I've been making bookmarks these last few weeks. It's been almost a month since my sister-in-law's mother, Margaret, died. Growing up in a small town is wonderful in many ways, but I think probably best of all is that all of you, neighbors, strangers, friends a like all grow up together.
When I was a kid, Margaret was the town artist. She rented a building across the stone bridge and up the hill and had art contests were she displayed town children's artwork. Her house was by far the most interesting I'd ever been to, with swing chairs that suspended from the living room ceiling and a talking parrot.
Later, Margaret discovered yoga and showed it to the rest of us. Often dropping to the floor in the middle of gatherings to demonstrate the latest pose.
Margaret was crazy about knowledge, and no matter where the conversation turned there was always a thirst for more, what book you were reading, what you thought of the op-ed, the local election, how on earth do you change the size of digital photos. Her questions always fueled the discussion.
It was almost a year ago when I got a pneumonia. I ran into Margaret in town and she asked how long it lasted. She was having trouble getting over the flu, catching her breath. In the spring she was diagnosed with lung cancer and seven months later she left this earth.
So, for the past few weeks I've been looking for pictures for just the right one, just the right expression and selecting fonts and colors for bookmarks that will be given out at her memorial. The quote was easy, her daughter brought it over, still with the tape that had held it to the inside of Margaret's front door for as long as anyone can remember.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
- Nelson Mandela
It's how Margaret entered and left her home, and this earth. It fits. Perfectly.
Yesterday, we drove to see my husband's mom and sister. It's a beautiful drive in the Catskills, over winding roads dotted with old motels and cabins back from the days vacationers summered there.
The views were spectacular. The trees bare but for a few stubborn leaves. As we drove along we passed an old abandoned passenger train. It rusts along the highway exactly as it has done my entire life.
The boys love seeing the old train. To them, it signals we're almost halfway there. To me it's comforting, a strange reassurance that as much as things change there are things along the way that stay the same, and how even something like a train left behind to rot can become beautiful over time.
As a little girl, we'd pass this road a few times a year, and when we did, I'd always ask my mom, "Can we stop and get out. Can we see it close-up." I suppose she nodded and said something like some other time, but we never did.
Today, my son touched the window as we passed the train and said, "I see it, Mom. That old train. Please, please can we pull over and get out."
"Not today," I said. We were late. "Maybe next time." And I meant it. Maybe next time.
As I climbed the stairs yesterday grief followed me. I vote in a very old building way at the top of an old wooden grand staircase on the third floor.
My sister Maria and I always talked about local politics. She followed everything so closely. We'd watch the town meetings and talk about the discussions, the town council's facial expressions, the arguments over the issues.
After she died it was about six months before I could watch the local meetings. Another six before I could linger on the station long enough to understand what was happening.
Being in voting the room, waiting in line near the booth, brought back memories. Growing up, Mom always told us how lucky we were, how exciting it was to vote. She would bring me into the curtained little booth as she pulled levers and it all seemed like magic. Later she'd explain about our voices, how all our voices count, each and every one of us.
A voice. That's what got me. Another reminder of how my sister's voice wasn't here.
I started to cry on the drive home. Not in sadness but in the gentle side of grief getting me once again - to find my way to a kinder truth.
Her voice isn't gone. I can still hear it in my head, it whispers when I'm quiet enough to listen, on nights when my prayers are answered it comes in dreams. It tells me every thing is all right.
I burned myself a few weeks ago. An awful burn right on my thumb that grew to a huge blister.
The doctor looked at it closely and said, "Second degree, be careful with it, don't bump it, let the blister heal it. Whatever you do, don't break the blister."
And so I did. For thirteen days I was careful. I protected it with bandages. I peaked at it, worried that it looked odd. How would it ever go back to normal? Would it leave a scar?
All the while, I panicked a bit inside. It seems the burn brought up old anxiety from a bad burn I had when I was three. It's my very first memory: my father rushing me to the bathroom to rush cold water on my foot which was burned of all things on a toy - a toy from seventies - a hot plate to melt rubber and turn it into creepy crawlies.
And so, as my thumb healed I sat for a while with the memories of being that scared little kid, in pain, being cradled in my father's arms and then I thought about how it isn't such a bad memory after all. All these years I've always looked back and saw the pain and fear, somehow missing the love that was there holding me all along.
Solomon went pumpkin picking with his class this week. I went along as a chaperone. It was exquisite at the farm, the hues of autumn leaves, the dark burgundy apples, the background of clouds so perfectly placed they seemed painted in the sky.
The farm is a stone's throw from the school, around the corner up a hill. The breathtaking countryside wasn't lost on Solomon and his classmates.
"It's beautiful, isn't it? This farm." I heard one boy say on the hayride.
Second grade is a wonderful age, probably my favorite so far. Kids are tough yet vulnerable, their smiles filled with gaps,teeth coming and going, they are making connections, putting things together, they are filled with life.
We walked around the pumpkin patch, each child picking a favorite. Some chose ones barely ripe, others opted for plump or bumpy ones, some chose pumpkins small enough to hold in one hand, other children hunched over, struggling, wondering if they could manage carrying their prize the whole walk back to the school bus.
All morning there was an excitement in the air, a contagious energy that radiated from them. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, and then I realized it was pure living-in-the-moment happiness, it was hope. Hope for the now, hope for the future, hope for everything.
This afternoon I took Solomon to see Where the Wild Things Are. When I was a kid this book was always a favorite of mine. There was a lot I could identify with - most of all - the costume.
Growing up, from the time I was about 4, whenever I got angry, I ran upstairs, zipped on my monkey costume and stomped down. I'd curl around the corner, my big monkey tail sprouting from behind, my eyes peeking from the mask. (Yes, that's me in the picture.)
"Oh, look," Mom would say. "Sabra's mad. I wonder what she's mad about. Maybe Sabra will come in and sit down and we can talk about it."
I remember, it was a great way to be mad. To do it by costume, to have my feelings acknowledged, discussed and understood all safely situationed behind a mask. I remember wearing that costume long after I'd outgrown it, walking down the stairs, hunched over to accommodate the too small torso. At some point even that was impossible and the costume and the days of wearing it were gone.
I guess it was the beginning of learning how to own my feelings. In many ways, I suppose it was the start of wearing my heart on my sleeve.
There have been lots of times I wish my face didn't say it all. Games of strategy, business meetings, times when nerves or anxiety have the better of me, but in life, in family, friends and love, I can't think of a better way.
I've read the average child laughs about 300 times a day, the average adult around 15. Being a mom with little boys I don't have much doubt, it's true.
Henry is three. His favorite word is armpit. He walks around the house like he knows the funniest secret in the world shouting, "Armpit! Armpit" Sometimes it's too much for him, and he falls to the floor in hysterics.
Other times he says "Mom? Mom?"
"What?" I say.
"Knock-knock."
"Who's there?" (I know what's coming. How could I not?)
"Armpit. Armpit. Armpit."
He laughs and laughs and laughs. His laughter makes the rest of us laugh.
Recently, I came across this video of Solomon. It was taken years ago, we were at a friend's party and a little girl was riding a scooter. Each time the little girl scooted by us Solomon roared. Although I've seen it dozens of times it still makes me laugh.
Solomon loves seeing it. When he watches it, he's older laughter mixes with his baby laughter. It's a beautiful chorus.
Going to the library to get the books I order is always a little like Christmas morning. There's such an excitement on the way there. This bundle of books had some work items, a book on poetry I'd been waiting almost six months for- you wouldn't think there'd be a waitlist for poetry, would you - and some Halloween decorating idea books.
After getting my books, I got sidetracked by dinner, and helping Solomon with his homework and finally when everyone was asleep and the house was quiet but for the chugging sound of the dishwasher, I sat on the couch and cracked open the poetry book. It fell open to a small pink scrap of paper marking these words:
...Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.
(Excerpted from the poem Sometimes by Sheenagh Pugh.)
I've been having a rough couple of days. Something about the impending winter, the colder weather, the economy, I could go on...
I looked closer at the pink paper, a torn scrap from a magazine. On the bottom edge was the small lower-case white m. A tiny letter heaven-sent that smiled right at me.
This weekend was the annual street painting festival in our town. Last year I did an angel for my sister. This year, I painted an angel cat in memory of our cat.
We had a wonderful time. And I love street painting. Such magic in the idea of working for hours to create something temporary - like building a snowman, street paintings only last until it rains. But can I tell you how thrilling it is, to walk down the street and see it come alive with art!
I'm proud to say my mom started the festival eight years ago. The first year, Solomon was growing in my belly, barely making himself known as I painted a picture beside Maria. It's hard to believe how much time has gone by. How Solomon can patiently sit and enjoy it and how Henry is a budding artist himself adding a color or two to the background.
So many people stopped as I was drawing my angel cat and told me about their own pets. We shared stories, a few mentioned the rainbow bridge.
So tonight, I'm thinking what a beautiful day it was, how wonderful it is that love stays with you and how important it is to make something special, especially something temporary, because it all lasts in memory.
A few months ago, oops, actually it was more than a year now, I wrote about our outhouse (here). We've been restoring our old outhouse so that one day it can become my writer's studio.
I guess it's no secret that in our house restoring things takes forever. There's always more urgent immediate things that need to get done, hanging out laundry, bills, a stack of reading, a beautiful, perfect day that insists we go for a walk. But sometimes the benefit of delay is that the waiting gives birth to better ideas.
On our vacation this year, my husband secretly borrowed some sand and rocks for the place we love most on earth - the very beach that I walked on with Maria the last summer we were in Cape Cod together.
When I caught him taking out a pail of sand, after our long, long drive home from the Cape, he told me his plans to mix it with cement and create the floor of my future writer's studio.
This morning, the cement was poured, the foundation made. I can't think of anything better than resting my feet where we go on vacation and finishing up my almost-done novel. I'll look down at the sand and say a prayer for all my blessings...starting with my husband.
Yesterday, we drove to see my husband's mom and sister. It's a beautiful drive in the Catskills, over winding roads dotted with old motels and cabins back from the days vacationers summered there. 
As I climbed the stairs yesterday grief followed me. I vote in a very old building way at the top of an old wooden grand staircase on the third floor. 
I burned myself a few weeks ago. An awful burn right on my thumb that grew to a huge blister.
Solomon went pumpkin picking with his class this week. I went along as a chaperone. It was exquisite at the farm, the hues of autumn leaves, the dark burgundy apples, the background of clouds so perfectly placed they seemed painted in the sky. 
This weekend was the annual street painting festival in our town. 
A few months ago, oops, actually it was more than a year now, I wrote about our outhouse (