It gets worse before it gets better

Or so I have to believe.

It has been over four weeks since Mom died, and yet it was just yesterday. When someone dies, there is often a lot of work to do, and we are plugging away at the things we have in front of us. I go over to her house several times a week to sort through an arm load of things at a time: this cupboard emptied, that closet cleaned out, those pieces of furniture swapped with items from our house.

The cleaning out process is necessary because we depend on the granny flat rent for our attempt at financial stability. I have to make myself do the work rather than give in to the passive aggressive temptation of, "Well, we can't rent it yet; the place is still a mess." I want to scream when I think of the change ahead, but instead I sort through the papers, cull the treasures from the trash, and keep moving ahead.

Each bit of work is swathed in sadness, but it is often done without signs of major breakdown. Not thinking, not feeling, I just plod my way through the piles.

And then I find the cast iron skillet that Mom used to make animal-shaped pancakes for me in 1965, and I am back to the raw meltdown.

Man, this is hard work.

But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.

I Thess 4:13

I have hope, truly I do. These are just dark days, and the feelings of hope are hiding beyond the horizon. But it is there, and what is true is true no matter what I am feeling at the moment.

For now, though, I will warm a cast iron pan and create pancake shapes that bring back memories of Saturday mornings, sitting on the dark green tile counter, begging for an elephant or giggling at a monkey. And maybe, just maybe, we'll smile and laugh and the sun will come out again in my heart.

The Friday Clive

 

And all the time the joke is that the word "mine" in its fully possessive sense cannot be uttered by a human being about anything.   ~The Screwtape Letters~

Sometimes cream puffs help

Yesterday was a yucky day. At some point in the afternoon, after uninspired school lessons, a generally blah ambiance began sinking into our souls.  When a young woman asked if she could make cream puffs, there was no need to think. The answer was a definite "Yes!"

Gram's apron and her copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking helped set the mood.

One cream puff is my limit, but the younger members of the family are able to indulge more and still fit in their pants, so it was safe to make a whole batch.

That one cream puff was delicious and the whole thing cheered us up immensely. 

Thanks, Claire.

Norms and Nobility...again

From the very first page of David Hicks's book:

Norms and Nobility by David Hicks

"I know that we live in an age where the homely or psychological detail is considered all-important.  We like heroes in shirtsleeves, or, in other words, we don't like heroes.  But things were not always that way, and today is not forever."

                                                                                  ~ Louis Auchincloss

A college president I know keeps three books on his night table: the Bible, the Iliad, and Louis Auchincloss' 1964 novel The Rector of Justin.  When I once asked him, "Why the novel?," he responded, "Because it raises questions I cannot answer or ignore, the sort of questions that possess a wisdom apart from answers."




This short quote was enough to get my mind spinning, in a good way. 

The Rector of Justin by Louis Auchincloss is now in my amazon.com cart, and I am re-reading Norms and Nobility for some educational inspiration.

The blossoms are all gone

An armload of freesias graced the altar area at my mother's service.

Three weeks ago they were white and purple and fragrant.

Grief was fresh and new, a gaping wound.  Life was a swirl of responsibilities and the chance to remember.



The bouquet came here and  found a home on the kitchen island.  Every day I would come down, pluck the wilted blossoms, and enjoy the lingering fragrance of the few remaining flowers.

There are no blossoms left.

The Friday Clive

"If one is nervous there's nothing like having your face toward the danger and having something warm and solid at your back."

~ The Horse and His Boy ~

A birthday of a different sort

It is pouring rain today.

It is 37 degrees outside.

And what does the birthday boy want to do to celebrate during lunch break?

Basketball.

Without shirts.

Beasts.

Happy birthday, Bren.

Here's to another year of manly adventures!

Birthday season..last week's celebration first..with a plug for Groupon

Birthday season is upon us, sneaking up on me in the midst of the sadness.  We had made no plans for a very special about-to-be 15-year-old girl, and suddenly the day was around the corner.

Enter the Sunday paper.  Enter the performances listing.  Enter Romeo & Juliet!  An idea was hatched.
 

 

Next up, a friend.  Yep, available.

Next up, tickets.  Enter GROUPON. 

What is Groupon?  From their website:

Groupon negotiates huge discounts—usually 50-90% off—with popular businesses. We send the deals to thousands of subscribers in our free daily email, and we send the businesses a ton of new customers. That's the Groupon magic.

(If you want to join the Groupon fun, see the end of this post.)

My birthday girl and I had already had a fantastic Groupon experience together.  She needed a suit for speech tournaments, and a Groupon offer landed in my email for a $50 gift card to a consignment store in downtown Sacramento.  Cost?  $15.  She got exactly what she wanted for a fraction of the cost.  We love Groupon.

So the morning I was getting on to the computer to buy tickets to Romeo & Juliet there was a Groupon offer for half-off orchestra seats....for the EXACT showing that Claire wanted to attend.  It Was Meant To Be.

It was a very, very, VERY happy birthday.  Two intermissions, gorgeous costumes, beautiful dancing, fantastic sword fighting, question and answer time with the dancers afterwards.  We were waiting outside when two beautiful young women came floating down the stairs after the performance; the birthday girl reported that it was the best birthday party ever.

Love you, Claire Bear. 

May you have many surprises of joy and grace in the coming year, and great deals, too! 

Click here if you would like join Groupon, and that allows me to benefit with a referral fee.  FYI:  You can choose whatever cities you would like as your Groupon cities.  I get daily emails from Sacramento and San Francisco, and I have temporarily added San Diego since I will be visiting that beautiful city for a couple of days in March.  

p.s.  Today's birthday boy's post coming soon.  Hopefully with pictures...I am cameraless at the moment and feel like I am blogging with my creativity tied behind my back.

Added later:  Not sure that the Groupon link is working.  If it is, great.  If not, no worries.  Just join!

It hits in unexpected places

 

I had my annual physical yesterday, and I knew it was going to be very difficult.  You see, my doctor was also my mom's doctor.  Mom and I had logged serious hours in that waiting room, in those exam rooms, in the halls.  And this time I would be alone.  I wrote to my daughter in Oregon, "Pray, please?!" and dragged myself out the door and into the car.

Coming up the hill and seeing the hospital on the right didn't do me in.  Walking in the door, filling out the forms, hearing Kristin's sweet voice calling my name...it all went pretty well.


And then she put the pulse oximeter on my finger.  The very same one that I had seen on my mother's finger dozens of times.  And I came very close to sobbing.  I held it in until she left me in the exam room, and then I completely let go.  I wept and wept and wept some more.  I didn't want to be in that room alone, where Mom and I had giggled and cried and held hands and checked our watches in impatience and compared magazine articles.  But there I was.  Alone.


Fortunately the doctor was late, I was able to cry as long as I needed to, and we had a great appointment.  He wanted to talk about Mom, how much he appreciated her attitude.  She made a difference in his life, because often patients are not so gracious toward the doctor who gives them bad news or asks them to make changes they would rather not make.  And certainly not many of them were able to laugh in the face of life-ending adversity like Mom was.  She was a gem.

As I left, I walked down halls that echoed with her laughter; I felt sad and lost and like I might feel this way for the rest of my life.

I know it's not true, but yesterday it sure did feel like it.

A year of poetry

I decided in January to read Czeslaw Milosz's poetry this year. I bought this book:

I listened here at least twenty times to try and pronounce his name.

I read here about celebrations planned for Milosz Year 2011, the hundredth anniversary of his birth.

And then I traveled for a speech tournament, managed to lose the book, and forgot all about Milosz year.

Until my son went to use my computer backpack and there was the missing Milosz.  And so was this:

The same can be said of beauty.  It should not exist.

There is not only no reason for it, but an argument against.

Yet undoubtedly it is, and is different from ugliness.*

and this....

And when people cease to believe that there is good and evil

Only beauty will call to them and save them

So that they still know how to say: this is true and this is false.  *

Mr. Milosz arrived just in time.



* You can read the whole poem here.

Augustine's prayer

Watch, O Lord,

with those who wake,

or watch, or weep tonight,

and give your angels charge

over those who sleep.

Tend your sick ones,

O Lord Jesus Christ;

rest your weary ones;

bless your dying ones;

soothe your suffering ones;

pity your afflicted ones;

shield your joyous ones;

and all for your love's sake.

Amen.

HT:  The Autumn Rain

The Friday Clive

"(O)ur longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off...is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation."  ~ The Weight of Glory

* with special thanks to my new friend Amy for this book.  It's a treasure.

Beauty is winning me over

I forgot how tired grief makes me.  I don't push the feelings away, I don't tell myself to buck up and gut it out, but sadness can still get tangled up inside, stuck in a dark corner and unable to get out.  And I get tired.  So tired.

Life doesn't stop, though.  Laundry piles high, people get hungry, pantry shelves empty, dog hair collects under the piano, math lessons require help, Eagle scout deadlines remain.  I am glad, for as weary as I am I would probably just curl up in a ball and not move.  Eight or nine hours at night are enough time for the fetal position; I am glad that the responsibilities of life get me moving.

But it is beauty that grabs my heart and makes me really live.

There is beauty in the sunrise, creating ribbons of light across the valley. Flowers glowing in the afternoon light and shadows. The intricate design of lace hanging in a window.

There are your beautiful comments and emails and gifts and cards.  They remind me I am not alone.  Thank you.

Life didn't have to beautiful, did it?  It could simply be utilitarian, grey, and functional.  Instead the world is filled, created, designed with an astounding variety of beauty.  The colors flashing as a bird darts by, the golden song of laughter as the family plays Apples-to-Apples, the grace of a young man as he soars to the basket for a crowd-pleasing block, the smell of lasagne reminding us that dinner is ready...beauty is around every corner.

And it is waking me up, winning me over.

Memorial words

My friend Laura asked me to post the words I spoke at Mom's memorial service.  Here you go, Laur.  Thanks for everything.





Thank you for being here today.

When we moved Mom in 2003, she thought she had left her meaningful life behind. Friends, church, community in the Bay Area...it was all she had known for over forty years. Starting over is hard at any age, but at 76? Neither of us could imagine.

But then she came to Faith Church. When we went to look at the two Episcopal churches near our house, Mom decided to come to Faith for one reason: she thought she might not be able to climb the steps outside the church in Placerville for much longer. How many times have I thanked God for those steps? Many!




And so we came to Cameron Park. The first thing she noticed was the lack of kneelers and then the screens on the wall; these were a stretch for a conservative Episcopalian woman. But you loved her. You welcomed her. You drove her to church, included her in your fellowship, shared books with her, visited her when she was sick. And now we are here, in her church HOME, for a memorial service with friends and clergy whom she really knew and loved. I cannot thank you enough.

And to our friends who are here: you've been a rock for us. Thanks for your prayers and for letting us lean on you. It is good to know we are not alone.

And now to brag on my Mama a bit. She was an independent, courageous, hilarious and articulate woman.

She loved with a fierce love. It was a beautiful thing to be loved by my mother; I am so glad I could be her daughter.

What else did Mom love?

She loved books:

Through all my growing up years, I remember seeing my beautiful mother curled up with a mystery as we went to bed. When we lived in Los Altos, she eventually switched over to the Mountain View library; she had read all the mysteries in the Los Altos one.

I remember her reading Charlotte's Web aloud to us when we were little.

I remember Mom bringing me new books when I was sick. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, All Things Bright and Beautiful, 84 Charing Cross Road.

She introduced me to C.S. Lewis. What a gift. And just this year I felt a thrill when I was able to introduce HER to Wendell Berry.

We joked about writing a book together, using the typical El Dorado County property surveying dispute we were having in our neighborhood. We named it The Property Line, but she had yet to decide if she would be the Jane Marple detective, or if she was to be the murderer...it would be a "who dunit" you wouldn't guess until the very last page.

We have made a lot of library trips in the last eight years. With her large bag of books, making her way to the check-out line, one of the grandchildren would surreptitiously grab her bag. And those bags were heavy! She never stopped reading, never stopped learning. When she died, Mornings on Horseback (a biography of Teddy Roosevelt) was on her table, open to the last page she had read.

Mom also loved ordinary beauty:

Things carved out of wood, pottery bowls of all different shapes and sizes and colors, Shakespeare (especially Hamlet, which she saw many times during my childhood, always in search of the actor who would play Hamlet perfectly), watercolor paintings, cut flowers, the faces of her grandchildren, blues music, the clean beauty of a perfectly pressed shirt, the glow of well-polished wood, skies like today's sky. It didn't need to cost money...it was the simple things she enjoyed.

And finally, Mom loved to laugh, and what a laugh she had.

This is particularly difficult for me to talk about. For you see, Mom leaves behind her books, she passed on her love of beauty to us, but that laugh...how can that laugh really be gone from this world? It doesn't seem possible. It was such a glorious song, from a woman who would happily tell you she couldn't sing a note on key.

The laughter was song enough, Mama.

I would like to close by reading a Shakespearean sonnet. I would guess it was written between lovers, but it always reminds me of Mom. It speaks of unconditional love, something she was known for.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

The Friday Clive

At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door.  We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure.  We cannot mingle with the splendours we see.  But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so.  Some day, God willing, we will get in.