People from other lands are often puzzled by an ancient winter custom of my people – the building of a heart – so I will try to tell you about it, in words I hope you know. Language is different for us here. Sometimes we hum, or growl, or sigh a note, instead of using words, which can be so easily misunderstood. I’ll try to use words we’ll both understand.
When my people return at the end of autumn to reclaim our homes on the hard, on the island, we often build new hearts. It’s hard to keep a heart on a boat, or a raft, or in the underwater caves where some of us live in the warmer months. Hearts survive best on land, so when we become land dwellers again just before winter arrives, we inspect our hearts and do what we can to keep them going another year.
Everyone has a heart. I suppose that’s true even in your culture. But in my travels I’ve yet to wash up on a shore where hearts are built as they are here. From an early age we learn how to build our own hearts, because no one else can do it for you. With wisdom and age and a little luck our hearts survive, some even become stronger and more beautiful with each passing year. But there are those that shrivel up and blow away. I think that is true everywhere.
I remember, as a young girl, my first heart was built of sand – a castle with turrets and towers and spires and a secret keep and a moat. I built it too close to the high water mark, and a rogue wave washed it out to sea before I could show it to anyone. I felt foolish and didn’t build another heart for years.
We build our hearts along the coastline. They’re meant to be seen and shared with the whole village. They’re also meant to withstand the elements. What good is a heart that’s hidden in a cave?
Taking a walk along the hearts on a cold winter morning is a good way to see how your friends and family are faring. Some days you see a heart with a fresh coat of paint, or bright green sea glass adorning the walls, or saffron colored silk banners flying from the highest points, and you know someone has fallen in love, or given birth to a daughter, or written a poem.
And then, you might come upon a heart that has been neglected so long that sand has partially buried what the north wind couldn’t blow away. When you find a heart like that you visit its owner and sing or hum or rattle some shells or beat a drum. It helps – the sounds – better than any words. If you saw this friend on the street, without first visiting his sad heart, and asked him how he was he would say ‘Fine, really fine’ but his eyes would slide away before meeting yours. That’s the trouble with words. You need to visit your friend’s heart to know the truth.
Busy parents with young children quickly repair what they can each winter, hoping it’s enough to keep their hearts beating and intact for another year. They promise each other it will be different when the children are older, when they have time to care for themselves differently. They do the best they can.
Repairs and additions and improvements are good and necessary, but sometimes, you just have to tear down what you’ve got, especially when you no longer recognize it as your own, and start from scratch.
By the way, it’s best not to build a new heart when you are discouraged or depressed or despairing. Why do you have so many words for this? Sleep and chocolate is best in this dark place. Too many people wear themselves out when they should just be sleeping. Building a new heart requires energy.
Sometimes, things get a little out of hand with our hearts – maybe it’s like that where you are too? Like the night young Sam Wilson fell in love, for the first time, and he lit a torch atop his heart, drawing the entire village to the beach with the blaze. It was one of the coldest nights of the winter, so cold that the smaller waves near the inner sandbar froze mid-curl. We all sang with Sam, voices raised to the heavens, until the wind came up and a spark flew to the heart just down the beach – wouldn’t you know that one was made of straw? It caught the flame, and sent it to the heart beside it, and soon half the hearts on the island were in flames.
That might sound like a disaster where you come from, but for us it was a wild night of...well...love and passion. So much fire, burning like that on a beach in the dead of winter can do that to you, especially when you’ve lived most of your life in the water. The heat was so intense, most of us had sunburns the next morning, and nine months later so many babies were born. But that was a long while ago.
It’s best to be done, really done, with your old heart before building a new one. We all know what it feels like, the knowing that it’s time to build an entirely new heart, but there is no word for it. There is a sound - the sound the ocean makes just after slack tide, when the moon pulls the sea towards it again, so far away. It sounds like that. Maybe you can’t hear it where you are.
You need to remove what’s left of your old heart, sorry and dilapidated as it may be, before building the new one. There are almost as many ways to do this as there are ways to say “I love you”. How many ways can you say it in your language?
You could wait for the next northeaster to blow and let the storm tides carry it away, back to the sea, especially if your heart came from the sea to begin with.
There’s a ceremony for burning the old heart down – which is very different from the way Sam Wilson did all those years ago. You do this alone, on the night of the solstice, singing to the smoke that curls up to the stars. It’s our oldest song, the one with no words. Even babies know this song.
Or, you could slowly dismantle it, saving what you can, giving away what you no longer need, returning pieces of it to the ones you once loved, and maybe still love.
We have a word for it – no matter how you do this part – we call it remembering. You have this word, but I’m not sure if it means the same thing in your language.
It’s best to be mindful when choosing materials for your new heart, and in no particular hurry.
I remember the year I build a new heart, after my husband sailed away with that stupid girl from the next island. I tore down the heart I’d been building for years with him, the one I thought he loved. It was a modern heart – all sharp angles and abstract forms. He said he loved it, but really, who could love a heart like that? I didn’t even love it. After he left I borrowed a bulldozer from my neighbor and ran it over. When it was flattened and shattered and scattered all over the beach, I grabbed the nearest thing I could find – an old grandmother sea turtle’s shell, and plopped it down over the place where my old heart had been. It was like that for years. I almost forgot how to love. But one day I replaced that old shell with a new heart and life went on.
So, it’s best to build a new heart when you’re strong and healthy and ready to let go of the old.
That’s where I am today, on the edge of this winter, gathering the raw materials for my new heart.
In your culture, where youth is king and queen, you might find it amusing that a fifty year old woman would even be considering building a new heart. You would probably make a sitcom about it. But here, we write songs about the elders (and I’m a fairly young elder) who build new hearts. They are our heroes. Who has more courage than us, starting afresh yet again when our bodies and minds are slowing down, settling into a new rhthym?
This heart will be like a tent, made of rich tapestries that I’ve been weaving all my life, with threads pulled from every story I’ve told and every dream I’ve dreamed. The ceiling will be the stars, the moon will illuminate the inner chambers, each one filled with a different color (magenta and periwinkle) or sound (laughter and bells and incoming waves).
I am still gathering a few more special objects – an imperfect conch shell, a smooth, warm stone, the soft rosy sand from the cove on the east end of the island. And there, something small and blue caught in the strand line, in the dried seaweed and driftwood. The brilliance of the blue – like lapis with gold flecks – draws me closer. It’s a feather, a blue gull feather. You don’t have blue gulls in your land, and even here they are rare.
I reach for the feather, just as another hand reaches for it as well. He has one end of it. I have the other.
We look up in surprise, then recognition - another old soul, deeply lined face, deeply blue eyes, building a new heart of his own.
He opens his mouth, but no words come out, only the sigh that we all hear when we fall in love.
Is it the same in your land?
Monday, November 27, 2006
Thursday, November 9, 2006
On Falling in Love at Fifty
It may not always be so, but today
He stands on my doorstep, flowers in hand, wearing a smile that radiates light.
I forget that he’s an hour late.
It may not always be so, but today
He laughs at my jokes, sighs and holds me tight when I tell a sad tale.
I begin to trust.
It may not always be so, but today
He says I make the most delicious roast chicken and gravy he’s ever tasted.
I offer him seconds.
It may not always be so, but today
He writes poetry…for me.
I begin to surrender.
It may not always be so, but today
He gives me the gift of a book about adventure and love and sailing, and we take turns reading aloud to one another.
Bliss.
It may not always be so, but today
He assures me I’m much more interesting than women half my age.
Hmmm….I’ve become interesting.
It may not always be so, but today
He tells me my writing must be shared with the world.
I feel a little dizzy.
It may not always be so, but today
He whispers his desire for me.
I hear him clearly, even though his lips are pressed against my bad ear.
When will I tell him I have a bad ear?
It may not always be so, but today
He thanks God for our good fortune and asks for blessings as we begin this journey.
I whisper ‘Amen’.
It may not always be so, but today
He tells me I am the one.
It may not always be so, but today
I am.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Her Name is Periwinkle
"Keep the red channel markers close on your port side," shouts the old fisherman at the dock.
"Thanks," I reply.
We wave goodbye. I turn Periwinkle around and head down river, hugging the edge of the narrow channel. It's a quiet, gray afternoon. Fog is rolling in from the ocean. The only sounds are the steady rumble of the diesel engine, the call of the sea gulls flying overhead, and the pounding of my heart.
Yesterday Periwinkle was launched.
Thank you to the many friends who have put up with me these last couple of months as I navigated the tricky waters of purchasing an older boat and getting her ready to launch. Thank you for understanding when I didn't return emails promptly, when I turned down social engagements because I had to work on the boat; and worse yet, when I broke appointments because of last minute launching details. My apologies. You will be among the first aboard.
Thank you to the boat yard guys - the crew who did all the things I couldn't do myself, especially the foreman who fielded my daily phone calls gently nudging/nagging/whining/demanding/cajoling - basically doing whatever I could at the other end of the phone to move things along. I think he was happier than me to see us finally leave the dock yesterday.
Thank you to the other boaters at the yard who offered advice and encouragement along the way. Lobstermen, sailors, pleasure boaters, fishermen, all eager to share stories and warn me about the mud flats to avoid on the way to the harbor.
Thank you to the readers of my blog who wondered what happened to me.
This is what happened to me.
I fell in love with a sailboat.
I never really understood before why boats were referred to as 'she' and not 'it'. I've owned other sailboats, and they were always 'it' to me, not 'she'.
"It handles nicely, " I might say to a friend. Or "Its name is Simplify", or "It's blue".
But Periwinkle is different. Or maybe I'm different.
Now I understand why for eons men have referred to boats using the feminine pronoun - somehow they transform from inanimate objects to objects of desire. They become the focus of an outpouring of emotions: love, commitment, frustration, joy, heartbreak.
For me, I was attracted to her from the moment I first saw her photo on the internet. (Before I go any further, let me just say that I am devoutly heterosexual, except when it comes to my sailboat)
A friend found her on yachtworld.com and sent me the link. Thank you Mark for the introduction.
Then I met her in person at her home "on the hard" at a boatyard in Rhode Island. Her previous owner clearly loved her - it showed in every detail. He had five large loose leaf binders filled with documentation, notes, maintenance schedules, manuals. I love to read about things, so that alone was a major turn on.
She was adorable, but I really wanted a larger version of the same boat. I spent another month looking at other boats, and after each encounter, "she" looked more and more appealing.
I made an offer, then spent a cold day in April on board with a marine surveyor, checking every system and fitting, going over the rig and the hull and the engine. About half way through, when it looked as though there were no major issues to deal with, I said to the surveyor "I'm starting to love this boat". He laughed and said "She's looking very good".
Negotions followed, along with many trips to Rhode Island, and finally she was mine. Just after Memorial Day she was hauled up to the boat yard in Beverly, but still "on the hard" waiting to be rigged and painted and have all the minor repairs and mainenance items tended to before launching. I would drive to the boatyard after work, getting there with at most two hours of daylight left, and I would putter around, fix things, clean stuff. I removed the old name and applied the new one, offering the appropriate prayers to Neptune and Poseidon and gods and goddesses unseen. Sometimes I would just sit in the cockpit and eat a take out dinner and watch the sun set over the Bass River. One of the other boat owners confessed that he enjoyed seeing me, sitting at the wheel on dry land, with a far off look in my eyes. He understood how I felt, how eager I was to be on the water, sailing her, testing her and myself at the same time.
While she was on the hard I got to know her slowly, and loved her more all the time. I loved her when I scrubbed the decks. I loved her when I learned how to crawl into the engine compartment and empty water from the fuel filter. I loved her when I refinished the teak woodwork. I wondered what she would be like when she was on the water, how she would handle, what she would do well, what she would need to be coaxed to do, how she would respond to my touch. That's when it began to feel more like love, that eagerness to know another, to experience how we would be together, to imagine the exhilaration of sharing a day on the open ocean, spending the night in a cozy harbor, gently rocking to sleep with her.
She's on her mooring in Salem now. I think of her often and wonder when I'll see her again, and what we'll do together.
If I leave now, I can get there before the rain comes.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Nyquil - My Drug of Choice
It’s day nine of an unpleasant and unwelcome virus. My body aches from the coughing, from the fever, from lying down for so long. I can’t think clearly. My moods swing from bored to irritable to restless to comatose. In an energetic and lucid moment I stand for three minutes in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and I break out in a cold sweat. I’m tired of being sick.
In the last nine days I’ve come to realize there are few creatures less sympathetic to the needs of a sick woman than her own teenage children.
My fifteen year old son, Tom, came home from school, saw me sprawled on the sofa under a blanket with a pile of wadded up tissues beside me, my unwashed hair sticking out in all directions from lying on a pillow all day, and he said “Mom, you’re a mess.”
Ok, there was perhaps more than a shred of truth in that statement, but still…not very kind.
Later, when I asked him to take the dog for a walk he said “How do you get your voice to sound like that? You sound like Marge Simpson, no, you sound like one of her chain smoking sisters. It’s kinda cool. Say something else.”
When I moaned something like “I feel awful”, my daughter Ali, the fitness fiend, suggested that perhaps a brisk walk around the block would clear my head. I gave her an evil look. I don’t think she took it too seriously, what with my red nose, bloodshot eyes, and hair sticking up in weird cowlicks.
In a fever induced nap I concoct a fantasy about my perfect man and all the delicious and delightful things he’d do for me. No, unfortunately, not that kind of fantasy. Here’s what unfolds:
“Darling,” he says in his deep bass Barry White voice, kneeling beside the sofa where I’ve taken up residence this week. “I know you don’t feel well, but you look absolutely amazing. The fever brings such a lovely flush to your cheeks.”
He leans in and gives me a sweet kiss on the forehead. “Look what I’ve brought home for you” he says, holding up several bags from CVS. “Here’s the latest issue of People magazine. You’re such a brilliant woman…I know you don’t usually read stuff like this, but when you’re sick it’s ok to give your brain a rest. And I bought the extra soft tissues with lotion in them, so your nose doesn’t get all red and chafed. I stopped at the video store and rented all the old Tracy and Hepburn movies I could find. I’m going to fix you a nice bowl of orange sherbet and a tall glass of diet coke with lots of ice. Won’t that make your throat feel better?"
God, how I love this man.
While I watch my favorite videos he massages my aching muscles. He brushes my hair. He changes the pillowcase so it feels fresh and cool against my skin. He says the most amazing things, like “The dog’s been walked, the kids are fed, the kitchen is clean – what else can I do for you my dear?”
He is incredible.
Later that night, when I’ve moved from the sofa to our bed, he says “I have a surprise for you, something that I know you really like.” And, with a flourish he produces a bottle of Cherry Flavored Nyquil.
“You’re too good to be real,” I say, smiling gratefully before I swallow the magic elixir that will guarantee a good night’s sleep.
At least I still have my imagination.
In the last nine days I’ve come to realize there are few creatures less sympathetic to the needs of a sick woman than her own teenage children.
My fifteen year old son, Tom, came home from school, saw me sprawled on the sofa under a blanket with a pile of wadded up tissues beside me, my unwashed hair sticking out in all directions from lying on a pillow all day, and he said “Mom, you’re a mess.”
Ok, there was perhaps more than a shred of truth in that statement, but still…not very kind.
Later, when I asked him to take the dog for a walk he said “How do you get your voice to sound like that? You sound like Marge Simpson, no, you sound like one of her chain smoking sisters. It’s kinda cool. Say something else.”
When I moaned something like “I feel awful”, my daughter Ali, the fitness fiend, suggested that perhaps a brisk walk around the block would clear my head. I gave her an evil look. I don’t think she took it too seriously, what with my red nose, bloodshot eyes, and hair sticking up in weird cowlicks.
In a fever induced nap I concoct a fantasy about my perfect man and all the delicious and delightful things he’d do for me. No, unfortunately, not that kind of fantasy. Here’s what unfolds:
“Darling,” he says in his deep bass Barry White voice, kneeling beside the sofa where I’ve taken up residence this week. “I know you don’t feel well, but you look absolutely amazing. The fever brings such a lovely flush to your cheeks.”
He leans in and gives me a sweet kiss on the forehead. “Look what I’ve brought home for you” he says, holding up several bags from CVS. “Here’s the latest issue of People magazine. You’re such a brilliant woman…I know you don’t usually read stuff like this, but when you’re sick it’s ok to give your brain a rest. And I bought the extra soft tissues with lotion in them, so your nose doesn’t get all red and chafed. I stopped at the video store and rented all the old Tracy and Hepburn movies I could find. I’m going to fix you a nice bowl of orange sherbet and a tall glass of diet coke with lots of ice. Won’t that make your throat feel better?"
God, how I love this man.
While I watch my favorite videos he massages my aching muscles. He brushes my hair. He changes the pillowcase so it feels fresh and cool against my skin. He says the most amazing things, like “The dog’s been walked, the kids are fed, the kitchen is clean – what else can I do for you my dear?”
He is incredible.
Later that night, when I’ve moved from the sofa to our bed, he says “I have a surprise for you, something that I know you really like.” And, with a flourish he produces a bottle of Cherry Flavored Nyquil.
“You’re too good to be real,” I say, smiling gratefully before I swallow the magic elixir that will guarantee a good night’s sleep.
At least I still have my imagination.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
What's for Dinner?
“On behalf of the crew of America West flight 820, I’d like to welcome you to Boston. At this time you may turn on your cell phones.”
There’s a general rustling about in the cabin as passengers unbuckle their seat belts and find their cell phones. I turn mine on and the message waiting tone sounds immediately. It’s from Tom, my 15 year old son.
“Hi Mom. Dad had to leave on a business trip today, so I’m at your house. I’ll see you when you get home.”
It’s 8:30 pm. I’m tired after a long day of travel. First, a two hour drive to Phoenix, then a two hour wait at the airport, followed by a five hour flight to Boston. I’m tired…very tired. I’m also very happy to be back in my part of the world. All in all it was a challenging week in Sedona, as I attempted to let go of thoughts and emotions that were clinging to me like barnacles on a rusty old barge. Yes, I do feel like a rusty old barge at the moment.
It turns out that combining a spiritual retreat with the ending of a relationship that never really began is not a good way to use up your vacation time.
My phone rings. This time it’s my oldest son Ben.
“Where are you?” he says. Ben is a man of few words. ‘Hello’ doesn’t seem to be one of them.
“We just landed. I’ll be off the plane soon. Where are you?” I ask, praying he’s at least close to the airport, hoping he hasn’t forgotten to pick me up.
“I’m here. I’m at the baggage claim.”
Prayer answered.
Ten minutes later I find Ben.
“Hi Mommy”, he says in a silly, sheepish voice. Then he hugs me the way a twenty year old man/boy hugs his mother…reluctantly. As if to make up for his lack of enthusiasm he offers to take my heavy backpack.
“Thanks”, I say. “Wait here; I’ll go find my bag.”
Standing at the carousel, watching the endless stream of black suitcases, all the same shape and size as mine, it occurs to me it’s time to buy new luggage…in an outrageous color, or at least personalized in some way. Perhaps bumper stickers would do the trick. Why don’t people put bumper stickers on their suitcases? Maybe there’s a market for that. I’m imagining the stickers people used to put on their steamer trunks – all the far off end points of their journeys, or dreamed of destinations. I think of my travels in life, really all of our travels in life. Would there be a market for a suitcase sticker for middle aged single parents that says “To hell and back”?
My daydream is interrupted by my ringing cell phone. It’s Tom again.
“Where are you?” he wants to know.
“I’m waiting for my bag. We’ll be home within an hour.” I tell him.
“Well, I’m really hungry”, he says.
“You haven’t had dinner yet?” I ask.
“No, I was waiting for you. And I don’t think there’s anything here to eat. Could you pick up a pizza on the way home?”
“Everything will be closed by the time we get home.”
“I’m really hungry, Mom”, he says.
“Ok, I’ll think of something.”
Just then Ben walks up and asks “What’s for dinner? There’s nothing in the house.”
I take a deep breath, and answer in a voice that attempts to be calm and centered, but probably ends up sounding rather shrill. “I haven’t been home for ten days. It’s nine o’clock at night. I’m exhausted. I can’t find my suitcase. And you expect me to be cooking dinner tonight?”
The woman standing beside me takes her eyes off the carousel long enough to catch mine, and smiles. She must have children.
In the end, we all go out to dinner. The boys entertain me with stories and jokes and silliness. I ask them what they would have done for dinner if my flight had been cancelled. “Don’t worry Mom”, they reassure me, “We’ve seen enough episodes of Survivor Man on the Discovery Channel. We could have made it for days on dry Cheerios, and even built a shelter with the cardboard box if the house burned down.” It’s good to know they are so self reliant.
Days later, Tom asks as casually as possible, “So, how’d it go with that guy in Sedona?”
Tom knows "that guy's" name, but referring to him as "that guy" keeps him at a safe distance. So far, he is not a real person in Tom's world, just a voice on the other end of the daily phone calls to his mother. The question he's asking is partly about whether or not "that guy" will become part of his reality.
Just as casually I reply “Oh, that didn’t work out. It’s over.”
He pats me on the back and says “Well, we all knew that would happen. The fact that he lives 2,600 miles away should have been a clue.”
I pause for a moment, thinking about everything Tom is saying with those two statements. He and his siblings have discussed this, obviously. Ick. A variety of emotions get tossed around between my semi-broken heart and my heavily bruised ego. Regret, longing, despair, disappointment, embarrassment, anger, despair again just in case I needed some more of that. There is probably something wise I could say here, some explanation, some defense. Perhaps this would be a good time to talk about relationships. Who am I kidding? I’m not ready for that.
“Actually, when we were 2,600 miles apart, we got along great. When we were in the same room…not so great.” This is the best I can do, and closer to the truth than any other explanation I've tried to come up with since.
Tom gives me a big hug. I’m grateful his hugs are not yet reluctant. Maybe they never will be.
“I love you, Mom”, he whispers in my ear. “You’re the best.”
He breaks the embrace, clears his throat and asks, “So, what’s for dinner?”
There’s a general rustling about in the cabin as passengers unbuckle their seat belts and find their cell phones. I turn mine on and the message waiting tone sounds immediately. It’s from Tom, my 15 year old son.
“Hi Mom. Dad had to leave on a business trip today, so I’m at your house. I’ll see you when you get home.”
It’s 8:30 pm. I’m tired after a long day of travel. First, a two hour drive to Phoenix, then a two hour wait at the airport, followed by a five hour flight to Boston. I’m tired…very tired. I’m also very happy to be back in my part of the world. All in all it was a challenging week in Sedona, as I attempted to let go of thoughts and emotions that were clinging to me like barnacles on a rusty old barge. Yes, I do feel like a rusty old barge at the moment.
It turns out that combining a spiritual retreat with the ending of a relationship that never really began is not a good way to use up your vacation time.
My phone rings. This time it’s my oldest son Ben.
“Where are you?” he says. Ben is a man of few words. ‘Hello’ doesn’t seem to be one of them.
“We just landed. I’ll be off the plane soon. Where are you?” I ask, praying he’s at least close to the airport, hoping he hasn’t forgotten to pick me up.
“I’m here. I’m at the baggage claim.”
Prayer answered.
Ten minutes later I find Ben.
“Hi Mommy”, he says in a silly, sheepish voice. Then he hugs me the way a twenty year old man/boy hugs his mother…reluctantly. As if to make up for his lack of enthusiasm he offers to take my heavy backpack.
“Thanks”, I say. “Wait here; I’ll go find my bag.”
Standing at the carousel, watching the endless stream of black suitcases, all the same shape and size as mine, it occurs to me it’s time to buy new luggage…in an outrageous color, or at least personalized in some way. Perhaps bumper stickers would do the trick. Why don’t people put bumper stickers on their suitcases? Maybe there’s a market for that. I’m imagining the stickers people used to put on their steamer trunks – all the far off end points of their journeys, or dreamed of destinations. I think of my travels in life, really all of our travels in life. Would there be a market for a suitcase sticker for middle aged single parents that says “To hell and back”?
My daydream is interrupted by my ringing cell phone. It’s Tom again.
“Where are you?” he wants to know.
“I’m waiting for my bag. We’ll be home within an hour.” I tell him.
“Well, I’m really hungry”, he says.
“You haven’t had dinner yet?” I ask.
“No, I was waiting for you. And I don’t think there’s anything here to eat. Could you pick up a pizza on the way home?”
“Everything will be closed by the time we get home.”
“I’m really hungry, Mom”, he says.
“Ok, I’ll think of something.”
Just then Ben walks up and asks “What’s for dinner? There’s nothing in the house.”
I take a deep breath, and answer in a voice that attempts to be calm and centered, but probably ends up sounding rather shrill. “I haven’t been home for ten days. It’s nine o’clock at night. I’m exhausted. I can’t find my suitcase. And you expect me to be cooking dinner tonight?”
The woman standing beside me takes her eyes off the carousel long enough to catch mine, and smiles. She must have children.
In the end, we all go out to dinner. The boys entertain me with stories and jokes and silliness. I ask them what they would have done for dinner if my flight had been cancelled. “Don’t worry Mom”, they reassure me, “We’ve seen enough episodes of Survivor Man on the Discovery Channel. We could have made it for days on dry Cheerios, and even built a shelter with the cardboard box if the house burned down.” It’s good to know they are so self reliant.
Days later, Tom asks as casually as possible, “So, how’d it go with that guy in Sedona?”
Tom knows "that guy's" name, but referring to him as "that guy" keeps him at a safe distance. So far, he is not a real person in Tom's world, just a voice on the other end of the daily phone calls to his mother. The question he's asking is partly about whether or not "that guy" will become part of his reality.
Just as casually I reply “Oh, that didn’t work out. It’s over.”
He pats me on the back and says “Well, we all knew that would happen. The fact that he lives 2,600 miles away should have been a clue.”
I pause for a moment, thinking about everything Tom is saying with those two statements. He and his siblings have discussed this, obviously. Ick. A variety of emotions get tossed around between my semi-broken heart and my heavily bruised ego. Regret, longing, despair, disappointment, embarrassment, anger, despair again just in case I needed some more of that. There is probably something wise I could say here, some explanation, some defense. Perhaps this would be a good time to talk about relationships. Who am I kidding? I’m not ready for that.
“Actually, when we were 2,600 miles apart, we got along great. When we were in the same room…not so great.” This is the best I can do, and closer to the truth than any other explanation I've tried to come up with since.
Tom gives me a big hug. I’m grateful his hugs are not yet reluctant. Maybe they never will be.
“I love you, Mom”, he whispers in my ear. “You’re the best.”
He breaks the embrace, clears his throat and asks, “So, what’s for dinner?”
Monday, April 10, 2006
The Mulleygrubs
It seems I've had an undiagnosed case of the mulleygrubs which led to an acute attack of writer's block. Now that it's been properly identified, and I've discovered the cure, I'm ready to resume blogging.
What's your cure for the mulleygrubs?
The Cure
Ginger Andrews
Lying around all day
with some strange new deep blue
weekend funk, I'm not really asleep
when my sister calls
to say she's just hung up
from talking with Aunt Bertha
who is 89 and ill but managing
to take care of Uncle Frank
who is completely bed ridden.
Aunt Bert says
it's snowing there in Arkansas,
on Catfish Lane, and she hasn't been
able to walk out to their mailbox.
She's been suffering
from a bad case of the mulleygrubs.
The cure for the mulleygrubs,
she tells my sister,
is to get up and bake a cake.
If that doesn't do it, put on a red dress.
What's your cure for the mulleygrubs?
The Cure
Ginger Andrews
Lying around all day
with some strange new deep blue
weekend funk, I'm not really asleep
when my sister calls
to say she's just hung up
from talking with Aunt Bertha
who is 89 and ill but managing
to take care of Uncle Frank
who is completely bed ridden.
Aunt Bert says
it's snowing there in Arkansas,
on Catfish Lane, and she hasn't been
able to walk out to their mailbox.
She's been suffering
from a bad case of the mulleygrubs.
The cure for the mulleygrubs,
she tells my sister,
is to get up and bake a cake.
If that doesn't do it, put on a red dress.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Snowflake Blessings
I'm in Sedona, Arizona this week at the Sedona Method 7 Day Retreat (www.sedona.com). I'm enjoying being, and letting go of doing, at least for this week. So, here's a piece I wrote in January on a snowy New England morning after returning from my first trip to Sedona. New writings will appear next week...
There are blessings in the snowflakes, benedictions of peace and love and joy, falling from the sky. The earth is blanketed with silence, my house is silent too. I try to be as quiet, on the inside, as the space that surrounds me. Trying though, is struggling, so I stop trying, and just rest as silence…listening for God.
God’s voice is very quiet – like a hum, low but steady, always there beneath the surface noise of this world, and my chattering thoughts. God spoke to me in Sedona, in the land of the Red Rocks, the sacred sites of Native Americans, and the energy vortexes that twist the limbs of trees as they spiral towards heaven. I traveled to Sedona in December, to spend a week at a meditation retreat. It was all very last minute, I almost cancelled the day before, feeling the constraints of my world closing in. But somehow I found myself on the plane, then in Phoenix, then on a shuttle bus to Sedona. The landscape spread out before me – desert and cactus and pinons and mountains. The mountains were red, and the color was like food for my eyes. I wanted to soak it up, from my eyes directly to my brain, then to my heart and body and soul. I was hungry for the color – the deep red mountains against the brilliant blue sky.
In Sedona, my body was humming all the time, a low vibration in every cell of my being, a gentle energy flowing through me, waking me up, inviting me to be present. I welcomed it at first, and effortlessly slid into a different state of being. The meditations were powerful and easy. Too easy, thought my mind that always wants to make trouble for me. So in the middle of the retreat I hit the wall. Didn’t want to meditate, wanted to sleep, be away from the people I was engaging with, wanted to isolate myself, crawl into my familiar cave of ignorance. But, the gentle vibrations of Sedona broke through that wall, letting God’s love flow again.
I’ve been on many retreats over the years, I’ve sat for hours on the meditation cushion, quieting my mind, wrestling with my demons, glimpsing peace and yearning for more. This experience was different, although it’s difficult to find the words that describe just how it was different. This was easy, effortless, as old beliefs slid away, revealing the truth beneath that there is nothing to be done, that all is well as it is. I laughed more than ever that week. And the laughter was also a way to release burdens, to sing praise to the Universe.
Sometimes the retreat leader, Hale Dwoskin, would start laughing, and before we knew it, we were all laughing, the room was filled with laughter, echoing between the distant red mountains outside, and the tender walls of my heart. There was the hearty laughter of another that caught my heart, and caused it to skip a beat – the big Texan, with the deep, smooth drawl and brilliant golden/green eyes. The man who once lived on sailboats, and had just moved to Sedona. Who would have imagined I would meet a sailor in Sedona, another spiritual seeker, with a laugh that makes my bones vibrate. Such a sweet connection was formed – sitting across from one another at dinner that first night –when we realized we were both sailors, then having lunch later in the week, surfing the internet with his laptop – sharing our favorite sailing websites. Then my last day in Sedona, driving through the canyons and up into the mountains together. A perfect day of ease, of being with another without expectation. I hear him laugh now, and it shakes the snow from the highest branches of the trees in my backyard.
On other retreats, coming home has not been easy, as a matter of fact it has been disastrous, as I try to reconcile the peace and quiet of meditating with a supportive spiritual community, with the life of a single parent with 3 teenagers. I used to compare re-entry to my life with that of the space shuttle entering the atmosphere after its peaceful orbit of the planet. Would I be able to withstand the pressures, the friction, would my heat shield fail?
But this time, there seemed little difference between here and there, almost no separation between the world I discovered in Sedona, and the world I returned to. The world is the same, it’s me that’s changed. My fear of heights is gone – as is the disabling anxiety that used to grip me when I drove over bridges. I’ve driven to Portland, Maine, and southern NJ since I returned. At least 10 bridges – all of which I struggled with in the past – but now I traveled with ease. No fear. Just incredible views of the Pemigewasset River, the Hudson, the inland waterways of coastal NJ and the great Atlantic Ocean beyond. My ‘story’ is that bridges represented transition for me, going from the known to the unknown, and that however much I might want to get to the other side, I might avoid the trip altogether because of fear. Could I allow myself to be as fearless in all areas of my life? Could I welcome the unknown, let go of trying to figure everything out, let go of wanting to know how the story will end before I even start writing it?
Life has supplied an abundance of challenges since my return – my mother had a mild stroke, my youngest son had a mild concussion, and yet time spent in hospitals and nursing homes did not carry the same energy as in the past. I wouldn’t say it was stress free, but there was more ease than I would have expected, especially when I remembered to ask for divine guidance, and to listen to the silence. And my inner life is busy as ever, as I wrestle with my demons, although maybe now it’s not wrestling, it’s more like Aikido, redirecting the energy, letting it all arise and be released, lightening the burden of attachment and aversion, leaving room for God.
I close my eyes and I see the powerful red rocks of Sedona, emanating their own energy and healing. I open my eyes and I’m here, in the snowy white world of silence. I hear God whispering. Each snowflake is a blessing, a benediction, a quiet reminder to be still, to listen, to simply be.
There are blessings in the snowflakes, benedictions of peace and love and joy, falling from the sky. The earth is blanketed with silence, my house is silent too. I try to be as quiet, on the inside, as the space that surrounds me. Trying though, is struggling, so I stop trying, and just rest as silence…listening for God.
God’s voice is very quiet – like a hum, low but steady, always there beneath the surface noise of this world, and my chattering thoughts. God spoke to me in Sedona, in the land of the Red Rocks, the sacred sites of Native Americans, and the energy vortexes that twist the limbs of trees as they spiral towards heaven. I traveled to Sedona in December, to spend a week at a meditation retreat. It was all very last minute, I almost cancelled the day before, feeling the constraints of my world closing in. But somehow I found myself on the plane, then in Phoenix, then on a shuttle bus to Sedona. The landscape spread out before me – desert and cactus and pinons and mountains. The mountains were red, and the color was like food for my eyes. I wanted to soak it up, from my eyes directly to my brain, then to my heart and body and soul. I was hungry for the color – the deep red mountains against the brilliant blue sky.
In Sedona, my body was humming all the time, a low vibration in every cell of my being, a gentle energy flowing through me, waking me up, inviting me to be present. I welcomed it at first, and effortlessly slid into a different state of being. The meditations were powerful and easy. Too easy, thought my mind that always wants to make trouble for me. So in the middle of the retreat I hit the wall. Didn’t want to meditate, wanted to sleep, be away from the people I was engaging with, wanted to isolate myself, crawl into my familiar cave of ignorance. But, the gentle vibrations of Sedona broke through that wall, letting God’s love flow again.
I’ve been on many retreats over the years, I’ve sat for hours on the meditation cushion, quieting my mind, wrestling with my demons, glimpsing peace and yearning for more. This experience was different, although it’s difficult to find the words that describe just how it was different. This was easy, effortless, as old beliefs slid away, revealing the truth beneath that there is nothing to be done, that all is well as it is. I laughed more than ever that week. And the laughter was also a way to release burdens, to sing praise to the Universe.
Sometimes the retreat leader, Hale Dwoskin, would start laughing, and before we knew it, we were all laughing, the room was filled with laughter, echoing between the distant red mountains outside, and the tender walls of my heart. There was the hearty laughter of another that caught my heart, and caused it to skip a beat – the big Texan, with the deep, smooth drawl and brilliant golden/green eyes. The man who once lived on sailboats, and had just moved to Sedona. Who would have imagined I would meet a sailor in Sedona, another spiritual seeker, with a laugh that makes my bones vibrate. Such a sweet connection was formed – sitting across from one another at dinner that first night –when we realized we were both sailors, then having lunch later in the week, surfing the internet with his laptop – sharing our favorite sailing websites. Then my last day in Sedona, driving through the canyons and up into the mountains together. A perfect day of ease, of being with another without expectation. I hear him laugh now, and it shakes the snow from the highest branches of the trees in my backyard.
On other retreats, coming home has not been easy, as a matter of fact it has been disastrous, as I try to reconcile the peace and quiet of meditating with a supportive spiritual community, with the life of a single parent with 3 teenagers. I used to compare re-entry to my life with that of the space shuttle entering the atmosphere after its peaceful orbit of the planet. Would I be able to withstand the pressures, the friction, would my heat shield fail?
But this time, there seemed little difference between here and there, almost no separation between the world I discovered in Sedona, and the world I returned to. The world is the same, it’s me that’s changed. My fear of heights is gone – as is the disabling anxiety that used to grip me when I drove over bridges. I’ve driven to Portland, Maine, and southern NJ since I returned. At least 10 bridges – all of which I struggled with in the past – but now I traveled with ease. No fear. Just incredible views of the Pemigewasset River, the Hudson, the inland waterways of coastal NJ and the great Atlantic Ocean beyond. My ‘story’ is that bridges represented transition for me, going from the known to the unknown, and that however much I might want to get to the other side, I might avoid the trip altogether because of fear. Could I allow myself to be as fearless in all areas of my life? Could I welcome the unknown, let go of trying to figure everything out, let go of wanting to know how the story will end before I even start writing it?
Life has supplied an abundance of challenges since my return – my mother had a mild stroke, my youngest son had a mild concussion, and yet time spent in hospitals and nursing homes did not carry the same energy as in the past. I wouldn’t say it was stress free, but there was more ease than I would have expected, especially when I remembered to ask for divine guidance, and to listen to the silence. And my inner life is busy as ever, as I wrestle with my demons, although maybe now it’s not wrestling, it’s more like Aikido, redirecting the energy, letting it all arise and be released, lightening the burden of attachment and aversion, leaving room for God.
I close my eyes and I see the powerful red rocks of Sedona, emanating their own energy and healing. I open my eyes and I’m here, in the snowy white world of silence. I hear God whispering. Each snowflake is a blessing, a benediction, a quiet reminder to be still, to listen, to simply be.
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