Last week was filled with beginnings and endings. The first day of school - that's Solomon posing before the bus came.
The last day of our cat's life.
I was telling my husband, if death is like it's portrayed in the movie Wings of Desire, when the angels appear and ask me what I liked best, I'll say "beginnings" and then I added, "and endings."
He looked a little confused, so I added, "You know, a decade or so ago, I would have said, 'coffee'.”
I was watching Patrick Swayze's last inteview and they played a clip from Ghost. It pushed me over the edge: 'The love inside... you take it with you..." I spent the better part of this morning looking for this clip.
And then driving home from the cemetery, this song came on the radio. I'd never heard it before, but it spoke right to my heart. David Gray's Shine: "For all that we struggle · for all we pretend · It don't come down to nothing · except love in the end."
And so it is, to beginnings and endings, to everything in between, to love.
Our cat, Horchow, is in critical condition in the animal hospital. We woke up this morning and he was very sick. Seems he developed a serious case of acute pancreatis.... Please pray for him.
I like to listen to music when I cook. No matter what the boys are up to in the adjoining living room, no matter the song, or what movie is on, or what game is spread open on the floor, it always has the same affect.
I suppose there's something about the circle floor plan that makes it impossible for them not to do loops.
I guess I can't blame them. There's something so reassuring about a circle. No beginning, no end... yes, there is peace in knowing what's around the corner, in there being no corners at all. I remember when I was in labor with my first son, my biggest fear was that the pain would get worse. "Is this as bad as it gets?" I'd beg the nurse whose eyes told me I was just at the beginning. "It get's worse?" The not knowing was awful, the waiting, the fear that I wouldn't be able to bear it.
I found myself in the same place when I was getting used to grief, of missing my sister. "Tell me it gets easier," I'd ask my husband. "Please, tell me this is as bad as it gets."
Back then I wondered how on earth I'd learn to live with my sister in heaven. How could I somehow marry the future I'd planned on with what had happened.
I found the comfort in the day, in the night, in prayer.
a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance...
For as long as I can remember, I've dreamt of bridges. Always bridges and this terrible fear of having to go over them. I suppose it's my resistance to change.
Yesterday, driving home from shopping, just as we were on the crest of the bridge, a rainbow appeared. I had my camera and captured this video. It's a beautiful image for me to keep in mind. Change carries with it rain but now and then in the distance, rainbows appear, urging us to keep on. Who knows maybe it can even change my dreams.
Last weekend, my mom, sister, brother, and brother-in-law participated in the Wacky Raft Race, an event where homemade rafts race 6 miles down the Hudson River. We did it as TeamRia in honor of my sister, Maria. That's me in the red vest, Captain Mom in the middle, my brother in the green hat, sister in the straw one, and brother-in-law in the black vest.
Let me just say, although I grew up and live about a mile from the Hudson, I've only been on it in a motor boat twice in my life and that was about twenty-five years ago. There was some mix-up on the start of the race, and for the first time ever, the race happened against the tide. So for an hour or so, we rowed and rowed just to stay in the same place.
It was exhausting. Many teams gave up. In the end, only 12 out of 18 even finished. I'm proud to say our raft made it, all 6 miles, to the finish line and came in 10th. We did it together, rowing, staying afloat.
So many times the metaphors of what we'd been through, of grief itself, where as clear as a picture. Us on the raft, staying afloat, together, alone, fighting the current, finding our stride, doing it on our own, in our own time and eventually making it through.
That spec between the boats, beneath the bridge is us in the final stretch!
And here we are, just after the finish line, rowing to the dock!
This little bear was the last present my sister Maria would ever buy my son. I remember when Henry opened his present that Christmas morning, I thought, a stuffed animal? Doesn't Ria know we have a closet filled with tubs of stuffed animals? But there was something else, a difficult to describe feeling to trust Maria's great talent of gift giving and wait, because somehow this cuddly smudge of a bear would prove itself to be THE stuffed animal.
Last night, as I put Henry to sleep, I looked over at his bookcase and the basket overflowing with Webkins, dogs, bears, frogs, you-name-it, and there slumped over on top of a stack of books was the bear. Picking it up, I handed it to Henry.
"That's a very special bear," I said.
Henry held the plush face up to his own, inspecting the jeweled eyes. He clasped it to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly in a true bear hug and I felt Maria's love all the way from heaven.
This tote bag isn't an ordinary one. For a while it held the things I carried to work. And later, juice boxes and crayons for my sons, and even after that, it retired to clothespins for my clotheline, but most recently I think it's found it's greatest purpose, holding a nest of baby birds. Yes, baby birds.
Only a few weeks ago my husband put his hand in to fish out a clothespin and was confused when his fingers rested on a tangle of twigs. Looking into the bag to investigate he saw as many as eight almond sized baby bird eggs.
That day began my worries that his touch had frightened the mama bird. That perhaps she would return and then abandon her eggs. That had happened once when my sisters and brother were kids. We'd found a bird's nest in the back of our garage, tucked high on a sill and we looked and peeked, climbing on one another's shoulders until the mother bird never came back. I remember looking at the nest of eggs that never hatched and feeling terribly responsible.
Looking at the ocean last week, I thought of those birds. I wondered what we'd return to, a bag of twigs, of unhatched eggs?
Unpacking our bags, the mama bird flew by my head to the tote bag and then I heard the sound, the explosive chirping of many many mouths, the beautiful sound of life!
We got home from vacation yesterday, what a relief!
Traffic was awful. We spent an extra hour parked on the highway, inching every few minutes. On the six hour drive, I finished the entire book that I bought at a fantastic used bookstore, Locked Rooms and Open Doors: Diaries and Letters of Anne Morrow Lindbergh, 1933-1935.
Home is lovely. Our little farmhouse seems HUGE after spending a week in a tiny cottage. Solomon and Henry are happily playing with their toys as if it's Christmas morning.
The ocean is a well of strength for me. My thoughts, my decisions, my dreams, come to me cold and clear like the water that rushes my toes. The beach is relaxing and refreshing, but coming home is so reassuring -- to be surrounded by my stuff, to not have to plan, to do a week's worth of laundry, check email, go through the pile of envelopes, flyers and magazines, return to the details life is made of. Yes, the best part of vacation is coming home and seeing how wonderful my own bed feels.
HORCHOW
