a bunch of kids and she used to be on a soap opera and she is married to that gorgeous guy. What was his name again?”
“Yeah, her!!!”
“Well, it has been nice talking to you. I have to go pick up my son at the airport.”
“Which one?”
“Manchester.”
“No! Which son?”
“Oh, you know, the one that went down south this past year to work where that thing happened last fall.”
“Oh, yeah, say hi to him for me.”
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Seasons of Life
The most profound lesson I have learned over the past few years has to do with the ebb and flow of life. I think my return to a part of a country that has more than two seasons has facilitated this understanding. When I lived in the South, where the seasons are divided up between the hot summer and the rainy winter, I saw things as good or bad. I was sick – it was bad. I hated a job – it was bad. If I was enjoying life - it was good. However, after moving to the North and coming to terms with the changes in my body as I grow older, I realize that life is much more than judging by good or bad, by light or dark, or any other dichotomy. It is more about recognizing the continuous changes and the various levels in which changes occur.
There is a Buddhist teaching that reminds us that when our lives are in chaos, we are just being distracted so that the universe can work on what needs to happen for positive change. If we weren’t distracted we would be messing everything up like a toddler trying to help cook dinner. I think about this every year as summer wanes and we move into autumn. The beautiful colors of autumn distract us from the reality of an end to a period of growth and harvest moving to a time of sleep and apparent death. During winter, we all slow down. During February and March and on into mud season, I hear many people complain about a lack of energy, depression, a need for more sleep. Then, as soon as the first green grass appears and the flowers begin to bloom, the world wakes up and the energy of spring and renewal arises. Somehow, though, in the midst of winter we have forgotten that underneath the snow and the long nights, the earth is resting and renewing in preparation for birth of new growth.
I have looked back on my life and seen how there have been times when I thought I was going through my darkest period. Then a new job, a new friendship, a new home, a new grandchild, would arrive and I eventually grew to realize that the seeds of these gifts were being nurtured by the universe while I was suffering. The hardest part is being awake enough to see the gift when it arrives.
As I grow older I see more and more friends and family, along with myself, struggle with the loss that accompanies aging. More friends and friends or partners of friends are being diagnosed with cancer, our parents are dying leaving us as the oldest generation in the our family, and an unfortunate number of friends are dealing with devastating illnesses of their children, having to make choices as to how to provide care for themselves while caring for an adult child. When this happens it is hard to see how there can be an undercurrent of good beneath it all. How can severe illness or the loss of a parent, a friend or child be anything more than devastating?
Most recently, a dear friend of mine (see Darcy in A Winter’s Friendship) was diagnosed with cancer and underwent surgery. The outpouring of love from friends and family has nothing less than inspirational and Darcy’s positive attitude has been a true blessing. If she did not know before how much she was loved, she certainly does now. What she has given to others is being given back to her a hundredfold. This is the gift of adversity if we are willing to see it. She is being given the gift of love and we are all being gifted her positive attitude and strength.
Life is a series of seasons. I have learned that when things look grim life will soon change. I also know not to get too comfortable when things are going well because it is just natural that things will change. I try to no longer judge life circumstances as good or bad, but to just wait to find out where the good is in all things.
There is a Buddhist teaching that reminds us that when our lives are in chaos, we are just being distracted so that the universe can work on what needs to happen for positive change. If we weren’t distracted we would be messing everything up like a toddler trying to help cook dinner. I think about this every year as summer wanes and we move into autumn. The beautiful colors of autumn distract us from the reality of an end to a period of growth and harvest moving to a time of sleep and apparent death. During winter, we all slow down. During February and March and on into mud season, I hear many people complain about a lack of energy, depression, a need for more sleep. Then, as soon as the first green grass appears and the flowers begin to bloom, the world wakes up and the energy of spring and renewal arises. Somehow, though, in the midst of winter we have forgotten that underneath the snow and the long nights, the earth is resting and renewing in preparation for birth of new growth.
I have looked back on my life and seen how there have been times when I thought I was going through my darkest period. Then a new job, a new friendship, a new home, a new grandchild, would arrive and I eventually grew to realize that the seeds of these gifts were being nurtured by the universe while I was suffering. The hardest part is being awake enough to see the gift when it arrives.
As I grow older I see more and more friends and family, along with myself, struggle with the loss that accompanies aging. More friends and friends or partners of friends are being diagnosed with cancer, our parents are dying leaving us as the oldest generation in the our family, and an unfortunate number of friends are dealing with devastating illnesses of their children, having to make choices as to how to provide care for themselves while caring for an adult child. When this happens it is hard to see how there can be an undercurrent of good beneath it all. How can severe illness or the loss of a parent, a friend or child be anything more than devastating?
Most recently, a dear friend of mine (see Darcy in A Winter’s Friendship) was diagnosed with cancer and underwent surgery. The outpouring of love from friends and family has nothing less than inspirational and Darcy’s positive attitude has been a true blessing. If she did not know before how much she was loved, she certainly does now. What she has given to others is being given back to her a hundredfold. This is the gift of adversity if we are willing to see it. She is being given the gift of love and we are all being gifted her positive attitude and strength.
Life is a series of seasons. I have learned that when things look grim life will soon change. I also know not to get too comfortable when things are going well because it is just natural that things will change. I try to no longer judge life circumstances as good or bad, but to just wait to find out where the good is in all things.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Saturday Morning Shopping
Sun dresses and tan lines,
bathing suits and beer,
getting IDs checked by the cashier.
Driving to the beach
with the top down,
magazines and gossip,
tanning lotion and flip flops,
paying no mind as the older
women look on,
remembering.
bathing suits and beer,
getting IDs checked by the cashier.
Driving to the beach
with the top down,
magazines and gossip,
tanning lotion and flip flops,
paying no mind as the older
women look on,
remembering.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Revisionist History
I have been doing a lot of thinking about revisionist history lately. My reaction to Dick Cheney’s rewriting of the Iraq War after leaving office left me realizing that there is very little narrative history that can be taken as fact. We all have our own versions of history based on where we stand.
I once had a person tell me that when it comes to relationships there are three sides to every story – each person’s and the truth. But what is the truth? Can it ever be told given that any narrator will only tell his/her version of the facts? I am sure that my ex-husband and I each have our own version of what occurred in our marriage and the events that led to our divorce. At times I have become enraged by his version of the story and have had a strong desire for the world to see my version as the truth. However, truth be told, neither of us have the full story. You would have to live simultaneously in each of our heads to be able to have an inkling of what happened and I would not wish that experience on anyone. I have learned to honor his version as his story and remember that I don’t know the entire story from his perspective. I can now see him as a player in the story of my life from the age of fifteen to thirty, the father of my son and the grandfather of my beloved grandchildren. I can let him live with his version and I am aware that my side of the story is colored by lack of maturity at that time and over twenty five years of personal growth and recovery.
When my father died, one of his remaining brothers was looking at the shadow box of Korean War medals. They had both served multiple tours in Korea and there seems to be a blurring of their stories. My uncle commented that my father had told a story that was actually his experience. My sister quietly said, “But that was Dad’s reality.” It was. Dad’s reality was told from the viewpoint of an abused child, a traumatized war veteran, and someone who wanted to be loved and respected. His reality often collided with mine and it caused pain for both of us. As in my experience with my ex-husband I have strived to let it be. My father is gone from this life and I know longer have to struggle to have him understand my reality. With that struggle gone, I find that my work in the trauma field has helped me know a little better how his reality was formed.
I do still become very angry, though, when persons and governments in power try to revise history to suit their own agenda. I grew up in Northern Wisconsin and remember there was very little in the history books about the native people of the area, many of whom were my ancestors. The history books were written by white men about the accomplishments of white men and the genocide and racial cleansing of the indigenous people of this country was never mentioned. As an adult, I learned that my grandfather had been taken from his home and sent to a Franciscan school to have the “Indian beaten out of him” by a Catholic education. In order to learn more about my ancestors, my family would go to Madeleine Island, off the shore of Bayfield, Wisconsin, and visit the island museum and the cemetery. We did not learn until much later that the Madeleine for whom the island was named was our great great great grandmother, the daughter of the Ojibwa chief who married a fur trader with the last name Cadotte. I have lost any memory of her birth name.
In 2007, I visited Nepal and Tibet and had a firsthand look at how the Chinese government has revised history to justify what they refer to as the “liberation of the Tibetan people.” Books and television programs in Tibet share a history that is outside of the Tibetan people’s reality. The Chinese government insists that the Tibetan people were under the dictatorship of the Dalai Lama and that Tibet had always been a part of China, therefore justifying the occupation of the Tibet Autonomous Region and the suppression of Tibetan culture, including art and religion. The Chinese even went so far as to “disappear” the child who was chosen as the reincarnation of the Panchen Lama and replace him with the child of a Chinese government official. Rumors still abound as to the whereabouts of the Tibetan Panchen Lama.
Tibetan people are told that if they practice Buddhism they cannot work government jobs – “The Buddha can pay your rent.” Also, our Tibetan drivers were told they had four hours to drive between Shigatse and Lhasa. If they arrived too early they would be accused of speeding and if they arrived any later they would not be allowed past the Lhasa checkpoint. This was being done to discourage Tibetan-led tourism.
Before we had entered Tibet there had been a hold up in obtaining our Chinese VISA. The Chinese government had information that a British journalist had reported that the Chinese made it difficult for Westerners to enter Tibet from Nepal. In answer to this, the Chinese closed down the border to westerners and were refusing to issue visas until they received an apology from the journalist. It took a number of travel companies within Kathmandu to convince the Chinese embassy to begin issuing the visas. We were not told any of this until it was all said and done.
Even once we entered Tibet we witness Tibetans being treated horribly by checkpoint officials, refusing to allow them through once roads had opened after a series of landslides in the Himalayas. I witness a group of about fifty Tibetans, including our drivers, become enraged as cars with Chinese passengers were allowed past the checkpoints while we were all told to park at the side of the road.
Revisionist history is a tool used by governments to destroy culture and maintain control over people. Dick Cheney has tried to convince us that “enhanced interrogation techniques” were necessary and did not constitute torture even though what Cheney refers to as “enhanced interrogation techniques” fits the federal government’s definition of “torture.” I believe that he believes what he says. Historical revisionists eventually begin to believe their own propaganda because to admit otherwise would destroy their vision of their role in history. This makes it critically important for citizens to engage in understanding current events as they happen so that when the players begin to re-write history we are able to recognize the discrepancies and hold them responsible for their actions before we become “liberated” from the truth.
I once had a person tell me that when it comes to relationships there are three sides to every story – each person’s and the truth. But what is the truth? Can it ever be told given that any narrator will only tell his/her version of the facts? I am sure that my ex-husband and I each have our own version of what occurred in our marriage and the events that led to our divorce. At times I have become enraged by his version of the story and have had a strong desire for the world to see my version as the truth. However, truth be told, neither of us have the full story. You would have to live simultaneously in each of our heads to be able to have an inkling of what happened and I would not wish that experience on anyone. I have learned to honor his version as his story and remember that I don’t know the entire story from his perspective. I can now see him as a player in the story of my life from the age of fifteen to thirty, the father of my son and the grandfather of my beloved grandchildren. I can let him live with his version and I am aware that my side of the story is colored by lack of maturity at that time and over twenty five years of personal growth and recovery.
When my father died, one of his remaining brothers was looking at the shadow box of Korean War medals. They had both served multiple tours in Korea and there seems to be a blurring of their stories. My uncle commented that my father had told a story that was actually his experience. My sister quietly said, “But that was Dad’s reality.” It was. Dad’s reality was told from the viewpoint of an abused child, a traumatized war veteran, and someone who wanted to be loved and respected. His reality often collided with mine and it caused pain for both of us. As in my experience with my ex-husband I have strived to let it be. My father is gone from this life and I know longer have to struggle to have him understand my reality. With that struggle gone, I find that my work in the trauma field has helped me know a little better how his reality was formed.
I do still become very angry, though, when persons and governments in power try to revise history to suit their own agenda. I grew up in Northern Wisconsin and remember there was very little in the history books about the native people of the area, many of whom were my ancestors. The history books were written by white men about the accomplishments of white men and the genocide and racial cleansing of the indigenous people of this country was never mentioned. As an adult, I learned that my grandfather had been taken from his home and sent to a Franciscan school to have the “Indian beaten out of him” by a Catholic education. In order to learn more about my ancestors, my family would go to Madeleine Island, off the shore of Bayfield, Wisconsin, and visit the island museum and the cemetery. We did not learn until much later that the Madeleine for whom the island was named was our great great great grandmother, the daughter of the Ojibwa chief who married a fur trader with the last name Cadotte. I have lost any memory of her birth name.
In 2007, I visited Nepal and Tibet and had a firsthand look at how the Chinese government has revised history to justify what they refer to as the “liberation of the Tibetan people.” Books and television programs in Tibet share a history that is outside of the Tibetan people’s reality. The Chinese government insists that the Tibetan people were under the dictatorship of the Dalai Lama and that Tibet had always been a part of China, therefore justifying the occupation of the Tibet Autonomous Region and the suppression of Tibetan culture, including art and religion. The Chinese even went so far as to “disappear” the child who was chosen as the reincarnation of the Panchen Lama and replace him with the child of a Chinese government official. Rumors still abound as to the whereabouts of the Tibetan Panchen Lama.
Tibetan people are told that if they practice Buddhism they cannot work government jobs – “The Buddha can pay your rent.” Also, our Tibetan drivers were told they had four hours to drive between Shigatse and Lhasa. If they arrived too early they would be accused of speeding and if they arrived any later they would not be allowed past the Lhasa checkpoint. This was being done to discourage Tibetan-led tourism.
Before we had entered Tibet there had been a hold up in obtaining our Chinese VISA. The Chinese government had information that a British journalist had reported that the Chinese made it difficult for Westerners to enter Tibet from Nepal. In answer to this, the Chinese closed down the border to westerners and were refusing to issue visas until they received an apology from the journalist. It took a number of travel companies within Kathmandu to convince the Chinese embassy to begin issuing the visas. We were not told any of this until it was all said and done.
Even once we entered Tibet we witness Tibetans being treated horribly by checkpoint officials, refusing to allow them through once roads had opened after a series of landslides in the Himalayas. I witness a group of about fifty Tibetans, including our drivers, become enraged as cars with Chinese passengers were allowed past the checkpoints while we were all told to park at the side of the road.
Revisionist history is a tool used by governments to destroy culture and maintain control over people. Dick Cheney has tried to convince us that “enhanced interrogation techniques” were necessary and did not constitute torture even though what Cheney refers to as “enhanced interrogation techniques” fits the federal government’s definition of “torture.” I believe that he believes what he says. Historical revisionists eventually begin to believe their own propaganda because to admit otherwise would destroy their vision of their role in history. This makes it critically important for citizens to engage in understanding current events as they happen so that when the players begin to re-write history we are able to recognize the discrepancies and hold them responsible for their actions before we become “liberated” from the truth.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A Winter's Friendship
There are times when circumstance and people come together in a way that hindsight finds a true blessing. It may be that a common thread seems to be a thorn in the side, but instead turns out to be the first stitch that pieces together a friendship.
In the early spring of 2007, I moved into an old farmhouse in a village in the hills of southwest New Hampshire. It seemed perfect. It was spacious with two large fireplaces and a sun room that looked out on the gardens. There was a small studio sized apartment in the basement and a young woman, Kristen, was living there temporarily while waiting for the weather to warm up so that she could move out into the woods for the summer. Darcy, a nurse, lived upstairs with her two cats, Teddy and Dipstick. Teddy, a large yellow cat, and, Dipstick, a gray tiger with white at the end of her tail, could be heard on many occasions running from one end of the apartment to the other, sounding as if they were bowling over the old pine floors.
I started experiencing difficulties with the landlady early on and soon realized that the property was poorly managed and that repairs were usually done with spit and duct tape, if done at all. If the building was up to code it was probably a code devised pre-electricity. The landlady was also experiencing a deep depression and as the year went on it was becoming increasingly evident that she was not able to manage the property. Her family wanted her to sell, but she refused. This house had been in her family for years and she was reluctant to sell so soon after her mother’s death.
Kristen moved to the woods in May, living in a small campsite at the edge of a pond. She would stop by to see Darcy and I at least once a week and tell us stories of visits from beavers, bear and deer. She had informed the village police and neighbors that she was there and had permission from our landlady to live on the property. In exchange for the site, she was responsible for the mowing and raking on the grounds around the house.
It took a few months for us all to come to together and talk about the difficulties we were having with the landlady, but once the ice was broken we realized that we were each experiencing the same struggles and were not alone in feeling as if there was something very wrong. We agreed to compare notes on conversations because we were often being given different answers to the same questions. We also realized that we needed each other’s support in trying to navigate living in a place where the landlady had few boundaries and made management decisions on a whim.
Unfortunately, the two cats that I had with me when I moved into the apartment had started to act up and behaving very poorly. After weeks of struggling to change their behaviors I realized that I was not going to be able to live there peacefully unless I gave them up. I was determined to fulfill my promise of living there for a full year and I realized that even if I did move, the cats’ behavior would continue and would make finding another place difficult. It was a difficult decision and I mourned their loss.
Shortly before I left for a trip to Tibet in late August the landlady left her home in the barn. It was a few months before she returned to manage the property but she never moved back. Some of the difficulties continued but they were lessened by her absence.
As summer turned cooler and the days became shorter, we started to relax. Kristen would come to Darcy’s apartment and make dinner now and then and one night she invited us to her campsite. We met her at the end of the path with our flashlights and she guided us through the woods, along the edge of the pond and pointed out which rocks to step on to make our way over a stream. Her campsite was wonderful. Everything had been set up to make the least impact on the environment as possible. As we sat around the fire drinking hot apple cider we heard beavers slapping their tails on the surface of the pond. I had hoped to see one of the bears that had visited the campsite previously but our laughter must have warned him away. As Darcy and I walked back to the house, we agreed that it had been a beautiful night.
On still Monday nights we could hear the sound of fiddles coming from the town hall up the road. Kristen would put on a skirt and go contra dancing. I went with her once but found the packed room and the kicking legs more than I could take. However, during the evening I saw Kristen dance with a man and I was struck by the intensity of the energy between them. It was as if they had lit sparklers while they touched.
A few weeks later Kristen talked about the man she had met at the dance and how she couldn’t get him out of her mind. I knew immediately which man she talking about. I encouraged her to make some sort of move but she was unsure.
In early October, Darcy and I started to question how much longer Kristen was going to live in the woods. I was also wondering if I could afford to heat the drafty 250 years old farm house. I had an extra bedroom and I invited Kristen to spend the winter with me, rather than moving back into the cellar. She agreed and as winter moved into New Hampshire the three of us settled into semi-communal living.
It was magical. Kristen was teaching part time and was trying to decide what the next step in her life was going to be. Her biological clock was booming and she had just come out of a bad relationship. I had concerns about the agency I was working for and had just ended a short, but intense relationship. Darcy was still mourning the loss of her last relationship, but was starting to enjoy her freedom. As I look back, we were all just coming to a point of change and it was our friendship that gave us the space and freedom to relax and ease into the next phase of our lives.
Darcy and I nurtured Kristen like an adult daughter and Kristen returned the favor with her joy and desire to feed the people she loves. I would often come home to fresh muffins and chili. There were many nights when Darcy would come down with a magnificent salad of greens, pine nuts, raisins, orange slices, and whatever else she could find and we would sit down to a wonderful home cooked meal and warm bread. Some evenings Darcy would bring a couple of movies and we would sit in the living room, wrapped in comforters and afghans watching a movie. Darcy would do needlework, I would be knitting and Kristen was always working on some project for her pre-school or college aged students. By this time, I had started fostering Mia, the cat the landlady had left behind. Mia would move from one lap to another or come over to play with my yarn.
There were also nights when Bella would come to visit. Bella was Kristen’s and her ex-boyfriend’s Swiss Mountain dog. She would visit for days at a time, much to Mia’s chagrin, and her boisterous love filled the house. I loved to hear her tail hitting the cupboards as she expressed her joy at my homecoming each day.
On New Year’s Eve, Kristen danced with the man from the past summer again. They ended up going to a walk in the snow and then came home and talked until the early hours of the morning. Darcy and I watched as Kristen started to fall in love and began to let go of the hurt of her previous relationship. We knew that Kristen was very serious when she invited her new man over for dinner.
Darcy and I took our roles as surrogate mothers very seriously and spent the evening getting to know this man who was making Kristen happy. She was still struggling with what her future would bring but she was falling in love and trying very hard to live in the moment.
Life moved on and our magical winter had to come to an end. I was feeling like I really needed to move as I had spent a year there and did not think I could afford it much longer. I was very fortunate to find a house sharing situation at reduced rent just before the agency I worked for cut our pay. Kristen stayed in the apartment for another month.
Kristen continued to go to Darcy’s now and then to fix dinner and I drive on over to enjoy whatever delicious meal she serves. It was at one of these meals shortly after Christmas this year that Kristen announced that she was pregnant. It was wonderful news all around. We were ecstatic for her.
A few weeks ago we all met for dinner again and talked about where we had been and what changes had occurred. I was getting ready to move to Concord to be near an exciting new job, Darcy had just put an offer on a condo (she knew she couldn’t spend another winter in an apartment that had a furnace that shot flames out the back whenever it turned o, leaving Dipstick with singed whiskers) and Kristen was glowing from her pregnancy. We laughed as Teddy sat on a stool and hung his legs over the edge in sort of a downward cat yoga pose and we ate asparagus pizza and reminisced.
I know that with all of the changes in our lives that our time together will be less frequent but I don’t think we will ever lose the friendship that grew out of our time on the farm in Nelson. Yesterday, at Kristen’s shower, Darcy and I stood in a circle with Kristen’s friends and family, blessing her and this child. As I stood there I recalled the intensity of emotion that I felt between Kristen and her future partner as they danced on that summer night almost two years ago. A small inner voice told me that it had been the spirit of the child she now carries, urging them forward, asking them to become parents. I know that this child will be born into a life of love because I know that Kristen draws love to her in special ways.
The life quilt of friendship that was sewn together during that time in the farmhouse, through that cold winter, continues. We are each on our different paths but make sure to meet at the crossroads for tea and muffins.
In the early spring of 2007, I moved into an old farmhouse in a village in the hills of southwest New Hampshire. It seemed perfect. It was spacious with two large fireplaces and a sun room that looked out on the gardens. There was a small studio sized apartment in the basement and a young woman, Kristen, was living there temporarily while waiting for the weather to warm up so that she could move out into the woods for the summer. Darcy, a nurse, lived upstairs with her two cats, Teddy and Dipstick. Teddy, a large yellow cat, and, Dipstick, a gray tiger with white at the end of her tail, could be heard on many occasions running from one end of the apartment to the other, sounding as if they were bowling over the old pine floors.
I started experiencing difficulties with the landlady early on and soon realized that the property was poorly managed and that repairs were usually done with spit and duct tape, if done at all. If the building was up to code it was probably a code devised pre-electricity. The landlady was also experiencing a deep depression and as the year went on it was becoming increasingly evident that she was not able to manage the property. Her family wanted her to sell, but she refused. This house had been in her family for years and she was reluctant to sell so soon after her mother’s death.
Kristen moved to the woods in May, living in a small campsite at the edge of a pond. She would stop by to see Darcy and I at least once a week and tell us stories of visits from beavers, bear and deer. She had informed the village police and neighbors that she was there and had permission from our landlady to live on the property. In exchange for the site, she was responsible for the mowing and raking on the grounds around the house.
It took a few months for us all to come to together and talk about the difficulties we were having with the landlady, but once the ice was broken we realized that we were each experiencing the same struggles and were not alone in feeling as if there was something very wrong. We agreed to compare notes on conversations because we were often being given different answers to the same questions. We also realized that we needed each other’s support in trying to navigate living in a place where the landlady had few boundaries and made management decisions on a whim.
Unfortunately, the two cats that I had with me when I moved into the apartment had started to act up and behaving very poorly. After weeks of struggling to change their behaviors I realized that I was not going to be able to live there peacefully unless I gave them up. I was determined to fulfill my promise of living there for a full year and I realized that even if I did move, the cats’ behavior would continue and would make finding another place difficult. It was a difficult decision and I mourned their loss.
Shortly before I left for a trip to Tibet in late August the landlady left her home in the barn. It was a few months before she returned to manage the property but she never moved back. Some of the difficulties continued but they were lessened by her absence.
As summer turned cooler and the days became shorter, we started to relax. Kristen would come to Darcy’s apartment and make dinner now and then and one night she invited us to her campsite. We met her at the end of the path with our flashlights and she guided us through the woods, along the edge of the pond and pointed out which rocks to step on to make our way over a stream. Her campsite was wonderful. Everything had been set up to make the least impact on the environment as possible. As we sat around the fire drinking hot apple cider we heard beavers slapping their tails on the surface of the pond. I had hoped to see one of the bears that had visited the campsite previously but our laughter must have warned him away. As Darcy and I walked back to the house, we agreed that it had been a beautiful night.
On still Monday nights we could hear the sound of fiddles coming from the town hall up the road. Kristen would put on a skirt and go contra dancing. I went with her once but found the packed room and the kicking legs more than I could take. However, during the evening I saw Kristen dance with a man and I was struck by the intensity of the energy between them. It was as if they had lit sparklers while they touched.
A few weeks later Kristen talked about the man she had met at the dance and how she couldn’t get him out of her mind. I knew immediately which man she talking about. I encouraged her to make some sort of move but she was unsure.
In early October, Darcy and I started to question how much longer Kristen was going to live in the woods. I was also wondering if I could afford to heat the drafty 250 years old farm house. I had an extra bedroom and I invited Kristen to spend the winter with me, rather than moving back into the cellar. She agreed and as winter moved into New Hampshire the three of us settled into semi-communal living.
It was magical. Kristen was teaching part time and was trying to decide what the next step in her life was going to be. Her biological clock was booming and she had just come out of a bad relationship. I had concerns about the agency I was working for and had just ended a short, but intense relationship. Darcy was still mourning the loss of her last relationship, but was starting to enjoy her freedom. As I look back, we were all just coming to a point of change and it was our friendship that gave us the space and freedom to relax and ease into the next phase of our lives.
Darcy and I nurtured Kristen like an adult daughter and Kristen returned the favor with her joy and desire to feed the people she loves. I would often come home to fresh muffins and chili. There were many nights when Darcy would come down with a magnificent salad of greens, pine nuts, raisins, orange slices, and whatever else she could find and we would sit down to a wonderful home cooked meal and warm bread. Some evenings Darcy would bring a couple of movies and we would sit in the living room, wrapped in comforters and afghans watching a movie. Darcy would do needlework, I would be knitting and Kristen was always working on some project for her pre-school or college aged students. By this time, I had started fostering Mia, the cat the landlady had left behind. Mia would move from one lap to another or come over to play with my yarn.
There were also nights when Bella would come to visit. Bella was Kristen’s and her ex-boyfriend’s Swiss Mountain dog. She would visit for days at a time, much to Mia’s chagrin, and her boisterous love filled the house. I loved to hear her tail hitting the cupboards as she expressed her joy at my homecoming each day.
On New Year’s Eve, Kristen danced with the man from the past summer again. They ended up going to a walk in the snow and then came home and talked until the early hours of the morning. Darcy and I watched as Kristen started to fall in love and began to let go of the hurt of her previous relationship. We knew that Kristen was very serious when she invited her new man over for dinner.
Darcy and I took our roles as surrogate mothers very seriously and spent the evening getting to know this man who was making Kristen happy. She was still struggling with what her future would bring but she was falling in love and trying very hard to live in the moment.
Life moved on and our magical winter had to come to an end. I was feeling like I really needed to move as I had spent a year there and did not think I could afford it much longer. I was very fortunate to find a house sharing situation at reduced rent just before the agency I worked for cut our pay. Kristen stayed in the apartment for another month.
Kristen continued to go to Darcy’s now and then to fix dinner and I drive on over to enjoy whatever delicious meal she serves. It was at one of these meals shortly after Christmas this year that Kristen announced that she was pregnant. It was wonderful news all around. We were ecstatic for her.
A few weeks ago we all met for dinner again and talked about where we had been and what changes had occurred. I was getting ready to move to Concord to be near an exciting new job, Darcy had just put an offer on a condo (she knew she couldn’t spend another winter in an apartment that had a furnace that shot flames out the back whenever it turned o, leaving Dipstick with singed whiskers) and Kristen was glowing from her pregnancy. We laughed as Teddy sat on a stool and hung his legs over the edge in sort of a downward cat yoga pose and we ate asparagus pizza and reminisced.
I know that with all of the changes in our lives that our time together will be less frequent but I don’t think we will ever lose the friendship that grew out of our time on the farm in Nelson. Yesterday, at Kristen’s shower, Darcy and I stood in a circle with Kristen’s friends and family, blessing her and this child. As I stood there I recalled the intensity of emotion that I felt between Kristen and her future partner as they danced on that summer night almost two years ago. A small inner voice told me that it had been the spirit of the child she now carries, urging them forward, asking them to become parents. I know that this child will be born into a life of love because I know that Kristen draws love to her in special ways.
The life quilt of friendship that was sewn together during that time in the farmhouse, through that cold winter, continues. We are each on our different paths but make sure to meet at the crossroads for tea and muffins.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Time and Memory
This whole notion of time speeding up - I know you have heard about it – has me thinking. I feel like I crossed a point a few years ago when life shifted gears and sped up. Now I spend less time waiting for things to happen and events zip by so quickly I barely have time to breathe.
I have a theory about why it is so much easier, as we get older, to remember things that happened forty years ago than it is to remember a shopping list for tomorrow. It is because time moved so much slower then. We had time for the information to get into our brain and be properly stored. With time moving so fast there are days when I feel that I am trying to catch information with a butterfly net and names, dates, events, ideas and shopping items keep slipping through the holes. Nothing sticks. Nothing has time to get firmly embedded into the memory banks. If it does, it has a precarious hold and something else may easily knock it off.
My brain does not seem to be able to discriminate between what is important information to keep and what is meaningless. I can easily recall my phone number from forty years ago but struggle to remember my grandchildren’s birthdates. Sometimes a sequence of numbers will pop into my head for no reason and I will realize that I am remembering my locker combination from high school.
My father used to run through a whole list of names before getting the right one. When he spoke to me he would start with “JoAnne”, then “Barb” and finally “Linda”. The same in reverse would happen to my mother and sister. He eventually just called my sister and me “punkin’” as a means of making sure to get it right the first time.
I hear people everywhere talking about how time is just speeding up. Things are happening faster than we can take in the information. Technology is moving so fast that information learned in the first two years of college can be obsolete by graduation. It feels like just yesterday that I was holding my youngest granddaughter, Lizzie, in my arms and now she is almost four years old, ready to take on the world as Princess Peach with her boyfriend, Mario. I had no idea who these people were until she explained the whole Nintendo game world to me in five minutes, hands flying, with vivid detail. I was playing Candy Land at three years old. How does this all happen?
It is all very disconcerting. Mick Jagger is dancing around on stage in tight pants while in his sixties and I can’t seem to figure out where the nineteen sixties and seventies went. He is obviously stuck back in time while Keith Richards walks around looking like a forty year old corpse. I have stopped watching PBS specials with classic rock musicians because I always wonder who these balding, gray people are lip syncing to my favorite songs.
I may be rambling here. My mind is trying very hard to figure out where everything is happening. That is if time can happen in a place. It is like trying to catch dust motes between your fingers. Just when you think you have one, it disappears and you wonder if you ever had it at all.
I asked Lizzie to slow down. I asked her not to grow up so fast. She is my last grandchild and I am going to miss the cuddling and the Lizzie Mae and Grandma Mutual Admiration Society meetings. When I ask though, she very thoughtfully looks at me and says “But I have to, Grandma. I have to grow up.” Why does it have to be so fast? Why can’t the good things just slow down enough so that I can savor a moment without thinking about the loss coming so quickly? I just hope the Lizzie memories find a good strong place to hold onto in my memory banks so that I can find them easily when she is all grown up.
I have a theory about why it is so much easier, as we get older, to remember things that happened forty years ago than it is to remember a shopping list for tomorrow. It is because time moved so much slower then. We had time for the information to get into our brain and be properly stored. With time moving so fast there are days when I feel that I am trying to catch information with a butterfly net and names, dates, events, ideas and shopping items keep slipping through the holes. Nothing sticks. Nothing has time to get firmly embedded into the memory banks. If it does, it has a precarious hold and something else may easily knock it off.
My brain does not seem to be able to discriminate between what is important information to keep and what is meaningless. I can easily recall my phone number from forty years ago but struggle to remember my grandchildren’s birthdates. Sometimes a sequence of numbers will pop into my head for no reason and I will realize that I am remembering my locker combination from high school.
My father used to run through a whole list of names before getting the right one. When he spoke to me he would start with “JoAnne”, then “Barb” and finally “Linda”. The same in reverse would happen to my mother and sister. He eventually just called my sister and me “punkin’” as a means of making sure to get it right the first time.
I hear people everywhere talking about how time is just speeding up. Things are happening faster than we can take in the information. Technology is moving so fast that information learned in the first two years of college can be obsolete by graduation. It feels like just yesterday that I was holding my youngest granddaughter, Lizzie, in my arms and now she is almost four years old, ready to take on the world as Princess Peach with her boyfriend, Mario. I had no idea who these people were until she explained the whole Nintendo game world to me in five minutes, hands flying, with vivid detail. I was playing Candy Land at three years old. How does this all happen?
It is all very disconcerting. Mick Jagger is dancing around on stage in tight pants while in his sixties and I can’t seem to figure out where the nineteen sixties and seventies went. He is obviously stuck back in time while Keith Richards walks around looking like a forty year old corpse. I have stopped watching PBS specials with classic rock musicians because I always wonder who these balding, gray people are lip syncing to my favorite songs.
I may be rambling here. My mind is trying very hard to figure out where everything is happening. That is if time can happen in a place. It is like trying to catch dust motes between your fingers. Just when you think you have one, it disappears and you wonder if you ever had it at all.
I asked Lizzie to slow down. I asked her not to grow up so fast. She is my last grandchild and I am going to miss the cuddling and the Lizzie Mae and Grandma Mutual Admiration Society meetings. When I ask though, she very thoughtfully looks at me and says “But I have to, Grandma. I have to grow up.” Why does it have to be so fast? Why can’t the good things just slow down enough so that I can savor a moment without thinking about the loss coming so quickly? I just hope the Lizzie memories find a good strong place to hold onto in my memory banks so that I can find them easily when she is all grown up.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Ode to the Forest
The falling leaves Sufi dance in the wind
as the woodpecker drums and the
chickadee chatters a response.
The stream provides the harmony
while the eagle performs his ballet
beneath the curtains of clouds parting to
reveal the backdrop of blue sky.
The scent of musk from
dead leaves in the dark
corners of the forest blend
with the early winter rain
and the cool air filtered
by tree, fern and moss,
filling my lungs with gratitude
and my eyes and ears with joy.
as the woodpecker drums and the
chickadee chatters a response.
The stream provides the harmony
while the eagle performs his ballet
beneath the curtains of clouds parting to
reveal the backdrop of blue sky.
The scent of musk from
dead leaves in the dark
corners of the forest blend
with the early winter rain
and the cool air filtered
by tree, fern and moss,
filling my lungs with gratitude
and my eyes and ears with joy.
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