Category Archives: Uncategorized

Love and Loss and Grief

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April 9, 2017

My minister asked me to speak about the healing power of love at our worship services this past Sunday, and this is what I said:

Not quite seven years ago, my husband Bill died of cancer. He was one month and one day short of his 68th birthday. We celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary six weeks before his death. Bill died at home in our bedroom, peacefully with his family around him. We were able to give him the kind of death he wanted.

When such a deep loss happens to you, you feel as though someone has handed you this enormous boulder to carry, a rough and heavy boulder of grief. You stagger at first as you try to carry it, and you try not to fall down with it in public, but in private you simply collapse and sit beside that boulder and weep.

But after a time you learn how to carry the boulder without collapsing so frequently. And after an even longer time the boulder seems not as large and not as heavy, or perhaps you have grown stronger and learned how to carry it more easily. And the surface is no longer as rough, perhaps smoothed by time or by your tears, and the boulder has become easier to grip.

And once your boulder of grief does not overwhelm you, you lift your head up and you look around.

You look at all the people with such tenderness and new awareness.

And you see clearly the boulders so many are carrying. You knew on an intellectual level before, that they were burdened by grief and sorrow, but now you see their grief with your heart.

The friends who lost their son in a terrible accident.

Your colleague who struggles with depression, and the other colleague whose mother has been diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s.

Your friend whose husband collapsed while running and died of a heart attack.

The couple who are coming to terms with the fact that they will never conceive a child.

And for those whose stories you do not know, but you can imagine. No one is spared from grief.

Your own heart has been softened by grief, and your sense of compassion has expanded. You will never be the same.

And perhaps after a very long time, your boulder will shrink in size until it is a rock small enough to fit into your pocket, a warm smooth rock that is a talisman of the love that will never leave you and that has opened your heart to all those around you.

May it be so.

Memory

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February 18, 2017

Our ship had docked in the harbor of the most beautiful island of our journey through the Aegean Sea.  Symi is tiny and hilly, with white and yellow houses rising up the steep hillside from the blue harbor. I wanted so much to swim in that blue sea, but doing so was unlikely. There seemed to be no beaches. So when our trip leader Alexander asked if anyone wanted to swim, I said yes eagerly. You, of course, did not want to swim, not sharing my passion, but you waited while I rushed back to our cabin to put on a swimsuit and sundress, and to grab a towel. I hurried back to the deck, and we joined another couple to descend the gangplank and thread our way along the narrow sidewalk around the harbor. Small shops formed a wall to our left, with the sea to our right.

Alexander turned a corner, leaving the curve of the harbor, and soon stopped by some benches.  He pointed to the sea. “There you go!” he exclaimed. I was dubious. The harbor was very close by, and I worried about the pollution from the ships. But the other couple had laid down their towels on one of the benches and were descending the steps cut into the stone wall and splashing into the sea. You sat down on another bench. My desire to swim conquered my worries and leaving my towel and sundress next to you, I held onto the cold chain next to the stone steps and carefully reached for each slimy step with my bare feet, taking care not to strike my misshapen second toe against the rocks.

At last I threw myself backwards into the cold sea with a whoop of joy. You smiled and waved at me. Behind you the white houses climbed the hills, and the sun shone in the blue sky.

I think of that moment now, as I descend the steps in this hotel in San Miguel de Allende, where the sun shines in the blue sky and the white and blue and yellow houses climb the hillsides. I remember that afternoon swimming in the Aegean Sea off the island of Symi, and I remember your smile.

The Night Shelter

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Fifteen degrees above zero
A foot of snow on the ground
And the shelter wings through the night
Like the red eye bound from LA to New York
Or the transatlantic flight to London,
Heavy with sleep and dreams.

Here sleeps the Korean taxi driver,
And the Latino construction worker,
The woman with the broken ribs who flinches in her sleep,
The pregnant girl curled next to her lover, and
The man with eyes wide open who steadily talks to god
As if god could hear.

In the gray dawn one by one they will awake,
Look for coffee,
Find bathrooms,
Brush their teeth,
Pack up their bedding,
And prepare to land
In yet another day.

February 14, 2006

This is What Democracy Looks Like

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This is What Democracy Looks Like

500,000 people… or thereabouts. And I was one of them.

Saturday, January 21st, 2017, Washington DC: the day after the presidential inauguration of Donald Trump, the day of the Women’s March on Washington and 670 Sister Marches worldwide.

Chartered buses dropped off passengers. Cars lined up at Metro station parking lots. And masses of people filled the Metro cars. Women and men, many wearing pink pussy-hats. People using walkers and canes. Grandmothers, teenagers, children. People of all shades of black and brown and white. Many of them carried handmade signs, ranging from lewd to amusing to clever.

Women’s Rights are Human Rights
My Body My Business
Free Melania
It must be bad, even the introverts are here
You have awakened the dragon

Despite being jammed into Metro cars, the mood was buoyant and behavior civil.

From the stations of Metro Center and Judicial Square, L’Enfant Plaza and Federal South West, the people streamed, climbing escalators that had been turned off for safety’s sake. They filled Third Street leading up to Independence, the site of the rally stage. They filled all the surrounding streets, waiting for the march planned to take them west on Independence, then north on 14th Street, and west again to the Ellipse, close to the White House. As more people arrived,
the crowds were packed closer and closer together. From time to time, the call went out, “Medic! Medic!” and the crowd squeezed together to allow room for an ambulance to get past.

On Seventh Street where I stood, young men and women climbed trees for a better view and sat on the walls around the Hirshhorn Museum.

Large screens had been set up to broadcast the speakers and singers at the rally, but it was difficult for the crowd to see, and the sound system could not carry to the massive crowd. For the most part, the crowd stood patiently for over four hours, though every now and then a group would begin to shout, “We want to march!”

About two o’clock, the word began trickling out that the crowd was too large for the original march route. “To the Mall!” some called, and the people began an exodus. Marchers filled the Mall and moved onto Constitution Avenue and toward the White House. They gathered in front of the Old Post Office Building, now the site of the Trump Hotel, shouted slogans and booed, and piled their signs on the sidewalk.

It was late evening before the last of the people left.

When I talk to people who were there, what do they say about the day?

Amazing

Exhilarating

Exhausting

Joyful

Hopeful

Energizing

And we will need that energy for the road ahead.

And the World Turned Upside Down

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January 29, 2017

Executive Order Banning Muslims from Entering United States
In this dreadful week that is filling me with sorrow and intense rage,  for self-care I am listening to Comedy Central on Sirius on my car radio while driving, and sometimes laughing hard; watching funny movies at night (Galaxy Quest a personal favorite ), and this Sunday going to church to be among kindred souls to listen and sing and pray in our own ways.

This afternoon I saw a bluebird on my patio, and my heart lifted up with such joy.

This is going to be a long haul, dear sisters and brothers. Do what you can to warm your hearts and infuse yourselves with energy, love, and determination for the long road ahead that we will travel together. Take care of yourselves and know that we are not alone.

Link

December 18, 2016

Solstice Song

In the cold church hall
The singer tunes his guitar
And in the empty chair beside me
Your ghost sits down
Wearing the same blue shirt
And khaki pants you wore
That hot summer night
Six years and seven months ago
On our wedding anniversary
When we came to hear this same singer
Tune his guitar and sing of
The holy in everything

Your ghost hand takes my hand
Your ghost fingers wrap around mine
And with your other hand
If you wished
You could touch the tear on my cheek
As the singer sings of the dark and the loss
And the light in everything

The guitar thrums
The air hums with music
And your ghost breathes my name

Candles in the Windows

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December 6, 2016

This afternoon I placed electric candles in all the windows of the house (good thing it is a small house.)

The candles in the windows were one of Bill’s favorite Christmas decorations, and although he left much of the Yuletide decorating to his own personal Christmas Genie (whose efforts he applauded and admired) he did help with the traditional candles. They also were the decorations that he liked to go up early in the holiday season and take down very late (as in March or Easter!)

Now I plug the candles in and test them, replace light bulbs, and place them in the windows by myself.

So dear Bill, wherever you are, I hope you can see the warm lights of home shining with love from our windows on this dark and rainy night.

 

By the Light of the Moon

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Sunday November 13, 2016

This is the month of the super moon, when the moon is closer to the earth than normal. The moon won’t be this close again until 2034. So if I subtract the year 2034 from the current year 2016, that equals 28 years. And my age plus 28 equals 101. Meaning I probably won’t be alive by the time the next super moon arrives. Or maybe I will be alive but I will be too frail to go outside and look up at the night sky. Whatever, I must go outside and look for the moon, especially when it rises and appears on the horizon.

Last night the moon was shining clearly, but not as large as it will be tomorrow night, the penultimate night. Last night the moon’s cold, dispassionate light shone down on all of us humans with our worries and wars and riots, our kindness and our cruelties, our fear of the other and our defense of the different. The moon has shone like this on mankind in similar circumstances and never blinked its eye or turned its face away. It is no different now. The moon shines, the owl calls through the trees, and the deer lie down on my hill top, dark shadows under the moon.

Travel Diary, July 2016

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July 9, 2016

Edinburgh, Scotland

In James Court, just off the Royal Mile, we are very close to Edinburgh Castle and the bagpipers who play for the mobs of tourists that crowd the street, but here in our second story flat in this building that smells of must and time, it is quiet. Tall windows look out onto the calm courtyard, where I can see trash bins for the small cafe in the courtyard and a corner of a raised seat. In the evenings it gets a bit noisy when modern day pied pipers lead bands of tourists into the courtyard. I cannot hear the stories, only the storyteller’s raised voice and the ebb and flow of laughter. Some of the listeners perch on the edges of the raised seat. Then the crowd moves on, and the court is quiet again.

At night I wake and look out the tall window at the foot of the bed. The window frames the opposite tenement building (for so these were in days gone by) and the twilight sky. It is never truly dark at night in July, this far north in Scotland. If you look at a globe, you will see that Scotland lies on the same meridian as Moscow. No one is siting on the seat in the courtyard. I return to bed, and to sleep.

In the morning I visit the courtyard and examine the square seat. It is three tiers of stone, topped  with a metal sculpture: a classic garden trug with what seems to be a parrot perched on the handle. At the base of the sculpture is an inscription:

Susannah Alice Stephen

1960-1997

Later I learn that Susannah was a Scottish landscape architect who died in a diving accident in the Galapagos Islands, the enchanted isles on the other side of the world that I have visited myself. Her friends erected this memorial for her.

Around the base of the second stone tier is another inscription. I walk around the stone slowly, reading the words:

“Turn your face to the sun

And the shadows will fall behind you.”

Five days from now will be the anniversary of Bill’s death. He has been gone almost six years.

Turn my face to the sun

And the shadows will fall behind me.

In the Garden

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July 12, 2016

And while my outer world comes unraveled
With hate and confusion and fear of the other

At my left elbow barely eight inches away
The bees are fumbling the mint blossoms:

Yellow and black bumbles
Slender tiger yellows
Black bees no bigger than a wink

And a lone white delicate moth

Going about their business
With the tender purple blossoms

Intent only on the sweetness of life.