Boat Across the River
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A Luxurious Lunch
It’s funny to be out by yourself when you are used to having children with you. I went to lunch all by myself today; I brought a book which I pretended to read as I ate my food. There were several nice things about this lunch. First, I ate my food slowly. Very slowly. I chewed slowly, I drank coffee slowly, I paid the tab slowly. I can’t believe how great it felt not to be in a rush. Secondly, I did not have to speak to anyone. I had temporarily forgotten what silence feels like. It was so restful not to have to come up with something to say. It actually felt more restful being in a room full of loud people and children than if I was alone. All the little crises people were having with the children: not my problem. It was freeing to be around these things because I could repeatedly tell myself that I had no responsibilities here. And it was relaxing for me to overhear other people’s conversations — all the contrivances, small competitions, turns of phrase, and emoting that goes on. None of it was my problem or my wasted energy.
Difficulties
I was making a smoothie in the blender yesterday with my two-year old daughter and lately she is always desperately wanting to help with everything: “Can I do it? Can I, can I?” That may be the only thing Tom Cruise ever said that I listened to: when Oprah asked him how to avoid raising a spoiled child, he responded, “Kids want to help you; when they offer, let them help.” I always try to let S. help when she offers.
So she was happily adding fruit and pushing buttons on the blender when I noted, “We’re having some difficulties with this smoothie.” It wasn’t turning out quite the way I had planned.
She looked at me earnestly with round baby eyes and asked, “Can I put in the difficulties?”
Birdsong in Heaven
Last week, it was clear that Spring had dawned. The birds announced this fact in no uncertain terms, their songs straight from the Hymnal, hand picked for the season. I especially noticed the cardinal’s lilting tune. I easily spotted him in a nearby tree, red plumage in stark contrast to the still-bare branch, his little throat rippling with an extended song: heartfelt: full of glory. “Notice these things now,” I tell myself. “Your time here is limited.”
I often wonder if we, along with a Higher Power, are co-creators in our afterlives — like in one of my favorite movies, What Dreams May Come. Will we all experience the same thing after our time here is up? Will there be an objective “heaven” or will eternity be more of a subjective experience? For instance, will we all get to hear birdsong for eternity, or will we only get that privilege if we took note of it and loved it while we were here? Do we build our afterlives from our loves and memories, or is it all taken care of for us? How much of this are we responsible for? How many of the great things that are here do we get to take with us? Should I eat as much rhubarb pie now as I possibly can? What if I want to be surrounded by the huge trees of old — landscapes that man has long since detroyed in his attempt to perfect Creation. I can’t possibly have my own personal memories of these places of which I have been robbed, so will my ancestors help me remember once I am on their level? Will they help me have everything I can’t possibly imagine?
These are just questions that occur to me as I ponder my own responsibility to appreciate what I have already been given — I wonder about the part that I play in creating my own reality. Some people will tell me that the Bible says this or that about the afterlife and so I need not think about it or ask questions. That is not my kind of Christianity. Jesus never told us to believe everything in any Bible, and he never wrote a word of it himself. Thus I am left to think…well, to think. For myself. Apparently, Jesus did say that “the Kingdom of Heaven is amongst us.” Like, now.
If we are safe, all our needs met, and if we can’t find Heaven NOW…maybe we never will.
Maize: The Maze
We took S. to an apple orchard over the weekend and bought the obligatory jar of apple butter, an enormous bag of apples, and some glowing amber and maroon colored corn to hang on the door. In addition to the apple trees and pumpkin patch, this family farms corn and makes a little extra money by creating a maze through the field, charging a small entrance fee to run around inside and lose yourself.
As soon as we stepped foot in the maze, I was carried away by my enthusiasm. The walls of corn on either side of us reached several feet above our heads. The funny little feet on the corn looked almost alien. Or like the spreading roots of mangrove trees in Florida’s swamps. I was surprised (maybe because of the weedy condition of my own yard) by the fact that nothing else grew on the ground beneath the corn. The earth was very smooth, a pale beige color, flat, dry…barren looking, really, except for the many stalks of corn growing out of it. It was almost paradoxical: the earth — weirdly absent of any greenery whatsoever – juxtaposed with the corn. Sadly, I suspect the use of chemicals, though delicate blue flowers neatly wove their way through the meaty ears, dense and substantial in their protrusions from the stalks. The earth is so dry, I could smell its distinctive aroma as the breeze carried pieces of the loose top layer to my nose. The earth was cracked in such a perfect grid that it looked deliberate.
As we made our way around the twists and turns, able to see only corn and blue sky, I felt I was navigating a meditational labyrinth. At the center, would I find one of the answers to the question: Who am I?
Eat. Pray. Love.
I was actually halfway through that movie when I got the call from my dad that my grandmother had passed on. I left the theater with J. and drove 30 minutes straight to the hospital to whisper some carefully selected words in her ear and kiss her on the cheek a few times.
The curtain to the room was closed when I got there. I asked the nurse if I could go in and she busily replied that I could…no, “I’m sorry,” no pat on the back, nothing much from the nurses. No one was in the room. Grandma was just lying there, no more machines humming, no tubes or wires anymore. I laid my hand on top of hers and it was cold this time…four hours earlier it had been warm. The details of death are so strange. Very dreamlike. Every moment is heavy with meaning, heavy with wonder, heavy with many imaginings and hopes.
She died on Saturday (8/21) and the funeral was today, family only. I spoke, then my aunt, and then my cousin. Here is what I said:
I’ll start by sharing some of my favorite memories of Grandma:
1) When I was little, there was a piece of woods that was scheduled to be torn down. Mom and Grandma took me with them on several trips to this land and dug up every wildflower they could fit in the car to transplant and save. Grandma loved plants.
2) When Grandma and Grandpa had to take down the tree in front of their house where we all used to swing out over Grandma’s garden, she was very upset. Grandma loved trees. She loved animals, too. She always had food out for the birds, and cared deeply for many dogs and cats over the years.
3) Many of my weekends between the years of 1991 and 2009 were spent at the lake. She enjoyed sitting on the deck and looking down at us playing in the water. She always had a bowl of fresh peaches out on the table in the kitchen that she had bought at the produce stand.
4) I remember sleeping at Grandma’s house after we escaped from our own burning house. Their house has always been a refuge, a home away from home.
5) Going antiquing with Grandma was always a nice experience. She would amble down the aisles looking at everything with expressions of nostalgia and affection. She could tell you the purpose for every one of those items.
6) When my daughter was born prematurely, my parents were still out of town. Grandma and Grandpa came to the hospital to see us while S. was in the NICU struggling to breathe. Grandma was very upset to see her hooked up to all those machines. It meant so much to me that she was there, and that she was so concerned for S. It gave me a lot of joy to see Grandma rock S. in her living room and how she placed toys and little bears around for S. to find. I’ll always remember Grandma sitting in her chair with her feet up on her little stool.
7) I will never look at the magazine Taste of Home or watch Paula Deen and Sandra Lee on the Food Network without thinking of Grandma. Grandma had a lot of respect for the way those two ladies have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. Grandma’s food was our “taste of home”. She always had candy in the cut glass candy jar, and a thoughtful table-scape on the table for big dinners.
I will remember walking up the sidewalk to Grandma’s house for dinner, a row of beautiful plants on each side of me, seeing the warm yellow light through the windows, and people sitting at the table talking and waiting for us inside. I remember how every time I went through the door of Grandma and Grandpa’s house, the warmth from the kitchen would hit you immediately, and also the wonderful smells of food cooking. It was always such a comforting feeling. I hope that’s how it feels for her now as she enters into the house that has been prepared for her.
The last couple of weeks have been jarring and sudden. It’s hard to realize that just like “that,” and with little warning, our family meals won’t ever be the same. So much of life is about being with family around good food. Sharing bread together, sharing wine. That’s communion. That’s community. That’s the unspoken prayer of our family. Food was definitely Grandma’s language of love. Maybe that’s the case for all girls who grew up on the farm, living a life that was not easy and was not touchy feely. I have rarely heard her speak fondly of farm life, and yet to me, hers is the real story of this region.
She slept upstairs in the drafty little farmhouse with her siblings, even in the wintertime with no heat. She was a child during the Great Depression, and remembered her mother feeding the hungry men who would walk in along the railroad tracks behind their farm. She remembered measuring the sugar so carefully, because there was no sugar to spare. Offering someone food is a direct expression of love because food makes LIFE possible. Making a meal for someone takes time and energy. “Have another cookie,” translates directly to, “I love you,” and your acceptance of that cookie translates to, “I love you, too.” It’s difficult to know that we’ll never have another piece of pie made by Grandma.
We can’t know these things for sure until we make the journey for ourselves, but I feel that she’s with family — her sister, her brothers, her parents, her in-laws. I feel that she is free. And that she is at peace. I feel I can still talk to her and that she can hear me. I believe that we will see her again someday. But we will miss her voice, her smile, and her laugh. We will miss seeing her face.
We’ll just miss HER.
Waking Up
My grandmother has been very sick.
One day we were having our weekly Tuesday lunch with her after storytime at the library, the next day she was in the hospital coughing up blood, and the day after that she was on a life support machine that is breathing for her.
Maybe there were a few extra days thrown in there, but not many.
Today’s news was good, and the mass they saw in their fancy doctor pictures seems to be mostly a nasty fluid and not a cancer…but the biopsies are not back yet.
It’s hard to realize that just like that ! our lunches and big family meals might be over. Oh, we’d still have LUNCH. We’d still have family meals. But it wouldn’t be the same.
So much of life is about being with family around good food. Sharing bread together, sharing wine. That’s communion. That’s community. That’s the unspoken prayer of my family. Food is definitely Grandma’s language of love. Maybe that’s the case for all girls who grew up on the farm, living a life that was not easy and was not touchy feely. I have never once heard her speak fondly of that life, and yet to me, hers is the real story of this region.
She slept upstairs in the drafty little farmhouse with her siblings, even in the wintertime with no heat. She was a child during the Great Depression, and remembers her mother feeding the men who would walk in along the railroad tracks behind their house. She remembers measuring the sugar so carefully, because there was no sugar to spare. Offering someone food is a direct expression of love because food is LIFE. “Have another cookie,” translates directly to, “I love you,” and your acceptance of that cookie to, “I love you, too.” It’s hard to imagine that you might never have another piece of pie made by Grandma.
At eighty seven years of age, we’ll be lucky if she makes it through this. I am hoping for at least a few more years with my grandparents. But this has been a harsh reminder that someday she won’t be with us, at least not the way she is now. Sitting here missing my other grandmother, I know it’s hard to be patient through the years and the long long wait to hopefully see someone again someday.
Death is a rude
awakening.
A Fear of Heights
In the Book of John 14:12 Jesus states, “…he who believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I go to the Father. Whatever you ask in my name, I will do it…”
And in Mathew 17:20 Jesus says, “…if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move hence to yonder place,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to you.”
What do you make of these lines? It depends on whether you accept that there is any truth in the Bible. Next, it depends on whether you take Jesus literally or figuratively. It seems like many times Jesus speaks in metaphors, but that he oftentimes means exactly what he says. So, if he is being literal in the case of these lines of scripture, if would seem that Jesus is saying that if we follow his path, we would be able to do what he did. I wish we knew more about the actual spiritual practices of Jesus…but that can be a topic for later.
I am reminded of the quotation by Marrianne Williamson:
“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. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel unsure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. 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.”
In our quest for humility, does our light — our potential for greatness — frighten us? If I remember right, Tibetan monks intentionally make small imperfections in their sand paintings so that they are not perfect. But that almost makes it seem like, since they intentionally made imperfections, that if they wanted the mandala to be perfect, they could make it so…
So why not? Why intentionally shoot low? (Though the incredibly complex process of religious sand paintings can hardly be described as shooting low!) Humility is definitely hugely important, but what are we supposed to do here? Are we supposed to shoot for the stars, or is that what that fallen angel did; you know the one.
What a mess.
I think there’s a fine line to walk, where you aim high, but keep your humility about you, too. I don’t know what the writers of the Gospels were trying to tell us in those lines. I don’t know if we are all supposed to become miracle-working healers? Or, if out of humility, we should just go ahead and take his words metaphorically and do what we can to be there for people, and other beings, when they need help. I mean, what would be the point of actually moving a literal mountain? Maybe the real miracle would just be for human beings to equally distribute food to everyone on the planet.
Victory!
Yesterday, I went to the grocery by myself with S. Going grocery shopping by yourself with a two-year old is a victory in and of itself. So mark that up as goal number one.
These days, I am ashamed to say that I usually bag the food in plastic. I do put the bags in the recycling bin, though, never fear. Especially with S. in tow, throwing one more ball in the air to juggle is more than I can usually handle. But yesterday, I managed to spend $80 on food, and bag all of it in my own cloth bags.
Clearly, I am very proud of myself for this accomplishment.
