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*Child*

When Melinda saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time it took her breath away. She had to cough wildly to feel the air rise up again from the very soles of her feet through her body, her lungs and finally out her mouth again. Next she gasped in the vast glory of it all. At six o’clock in the evening, the light around her was perfect for blinking-eye snapshots. In two seconds a cloud of sandpipers appeared, engulfing her as they turned and flashed bright white undersides to reveal themselves. Then just as quickly they shifted and disappeared. Only the gentle flap-flap-flap-purr-whish of their movements suggested they were still nearby.

Alongside the salty foam and steady waves of the big sea, it was easy for Melinda to forget how hungry she was and what it might take to fill her belly or at least take the edge off. She realized the steady in-out-in-out of her body’s bellows was not unlike the hallowed rhythm of the tides. In grateful response, she lay down in the sand to rest. She let herself be held.

*Adult*

It was late afternoon before Melinda found a moment’s peace. She was bone-tired having washed the dishes, made beds, fed the dog, made soup, scrubbed the bathroom floor, conferenced with the teachers, harassed the mailman, ridden her bike to Safeway and back, unpacked the groceries and, oh yeah, made a suitable breakfast for herself and the others as well as gobbled down lunch alone between her tasks.

This layer of physical exhaustion was as thick and tumultuous as cumulus clouds, magnified by what preoccupied and fogged Melinda’s mind as she worked. Would her hand be strong enough to open the jar of pickles? Would her husband rest after his surgery? Would anyone love him as much as she did? And what about the truck? Who would drive it back across the country? And if he died, how could she manage two houses, two kids, two pets, two cars? Not to mention the wedding? While there was plenty of money, tracking it with any semblance of responsibility would take a level of energy beyond her. The thought of it all was just too much.

In a moment of slight pause, Melinda realized the best course was to take off her slippers, leggings, sweatshirt, panties, earrings, bra and thumb brace. Damn! She’d forgotten to fill the tub first. In stark nakedness, Melinda twisted the faucets, poured in bubble bath and sprinkled lavender salts.

While the soft cushion of suds rose Melinda gathered her tools – shampoo, conditioner, a razor, shaving cream, tweezers, a pumice stone. She paused again. What else could she possibly need? A candle maybe, matches. A bath towel. No, a large beach towel. No, both towels.

And then she locked the door, turned up the heat slightly, stopped the flow and swished the water with her hand. Ah, very hot. Enough to redden her skin even more. Just the way she liked it.

Melinda dipped her toe in next and slowly slid one leg in while she grabbed the old-person’s bar her father-in-law had nailed into the wall on one of his visits long ago. She lifted her second leg over the edge of the tub and squatted, slowly lowering herself into the bliss. Oh fuck, the tea! Now when she listened she could hear the tea pot screaming from the other room, “Don’t forget me. Pay attention to me, you fool!”

You can imagine the upwind required. The sigh. The tightening of muscles. The anticipation of chill then the shiver itself when she stepped out on to the mat, grabbed one of those towels, unlocked the door and appeased the almost empty kettle.

It drew tears of disappointment and a heave of sadness when she returned. Yes, she had a full mug of goodness to warm her but by this time the bath had cooled.

Why lock the door? The luxury would become a chore too – lying back to rinse her hair, watching the cream inflate on her leg before she shaved it off, slightly scrubbing that bothersome callus on the ball of her left foot…all done too quickly, in record speed to beat the temperature change.

Clearly in this next stretch she would need to learn to rest in the midst of it. To pause. To breathe. To flush her tears periodically rather than rely on the occasional gift of a long space of time alone. Maybe she could learn to move forward with calm if it killed her.

*Elder*

As the season turned, it was easier to embrace the ocean of grief in her heart. The sea after all, in its steadiness and endless presence accounted for all that was good. Melinda knew if all else failed she could build a roaring fire and curl up before it in a fetal position.

To finally be old enough to qualify for Medicare was a relief beyond compare. When her sore feet cussed bloody murder she was certain she could bring herself to slow down and breathe. The maturity of knowing knitted in the certainty of blessed containment around her edges. They vibrated. She was no longer solid and walled off. Finally the nearby electricity wove and bounced in and out like a sleek dolphin needling the surface of her skin.

The space around her almost always seemed more habitable these days allowing her the courage to heave sobs by herself in the blue room. To taste death and even lap up pain as her teacher.

Lately Melinda wondered if perhaps it would be best to hole up there in her pajamas for a while, really experiment with the limits of time. It’s possible her daughter would bring her nourishment, anything of the sort of caloric beauty she conjured up would do. Surely her husband would check in occasionally offering his exquisite form of kindness.

Long ago, the specialist had recommended she allow them to wrap her up like a mummy for 24 hours. They promised to care for her, to feed her, unwrap her for elimination. The doctor in charge suggested her energy was of the gourmet variety and explained, “Don’t you want to gift yourself with a sample of your full intensity rather than exhaust yourself by diffusing it all the time and everywhere?” Then he offered, “Simply containing yourself may be a challenge for you but we could create the sensation for you in this unnatural way. We’d stay nearby for the level of feeling of which you are capable. You’d learn to appreciate your fullness.”

Instead decades later, when Melinda was alone, she could invite the profound feelings he’d mentioned. She allowed the accompanying giggles and waves of light ness too. In search of looseness, her swollen heart was ready to spill over in the monastery of containment and see what she was holding back. To give all of this love to herself first before considering sharing it was quite a luscious thought.

What a delight to recognize this possibility as more than the usual restful retreat. By going away she could allow herself to explode as the ultimate present.

The other day I spent some time with my dad. Who says he’s dead and gone?

When I was a kid we reserved two weeks in August for family vacation—tent camping in one of Virginia’s state parts. I remember my father’s delight whenever we snagged a waterside campsite. Next the routines ensued so we could settle in for the break between his jobs at church camp and elementary school. As the oldest I was expected to lead the search for firewood while he erected the tent and Mom set up the kitchen. At some point when most of the work was done, there was the directive, “Hang up the hammocks, girls. But first, let’s go swimming!”

One day recently while we were at the beach cabin, I dragged the pruned branches from atop the salal bushes where we’d laid them to dry years ago. Methodically, one trip after another, I piled the fire circle high and then created a chaotic bundle off to the side. Fairly early in the task, Dad came to mind. He was overjoyed with our waterside spot and tons of tinder. Even though there was a burn ban, we imagined a bonfire later as well as indoor blazes to come while we wait out those inevitable and powerful winter storms beside the Pacific Ocean. On this balmy late summer afternoon though, Dad was happy to help me gather and prepare.

I’d learned to summon my dad soon after his death, as we say, “by accident.” On the Thursday of Holy Week three years ago, my father’s ashes arrived unexpectedly on our doorstop in Seattle. The tag “Human Remains” was a dead give-away, so to speak. We thought these last physical remnants were going to be delivered to Mom’s address but in hindsight the receipt and timing couldn’t have been better. It took a while to become comfortable with this version of his presence. Certain weekend events helped.

On Good Friday I was asked to stand in as a reader during the Easter Vigil necessitating my attendance at the rehearsal on Saturday morning. I contacted Priest Nancee and asked if she could possibly meet me after the rehearsal to bless my father’s ashes. This was the beginning of a wild ashes ride—a story for another time. It all started with Nancee’s response to my desire to have Dad with me at the vigil, “Why don’t you tuck the box under this plant here in the chapel? Then you can retrieve it after all the lights come on again and before you head home.” We decided instead that I would nonchalantly carry the ashes in a shoulder bag throughout the service including when I went forward to the large wooden chair in the center of everything to read the story of Noah and his family from the Bible.

I’m convinced Dad loved that solution too. It was easy to conjure him up and then to just be there, relaxed and enjoying story-telling together. I have had similar experiences with his mother Nannie. She was the only person I know who could scratch my back until I fell asleep, during life and after her death too. Now that I think of it, I’ve known about others too—at precisely the time they are hurt or the time they die. In those cases though I haven’t developed my intuition enough (yet) to know the details, for instance, “Who’s hurting?” and/or exactly “What happened?” But when this strong whiff of someone–usually a dead someone–shows up, I am learning to live with it and to find and provide comfort.

My favorite times are when the saints gather. Usually it helps to be absorbed in sacred ritual, like during the Eucharist at the cathedral or in my living room. At times like these it occurs to me that the barrier is thin, so I slit my eyes and begin to see them on the edges of the room forming a giant circle around us. I remind myself of the last scene in the movie “Braveheart” when Mel Gibson is about to be beheaded. He looks out into the crowd and begins to see the dead show up among the living.

Ok, ok, it’s woo-woo maybe. But when the beauty of nature surrounds me and I begin doing something over and over again consciously, I am performing a ritual that invites passage. Maybe I notice my breath and borrow God’s name—the sound of divine breathing to pace my own, “In-out, in-out, Yah-weh, Yah-weh.” And then it occurs to me how much my father likes this kind of thing. Of course he comes alongside. Why would I ignore this or consider myself crazy in these moments? Instead I ease in, balance myself and gladly accept his assistance.

This has been quite an odd summer electronically from my perspective. First, I audited SPANISH 201 at our nearby university which required registering and then regularly using three new-to-me internet sites in no time flat. Even though I was asked to turn in the district’s Lenovo computer before my sabbatical, I successfully pleaded for an extra month of use because the course was, after all, “work-related.” Thank God! Our flunky five-year-old HP machine was definitely not up to that task! After I finally relinquished it, I managed to hobble through the necessary emails on my iPhone while we were on vacation. I didn’t really give stronger devices a second thought until we returned from Michigan in early August. That’s when I had two robust tasks at hand: continuing and extending the gofundme bridge to Nicaragua and helping build a cancer caring bridge.

Fortunately for me the Nicaragua connection is a joint one. Someone I’ve never laid eyes on—Sara Clark—has become one of my favorite heroes of all time. With a team of Nicaraguan women, she started https://www.gofundme.com/colibrielchile. During the liminal airspace and time between Lenovo and vacation, I was able to write an update for the site using my phone. Sara intercepted those few flimsy paragraphs then corrected my errors three times before the piece was acceptable. She kindly explained I was easy to deal with compared to the bankers and politicians involved in international transfers. Regardless of any challenging gyrations the donations increased and are continuing toward our stretch goal of $15,315. More importantly the first payment is now safely in the hands of Marlene, my host Mom, aka sister-in-laughter, and the other teachers, hosts and traditional weavers in Matagalpa. It’s easy to forget any bumps on the passageway, given the sweet success at this halfway mark.

Meanwhile I tried to update the HP to Windows 8.1 and lost Office. Argh!

THEN my brother-in-law Monte learned he has pancreatic cancer. Finally the sleeplessness and pain that has been wracking him for the past ten months sadly makes sense. Who gives a rat’s ass about computers any more or anything I might have to say about my electronic ineptitude and frustration? Monte is one great guy—husband to my sister Melissa, father to my nieces and nephew and grandfather to Sage, Lily, Nate and Ben. Besides he’s fun, makes a great breakfast and tells wonderful stories. Regardless if cancer kills him or he recovers, there’s no denying the unknown turbulent stretches he’s got ahead of him. The poor guy’s never really enjoyed marijuana either so doesn’t even have that going for him (yet!) And then there’s Melissa, don’t get me started…blubber, boohoo, blubber, blubber.

The good news for me in this sorrowful time is I got off my bum, took the HP to the Microsoft store and convinced them to reinstall Office (and download the 145 fixes while they’re at it) for free. In the time before that could actually happen, I borrowed Rob’s iPad and Carolina’s MAC for the afternoon and shuffled through what it took to start a Caring Bridge website for my sis and her beloved: https://caringbridge.org/visit/montepittz.

It’s hard to be so far away from my loved ones in these dark times, both my friends in another country and my family on the other side of the state. With this in mind, I’m not about to bad-mouth social-media-type sites. Sure, Facebook and Instagram can have light-weight, fair weather, voyeuristic characteristics. But when the going gets rough similar electric waves can even create food and lifelines. We simply have to take the steps, regardless of how rutted and gnarled they may seem, construct the bridges with whatever tools we have, ask for help widely and accept it when it comes. As a result, my Nicaraguan friends are now feeding their families and, less than a week later, the fantastic M & M team are turning their strong web of friendships into a visual net of prayers, photos and good will. I visit these sites daily myself where I find welcome encouragement.

 

 

 

(English translation follows the Spanish.)

No puedo imaginar que haya una disrupción más grave en la vida de un niño que cuando se lo separa de su mamá o su papá en la frontera. Según John Bowlby en su teoría de apego, la niñez temprana es el más importante tiempo para desarrollo de bienestar socialemotional de niños. Se necesitan los abrazos y cuidado de adultos como padres, abuelos, tíos, tías, etc. Una investigación reciente que se llama Estudio de ACES – en español, Experiencias Adversos de Niñez – probaban que eventos como separación hacen heridas profundas como heridas fisicas. Posiblemente algunos niños sean elásticos pero creo que la majoría de estos niños crecerán con problemas psicológicos y de comportamiento.

Entonces, no debemos solo mirar los eventos porque nosotros somos los privilegiados. Creo que debemos protestarlos. También, conozco las personas nicaragüenses que se enfrentan a dificultades en su país. Aunque se quieran quedar en Nicaragua en sus propias casas con sus familias, necesitan viajar a Costa Rica o los Estados Unidos para trabajo. Ahora por mis amigos, entiendo esta gran migración presente. Probablemente evolucionemos de una mezcla de los pobres y los ricos. Claro, ya está sucediendo.

Hasta que la mezcla sea justa y completa, creo que debemos compartir nuestra riqueza tanto como entendimientos simpáticos. Si quieres donar dinero para apoyar personas quedarse en sus casas, puedes visitar  http://www.gofundme.com/colibrielchile.

Muchísimas gracias.

 

We Share

I can not imagine there is a more serious disruption in a child’s life than when he/she is separated from his/her mother or father at the border. According to John Bowlby in his theory of attachment, early childhood is the most important time for the development of the social emotional well-being of children. Hugs and adult care are needed from parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, etc. A recent investigation called the ACES study – Adverse Childhood Experiences – proved that events like separation cause deep wounds similar to physical wounds. Possibly some children are resilient but I suspect many of these children will grow up with psychological and behavioral problems.

So, since we are the privileged ones we should not simply watch these events. I think we should protest them. Also, I know Nicaraguan people who face difficulties in their country. Although they want to stay in Nicaragua in their own homes with their families, they need to travel to Costa Rica or the United States for work. Now because of my friends, I understand this great present migration. We probably are evolving into a mixture of the poor and the rich anyway. Surely, it’s already happening.

Until the mixture is fair and complete, I think we should share our wealth as well as sympathetic understandings. If you want to donate money to support people staying in their homes, you can visit http://www.gofundme.com/colibrielchile.

Many thanks.

 

La semana pasada almorcé con mi amigo quien trabaja en la universidad. Pronto él se retirará de su empleo en finanzas y comenzará la escuela de cocina. Me dijo de su ministerio voluntario a la Catedral de San Marcos con comida y discusiones pasadas sobre un café allí. Mi mente empezó a girar. Si conseguimos un contrato con la catedral para un café en el espacio a lado de su libreria, los empleados y miembros tendrán servicios de un café cercano. También, cualquier persona de la comunidad sería bienvenida para disfrutarla.

Al principio de nuestra propuesta a la Junta Directiva de la iglesia explicaremos – “Con el café comercio justo y música del mundo en vivo, centraremos nuestros esfuerzos que contribuyan a destacar las culturas que nos rodean.”

Para esta empresa, uno necesita un capellán, un jefe y un curador de la música. Yo conozco un capellán posible. Él sueña con ser un sacerdote y habla español e inglés con fluidez. Además mis hijos, una cocinera y un músico, podrían ser voluntarios en un café. Si trabajamos con un comité de consejo que incluye líderes de negocios comunitarios, encontraremos buenas personas para estos trabajos. Quizás mi amigo jubilado ofrecerá su consejo financiero (y sus productos de panadería hechos en casa también).

Por supuesto, se necesita dinero para invertir en este negocio. Si mi esposo y/o mis amigos tienen intéres en este proyecto, tendremos inversiones para comenzar. Tal vez, un café puede donar algunas de las ganacias a otros proyectos relacionados como la iglesia bilingüe en Renton que se llama Our Lady of Guadalupe Episcopal e El Fundo de San Marcos en Nicaragua. Con esta idea, una jefa talentosa, voluntarios dedicados, alimento delicioso y música divertida e inversionistas, un café podría tener éxíto. ¡Ojalá!

 

SPAN 201 – Composición 3, 9/7/2018