Finding Our Way

I've been away from these pages for quite some time.  And many of my friends and family have asked me to return.  I'll let you know where my road has taken me, and how I've found my way back, but  I'll save my story for a later day, though, because I've promised some new friends, a marvelous group of artists from our class of "The Artist's Way" in St. Petersburg, Florida, that I would return   with this.  

The following is dedicated to you, my new friends, for your love, inspiration, and joy.  I hope that you see yourselves within these lines.  Because, together, we are . . . 

Finding Our Way        

One by one we make our way
slipping into our seat, timidly aware.
We've been told that this is the place to find
the answer to our secret prayer.

So we come from jobs in tall buildings,
or from studios, or classrooms, or gardens, 
Or homes, or work station shelves,
and by joining the circle, recalling
Once-forgotten promises to ourselves.

Each morning we write pages our intention to keep,
Streaming thoughts and emotions bubbling up from our sleep.
We make dates, and in our planners circling the day,
stretching our hearts back to find the joy of spirit at play.

Hands to hold horns, to balance paintbrushes, to stitch or weave,  
hands to cut silk into wishes, our body to breathe. 
For such love to share, the spark to create 
ignites almost everywhere.

We find our way here by moonglow of night sky,
starlight's glittering gems to string.
We hear the music of the heavens, 
and with our angels joyfully sing.

Yes, we must sing, or dance with scarves, or paint,
write, or sew, or beat on drums each day.
The rhythms in the tune, the story, the flower, 
on the canvas, or in the clay.

It is for all of these each time we should strive,
that we call forth our art to bless our lives.
Now standing in our circle, with our hands clasped tight,
thanking God for each other, before slipping back into the   night.

Mother's Message

In this space I've shared recent losses.  Many of my peers, my friends, are also facing impending loss.  It is that time for us.  And now, to add another:  my brother's mother-in-law.  Her daughters, including my sister-in-law, are struggling to deal with their mother's passing.  They, and my cousins, the son and daughter of Uncle Clayton, are left to re-shift their lives, to feel their way through a world without a beloved parent.   It is for them that I have finally decided to share my story.


I have thought a long time about publishing this for anyone to see.  My desire to connect with family and friends is strong, and I think that it is finally time to tell you.  I've told some of you individually before, when and where I felt that it was the right thing to do.  But now, I'm taking a big breath, to share with all of you, in this space, a very personal experience.  For those of you who have also experienced great loss, perhaps you will gain some comfort, and with this telling, I wish for all of you a wonderful, healthy, happy life, and, as I now possess, an assurance that there is indeed something wonderful well beyond what we mere mortals can imagine.


I lost my mother in August 2006.  Even saying this stops me in my tracks;  my throat immediately tightens, and my eyes begin to burn.   She was 82 years old and had heart disease as well as a history of mini-strokes and diabetes.   Her heart stopped at about 2 am and her non-resuscitate order meant that the nurses simply detached her monitor and called me.  Despite the aid of a pacemaker, her heart had stopped.  Yet, because she had been hospitalized for treatment of congestive heart failure, and was not apparently near death, we were shocked at her passing.  An intestinal infection had set in while she was in the hospital, what the doctor had said was fairly common in the elderly, especially, and not easy to quickly eradicate.  The day before while I was with her in her hospital room she complained once again of her "belly hurting."  I wish I could turn back the clock, demand more to be done to ease her pain and to treat the infection more aggressively.  I had no idea.


After getting the phone call, I needed to get to the hospital and to her bedside.  This couldn't be happening!  Quickly dressing, I rushed out to the driveway while Greg was grabbing the car keys and locking the door.  I looked up into the night sky, crying, and pleading, "Please don't leave!"  I turned in circles, staring toward the stars, begging over and over, "Please don't leave!"


She had been a rock in our family, a constant, and a reminder of what was what.  I loved her so much and I had depended through the years on her unwavering love as well as her no-nonsense approach to problem-solving.  To face a future without looking into her soft gray eyes, witnessing her strength, and listening to her advice was devastating. I felt so powerless.


It was to be less than a year later when I discovered that Mother had more to tell me.


My serving as executrix, and with my siblings, dealing with the dissolution and sale of her home were depleting. Yet, the spring following her death, while the family was still in the middle of sorting through her and my father's lifetime of belongings, my husband wanted to host a reunion for his side of the family at our home;  looking back, I believe Greg needed a renewed connection with his own family, realizing how quickly and profoundly loss can impact us all.  But this reunion was problematic in that there was great likelihood of drama surrounding certain members of the family and alcohol.  Frankly, I just didn't have the emotional stamina for this.  Yet, he flatly refused to discuss it, even becoming angry, when I asked that we decide how we might stand united in facing potential trouble; he wanted, instead, to hold to an optimistic image of a happy gathering, and by discussing anything less, he told me that I was denying him something important.  I felt so alone.


How much I needed Mother to direct and ground me.  One of her expressions, "Do the have-to things first," hung in the air around me, and I knew its meaning, but I couldn't accept its power or reassurance that, without her, I could meet this event with strength and grace.  I went to my bedroom, shut the door, and started praying, first silently, then out loud, and this then reduced to repeated begging.  "I need you, Mother;  I need you here now."  Over and over, with tears, and then agonized sobs:  "I need you!  I need you!  I need you here now!"   Pacing, I pointed to the foot of my bed, and felt that if I said it strongly enough, that I could will her to return, to appear, sit there, and talk to me.


It was at that very moment, in the middle of my tears and frantic pleas, that my cell phone started ringing.  I saw on the screen that it was my son, Michael.  Because both of my sons lead busy successful lives, are very independent, and rarely call just to check in, (it had been a couple of weeks since I'd heard from either one), I really needed to take this call.   I tried to regain some composure as I hit the talk button to say hello.


And Michael's first words were  "Mom, I need you."


Gulping back sobs and silently laughing at the same time, a warmth and tingling washing over me, my tension immediately subsiding,  I whispered away from the phone, "I get it, Mother!  It's my turn!"  Then I turned my full attention to my son.  He needed me.

Along My Way

When I go walking just before dawn,
streetlights filter through the palms, 
forming one shadow of me, maybe ten feet tall, 
leading me bravely on.


A short one, too,
just off to the right, still myself, close by. 
And when I look down to discover, 
that she stays there, by my side.


It's good to know that I've both the quest 
and the spirit
that I elongate, to push ahead 
with anticipation to keep a good pace, 
while my guardian shadow is there, just there,
with me,  my protecting grace.

Uncle Clayton: Fireball

Uncle Clayton had been married and totally devoted to my father's sister, Anna, for over 68 years.  When she passed away in August, the family knew that he would soon follow.  It was to be on January 4.  Instead of this entry being about his death, I want to describe a little bit about his life, with a highlight on a significant event.


He was a gregarious, big man, filling up the room with his energy.  As a little girl, I remember his good humor, punctuated by a big laugh, and to me, an even bigger cigar.


He and two brothers-in-law (husbands of two other sisters of my father) had gone into business together in Florida.  Uncle Clayton was the man who made the contacts, networking, schmoozing, and dining the clients.  The partners sold the very successful business, and where the other two took their share and enjoyed early retirement, Uncle Clayton couldn't and wouldn't stop working.  He thrived on it, and multiple businesses thrived in his hands.  (When my husband, Greg, told him how much he enjoyed being a substitute school bus driver in his retirement, Uncle Clayton kiddingly scoffed, "Aw, that's just playin' at work!"  But Uncle really meant it.)


After dissolving the last business, he still went to his office every day (even until 90 years old), where he managed his investments, paid his bills, and visited old friends who stopped by to eat lunch and reminisce at his desk.  He looked forward to taking his "Annie" out to the country club, and in their last years, the two, with help from their daughter, Susan, would each be pushed in their wheelchairs into the 19th Hole for breakfast or dinner.


From a small country town in West Virginia, he was reared with a very strong work ethic, acquiring a college degree and serving in the United States Navy during World War II. He was proud of his roots, and to the end, his memory was far better than many half his age.  Except following August, when he would ask after his Anna, forgetting for a moment that she was gone.  


I have some more stories about Uncle Clayton that I won't soon forget -- and I'll be happy to share -- but for now, this profound event:


Having owned progressively bigger boats, he ended ownership with a 38-foot cabin cruiser he would use to take clients out into Tampa Bay.  One client and his wife joined Uncle, Aunt Anna, and her sister, my Aunt Rosie.  Uncle had repeated the story with this:  "When he asked me to let him 'drive' the boat, I should have known better."  


What happened was a near catastrophe.  The client steered the boat improperly in the wake of a passing larger boat.  Uncle's cruiser lurched dramatically, throwing him from the flybridge into the bay, including breaking his arm as he grabbed at a railing trying to stay aboard.  He sank to the bottom of the bay, where he later described himself as being overwhelmed with the most beautiful light and a wonderful calm.  His happiness was short-lived, however, when he heard that it wasn't yet his time.  Later, when the Coast Guard pulled him from the water, they found not only that he was alive, but also that he had no water in his lungs.  From that moment, Uncle had never feared death.  So, in his last days in his nursing home room, when asked, he would say "No, I'm not afraid, because I know what is there waiting for me."  


I am quite sure that his sweet Anna was also waiting for him there, within the light.  

From Spinning to Knowing

It used to feel that the busy-ness of life  
set my world to spinning and blurring, 
a whirlwind threatening to evict me.
Fearing what might lie ahead, 
I would grab hold of the trunk 
of a stout oak tree. 


I'd feel my feet rise up as I'm blown sideways, 
clinging like a human flag, 
whipping in my own erratic thoughts
and wind-charged days.


Sure that if I just let go,
I took the chance of being
slung away into the clouds, from the earth so far,
shooting through the light, then dark of space, 
whacking and ricocheting against the stars.


But now, I accept with faith that I am instead 
the soft leaf quivering on my branch, 
proud of my green and the life forces flowing,
staying put for a while, with the sun on my face, 
and the sustenance of the roots 
filling me here with knowing.


Until the dry snap, and
my journey is on, setting me free 
to float on the current of air, 
love's purpose found in me.


And now joining so many others
all strongest sisters and bravest brothers.
I settle into the mound with them
where we can feel earth's tug and see 
that it's our time for a change, 
to ensure our rebirth 
into the roots of our tree.

A November Sunday at Treasure Island

This year's Treasure Island sand sculpture competition, called "Sanding Ovations," was entertaining, with the usual food and craft vendors and a jazz band.  We took a look on the final day, Sunday, November 20.  

Roy, a trombonist, is seated onstage in the center of the above picture, just in front of the standing trumpet holder.  Look for the jazzy tan hat and requisite shades.

Although the sand sculptures suffered a bit from heavy winds on Saturday night, they were still impressive.  Some examples:

The sky was a brilliant blue, the sand was white, and the day was perfect . . .

 We had a good day!

Entertaining Birds

Birds can be so entertaining.  For a time here at our townhome on the west coast of Florida, I'd been regularly awakened at about 5 am each day by a show-off mockingbird in the tree just outside our bedroom window.  It's a good thing that I'm a morning person, and that I wake in good humor, and that Greg can sleep through the racket of the trash truck in the neighborhood across from us, lifting a dumpster, emptying it, and crashing it to the pavement.   A few birds wouldn't even register on his noise tolerance gizmo. 


I get the litany of song snippets as if the fellow is saying "If you think that was a good one, just wait till you hear this!"  Then follows song-hopping with chirping, cooing, peeping, warbling, trilling, with two- and three-part melodies (maybe a calliope song slipping in there). 


A hedge borders the drive along the front of our building;  when the lawn service trims the greenery so that it becomes a compact shelf, often a Great White Egret stands atop it, with his long thin neck stick-straight like a vertical swiveling periscope, watching for the movement of the disturbed insects.  Then in a very slow forward movement, his head pivots down so that his outstretched neck is about ten o'clock to the hedge, and in a ballet movement, he lifts one skinny knobby backward-bending leg ever so slooooowly and steps forward, in a comical slow-motion creeping.  

Great White Egret
Picture taken from our (2nd floor) living room window

Up above the hedge, we've spotted an osprey sitting on a decorative 15-foot streetlight, skulking, full of menace (my perception), eyes-darting, looking for mammalian side-dishes to his usual saltwater meals. Feels kind of creepy knowing I'm being watched, so if I'm out there, I just keep moving.  Ospreys aren't as big as eagles, but they're very aggressive hunters and the local ones have effectively contained out of the ospreys' hunting area our resident American Bald Eagle couple that lives a few minutes' walk right down our road.  Our friends Roy and Sue aren't so entertained by "their" osprey who enjoys perching on their sailboat's mast -- doing what birds do, plus eating fish and making all kinds of a mess.   


Back on the subject of mockingbirds, on our sailing trip to Ocracoke Island off the coast of North Carolina,  Captain Roy, wife Sue, Greg and I, while there, went on an island walk to the lighthouse;  our attention was snagged by some squawking and rustling.  We looked above a large full-leafed tree and discovered the antics of a male mockingbird in some kind of pre-mating performance.  The object of his desire remained hidden from us, but she must have been some kind of wonderful for the effort he was making -- shooting straight up from the top of the tree about ten feet, shrieking, wings flapping, body flipping and twisting in an aerial show, back to the leafy branches, and then up again, over and over.  It was almost as if he had a tiny trampoline hidden from our view, that was launching him above the treetop.  We watched throughout his performance;   I'm not sure what good he would be as a suitor after all the energy he expended to impress the object of his ardor. 


I've got far more funny bird stories -- (ask me sometime about the Hilton Head seagull that pooped in Greg's soup) -- but I suppose I'd better pace myself.  Wouldn't want you to think that I've gone all birdbrained.