there is a place in me
that wants to separate
and catch a bus to the
sea and walk naked
feet into high tide
and liquefy swirling
like lost oil on the
surface there is this
place that wants to
pull apart like a loaf
of bread at Sunday
dinner with family
to which you air
idle conversation
like laundry on a
spring line it smells
nice but it is thin
like cheesecloth this
part of me sifts through
the bruised niceties and
eliminates it's like churning
butter what wounds me
rises to the surface
and curdles but this is
the best part that makes
the food rich and yet it
needs to be remote out
of the way the strange
tourist trap that ogles
at you in its absurdity
this opulent divide
it is the way I breathe
Monday, December 19, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Roads
So many breaks
momentary cessations
in the concrete overflowing
with muddy rainwater shrouded
in thin ice it evaporates at the slightest
movement like a water bug scuttling across
The surface so many
glitches in the way a crumbling
at the edges asphalt deteriorating with
time passing as all things do but I travel it
over and over and over until I can evade the apertures
In my sleep dreaming
the same dream and at waking
I wonder why my feet have left dirty
footprints across the ground leading to living
here is the time here it is I hear the thunder of my insides
as I change my skin and choose something more comfortable
I melt the overlay
of ice on the puddles with my
open palms and anticipate a change
in the direction of the path the old rises
up one last time and I shake my head answering
Maybe in the light of something else the road will be different
momentary cessations
in the concrete overflowing
with muddy rainwater shrouded
in thin ice it evaporates at the slightest
movement like a water bug scuttling across
The surface so many
glitches in the way a crumbling
at the edges asphalt deteriorating with
time passing as all things do but I travel it
over and over and over until I can evade the apertures
In my sleep dreaming
the same dream and at waking
I wonder why my feet have left dirty
footprints across the ground leading to living
here is the time here it is I hear the thunder of my insides
as I change my skin and choose something more comfortable
I melt the overlay
of ice on the puddles with my
open palms and anticipate a change
in the direction of the path the old rises
up one last time and I shake my head answering
Maybe in the light of something else the road will be different
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Old Home Place
Kentucky is home. It is a home I hold, like a land in a snow globe. I pick it up off my shelf and look at the steep mountains through synthetic particles of white falling through a barrier of water. It is so pretty, but kept in a bulb, a layer of plastic separating me from my roots. I see the hills reaching down to the river, and the train tracks running by it, and the coal mounds lying near them, ready to be loaded onto train cars. I see Route 23 snaking through all this, cutting through the land of once immense farms, skirting by dilapidated farm houses and cemeteries of forgotten people, where the brush has been allowed to grow too high.
I see it, and on this day, I travel that road, on the way to see my grandmother, who is nearing 85 years old. I am in the globe, and the mountains fold down around me, like someone is closing a pop up book. I know the landscape too well, but, again, it doesn't seem real. I feel I could touch the road side and it would topple over, a two dimensional stage prop.
But this place, these imposing mountains, are me. They made me, and are me, and still move me, although they seem not to be me. I have kept them trapped in a globe too long.
And my mother, who, to me, never changes, brings decorations for my grandfather's grave. I remember my grandfather distinctly in vivid snapshots. One of the last I have of him, he was ill, but still commanding, and pointed to me to sit in chair while he recounted the Bible starting with Moses. My grandfather's grave rests on a knoll above my great aunt's house, a house that once was my great grandparents. As we walk the steep, narrow road leading to the cemetery, my children run ahead, as this is a great adventure that does not occur often in suburbia. I see, in a small gorge running parallel to the road, an old yellow claw foot tub in which my mother insisted someone had been baptized. A relative, I believe, but I can't remember who.
There are not many people buried in the cemetery. My great grandparents. Great uncles. My grandfather. My children walk with great trepidation, as to not walk over a grave, but in their care, they walk over my great grandparents, anyway. The knoll is soft and wet, and kelly green moss grows where grass can't.
My mother hands me holly to fill the small vases on either side of my grandpa's stone. She hands Amelia a nativity scene, and she places it with uncertainty in several locations before deciding it is best suited to sit in front of grandpa's name engraved on the stone. John Cassady. I see him pointing to me, ordering me to pay attention. Pay attention, now. I see him strum a guitar. I see me small, sitting at his feet (and he wore leather house shoes and khakis and a white V neck t shirt), and my cousins are there, gathered as well, and my mother is in the background, looking the way she has always looked.
"Why is the ground like that?" Amelia asks, pointing to my grandpa's grave. And after 11 years, the ground still swells, marking where he was buried. Heaped up, but smoothed over with a layer of moss.
"It's just where he was buried," I say. Ethan runs through the cemetery like it is an open field. The sun has already been snuffed out by the backs of the mountains. They hover over us like tired old men.
My mother frets that we are all getting older. Her heart seems heavy when she exits Kentucky back into her life. I look in the back seat at my children who are exhausted from climbing hills all day. We stop and get a coke and get back on I-64.
I see it, and on this day, I travel that road, on the way to see my grandmother, who is nearing 85 years old. I am in the globe, and the mountains fold down around me, like someone is closing a pop up book. I know the landscape too well, but, again, it doesn't seem real. I feel I could touch the road side and it would topple over, a two dimensional stage prop.
But this place, these imposing mountains, are me. They made me, and are me, and still move me, although they seem not to be me. I have kept them trapped in a globe too long.
And my mother, who, to me, never changes, brings decorations for my grandfather's grave. I remember my grandfather distinctly in vivid snapshots. One of the last I have of him, he was ill, but still commanding, and pointed to me to sit in chair while he recounted the Bible starting with Moses. My grandfather's grave rests on a knoll above my great aunt's house, a house that once was my great grandparents. As we walk the steep, narrow road leading to the cemetery, my children run ahead, as this is a great adventure that does not occur often in suburbia. I see, in a small gorge running parallel to the road, an old yellow claw foot tub in which my mother insisted someone had been baptized. A relative, I believe, but I can't remember who.
There are not many people buried in the cemetery. My great grandparents. Great uncles. My grandfather. My children walk with great trepidation, as to not walk over a grave, but in their care, they walk over my great grandparents, anyway. The knoll is soft and wet, and kelly green moss grows where grass can't.
My mother hands me holly to fill the small vases on either side of my grandpa's stone. She hands Amelia a nativity scene, and she places it with uncertainty in several locations before deciding it is best suited to sit in front of grandpa's name engraved on the stone. John Cassady. I see him pointing to me, ordering me to pay attention. Pay attention, now. I see him strum a guitar. I see me small, sitting at his feet (and he wore leather house shoes and khakis and a white V neck t shirt), and my cousins are there, gathered as well, and my mother is in the background, looking the way she has always looked.
"Why is the ground like that?" Amelia asks, pointing to my grandpa's grave. And after 11 years, the ground still swells, marking where he was buried. Heaped up, but smoothed over with a layer of moss.
"It's just where he was buried," I say. Ethan runs through the cemetery like it is an open field. The sun has already been snuffed out by the backs of the mountains. They hover over us like tired old men.
My mother frets that we are all getting older. Her heart seems heavy when she exits Kentucky back into her life. I look in the back seat at my children who are exhausted from climbing hills all day. We stop and get a coke and get back on I-64.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Venus
For my Emma Caroline, thank you for the lovely walk this evening
how far is it to Venus?
she smells like expensive
shampoo and fries she
wears my gloves two
sizes too big and jeans
and sneakers peeling away
at the toes like bananas
but they are purple and
she refuses anything
new
it is bright, how big is it?
her breath escapes as we
walk clouds of ghosts
evaporating in the thin
night she wants to be with
me and throws thoughts
of distant planets out like
fishing lines
Venus bobs in the expanse
of space constant
unyielding a
dense fleck in the
conversation
I pull at her line
and say
it is far, it is as big as
us combined and then
much more
she reaches for my hand
and the white loose knit
of the glove conforms to
my palm and we walk
together ghost air wrapping
thin arms around us
the silence speaks
in points of starlight
between me and
her and there is
truly nothing else
that needs to be
said
how far is it to Venus?
she smells like expensive
shampoo and fries she
wears my gloves two
sizes too big and jeans
and sneakers peeling away
at the toes like bananas
but they are purple and
she refuses anything
new
it is bright, how big is it?
her breath escapes as we
walk clouds of ghosts
evaporating in the thin
night she wants to be with
me and throws thoughts
of distant planets out like
fishing lines
Venus bobs in the expanse
of space constant
unyielding a
dense fleck in the
conversation
I pull at her line
and say
it is far, it is as big as
us combined and then
much more
she reaches for my hand
and the white loose knit
of the glove conforms to
my palm and we walk
together ghost air wrapping
thin arms around us
the silence speaks
in points of starlight
between me and
her and there is
truly nothing else
that needs to be
said
Thursday, October 20, 2011
A Way of Thinking
did we ever think
before age 30 or
did we assume that
someone would
always bring us
coffee as we
preferred it black
as marbles of coal
or milky white
with non-diary
creamer and a
sprinkle of
aspartame to
finish off a
cocktail of
synthetic powder
in a novelty mug
mine says something
about not speaking
until I imbibe
caffeine maybe not
those words but close
I have gravely
underestimated the
gravity of someone
being intimate with
my coffee being on
a first name basis
with it retrieving
it proactively in
steamy vessels
without ever
inquiring
before age 30 or
did we assume that
someone would
always bring us
coffee as we
preferred it black
as marbles of coal
or milky white
with non-diary
creamer and a
sprinkle of
aspartame to
finish off a
cocktail of
synthetic powder
in a novelty mug
mine says something
about not speaking
until I imbibe
caffeine maybe not
those words but close
I have gravely
underestimated the
gravity of someone
being intimate with
my coffee being on
a first name basis
with it retrieving
it proactively in
steamy vessels
without ever
inquiring
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Eraser
There are marks on my walls. They trail down the hall like the tail of an unruly comet. In the closet they are more compact, an imploding black hole of brown crayon. In another place, the marks are a delicate blue on the pale pink wall, a singular flower of concentric, yet irregular circles gracing the space just above a toy box.
There are marks, long and thin and leisurely, and fat ones, staccato and powerful, everywhere. On the walls. The lines are drawn in crayon, pen, marker, and if I am lucky, pencil. These are the easiest marks to remove. There is hardly the need to try, those pencil marks disappear so easily, although, once removed, there is always a faint smudge of black, almost like a bruise that couldn't muster enough zest to look anything more than dirty. I can, and do, remove these marks frequently, but in a couple of days, they inevitably return, usually in a more grandiose fashion, thanks to the abundance of easily accessible pencils my son can find around the house.
But the others, the pen and the marker ones, those are tricky. Or, they simply don't come off at all. They stay on my walls and taunt me every time I walk by them on the way to the laundry room. I have tried Windex and a magic eraser, but at best, the thicker marks fade almost imperceptibly. I think about how I need to find time to paint over them, every time I pass them, but that time hasn't come.
So, the marks remain, all in some fashion, either as a bold mark of stubbornness, or a weak version of something that was much more impressive, or the one that is only a gritty spot on the wall. These marks sometimes infuriate me, because they simply make every surface imperfect. Imperfect. I can fight to take them away, but the ghost of them remains, or they return like arrogant soldiers.
I often chase Ethan down the hall and wring a pencil out of his hand before he does more damage. Sometimes I don't make it in time. It's the way of it. To fight for perfect is like fighting windmills. I remember my mother saying, when I was a little girl, she wanted to paint over some of my pencil drawings on the wall. My grandmother (who always did favor my messy state of being as a child, with my pants twisted and my hair falling out of its braids) told her don't. That those pictures meant something.
Sometimes I think I am wasting away waiting on perfect. I think of my mistakes, things gone wrong, words I have said or thoughts that I have had that I can't take back. They are all like marks on a wall. They stand, taunting me as only pencil smudges can do, saying, I am here to make sure you are not perfect. I really have been put in my place by them, the incessant marks. I face my imperfection in sad acceptance.
I am standing, staring down a new mark on my wall, armed with a new Magic Eraser. Mr. Clean is still etched in the foam, but soon I will turn him into a grimy sliver of synthetic muck in order to get the mark. Then Ethan comes up beside me. He says funny things, like, "Mommy, what is your favorite word?"
"Love", I say, "because I love you. What's your favorite word?"
"Poopie," he says through a mischievous smile, and runs down the hall. I see a pencil clutched behind his back.
Imperfect. But the marks. They mean something.
There are marks, long and thin and leisurely, and fat ones, staccato and powerful, everywhere. On the walls. The lines are drawn in crayon, pen, marker, and if I am lucky, pencil. These are the easiest marks to remove. There is hardly the need to try, those pencil marks disappear so easily, although, once removed, there is always a faint smudge of black, almost like a bruise that couldn't muster enough zest to look anything more than dirty. I can, and do, remove these marks frequently, but in a couple of days, they inevitably return, usually in a more grandiose fashion, thanks to the abundance of easily accessible pencils my son can find around the house.
But the others, the pen and the marker ones, those are tricky. Or, they simply don't come off at all. They stay on my walls and taunt me every time I walk by them on the way to the laundry room. I have tried Windex and a magic eraser, but at best, the thicker marks fade almost imperceptibly. I think about how I need to find time to paint over them, every time I pass them, but that time hasn't come.
So, the marks remain, all in some fashion, either as a bold mark of stubbornness, or a weak version of something that was much more impressive, or the one that is only a gritty spot on the wall. These marks sometimes infuriate me, because they simply make every surface imperfect. Imperfect. I can fight to take them away, but the ghost of them remains, or they return like arrogant soldiers.
I often chase Ethan down the hall and wring a pencil out of his hand before he does more damage. Sometimes I don't make it in time. It's the way of it. To fight for perfect is like fighting windmills. I remember my mother saying, when I was a little girl, she wanted to paint over some of my pencil drawings on the wall. My grandmother (who always did favor my messy state of being as a child, with my pants twisted and my hair falling out of its braids) told her don't. That those pictures meant something.
Sometimes I think I am wasting away waiting on perfect. I think of my mistakes, things gone wrong, words I have said or thoughts that I have had that I can't take back. They are all like marks on a wall. They stand, taunting me as only pencil smudges can do, saying, I am here to make sure you are not perfect. I really have been put in my place by them, the incessant marks. I face my imperfection in sad acceptance.
I am standing, staring down a new mark on my wall, armed with a new Magic Eraser. Mr. Clean is still etched in the foam, but soon I will turn him into a grimy sliver of synthetic muck in order to get the mark. Then Ethan comes up beside me. He says funny things, like, "Mommy, what is your favorite word?"
"Love", I say, "because I love you. What's your favorite word?"
"Poopie," he says through a mischievous smile, and runs down the hall. I see a pencil clutched behind his back.
Imperfect. But the marks. They mean something.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
A Crack in the Wall
I'll put you in a place
I'll put you there and
Hope the light doesn't
Reach you I'll put you
There somewhere
Behind a wall
Separated from
Everything
I claim is
Me
Stay there in
Your place and don't
Watch me
Brush my teeth or
Cook a roast and
Please
Don't poke your
Finger into my mind
Like it was a jello salad
I am not as resilient
As all that
Instead the wall cracks
Every time you tap it
It begins to tumble
Like a poorly constructed
Contraption of cards
Best to stay there
In your place
Where I put you stay
There and don't
Move
I'll put you there and
Hope the light doesn't
Reach you I'll put you
There somewhere
Behind a wall
Separated from
Everything
I claim is
Me
Stay there in
Your place and don't
Watch me
Brush my teeth or
Cook a roast and
Please
Don't poke your
Finger into my mind
Like it was a jello salad
I am not as resilient
As all that
Instead the wall cracks
Every time you tap it
It begins to tumble
Like a poorly constructed
Contraption of cards
Best to stay there
In your place
Where I put you stay
There and don't
Move
Rain
We are on the way home from school. The windshield wipers work frantically to direct the torrents of rain away from the windshield. Visibility is limited. The world is gray. We have had so much rain. For days, it seems. I just want to reach our house, a small refuge in what seems to be rainforest. We are so close; I decide to take a short cut, one I use a lot, a narrow one lane road, that is a bit treacherous on the sunniest of days.
I turn down the road, and must abruptly stop. Emma is a fretter. "What's wrong, Mom?"
I put the car in reverse without answering. Emma then sees the problem.
A creek that normally flows underneath the road, through a large pipe, is swollen and overflowing. The road reaches into the water and disappears, coming out some distance on the other side. I don't risk it; I am not sure the depth of the water, and Emma comes by her worrying honestly.
I manage to turn the car and make it out onto the main road. Once home, Emma looks pensive and edgy.
"What's wrong?" I say. I am doing motherly things in the kitchen, looking through backpacks, dusting crumbs off countertops, those kind of things.
She says, "I am afraid of the water. I am afraid it will swallow our house."
I look at her; she is growing up, knowing things that I think she shouldn't at this age (like having boyfriends, or wanting cell phones), but still clinging to child fears. She is in an in between time, and I want to grab her and wrap myself around her so time and knowing can't get to her. But, I know this is a childish thought, too.
I still am mom. For now. I still have the power to make it ok. I still have the power calm the rain, and reassure that there are no monsters under the bed.
"Honey. Nothing is going to happen to the house. We are safe here. Don't worry."
She relaxes a little, and grabs something to eat out of the pantry. I go about my kitchen, performing mom duties. This is what I do and this is what I am.
So thankful for that. I need to remember this. Remember. In the inside of me, hidden under grocery lists, and work issues, computers, and splatters of spaghetti sauce across my favorite shirt, I am still what is important to me. I need to remember it. Remember. Remember, Remember.
I turn down the road, and must abruptly stop. Emma is a fretter. "What's wrong, Mom?"
I put the car in reverse without answering. Emma then sees the problem.
A creek that normally flows underneath the road, through a large pipe, is swollen and overflowing. The road reaches into the water and disappears, coming out some distance on the other side. I don't risk it; I am not sure the depth of the water, and Emma comes by her worrying honestly.
I manage to turn the car and make it out onto the main road. Once home, Emma looks pensive and edgy.
"What's wrong?" I say. I am doing motherly things in the kitchen, looking through backpacks, dusting crumbs off countertops, those kind of things.
She says, "I am afraid of the water. I am afraid it will swallow our house."
I look at her; she is growing up, knowing things that I think she shouldn't at this age (like having boyfriends, or wanting cell phones), but still clinging to child fears. She is in an in between time, and I want to grab her and wrap myself around her so time and knowing can't get to her. But, I know this is a childish thought, too.
I still am mom. For now. I still have the power to make it ok. I still have the power calm the rain, and reassure that there are no monsters under the bed.
"Honey. Nothing is going to happen to the house. We are safe here. Don't worry."
She relaxes a little, and grabs something to eat out of the pantry. I go about my kitchen, performing mom duties. This is what I do and this is what I am.
So thankful for that. I need to remember this. Remember. In the inside of me, hidden under grocery lists, and work issues, computers, and splatters of spaghetti sauce across my favorite shirt, I am still what is important to me. I need to remember it. Remember. Remember, Remember.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Outgrown
Ethan unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on my mood, has learned to dress himself. If we find ourselves for any length of time at home, he favors his old school style Spiderman pjs, disregarding entirely regular clothes. Which is fine, when we have time to fire up the TV and watch some circa 1960's Spiderman cartoons, when, in the opening cerdits, they advertise proudly that their cartoon is now in COLOR. And Ethan usually puts his shoes on the wrong feet, which is all very cute until you realize the lady behind you in the grocery line is staring in dismay at your child's feet ,and you, the mother, have allowed him to walk around in duck-like disarray for a matter of hours.
I do try to keep Ethan in clothes that fit, but over the summer, he has really has grown, and I haven't had time to clean out his closet. So, I get him ready for pre-school in some pants that I just bought, perfect in length, and as I am applying my mascara, thinking all is well, and that I would be getting him to school on time, he traipses into the bathroom, sporting only his Lightnening McQueen underwear and an old pair of jeans that appear to now be capris in length and too small for him to button around his middle.
"Mommy, button these. Button them, please." He stretches them at the edges, and hopes beyond hope that the button and the snap will actually meet. He stands there looking like he is ready to wade a creek, as we say in Kentucky, but there is no creek, just Ethan pleading with me to make something fit that clearly won't anymore, and me, fuming in my impatience that he doesn't understand that his pants have been outgrown.
I can be honest and say that life to me is like an all too small pair of pants. I have been so dismayed, even to the point of utter sadness, that my life doesn't fit anymore. I also imagine that God is in his bathroom trying to get Himself presentable for the heavenly host with me begging Him to make my old ways fit again. He looks at me and says,"I have provided you with a new pair of pants. Just put them on, for crying out loud."
The problem is, I am still sucking in my stomach, laying back on the bed, gripping the zipper in a pair of pliers in hopes that I can zip it all up. And even if I can do that, I will still be a picture of misery walking around in a pair of pants I have been poured into.
But, sweet Lord, I want to wear those pants for some reason.
I need guidance and reassurance that I will look better in some other kind of life, one crafted by my Maker, instead of the misfit one I am currently sporting. I don't care if it is even a Spiderman costume, complete with fabricated fiberfill six pack abs (which, by the way, is what Ethan wil be wearing this Halloween; society miscreants beware). I just hope to find the courage to go shopping with God and hope He knows what looks good on me.
I do try to keep Ethan in clothes that fit, but over the summer, he has really has grown, and I haven't had time to clean out his closet. So, I get him ready for pre-school in some pants that I just bought, perfect in length, and as I am applying my mascara, thinking all is well, and that I would be getting him to school on time, he traipses into the bathroom, sporting only his Lightnening McQueen underwear and an old pair of jeans that appear to now be capris in length and too small for him to button around his middle.
"Mommy, button these. Button them, please." He stretches them at the edges, and hopes beyond hope that the button and the snap will actually meet. He stands there looking like he is ready to wade a creek, as we say in Kentucky, but there is no creek, just Ethan pleading with me to make something fit that clearly won't anymore, and me, fuming in my impatience that he doesn't understand that his pants have been outgrown.
I can be honest and say that life to me is like an all too small pair of pants. I have been so dismayed, even to the point of utter sadness, that my life doesn't fit anymore. I also imagine that God is in his bathroom trying to get Himself presentable for the heavenly host with me begging Him to make my old ways fit again. He looks at me and says,"I have provided you with a new pair of pants. Just put them on, for crying out loud."
The problem is, I am still sucking in my stomach, laying back on the bed, gripping the zipper in a pair of pliers in hopes that I can zip it all up. And even if I can do that, I will still be a picture of misery walking around in a pair of pants I have been poured into.
But, sweet Lord, I want to wear those pants for some reason.
I need guidance and reassurance that I will look better in some other kind of life, one crafted by my Maker, instead of the misfit one I am currently sporting. I don't care if it is even a Spiderman costume, complete with fabricated fiberfill six pack abs (which, by the way, is what Ethan wil be wearing this Halloween; society miscreants beware). I just hope to find the courage to go shopping with God and hope He knows what looks good on me.
Monday, June 27, 2011
God Behind the Door
"I love what God has made. It is awesome." --Emma Allman
I am beginning to understand. Life does not provide you a blanket of happiness. There is no perfect wool blend of good feelings that God knits together with huge, gilded knitting needles. I think we all, as tiny brained mortal humans, believe this is what should be given to us. A woolly blanket of utter joy in which we can cuddle up day in and day out.
I am in full realization that perhaps this is not the way of things. I am often trapped in the shell of my existence, almost fainting at the thought that life is life. Just that. A chain of days bound together by breath and bone, of cups of coffee, and e-mail, of strangers passed in the grocery store, or in cars on the highway. It's a long line of days that we won't remember. We live them, but yet, the content of them is lost about as soon as we fall asleep.
I am beginning to understand that life is about dots. Random dots, like the flashes during a picture, that stop the continuum of days and make us remember. And often, flashes come in the form of children. In my case, children at Vacation Bible School. And in particular, in a story about Peter.
Now, each evening at Vacation Bible School, there is a Bible lesson. And each night, the room in which the children hear the story is quite the theatrical display. One evening, my group of second graders stealthily moved about the church, steering clear of "Roman Soldiers", looking for a small private room in which to gather as professed Christians (this secure area, in Vacation Bible School times, was the church prop room).
The little ones gathered in the small room, with a cross lit by a "fire" (it was only a Halloween prop, no fire involved, but dramatic nonetheless). It illuminated a cross (the brass one, from our sanctuary, but again, very dramatic). They awaited Peter.
For back story, the leader of our church's praise band had agreed to play the role of Peter. My oldest nephew, who was my VBS helper, noticed right away that that "Peter" was dressed in a garment that very much resembled a plush blue Snuggie. My nephew inquired, "Hey, is that a snuggie?"
To which Peter replied, "Yes, it is. A Biblical snuggie."
Later that evening, as Peter entered his secret room filled with second graders, dressed in a Biblical snuggie, perhaps he didn't realize that it would make me hear God through the door.
I stood outside the secret room, listening to Peter tell the children how he denied Jesus three times. Denied ever knowing of Jesus. Through the door, I heard little children sounds. Some giggles, some gasps, some muddled little children conversations. Peter reprimanding the children for getting too close to the "fire".
Denying Jesus. Interesting. Denying the good of him, the gifts, out of fear, or apathy, or anger, or sadness that we are not bundled in a blanket of perpetual comfort. Have I been a culprit? Turning my back on the gifts, so selflessly given?
The Bible point of the day was, "God loves you no matter what." No matter what. No matter if you turn your back.
After Peter left, when it was time to gather back in the sanctuary, a little girl, who had rewarded me daily with little back rubs and hand massages, pulled me down to her level, and whispered, "That man looked like he was wearing a dress." She smiled in the secrecy of her shared thoughts. I squeezed her hand a little.
"They wore things like that back then," I whisper back. The now infamous Biblical snuggie.
So flashes. Through wooden doors. Things you remember. Light that illuminates moments. Moments that perforate the chain of days.
And a God that always calls you home. No matter what.
I am beginning to understand. Life does not provide you a blanket of happiness. There is no perfect wool blend of good feelings that God knits together with huge, gilded knitting needles. I think we all, as tiny brained mortal humans, believe this is what should be given to us. A woolly blanket of utter joy in which we can cuddle up day in and day out.
I am in full realization that perhaps this is not the way of things. I am often trapped in the shell of my existence, almost fainting at the thought that life is life. Just that. A chain of days bound together by breath and bone, of cups of coffee, and e-mail, of strangers passed in the grocery store, or in cars on the highway. It's a long line of days that we won't remember. We live them, but yet, the content of them is lost about as soon as we fall asleep.
I am beginning to understand that life is about dots. Random dots, like the flashes during a picture, that stop the continuum of days and make us remember. And often, flashes come in the form of children. In my case, children at Vacation Bible School. And in particular, in a story about Peter.
Now, each evening at Vacation Bible School, there is a Bible lesson. And each night, the room in which the children hear the story is quite the theatrical display. One evening, my group of second graders stealthily moved about the church, steering clear of "Roman Soldiers", looking for a small private room in which to gather as professed Christians (this secure area, in Vacation Bible School times, was the church prop room).
The little ones gathered in the small room, with a cross lit by a "fire" (it was only a Halloween prop, no fire involved, but dramatic nonetheless). It illuminated a cross (the brass one, from our sanctuary, but again, very dramatic). They awaited Peter.
For back story, the leader of our church's praise band had agreed to play the role of Peter. My oldest nephew, who was my VBS helper, noticed right away that that "Peter" was dressed in a garment that very much resembled a plush blue Snuggie. My nephew inquired, "Hey, is that a snuggie?"
To which Peter replied, "Yes, it is. A Biblical snuggie."
Later that evening, as Peter entered his secret room filled with second graders, dressed in a Biblical snuggie, perhaps he didn't realize that it would make me hear God through the door.
I stood outside the secret room, listening to Peter tell the children how he denied Jesus three times. Denied ever knowing of Jesus. Through the door, I heard little children sounds. Some giggles, some gasps, some muddled little children conversations. Peter reprimanding the children for getting too close to the "fire".
Denying Jesus. Interesting. Denying the good of him, the gifts, out of fear, or apathy, or anger, or sadness that we are not bundled in a blanket of perpetual comfort. Have I been a culprit? Turning my back on the gifts, so selflessly given?
The Bible point of the day was, "God loves you no matter what." No matter what. No matter if you turn your back.
After Peter left, when it was time to gather back in the sanctuary, a little girl, who had rewarded me daily with little back rubs and hand massages, pulled me down to her level, and whispered, "That man looked like he was wearing a dress." She smiled in the secrecy of her shared thoughts. I squeezed her hand a little.
"They wore things like that back then," I whisper back. The now infamous Biblical snuggie.
So flashes. Through wooden doors. Things you remember. Light that illuminates moments. Moments that perforate the chain of days.
And a God that always calls you home. No matter what.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
God in the Closet
God,
I am in the closet again.
I think this is the best place to find you. In the dark. Perhaps you won't notice my flaws. I turn off the lights in hopes you don't notice them. Because in the light of day, they are all I see.
The thing is. I am lost. Hopelessly lost. Not lost like the little guy in a Dr. Seuss book, because that little guy eventually found his way. Yes, he did indeed. 98 and ¾ percent success guaranteed.
But, I am lost. I am lost in a way that books or maps or old fashioned ingenuity will not be of benefit. I am lost in a way that is black in its murkiest form. It's lost in a way that has no definition but lost.
I am outwardly fairly put together. I have always done what is expected, moved through the course of this life in a way that society examines and approves. I have had many people say, "You make this look easy."
But if they could only see me in this closet.
Surely, God, this is not what you imagined for me. This drudgery of day in and day out. I cannot fathom that my God would fashion any of for this for His beloved. His inheritance. Did you know most people don't think about this at all? That the drudgery is enough. I am on an island, it seems, longing for something more, something on which I can't place a black and white label. I know this longing only as a physical, palpable pain that I pack up and take with me everyday, like an item in my lunch bag. It is a portable pain, like a hard, bitter apple. It's the thing I never eat, but always bring along.
God, I am not asking for you to change anything. I am not asking for a way out. It's just You and me in the closet, fumbling about among disheveled pairs of khakis, and I want to be as honest as possible in this stripped down place. This space of absence. Although, now, I think I have accidentally placed my foot in the dirty laundry basket.
God, I am hurting. Hurting in a way that no one sees. And that is OK, for them, but not for You. You have always known me, right? Before I was ever conceived, right? You had a plan for me, didn't You?
Didn't You?
I am not in a position to question the Creator of the Universe. You wield the galaxies like swords and drop stars through the sky just to see children marvel. I get that. I imagine You opening your arms and embracing the expanse of space, like taking up a loving child. But, God, I am just a piece of dust, not even that, on the fabric of the universe, but I am hoping You will see me, and just pick me up on the tip of Your holy finger, and squint at me, and think: this one. This tiny bit of one, needs Me.
Again, I am not asking for my life to change, or for you to drop a big, glowing red arrow into my living room to point me in the right direction. Actually, I would LOVE a big red arrow, but that might be a little impractical. All I want right now is Your comfort.
Here, in the dark, I would like Your comfort. Enter this place and envelop me in Your capable arms. My Father, I need your comfort; take the bitter apple from my lunch bag and replace it with Your peace.
My children are banging on the closet door. They are inquiring, "Mom, are you in there AGAIN?" I do find myself in here a lot. But, God, I need you a lot. Consider my request? I would much rather pack a big slice of Your love in my lunchbox any day and ditch the apples.
Your forever faithful servant,
me
I am in the closet again.
I think this is the best place to find you. In the dark. Perhaps you won't notice my flaws. I turn off the lights in hopes you don't notice them. Because in the light of day, they are all I see.
The thing is. I am lost. Hopelessly lost. Not lost like the little guy in a Dr. Seuss book, because that little guy eventually found his way. Yes, he did indeed. 98 and ¾ percent success guaranteed.
But, I am lost. I am lost in a way that books or maps or old fashioned ingenuity will not be of benefit. I am lost in a way that is black in its murkiest form. It's lost in a way that has no definition but lost.
I am outwardly fairly put together. I have always done what is expected, moved through the course of this life in a way that society examines and approves. I have had many people say, "You make this look easy."
But if they could only see me in this closet.
Surely, God, this is not what you imagined for me. This drudgery of day in and day out. I cannot fathom that my God would fashion any of for this for His beloved. His inheritance. Did you know most people don't think about this at all? That the drudgery is enough. I am on an island, it seems, longing for something more, something on which I can't place a black and white label. I know this longing only as a physical, palpable pain that I pack up and take with me everyday, like an item in my lunch bag. It is a portable pain, like a hard, bitter apple. It's the thing I never eat, but always bring along.
God, I am not asking for you to change anything. I am not asking for a way out. It's just You and me in the closet, fumbling about among disheveled pairs of khakis, and I want to be as honest as possible in this stripped down place. This space of absence. Although, now, I think I have accidentally placed my foot in the dirty laundry basket.
God, I am hurting. Hurting in a way that no one sees. And that is OK, for them, but not for You. You have always known me, right? Before I was ever conceived, right? You had a plan for me, didn't You?
Didn't You?
I am not in a position to question the Creator of the Universe. You wield the galaxies like swords and drop stars through the sky just to see children marvel. I get that. I imagine You opening your arms and embracing the expanse of space, like taking up a loving child. But, God, I am just a piece of dust, not even that, on the fabric of the universe, but I am hoping You will see me, and just pick me up on the tip of Your holy finger, and squint at me, and think: this one. This tiny bit of one, needs Me.
Again, I am not asking for my life to change, or for you to drop a big, glowing red arrow into my living room to point me in the right direction. Actually, I would LOVE a big red arrow, but that might be a little impractical. All I want right now is Your comfort.
Here, in the dark, I would like Your comfort. Enter this place and envelop me in Your capable arms. My Father, I need your comfort; take the bitter apple from my lunch bag and replace it with Your peace.
My children are banging on the closet door. They are inquiring, "Mom, are you in there AGAIN?" I do find myself in here a lot. But, God, I need you a lot. Consider my request? I would much rather pack a big slice of Your love in my lunchbox any day and ditch the apples.
Your forever faithful servant,
me
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Melting Shadows
The paintings on the wall of the Clay Center are small but powerful. I have come to them in a deepened and worried frame of mind. I call to Emma to wait, look at the picture, what does it say to you, which one is your favorite? Emma is consumed in the thin presence of Now, and doesn't know what answers I want. She merely tugs at her friend's sleeve, and then embraces her, which would be so awkward if she were grown and her friend was grown. I think to myself, we don't greet each other like that, as adults. I am cut off from the others, keeping Emma in my sight, because I am so unlike them. The good moms. The moms that bake cookies and put bows in their daughters' hair. Emma tucks her hair behind a protruding ear, and I almost audibly gasp at her naivety. Someday she will know she is different. She doesn't see it now, but someday she will exist there on the fringes where the population is spread out like the sheen of butter on a piece of bread. But now, she points to a painting of dots, dots of different colors and sizes. Whose borders, though, are perfectly curved in never ending lines. No paint bleeds outside the dots and their definity. The dots line up like soldiers readying for battle, in perfect formation. There is no room for me, a mom whose imperfection leaves prints in the wooden gallery floor. My dot would be oval, or shaped like an amoeba, blue paint spilling from its irregular shape. One painting is called "Melting Shadows", a modern looking thing of a painting, and I think of black-gray streaks on a unclean window. Emma is ready to go.
dissolving descending
in rivulets on the
dirty side of the window
I have forgotten the sun
where do these thin
streams of obscurity
originate out of the
bleak underbelly of the
gray sky I pull back
the rock of the day
dormant for too long
and reveal a tender
place that has no air
to heal light has
shriveled like the skin
of a hand held in water
too long the outside is
melting a candle that
cannot hold its shape
and loses itself over
a silver candelabra
I have become fluid the
tension of the surface
formed by gravity and
the laws of physics which
appears as the only things
that make sense
dissolving descending
in rivulets on the
dirty side of the window
I have forgotten the sun
where do these thin
streams of obscurity
originate out of the
bleak underbelly of the
gray sky I pull back
the rock of the day
dormant for too long
and reveal a tender
place that has no air
to heal light has
shriveled like the skin
of a hand held in water
too long the outside is
melting a candle that
cannot hold its shape
and loses itself over
a silver candelabra
I have become fluid the
tension of the surface
formed by gravity and
the laws of physics which
appears as the only things
that make sense
Monday, April 4, 2011
Eve of the Recital
she dances with grass stains on her tights
and demands that I twist her hair at the
nape of her neck into a tornado fastened
with brown bobby pins I watch her wave
her arms like weeping willow branches as
her bit of bangs falls to the corner of her
hazel eyes so unlike anyone and her
shirt brandishes peace signs as she
arabesques at her teacher’s command
slow movements like she is under water
I gaze at her stopping time to be in
awe of this fleck of a girl straight hair
ribs protruding under her clothes she bends
to tuck a loose ballet slipper lace away
and returns to first position so delicate
her fingers meet an invisible barrier but
carry the weight in a figurative basket of
air and grace so serious is she her pink
tutu bounces as she travels to center on
the toes of her tatty slippers they
must do until recital and I wonder what
flowers to bring to her that day as she
exits at curtain one I believe her favorites
are pink carnations as long as the wrapping is
pretty she completes her dance christened
Tiny Cakes and she is grave in the last turn
clock wise and on toes she proceeds
off stage I gather my things in my mind flowers
an offering to the performer I seek her in the
dancer’s dressing room filled with mottled colors
of tulle and tiny girls just learning to twirl
and demands that I twist her hair at the
nape of her neck into a tornado fastened
with brown bobby pins I watch her wave
her arms like weeping willow branches as
her bit of bangs falls to the corner of her
hazel eyes so unlike anyone and her
shirt brandishes peace signs as she
arabesques at her teacher’s command
slow movements like she is under water
I gaze at her stopping time to be in
awe of this fleck of a girl straight hair
ribs protruding under her clothes she bends
to tuck a loose ballet slipper lace away
and returns to first position so delicate
her fingers meet an invisible barrier but
carry the weight in a figurative basket of
air and grace so serious is she her pink
tutu bounces as she travels to center on
the toes of her tatty slippers they
must do until recital and I wonder what
flowers to bring to her that day as she
exits at curtain one I believe her favorites
are pink carnations as long as the wrapping is
pretty she completes her dance christened
Tiny Cakes and she is grave in the last turn
clock wise and on toes she proceeds
off stage I gather my things in my mind flowers
an offering to the performer I seek her in the
dancer’s dressing room filled with mottled colors
of tulle and tiny girls just learning to twirl
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Small Things
It may seem strange how we used to wait for letters to arrive;
But what's stranger still is how something so small can keep you alive.
-- Arcade Fire
it is the small things a pearl of a thing
tucked into a memory folded over in a
crease of time I see them embedded
in the haze of a star a million light years
away they are weary these travelers
these little things a breath inaudible
a wind on the back of my neck what
tiny things I tighten my fingers around
them my knuckles turn white trying
to cleave to them this ant of a thing
that breaks at a touch melting in the
heat of my palm I open up the flesh
of my hand to divulge a splintering
of my life line such a miniature
of a thing dancing in the white specks
descending in the liquid of a souvenir
store snow globe what a diminishing of
things falling away into a crevasse of
remembrance where I hide when I need to
subsist I make ends meet on these things
I know are you
But what's stranger still is how something so small can keep you alive.
-- Arcade Fire
it is the small things a pearl of a thing
tucked into a memory folded over in a
crease of time I see them embedded
in the haze of a star a million light years
away they are weary these travelers
these little things a breath inaudible
a wind on the back of my neck what
tiny things I tighten my fingers around
them my knuckles turn white trying
to cleave to them this ant of a thing
that breaks at a touch melting in the
heat of my palm I open up the flesh
of my hand to divulge a splintering
of my life line such a miniature
of a thing dancing in the white specks
descending in the liquid of a souvenir
store snow globe what a diminishing of
things falling away into a crevasse of
remembrance where I hide when I need to
subsist I make ends meet on these things
I know are you
Saturday, February 19, 2011
An End
I have taken up my nightly running habit again. The first night, I believe it was by the grace of God I ran without fail for an hour. I needed it. I needed the feeling I got from it. I felt Him around me. I felt Him pressing down on me, not oppressively, but to bind me up in a tight comfort. I have felt a drying up in me for awhile. I felt a jolt of something, running, that this wasn't the end, but a beginning. When I woke up in the morning, my legs were a mess of sore discomfort. To go down the stairs was a bit of a trial. But it was good, the reminders of an awakening.
I listen to lots of different music when I run. I detest songs with cellophane lyrics; my husband will tell me how he likes a song, and I will say, "But what is it about?" Anyway, some certain lines in songs call to me, and something blossoms from them. Sometimes it something happy, sometimes it is strange and lonesome, but it is definite parts of something that comes from a source that isn't all dried up after all.
"This can't be the bitter end." - Silversun Pickups
the end it marks
the last of the
movie reel when the
stiff film noisily flicks
about the projector
rousing drunkards from
a thin sleep and young
loves from touching anxious
fingers in moments of pulsing
light it is the end a dark
mark of punctuation that
a forlorn student strikes
away with an eraser drowned
in saliva it is a concentration
a close of an era a mark
on the wall of time
staccato a caveman drawing
a rough human figure and then
becoming extinct this end
this termination a pink slip in
the pocket of a listless
man this conclusion of
events the children file
off stage at the end of
their pageant and mothers
crane their necks to see
their children in the
spotlight just one more time
when youth drains away and leaves
a brittle shell of skin overlaying
bone a taut drum that
beats beats beats
as the sun descends into
the mouth of a bleeding horizon
is it the end a pulling up of events
into a tiny place
a dot on the slide
of a microscope something
to marvel at an oddity that
only exists frozen on a
pane of glass
I listen to lots of different music when I run. I detest songs with cellophane lyrics; my husband will tell me how he likes a song, and I will say, "But what is it about?" Anyway, some certain lines in songs call to me, and something blossoms from them. Sometimes it something happy, sometimes it is strange and lonesome, but it is definite parts of something that comes from a source that isn't all dried up after all.
"This can't be the bitter end." - Silversun Pickups
the end it marks
the last of the
movie reel when the
stiff film noisily flicks
about the projector
rousing drunkards from
a thin sleep and young
loves from touching anxious
fingers in moments of pulsing
light it is the end a dark
mark of punctuation that
a forlorn student strikes
away with an eraser drowned
in saliva it is a concentration
a close of an era a mark
on the wall of time
staccato a caveman drawing
a rough human figure and then
becoming extinct this end
this termination a pink slip in
the pocket of a listless
man this conclusion of
events the children file
off stage at the end of
their pageant and mothers
crane their necks to see
their children in the
spotlight just one more time
when youth drains away and leaves
a brittle shell of skin overlaying
bone a taut drum that
beats beats beats
as the sun descends into
the mouth of a bleeding horizon
is it the end a pulling up of events
into a tiny place
a dot on the slide
of a microscope something
to marvel at an oddity that
only exists frozen on a
pane of glass
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Dictionary
There are so many ways
to define worn. I can
count them off for you;
one: showing affects of wear,
like a grandfatherly sofa, with a
red fringe the cat toys with.
Or, second: weakened and
frayed by use; like dollars sewn
together with seams of tape
in hopes of passing them off
as legitimate. Or three,
my personal favorite:
worn, hackneyed, to be used so
much as to have lost meaning,
cliché, a trite experiment in
permanence, a crumpled
bit of refuse under the cushion
of a couch, a bill falling
apart at the joints fabricated
from all the folding in and
out and in and just fading
like a pop culture phenomenon,
an idea that evokes hysteria
then dies out so quickly it
is as if the idea never
existed.
to define worn. I can
count them off for you;
one: showing affects of wear,
like a grandfatherly sofa, with a
red fringe the cat toys with.
Or, second: weakened and
frayed by use; like dollars sewn
together with seams of tape
in hopes of passing them off
as legitimate. Or three,
my personal favorite:
worn, hackneyed, to be used so
much as to have lost meaning,
cliché, a trite experiment in
permanence, a crumpled
bit of refuse under the cushion
of a couch, a bill falling
apart at the joints fabricated
from all the folding in and
out and in and just fading
like a pop culture phenomenon,
an idea that evokes hysteria
then dies out so quickly it
is as if the idea never
existed.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Before Christmas
It is near Christmas. Two days away. In winter, in the mountains of West Virginia, there is always snow. And cold. And most days are accompanied by an endless gray sky punctuated only by the bare fingers of trees old enough to hold their limbs up that high. I am itching to be done with work; I have just this one building to take care of, these few people to tend to, then my time will be mine again.
In the office, I glance over my patient list, and plan the most efficient use of time and quickest path to different rooms. Outside, the snow is falling. And I have a long trip home. I begin; a few patients tolerate my presence. Betty, in particular, rolls her wheelchair along in a rather fast pace, and grabs me and begs me fretfully to take her home, surely I know where that is, now she will miss them, her family, they are coming, don't I hear her? I point to the window and try to draw her attention to the persistent snow.
"It's so cold out", I console. Her knotted fingers curl tightly around my forearm. "We have a place for you here, a nice warm bed, and your family would rather you stay here for the night."
Her fingers relax a little, and she releases my arm, looks at me through her glasses. The lenses are thick and covered in finger prints. Then they know I'm here, my family, Betty reasons, and then glances into the doorway of her room, now her home, and tries to make her deteriorating mind believe this is her place. Her hospital bed is spread over by a quilt, its stitches all hand done and small. I glance over at her hands, at the knuckles swollen with arthritis, nails cut short, and the thin skin housing the bones and ropes of tendons sprinkled with dark spots. Perhaps they once made these tiny stitches, once when the fingers were limber and slim.
"Betty, did you make this?" I question, running my hand along the quilt, the stitches like Braille on my palm. Betty looks at me and tries to register. She tries hard to recall, but she begs me again. Honey, take me home.
There are other patients; in the changing world of health care, I see all kinds of patients. I see a woman only 2 years older than me, who depends on a tracheostomy tube to breathe. I see a man in his 60s who smoked too much and barely has breath enough to generate a voice. I see a few more patients, like Betty, with dementia. I try to help them make sense of a world that their brains simply no longer have the ability to make sense of.
And then there is Ruth, 99, if she lives to see February she will be 100, and I sit with her and aid her with lunch. She is a slip of a women crowned with a tussle of grey hair. She wears the obligatory red sweatshirt that everyone buys their grandmothers this time of year, the Christmas one with snow birds embroidered around the collar. I need to comment on her slippers, with flicks of gold thread running through the fabric of them. The toes are frayed with wear.
I ask Ruth how she is, and her eyes dance as she tells me her age. "I had a wonderful mother, she was English," she says, "Oh, Honey, she was wonderful. And she died when I was nine, Honey, when I was just nine years old." Ruth talks about how her mother opened a banking account for her and her sister, how her mother never wasted. She mentions again that her mother was English. And she asks me, Honey, did I tell you my mother died when I was just nine?
At 99, her mother's death pours from her mind and into my lap. She compliments the food on her plate, and then mentions her English mother. She asks me where I am from, and then refers to her English mother. She talks about the Lord, and attributes her faith to her English mother.
"I am 99," Ruth says, tapping a finger on the table, "I have been rolled over and over by life. But the Lord gets me through. The Lord gets me through."
When Ruth is finished eating, we walk to her room. We pass windows, and the snow falls. It is so close to Christmas, almost a century of Christmases for Ruth, and she still smiles on the memory of her mother and praises the work of God. I take my time with her. She puts an impression on me and slows me down. She is a slice of time and love and memory dressed in a red sweatshirt and glittery slippers. I realize I have been blessed by her. By her loyalty to her mother and her praise of God. I know my work is important and not to rush, despite the gathering snow.
I leave her alone in her room, sitting on the side of her little hospital bed. She smiles to no one. I walk back into the hall, and notice Betty fretting to a nurse.
I go to her, and bend down, and tell her.
Betty. It's ok. The snow is coming and your family knows you are safe here.
In the office, I glance over my patient list, and plan the most efficient use of time and quickest path to different rooms. Outside, the snow is falling. And I have a long trip home. I begin; a few patients tolerate my presence. Betty, in particular, rolls her wheelchair along in a rather fast pace, and grabs me and begs me fretfully to take her home, surely I know where that is, now she will miss them, her family, they are coming, don't I hear her? I point to the window and try to draw her attention to the persistent snow.
"It's so cold out", I console. Her knotted fingers curl tightly around my forearm. "We have a place for you here, a nice warm bed, and your family would rather you stay here for the night."
Her fingers relax a little, and she releases my arm, looks at me through her glasses. The lenses are thick and covered in finger prints. Then they know I'm here, my family, Betty reasons, and then glances into the doorway of her room, now her home, and tries to make her deteriorating mind believe this is her place. Her hospital bed is spread over by a quilt, its stitches all hand done and small. I glance over at her hands, at the knuckles swollen with arthritis, nails cut short, and the thin skin housing the bones and ropes of tendons sprinkled with dark spots. Perhaps they once made these tiny stitches, once when the fingers were limber and slim.
"Betty, did you make this?" I question, running my hand along the quilt, the stitches like Braille on my palm. Betty looks at me and tries to register. She tries hard to recall, but she begs me again. Honey, take me home.
There are other patients; in the changing world of health care, I see all kinds of patients. I see a woman only 2 years older than me, who depends on a tracheostomy tube to breathe. I see a man in his 60s who smoked too much and barely has breath enough to generate a voice. I see a few more patients, like Betty, with dementia. I try to help them make sense of a world that their brains simply no longer have the ability to make sense of.
And then there is Ruth, 99, if she lives to see February she will be 100, and I sit with her and aid her with lunch. She is a slip of a women crowned with a tussle of grey hair. She wears the obligatory red sweatshirt that everyone buys their grandmothers this time of year, the Christmas one with snow birds embroidered around the collar. I need to comment on her slippers, with flicks of gold thread running through the fabric of them. The toes are frayed with wear.
I ask Ruth how she is, and her eyes dance as she tells me her age. "I had a wonderful mother, she was English," she says, "Oh, Honey, she was wonderful. And she died when I was nine, Honey, when I was just nine years old." Ruth talks about how her mother opened a banking account for her and her sister, how her mother never wasted. She mentions again that her mother was English. And she asks me, Honey, did I tell you my mother died when I was just nine?
At 99, her mother's death pours from her mind and into my lap. She compliments the food on her plate, and then mentions her English mother. She asks me where I am from, and then refers to her English mother. She talks about the Lord, and attributes her faith to her English mother.
"I am 99," Ruth says, tapping a finger on the table, "I have been rolled over and over by life. But the Lord gets me through. The Lord gets me through."
When Ruth is finished eating, we walk to her room. We pass windows, and the snow falls. It is so close to Christmas, almost a century of Christmases for Ruth, and she still smiles on the memory of her mother and praises the work of God. I take my time with her. She puts an impression on me and slows me down. She is a slice of time and love and memory dressed in a red sweatshirt and glittery slippers. I realize I have been blessed by her. By her loyalty to her mother and her praise of God. I know my work is important and not to rush, despite the gathering snow.
I leave her alone in her room, sitting on the side of her little hospital bed. She smiles to no one. I walk back into the hall, and notice Betty fretting to a nurse.
I go to her, and bend down, and tell her.
Betty. It's ok. The snow is coming and your family knows you are safe here.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)