A great storm is approaching. For 2 days, though the sunny August sky and fall- like temperatures belie it, a crackling apprehension, tinged with a sense of wonder, has crouched over this fragile island that I call home. Still miles away, Irene is crawling up the Atlantic Coastline, catlike, huge spine arched, hisssing and spitting with feline ferocity,waiting to pounce upon her prey.
It was a flamingly beautiful October in 1954 when Hurricane Hazel paid our little upstate NY hamlet in the foothills of the Catskills a terrifying pre- Halloween visit. I remember my father boarding up the windows of our little Victorian house where we all cowered for many hours waiting out the great storm. We played board games, my Mom cooked on our gas stove, my wonderful Grandmother told great tales, my little brother hid under the diningroom table. We survived. When it was over I promptly went to the Sidney Public Library to feed my book addiction. There I discovered "A Time of Wonder" by Robert McClosky.
For the past few days I have been fondly remembering that book. Written in 1953, Mr. McClosky uses the eyes of a small child to recount the approach, arrival and departure of a great Hurricane in Penobscot Bay, Maine. I read and re-read it to my children during and after Hurricane Gloria's attack on Long Island in 1985. It delicately outlines our survival instincts both during and after great storms, both literal and figurative.
I remember Gloria as a wonderful respite from the world where children created their own schoohouse in the woods in the 10 day absence of real school. There amongst the trees, with nature as their guide and imagination as their master, they learned far more than in the constricting walls of Miller Place Primary school.
My late friend John and I combined our resources and cooked on my Hibachi. A great frozen fish, gifted to me by a member of the church choir where I worked, kept us in ice longer than any of our neighbors. On day 8 we roasted it's smelly, melted carcass and fed it to my cats. It was a time of true communion, a time of wonder.
Is this a time of wonder too? Most of my life has been restructured. My teaching contract of the past 10 years was not renewed and I am frantically trying to reframe both my financial stability and my sense of personhood. This autumn will be a new horizon for me, unframed by the constricts and apprehensions which usually herald a new school year. My life will follow a new calender. It is both terrifying and exciting. So like the approach of a great storm.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
My Mom
I was supposed to fly to Florida today to visit my Mom. She decided to fly home instead. At 5:35 a.m. her spirit sailed out her body where it had been entombed and navigated home to be with my Dad. For two weeks I have been begging him to come for her. They were greatly in love for 60 years, in truth, most of my Mom died with my Dad in 2005. Loves like that are rare and I have faith that he scooped her up from the ethers with Godspeed right away. I am imagining how, enraptured with new love, they are getting reacquainted with on onother, my Dad valiant, tall and handsome with his sleek, thick black hair, my Mom radiant with her post-war pageboyed hair done up in a perfect roll.
I was not her favorite child, my talents didn't lie within her realm of understanding. I wonder if, in her newfound wise vision, she sees me for who I am. I loved her and her unique talents. She taught herself to paint later in life and her home was filled with memories of the places whe had visited with my Dad. Hawaii, the mountains of the western United States and the lush woods of upstate New York where I was born are all immortalized in oils as well as seascapes and lighthouses. She was a draftsman for Bendix Aviation and has a patent for th navigational grips on the Black Hawk Helicopters. A replica of that grip sits on the nightstand in the room in which ,until this morning ,she lived out her final years.
Why it was fated that she died on the very morning I was to go and be with her I will never know but I imagine that her real desire was to be with the love of her life again and she just couldn't wait.
Love is eternal and great loves transcend even the infinite. Goodbye for now.
I was not her favorite child, my talents didn't lie within her realm of understanding. I wonder if, in her newfound wise vision, she sees me for who I am. I loved her and her unique talents. She taught herself to paint later in life and her home was filled with memories of the places whe had visited with my Dad. Hawaii, the mountains of the western United States and the lush woods of upstate New York where I was born are all immortalized in oils as well as seascapes and lighthouses. She was a draftsman for Bendix Aviation and has a patent for th navigational grips on the Black Hawk Helicopters. A replica of that grip sits on the nightstand in the room in which ,until this morning ,she lived out her final years.
Why it was fated that she died on the very morning I was to go and be with her I will never know but I imagine that her real desire was to be with the love of her life again and she just couldn't wait.
Love is eternal and great loves transcend even the infinite. Goodbye for now.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Dragonfly
Your wings are formed by sacred geometry, a lustrous filigree supporting your flight through space and time.
You appeared to me in a fleeting vision during a meeting of the meditation class I have been attending for several years. A small, supportive group of mostly middle aged women, all of us seekers of truth, bouyed up in fanciful guided journeys by each other. It was here, in safety, that you, Dragonfly, first appeared. I had constructed a veil-like fence with the latticework of your wings. The fence was attempting to keep at bay an all pervading evil misperception which was threatening my very livelihood and peace. Your wings, subtle and sacredly beautiful were not sufficient to keep this evil on the outside. Ugly fists punched at your Fibbonacci means and soon they crumpled like so many stained glass ornaments. So went the contents of my meditative musings. But, always wishing for belief in the protective constructs of the metaphysical, I still carried you into my waking life in hope of gaining solace, or very real help against the writhings of untruth.
Alas, my protection proved to be too weak and this afternoon very real stinging words and acusations tumbled my sense of self like seismic tremors. I must find armour made of a stronger mail .
Farewell little dragonfly.
You appeared to me in a fleeting vision during a meeting of the meditation class I have been attending for several years. A small, supportive group of mostly middle aged women, all of us seekers of truth, bouyed up in fanciful guided journeys by each other. It was here, in safety, that you, Dragonfly, first appeared. I had constructed a veil-like fence with the latticework of your wings. The fence was attempting to keep at bay an all pervading evil misperception which was threatening my very livelihood and peace. Your wings, subtle and sacredly beautiful were not sufficient to keep this evil on the outside. Ugly fists punched at your Fibbonacci means and soon they crumpled like so many stained glass ornaments. So went the contents of my meditative musings. But, always wishing for belief in the protective constructs of the metaphysical, I still carried you into my waking life in hope of gaining solace, or very real help against the writhings of untruth.
Alas, my protection proved to be too weak and this afternoon very real stinging words and acusations tumbled my sense of self like seismic tremors. I must find armour made of a stronger mail .
Farewell little dragonfly.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Surgical Pencil
I have one valuable piece of china. The signature Haviland Christmas plate from 1973 was a gift from my son's late Grandmother. Until this evening it was a collector's item with a measurable market value. I had forgotten about it.
Feeling lonely on Christmas Day, I retrieved it from the shelf where it had been living, value intact, for the past 15 Christmases or so. Adorned with a few goodies it cheered me up. Snowbound tonight, and again feeling a wave of post holiday isolation,I filled the plate with snacks and sat down in front of my virtual connection with the outside world. Caution! Never wash a Haviland Collectors Edition Plate. I did and now the blackmarker signature on the back is smudged for all eternity, rendering it valuable to me alone. The soft blue background supporting images of brightly brushed wild birds and"Noel 1973" instantly summons a barage of visual memories of that Christmas spent in Sidney with my parents in their aging Victorian house.
Eric was 17months old and we had journeyed through the snow, ferrying our first born, my Mother-in-Law, and 2 beloved cats in our green Plymouth Duster.
Upon arrival, we discovered that the aging septic system in my parent's house had given over to a root too deep for my Dad's ingenious plunging system. Thus, Eric's Grandmother, an inveterate New Yorker, was faced with the daunting task of using a chamber pot instead of the plumbing we all take for granted. I sent my tea-totaling Dad downtown to buy gin. He returned with 2 quarts.
Although they sometimes cause us pain, we rely upon these memories of Christmas past to unite us in a sense of the community of family. A few tears shed for the times we cannot recreate are part and parcel of the emotional cement of the holiday season.
My own Mother's cement has cracked. The hand of God, or some deamon equal in power, has hit her delete button. All the memories that create our personhood are wiped clean for her. I called her in Florida yesterday hoping that she might reconnect somewhere in cyberspace with memories of our Christmases past.
For her, I do not exist anymore. I am a name she does not recognize, a life she lived and forgot. Using an arsenal from my music therapy tool kit, I tried singing to her shattered braincells. Silence and more silence was the answer. And so she has become one of a myriad of my memories.
Next week my brother will put my parents' home on the market. It was gifted to him by my mother before her downfall. But, before any sale can commence, he will hire a professional estate cleaning service to erase the tangible vestiges of my parent's lives together. I am grateful the my memory holds intact, the images of where they lived and loved each other for so many years.
I opted to tell my aged Aunt, who lives a few blocks from where my parents lived, about the sale before she drove by and was shocked by the empty house. Her last ties of family live in that house. It was a mistake to tell her. Although I was just the messenger, I broke her heart.
In a perfect world where families are not separated by distances so great that air travel is the thread uniting them, my aunt and I would grieve together. Social networking and telephones are the unification tools of today. A real hug and the wiping of tears is reality.
Feeling lonely on Christmas Day, I retrieved it from the shelf where it had been living, value intact, for the past 15 Christmases or so. Adorned with a few goodies it cheered me up. Snowbound tonight, and again feeling a wave of post holiday isolation,I filled the plate with snacks and sat down in front of my virtual connection with the outside world. Caution! Never wash a Haviland Collectors Edition Plate. I did and now the blackmarker signature on the back is smudged for all eternity, rendering it valuable to me alone. The soft blue background supporting images of brightly brushed wild birds and"Noel 1973" instantly summons a barage of visual memories of that Christmas spent in Sidney with my parents in their aging Victorian house.
Eric was 17months old and we had journeyed through the snow, ferrying our first born, my Mother-in-Law, and 2 beloved cats in our green Plymouth Duster.
Upon arrival, we discovered that the aging septic system in my parent's house had given over to a root too deep for my Dad's ingenious plunging system. Thus, Eric's Grandmother, an inveterate New Yorker, was faced with the daunting task of using a chamber pot instead of the plumbing we all take for granted. I sent my tea-totaling Dad downtown to buy gin. He returned with 2 quarts.
Although they sometimes cause us pain, we rely upon these memories of Christmas past to unite us in a sense of the community of family. A few tears shed for the times we cannot recreate are part and parcel of the emotional cement of the holiday season.
My own Mother's cement has cracked. The hand of God, or some deamon equal in power, has hit her delete button. All the memories that create our personhood are wiped clean for her. I called her in Florida yesterday hoping that she might reconnect somewhere in cyberspace with memories of our Christmases past.
For her, I do not exist anymore. I am a name she does not recognize, a life she lived and forgot. Using an arsenal from my music therapy tool kit, I tried singing to her shattered braincells. Silence and more silence was the answer. And so she has become one of a myriad of my memories.
Next week my brother will put my parents' home on the market. It was gifted to him by my mother before her downfall. But, before any sale can commence, he will hire a professional estate cleaning service to erase the tangible vestiges of my parent's lives together. I am grateful the my memory holds intact, the images of where they lived and loved each other for so many years.
I opted to tell my aged Aunt, who lives a few blocks from where my parents lived, about the sale before she drove by and was shocked by the empty house. Her last ties of family live in that house. It was a mistake to tell her. Although I was just the messenger, I broke her heart.
In a perfect world where families are not separated by distances so great that air travel is the thread uniting them, my aunt and I would grieve together. Social networking and telephones are the unification tools of today. A real hug and the wiping of tears is reality.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Fingerprints
My 5'7" Yamaha Grand has been fingerprinted. The smudges left behind by hands belonging to my 9 year old Grandson, Ezra, have birthed her a new identity. A third generation of souls entranced by the power of musical expression has been born and my fondest dream has been realized.
We all nourish these fantasies of unity in the darkness of night. Sometimes romantic love is the vehicle. A vivid memory of one moment when the skin of timespace melts allowing a true sharing, union with another. Playing the piano is a solitary, intimate act, not unlike a ubiquituous act of lovemaking. The performer so wedded to her body that each stroke of a finger, each armful embrace evokes an expression from the heart made manifold in the sounds of strings, wood and felt. It is a private sanctification, rarely shared. When this holy liason is witnessed in another the sense of separateness shattered is overwhelmingly powerful. Such is the union that has been forged between Ezra and me.
The saga began in late August when I was babysitting in Minneapolis. Ezra, who had been participating in a group piano instruction situation at school, asked me if I knew" Fur Elise", that piece of program music by Beethoven which is so routinely butchered by piano students. Ezra then played with only his right hand. I showed him a few bars and, like Gaugain with a brush, he transformed it into a masterpiece. Since that fateful day, a mere two and a half months ago, he has called me almost nightly. Through the ethereal goo of cyberspace, an ancient cellphone and a ramshackled keyboard he has created a repertoire which includes ALL of the Beethoven piece, Mozart's "Rondo alla Turk", complete with opposing octaves and grace notes and Pachebel's Canon in D. At his Uncle's wedding he watched me like a hawk as I played Bach's "Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring "as a wedding postlude on the Baroque organ in the church in Mt. Sinai. The next day he begged me to show him how to play it. A mere 24 hours later he owned it, it was both Bach's and his.
My heart swells to the breaking point with this visceral recognition that surpasses the bounds of student-teacher, Grandmother-Grandson. Our souls have met I know him and he knows me.
Ezra has returned to Minneapolis where a scholarship at the MacPhail Conservatory awaits him. I would be lying to say that I am not jealous of the teacher who will inherit his musical future. Every night I pass by my Yamaha and bless, with abundant gratitude, those 4th grade fingerprints. I will not polish them into memory. They are mine!
We all nourish these fantasies of unity in the darkness of night. Sometimes romantic love is the vehicle. A vivid memory of one moment when the skin of timespace melts allowing a true sharing, union with another. Playing the piano is a solitary, intimate act, not unlike a ubiquituous act of lovemaking. The performer so wedded to her body that each stroke of a finger, each armful embrace evokes an expression from the heart made manifold in the sounds of strings, wood and felt. It is a private sanctification, rarely shared. When this holy liason is witnessed in another the sense of separateness shattered is overwhelmingly powerful. Such is the union that has been forged between Ezra and me.
The saga began in late August when I was babysitting in Minneapolis. Ezra, who had been participating in a group piano instruction situation at school, asked me if I knew" Fur Elise", that piece of program music by Beethoven which is so routinely butchered by piano students. Ezra then played with only his right hand. I showed him a few bars and, like Gaugain with a brush, he transformed it into a masterpiece. Since that fateful day, a mere two and a half months ago, he has called me almost nightly. Through the ethereal goo of cyberspace, an ancient cellphone and a ramshackled keyboard he has created a repertoire which includes ALL of the Beethoven piece, Mozart's "Rondo alla Turk", complete with opposing octaves and grace notes and Pachebel's Canon in D. At his Uncle's wedding he watched me like a hawk as I played Bach's "Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring "as a wedding postlude on the Baroque organ in the church in Mt. Sinai. The next day he begged me to show him how to play it. A mere 24 hours later he owned it, it was both Bach's and his.
My heart swells to the breaking point with this visceral recognition that surpasses the bounds of student-teacher, Grandmother-Grandson. Our souls have met I know him and he knows me.
Ezra has returned to Minneapolis where a scholarship at the MacPhail Conservatory awaits him. I would be lying to say that I am not jealous of the teacher who will inherit his musical future. Every night I pass by my Yamaha and bless, with abundant gratitude, those 4th grade fingerprints. I will not polish them into memory. They are mine!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Flying Free
My friend is dead. Twenty minutes ago her poor diseased lungs released her last breath in this world spiraling her spirit through mystical adventures unknown to us, the living. A mere six months ago Marianne and I laughed and made light of the daily minutia at LHS. She might have sensed that something was running amuck in her body but she was still radiant, innocent of the thief who was silently stealing her life's force.
Yesterday, at dusk, saddened by the hushed knowledge that death was about to take one of us, I walked along the winding path which leads to my classroom in the woods. At the spot between two ash trees where, for some reason unknown,the veil between worlds has thinned I stopped. The trees were filled with birds, varieties that I had never heard or seen before, all sharing the same two trees. Their combined calls were ethereal, not to be missed. Two young squirrels actually stood on their haunches and listened, eyes darting, ears perked erect. I notice all the creatures living in the woods near my classroom, they are my daytime companions. These creatures of the air were new. It was 4:30. I sensed Marianne near, the essence of her that is real and will live on. I noted the time as I truly thought that maybe she had slipped from her ravaged body and joined the world of spirit. I now guess that she was just trying her fledgling wings for the next days' journey.
I believe in reunion, thus I choose to see her ecstatically greeting her husband who passed from her world many years ago, leaving her to raise her sons alone. I see them holding hands and walking, whole, renewed and in love again. I hope she is loving us as much as we are missing her tonight.
Godspeed on your journey home, Marianne.
Yesterday, at dusk, saddened by the hushed knowledge that death was about to take one of us, I walked along the winding path which leads to my classroom in the woods. At the spot between two ash trees where, for some reason unknown,the veil between worlds has thinned I stopped. The trees were filled with birds, varieties that I had never heard or seen before, all sharing the same two trees. Their combined calls were ethereal, not to be missed. Two young squirrels actually stood on their haunches and listened, eyes darting, ears perked erect. I notice all the creatures living in the woods near my classroom, they are my daytime companions. These creatures of the air were new. It was 4:30. I sensed Marianne near, the essence of her that is real and will live on. I noted the time as I truly thought that maybe she had slipped from her ravaged body and joined the world of spirit. I now guess that she was just trying her fledgling wings for the next days' journey.
I believe in reunion, thus I choose to see her ecstatically greeting her husband who passed from her world many years ago, leaving her to raise her sons alone. I see them holding hands and walking, whole, renewed and in love again. I hope she is loving us as much as we are missing her tonight.
Godspeed on your journey home, Marianne.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
La luna
It is Saturday, October 16th and the waxing gibbous moon is standing sentinel in the southeastern sky. Bright, slightly yellow and showing just a hint of her shadowy earth shine she guards all the lovers on earth tonight.
For the first time in many years, both of my sons are together tonight and within a mere 20 miles of where I sit writing this blog. Each is sharing the moonlit sky with a partner who loves them dearly. My youngest is about to be married to his soul mate and his brother has been blessed with a woman who loves and appreciates him. Four lovers beneath the waxing gibbous moon, enjoying a party to celebrate the coming marriage.Thirty three years ago today, beneath a waxing crescent moon, I too was in love and celebrating the day of my marriage. Cycles wax and wane and so does love. I pray that they step firmly, but quietly, over the fool's quicksand that I didn't safely navigate. My deepest wish for my sons is that their loves wax permanent and binding, granting them companionship through all of life's seasons as La Luna, watches from afar loves lost. lingering, transformed and transcendent.
For the first time in many years, both of my sons are together tonight and within a mere 20 miles of where I sit writing this blog. Each is sharing the moonlit sky with a partner who loves them dearly. My youngest is about to be married to his soul mate and his brother has been blessed with a woman who loves and appreciates him. Four lovers beneath the waxing gibbous moon, enjoying a party to celebrate the coming marriage.Thirty three years ago today, beneath a waxing crescent moon, I too was in love and celebrating the day of my marriage. Cycles wax and wane and so does love. I pray that they step firmly, but quietly, over the fool's quicksand that I didn't safely navigate. My deepest wish for my sons is that their loves wax permanent and binding, granting them companionship through all of life's seasons as La Luna, watches from afar loves lost. lingering, transformed and transcendent.
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