The crust of sleep is broken Abruptly— I look drowsily Through the wide crack. I do not know whether I see Three minds, bird-shaped, Flashing upon the bough of morning; Or three delicately tinted souls Butterflying in the sun; Or three brown-fleshed, husky children Sprawling hilarious Over my bed And me. ~Jeanne D’Orge “Matins”(published in 1917)
This morning I broke through the misty tides of my dreams, surfacing to cool morning air and prelude of a dawn bird chorus.
Today I wake imagining who I might be from a myriad of dreams…
Sometimes I wake as if once again a young girl, sun coming through frilly curtains to shower my face with a warming light.
Sometimes I wake as if once again a sleep-thirsty student, hoping to snooze another 15 minutes before class.
Sometimes I wake once again as if a new mother, dripping and leaking at the sound of my baby’s cries.
Sometimes I wake as if once again a weary farmer, up much of the night with a laboring mare and slow-to-suck foal.
Sometimes I wake as if once again a preoccupied physician, mentally reviewing the night’s phone calls and concerns.
Today I wake as a grandma, wishing my bed would bounce with a pile of birds and butterflies and jubilant children, wishing me good morning and eager to see me up and at ’em.
So who am I?
I was, I am, I will be all those things, as I hang tight to the bough of morning.
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All that summer the sun refused to open On the sky, and the river carried rain-spots Down and over the weir, and by the footbridge Swans’ eggs chilled in their nest. I saw them, rained on, Blue and dead as the moon the clouds were hiding Every night when I looked to find it. What could Live, neglected like that? The wind, cold and green With the smell of the hawthorn flowering, came Brooding over the fens, but what could it bring me, Who had chosen to view the world with sadness, Or had taken its sadness into myself, Gift and charism? One day, though, I saw them, Triple vee-wakes on dark tree-printed currents: One ahead of the others, big and whiter Than the cloud-pale sky. Two cygnets, gray, living, Broken free from the death I’d assumed for them.
Well, their ways are not my ways. The next summer, Walking that same towpath, heavy with a child Who had come to me after years of asking — Who was taking his time just then, head downward, Happy where he was — I saw them paddling Under the bridge, where it laid out its shadow, Current-rumpled. The same swans? Or three strangers Hummed down onto a river pricked with sunlight, Strange and new as the season? I can’t say now. I remember the baby’s head engaging, Heavy, ready, real, an impending pressure. I remember the wakes widening, the river Flowing down in the sun, and by the footbridge, Gray, empty, the mess of twigs, leaves, and feathers. ~Sally Thomas “Swans”
Decades ago, there were several years when I took sadness into myself, feeling empty and barren with no hope that could change.
Sorrow became the bridge I walked across, unaware what I would find on the other side, assuming only it would be more of the same.
If I had listened to my own tearful prayers, I might have understood –even the most comfortable nests are abandoned when it is time to break free from the sadness.
I gave up my timing and my plans to let things be according to His will.
And life happened. And sadness no longer found a place in me. The empty was filled, the sorrow overwhelmed with blessing. Babies born, grown, now flown away to a life and babies of their own.
All from the one nest, emptied, as ever it should be.
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I thought of happiness, how it is woven Out of the silence in the empty house each day And how it is not sudden and it is not given But is creation itself like the growth of a tree. No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark Another circle is growing in the expanding ring. No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark, But the tree is lifted by this inward work And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.
For what is happiness but growth in peace, And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir The shining leaves of present happiness? No one has heard thought or listened to a mind, But where people have lived in inwardness The air is charged with blessing and does bless; Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind. ~ May Sarton, from “The Work of Happiness” in Collected Poems, 1930-1993
The settled happiness and security which we all desire, God withholds from us by the very nature of the world: but joy, pleasure, and merriment, he has scattered broadcast. We are never safe, but we have plenty of fun, and some ecstasy. It is not hard to see why.
The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and oppose an obstacle to our return to God: a few moments of happy love, a landscape, a symphony, a merry meeting with our friends, a bath or a football match, have no such tendency.
Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home. ~C.S. Lewis from The Problem of Pain
I am reminded every day, as headlines proclaim bad news: this is not our home. I am only a wayfarer, not a settler.
Just like the distress of my four year old grandson, staying overnight and waking with a bad dream, appearing at my bedside at 3 AM, saying simply “I need a hug!”
We need reassurance that all this scary stuff is not forever.
Sometimes I lose focus on the “why” of my journey on this troubled earth: so much of my time and energy is understandably spent seeking safety and security, striving on a journey I hope will be filled with happiness, joy and contentment, as if that is my ultimate destination and purpose.
Yet the nature of a fallen world filled with faltering souls such as myself leads me down boulder-strewn paths filled with potholes and sheer cliffs and yes, bad dreams.
At times nowhere feels safe or secure and I overthink my next step.
God hears my fear of the unknown destination, as only He can know what lies ahead on my or anyone’s journey. God in His mercy does not leave us homeless, without hope and unable to wake from the bad dream.
We breathe air charged with His blessing. He gifts Himself; I can breathe because of Him.
I need a hug…
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(I wrote this 15 years ago on July 6 and have updated it with an addendum)
I remember childhood summers as 3 months of full-out celebration– long lazy days stretching into nights that didn’t seem to really darken until 11 PM and bright birdsong mornings starting out at 4:30 AM. Not only were there the brief family vacations at the beach or to visit cousins, but there was the Fourth of July, Daily Vacation Bible School, the county fair, family reunions, and of course and most importantly, my July birthday. Yes, there were mundane chores to be done, a garden to tend, a barn to clean, berries to pick, a lawn to mow and all that stuff, but my memories of summer are mostly about fluff and frolic.
So where are the summer parties now? Who is out there celebrating without me? Nothing seems to be spontaneous as it was when I was a child. Instead, most grown-ups have to go to work most days in the summer.
I’m finding myself in the midst of my 55th summer and I have to create celebrations if they are going to happen in my life. Without that perspective, the bird song at 4:30 AM can feel more irritant than blessing and the long days often mean I fall asleep nodding over a book at 9 PM. I want to treasure every, every minute of this precious time yet they flow through my fingers like so much water, faster and faster.
I realize there will be very few “family” summers left as I watch my children grow into adults and spread their wings. They will be on to new adventures in future summers. So each family ritual and experience together takes on special meaning and needs to be appreciated and remembered.
So….for this summer my family has crammed as much in as we can in celebration of the season:
We just spent some time in the hayfields bringing in the bales with friends–our little crew of seven–sweating and itchy and exhausted, but the sight and smell of several hundred hay bales, grown on our own land, harvested without being rained on and piled in the barn is sweet indeed. Weekly we are out on the softball field in church league, yelling encouragement and high-fiving each other, hooting at the good hits and the bad, the great catches and the near misses, and getting dirty and sprained, and as happy to lose as to win. We had a wonderful July 4 barbeque with good friends culminating in the fireworks show on our farm’s hill overlooking miles of valley around us, appreciating everyone else’s backyard displays as well as our own.
We are now able to sing hymns in church in four part harmony, and last night our children helped lead the singing last night in an evening “campfire church” for over fifty fellow worshipers on our hill. In a couple weeks, we’ll take to the beach for three days of playing in the sand, roasting hot dogs. reading good books, and playing board games. We’ll try to make the trek down to Seattle by train to spend the day watching the Mariners play (and likely lose).
One change after seventeen years of hosting a display of our horses at the Lynden Fair: due to “off the farm” work and school schedules, we can’t muster the necessary round-the-clock crew of being there for our little part of small town agricultural pursuits.
Yet the real party happens right here every day in small ways without any special planning. It doesn’t require money or special food or traveling beyond our own soil. It is the smiles and good laughs we share together, and the hugs for kids taller than I am. It’s adult conversations with the new adults in our family–no longer adolescents.
It’s finding delight in fresh cherries from our own trees, currants and berries from our own bushes, greens from the garden, flowers for the table from the yard.
It is the Haflingers in the field that come right up to us to enjoy rubs and scratches and follow us like puppies. It is babysitting for neighborhood toddlers who remind us of the old days of having small children, and who give us a glimpse of future grandparenthood. It is good friends coming from far away to ride our horses and learn farm skills.
It is an early morning walk in the woods or a late evening stroll over the hills. It is daily contact with aging parents who no longer hear well or feel well but nevertheless share of themselves in the ways they are able. It is the awesome power of an evening sunset filled with hope and the calming promise of a new day somewhere else in this world of ours.
Some days may not look or feel like there’s a summer party happening, but that is only because I haven’t searched hard enough. The party is here, sparklers and all, even if only in my own mind.
Addendum: Fifteen years have passed since this was written and I’m glad I can look back and be reminded how full of life those family summers were. We seldom have the full-meal-deal of everyone together at one time, and since our parents have passed on to eternal summers in heaven, we have now the blessings of six grandchildren. Freckles abound!
We still can make a party happen, if only in our own minds.
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And the seasons they go round and round And the painted ponies go up and down We’re captive on the carousel of time We can’t return, we can only look behind From where we came And go round and round and round In the circle game… ~Joni Mitchell “The Circle Game”
those lovely horses, that galloped me, moving the world, piston push and pull, into the past—dream to where? there, when the clouds swayed by then trees, as a tire swing swung me under—rope groan. now, the brass beam, holds my bent face, calliope cadence—O where have I been? ~Rick Maxson “Carousel at Seventy”
On thin golden poles gliding up, sliding down, a kingdom of horses goes spinning around.
Jumper, Brown Beauty, Dark Thunder, Sir Snow, a medley of ponies parade in a row.
Settled in saddles, their riders hold on to reins of soft leather while circling along
on chestnut or charcoal, on sleek Arctic white, on silver they gallop in place day and night.
Such spinning is magic, (to dream as you sail) with lavender saddle and ebony tail,
whirling to music in moonlight, spellbound, galloping, galloping, merrily go round. ~Rebecca Kai Dotlich “Carousel”
Under its canopy, in the shade it casts, turns a world with painted horses, all from a land that lingers a while before it disappears. Some, it’s true, are harnessed to a wagon, but all have valor in their eyes. A fierce red lion leaps among them, and here comes ’round a snow-white elephant.
Even a stag appears, straight from the forest, except for the saddle he wears, and, buckled on it, a small boy in blue.
And a boy in white rides the lion, gripping it with small clenched hands, while the lion flashes teeth and tongue.
And here comes ’round a snow-white elephant.
And riding past on charging horses come girls, bright-eyed, almost too old now for this children’s play. With the horses rising under them, they are looking up and off to what awaits. ~Rainer Maria Rilke from “Jardin de Luxembourg”
A fewJuly memories:
Sixty-five years ago, I was a five year old having her first ride on the historic carousel at Woodland Park Zoo before we moved from Stanwood to Olympia. Fifty-four years ago — a teenager working in a nursing home as a nurses’ aide after three days of training. Forty-nine years ago – returned home early from my studies in Tanzania after four chimpanzee researcher friends were held hostage for ransom and eventually released Forty-three years ago — deep in the guts of a hospital working forty hour long shifts, thinking about the man I was soon to marry Thirty-four years ago — my husband and I picking up bales of hay in our own farm field, two young children in tow after accepting a new position doctoring at the local university Twenty-seven years ago — raising three children and completed farm house remodel, supporting three parents with health issues, raising Haflinger horses, helping design a new clinic building at work, playing piano and teaching Sunday School at church Twenty-whatever years ago – life spinning faster, blurring with work at home, on the farm, at clinic, at church. I begin writing to grab and hang on to what I can. Sixteen years ago — one son about to move to Japan to teach and the other son to teach at Pine Ridge in South Dakota, daughter at home with a new driver’s license working with migrant children, a mother slowly bidding goodbye to life at a local care center, farming less about horse raising and more about gardening, maintaining and preserving. Ten years ago — two sons married, daughter working as a camp counselor so our first summer without children at home. Perfect time to raise a new puppy! Five years ago – A two year old granddaughter and two new grandsons! Daughter teaching, engaged to be married. Two years ago – completed forty-two years of non-stop doctoring so I bid it goodbye. Now – Three more grandsons! Two retired grandparents! Big garden on the farm but we’re slowing down.
The puppy’s face and our hair are turning white…
O where have I been? We can only look behind from where we came and await what is ahead.
The decades pass, round and round – there is comfort knowing that through the ups and downs of daily life, we still hang on. If we slip and fall, there is Someone ready to catch us.
Looking behind you, where have you been? What awaits you where you are heading?
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Near dusk, near a path, near a brook, we stopped, I in disquiet and dismay for the suffering of someone I loved, the doe in her always incipient alarm.
All that moved was her pivoting ear the reddening sun was shining through transformed to a color I’d only seen in a photo of a new child in a womb.
Nothing else stirred, not a leaf, not the air, but she startled and bolted away from me into the crackling brush.
The part of my pain which sometimes releases me from it fled with her, the rest, in the rake of the late light, stayed. ~C. K. Williams “The Doe” from The Singing
Oh little one who was to be born this week in June forty one years ago~ so wanted so anticipated but lost too soon gone as swiftly in a clot of red as a doe disappearing in a thicket: a memory, when I think of you that makes me question if you were real — but you were and you are and someday I’ll know you when I see you and curious about who I am, you won’t flee, but remain close to find out.
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What does it feel like to be alive? Living, you stand under a waterfall… It is time pounding at you, time. Knowing you are alive is watching on every side your generation’s short time falling away as fast as rivers drop through air, and feeling it hit.
I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world’s surface, and exit through it. ~Annie Dillard from An American Childhood
I saw a mom take her raincoat off and give it to her young daughter when a storm took over the afternoon. My god, I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel that I never got wet. ~Ada Limón from “The Raincoat”
Mothering can be like standing under a waterfall, impacted breathless by the incredible 24/7 responsibility of birthing and raising children. And a mother does whatever she must to protect her children from also getting soaked in the barrage of each drop of time, knowing they too can feel overwhelmed by the rapid passage of life.
As I tried my best to keep my children covered and dry until it was their turn to raise kids and stand under the same waterfall, my own rough edges have been impacted, smoothed and soothed by the flow of time.
I’m well aware rough edges still surface, unbidden and unwarranted, ready to cut a hole in the world for an escape hatch from troubles. So my children and grandchildren polish me even as I still try to protect them from inevitable downpours.
No longer is my reach enough nor must it be.
Life keeps pounding away, but oh so gentler on grandmothers. I know it is still ruffing and buffing me — each drop of time passing over me becomes a mixed blessing.
Each moment so precious, never to come again, yet leaving me forever and wonderfully changed.
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It started before Christmas. Now our son officially walks to school alone. Semi-alone, it’s accurate to say: I or his father track him on his way. He walks up on the east side of West End, we on the west side. Glances can extend (and do) across the street; not eye contact. Already ties are feeling and not fact. Straus Park is where these parallel paths part; he goes alone from there. The watcher’s heart stretches, elastic in its love and fear, toward him as we see him disappear, striding briskly. Where two weeks ago, holding a hand, he’d dawdle, dreamy, slow, he now is hustled forward by the pull of something far more powerful than school.
The mornings we turn back to are no more than forty minutes longer than before, but they feel vastly different–flimsy, strange, wavering in the eddies of this change, empty, unanchored, perilously light since the red hat vanished from our sight. ~Rachel Hadas “The Red Hat”
You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you. ~ Frederick Buechner
As a child, I lived just outside of city limits in a semi-rural area, only a half mile from my elementary school on a country road. By first grade, I was allowed to walk to school and home again, then when I was older, with my younger brother in tow. I don’t remember my parents watching me as I made the journey, but I do remember some practice walks on a weekend, to reinforce how to safely cross the roads and where to walk alongside the drainage ditch.
I don’t remember ever being worried about what might happen to me outside of my parents’ presence, and nothing scary ever did happen. I’m sure my parents were worried, but both as children had walked to their rural schools on their own – it simply was how things happened in the 20’s and 30’s.
For children growing up now, it feels different.
Our three children grew up on a farm seven miles from town, so rode a school bus or were taken to school by a parent or grandparent. They didn’t have that early independence that I did. Our grandchildren, especially those living in large cities, are even more protected. It didn’t hamper their desire to explore the world – they have traveled all over.
The difference is the anxiety of the parent, watching that child disappear around a corner on foot, or bike or eventually in a car. It is that empty feeling of letting go before one is ready, but when you know you must.
The heart stretches to encompass one’s child out in the world, out of sight, no longer anchored at home. After all, we are that elastic and that resilient.
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More like a vault — you pull the handle out and on the shelves: not a lot, And what there is (a boiled potato in a bag, a chicken carcass under foil) looking dispirited, drained, mugged. This is not a place to go in hope or hunger. But, just to the right of the middle of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red, heart red, sexual red, wet neon red, shining red in their liquid, exotic, aloof, slumming in such company: a jar of maraschino cherries. Three-quarters full, fiery globes, like strippers at a church social. Maraschino cherries, maraschino, the only foreign word I knew. Not once did I see these cherries employed: not in a drink, nor on top of a glob of ice cream, or just pop one in your mouth. Not once. The same jar there through an entire childhood of dull dinners — bald meat, pocked peas and, see above, boiled potatoes. Maybe they came over from the old country, family heirlooms, or were status symbols bought with a piece of the first paycheck from a sweatshop, which beat the pig farm in Bohemia, handed down from my grandparents to my parents to be someday mine, then my child’s? They were beautiful and, if I never ate one, it was because I knew it might be missed or because I knew it would not be replaced and because you do not eat that which rips your heart with joy. ~Thomas Lux “Refrigerator, 1957”
My childhood refrigerator also contained a jar of maraschino cherries. They were used only once a year, at Thanksgiving, when my mother would pull the jar out from the depths of the fridge, twist open the top and pull out four bright red cherries.
A sweet potato dish would be warming in the oven, covered by large melting marshmallows placed in the center of a ring of canned pineapple. Mom arranged the cherries, cut in half, on top of each marshmallow and replaced the dish in the oven, until the meal was ready to serve.
That was it. We never saw the cherries again for another year.
Sweet potatoes taste wonderful, all on their own, without a dressing of marshmallows and pineapples. But the special holiday tradition was set. In some magical way, the cherries dressed the dish up to help make a tense family gathering a bit jollier.
I do still have my own jar of maraschino cherries in my refrigerator. I forget why. It doesn’t have anything to do with sweet potatoes which I like to serve up plain for Sunday dinners. I possibly bought the jar out of nostalgia, or perhaps because I think every refrigerator needs a jar of maraschino cherries — kind of like the open box of baking soda that sits in most fridges to keep the odors under control.
Regardless, when I spy the jar every once in a while when rummaging in the fridge for something else, it stops time for a moment of remembrance and sadness. After all, I don’t replicate my mom’s mid-century cooking efforts of many-colored jello salads, bread-crumb-topped casseroles and… maraschino marshmallow sweet potatoes.
Even so, a daughter’s love for her mama remains irreplaceable.
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