love.

spring returns . march 29, 2009

The only thing we can never get enough of is love. And the only thing we can never give enough of is love.

Henry Miller

(thank you)

gramps

my grandfather died on march 28 as jon and i were on a plane flying across the country to south carolina to see him. we spent the last week with my family. i was able to stay in my grandparents' home.

it was a gift to stay in that home for six nights as family came and went. it was a gift to take down a mug from the cupboard for tea . to sit on my grandfather's bed and lay my head on his pillow . to walk around the yard in the morning chill and see the lily of the valley peeking out and hear the neighborhood children's laughter....

it was a gift to show my family the family tree she had shown me the last day i saw her in 2004 . to hear my uncles talk . to hear the glass of the china cabinet rattle and remember hearing it as a child when i would walk through the living room hoping not to get caught but then suddenly that noise would fill the house and i would scurry out before she found me and then to share that very same memory with my cousin...

it was a gift to stand before him and tell him how much their love shaped me and how i would share that love for all my days . to listen to my great-aunt tell the stories and the tall tales and the snippets of truths i did not know . to hold jon's hand when i struggled and to always know he was there as a constant source of grounding for us . to feel my mom's arms around me when i crumbled when the surrealness gave way to truth . to share moments of what is real with my brother...

it was a gift to walk through the house and soak up every corner and breathe in the smells and take in every texture and open my heart to memories . to hear my uncle sing a song grandpa sang to us all and in that moment to be able to hear his voice fill that kitchen and remember that it always lives within me, within us, and know that the energy surrounds us if we are still enough to feel it...

gramps and me . at the beach . probably 1978

it was a gift that my mother held the phone up to his ear that night before so that i could say i love you and to then hear him rally for a moment and recognize my voice and tell me he would see me soon and to hear him say i love you and then repeat those words again as she took the phone away . it was a gift to have those last words be the last words i would hear and to know he was saying them to me . it was a gift to see the photo of him with me and take it home in the frame so that i could have a little piece of him, of us . it was a gift that today, as i am back in my home now, that i easily found the poem he wrote a few years back and emailed me...it is a gift to find that poem today and hold him in the space around my heart...

In my room on a chest

sets a picture, one of those I like the best.

A man and a child walk along in the sand,

He looks down at her as he holds her hand,

she's looking back at someone and seems to say,

don't worry, I'm with my grandpa today.

*****

i'm going to take some time away from here for a bit. and i know, in the way things go, i will most likely be in and out with notes to share, but for a couple of weeks, starting tomorrow, some friends have agreed to step in and share some words and posts and links and really good things with you here in this space.

thank you for reading and being out there in the world...

blessings,

liz

on this winter's night {december views}

*****
we are expecting another snow storm, so we headed out for provisions today. and in the frozen food aisle, this woman who appeared to be in her eighties walked up to me with two half gallons of ice cream and said, "can you help me?" i nodded. relief on her face,"is one of these vanilla? i don't have my glasses." "this one," i said, pointing to the one in her left hand. "thank you so much," she said as she turned toward her cart.

and suddenly i found myself doing that pull inward, that pull that you do with your face and your heart and your gut to keep from bursting into tears.

it was unexpected and odd and a bit silly i suppose.

but this is grief.

standing in the frozen food section, the sucker punch that is grief brought me almost to my knees.
for just a second.
as jonny stood saying, "which kind of pizza did you want?"
and i stood just looking at the cart as though in a daze.
after a few seconds of borderline annoyance (the store was the busiest i have experienced in a long time...there wasn't really space for hanging out in front of the frozen pizzas in bewilderment), he walked around to me and the pizzas and said, "are you okay?"
i waved my arm in that "i am fine...move on" sort of way.
but when he stood next to me, i leaned in for support.
"do you miss your grandma?"
nodding, the tears began.
and we chose the california pizza kitchen pizza margherita thin crust.
breathe.
keep going.
breathe.
one foot, then the other.

tonight, i took out a favorite picture that used to be out all the time, placed it on my altar, lit a candle, and remembered what love is.

i remember.

this song, this very beautiful melancholy song by joni mitchell is sitting inside my heart tonight.
i also love this version by sarah mclachlin (i listen to it all the time...her album wintersong is my favorite favorite christmas album)
and tonight i found this version by james taylor
and this pretty freaking fantastic version by corrine bailey rae
and this bluesier newer version from miss joni

sending blessings and peace to you this evening...

remembering: sounds

her voice saying "come on" as she insists we walk around outside right after breakfast
the ritual of water running as soap is squirted and dishes slide, then knock together
flip flops clopping as we walk to the indoor pool and giggle when we see that again we have it all to ourselves
the guest room/her bedroom door creaking as she peeks to see if i am awake yet
the brush placed on the vanity when she finishes brushing her hair
laughter as she watches my brother and me slide down the backyard hill in our green sleds
her annoyed voice saying "honey" when i try to test her just a bit
the word "hello" just after my grandfather hands her the phone
the wooden spoon stiring sloppy joes on the stove

there is more...so much more...but i can't seem to find it tonight...the sense of seeing wants to take over the memories, but i want to remember the sounds...the sounds of almost thirty years of love and laughter and friendship and home...i want to remember how her voice said every word to me. but i can't. it seems lost tonight...but it was yesterday as i stood in the kitchen and began to measure flour and baking powder and nutmeg that i heard her voice. i heard her and i realized why i have stayed out of the kitchen these last few years. why i have come up with excuses to let jon cook most of the time or to get takeout. me, a person who actually likes cooking. it is because as soon as i start measuring things, i think about her. i think about calling her and asking her a question but then i have to remember that she isn't there. it happens almost everytime. i used to call with questions i didn't really have just to have an excuse to talk to her about cooking or house stuff as she was so proud to help me figure out my first home and cooking for my husband and all that wife stuff. and i wanted to learn from her and hoped she would feel good helping me as life seemed to be slipping away. i think though...i think i am going to try to spend a bit more time in the kitchen because maybe...maybe if i spend time measuring and turning the pages of cookbooks and filling the house with the smells of home i will remember the sounds...i will remember the sounds of her voice and it won't seem quite like it is all slipping away with each day that passes...maybe she will travel back to me for just a moment and i will remember.

a moment today.

last week, i was talking with a friend about the idea of the energy people create when they are alive...and how that energy remains when they die. i said something about how when i think of you or suddenly feel you, it is as though that energy has circled the globe and found its way back to me. it finds its way back to me and replaces the phone call i would rather make...the phone call i cannot make. or the visit that would now include pulling up to an empty house since your husband now lives in an assisted-living nursing home and wants to stay there...and your house sits empty...though what is left of you sits on the mantle.

this week, this energy that circles the globe found its way back to me. you found your way.

yesterday, when i took millie outside in the middle of the day, i heard this most insistent noise. i thought it was a hummingbird, but i couldn't find it in the trees and honestly figured it must be an irritated bird of a much larger size as that chirping was...well...it was kind of rude and annoying and very, very loud.

today, there it was again. even louder. and clearly talking directly to me.

you haven't been feeding us. you promised her you would feed us. yet, nothing. all year. and now that it is fall, the neighbors aren't picking up your slack anymore. and we are hungry. and cold. keep up your end of the deal lady.

i looked up, shading my eyes from the glare of the noon sun through clouds. i looked up and saw it directly above me. sitting in the huge pine tree, like it often has. and it just kept chirping. looking down toward me and then looking away. a bit like millie does when she watches us eat dinner and hopes we will drop something.

so i went inside and dissolved sugar into warm water and then tore up this mess of a house looking for one of the two hummingbird feeders we have.

i couldn't find them. finally found parts of the one that was the last gift you gave me. remember? that february, right after traveler died, i started seeing hummingbirds. you insisted i start feeding them because the weather was still cold. so i found a local wild birds store and bought a feeder. and you sent me $25. remember? i started feeding them every week. and kept feeding them after you died a few weeks later. i would cry as i put the food out, but i would feed them because you asked me to. and then i would sit in the little room and watch them flit around the backyard. i would watch them and think of you and wish with all my being that i could pick up the phone and call you and hear your voice.

today, that energy of you...that focused, insistent energy that was you...found its way to me in the form of a fierce, tiny feathered hungry creature.

thanks for that.

and guess what? i made a quilt top today. can you believe it? my friend had a baby in the wee morning hours today and the baby was very early and i just felt that this new little boy, so eager to meet his parents, needed a quilt. so i started one. my first one ever. i thought of you when i finished sewing the squares for the top today...thought of you as i reminded myself i couldn't call.
oh and never fear, jonny bought me a new feeder on his way home from work so that my insistent backyard visitor can now eat.

it really was a good day.

love you and miss you my dear friend,
liz