So what shall we talk about? It is that question that is responsible for the extended silence on these pages. While I am very fond of my metaphor, I had intended to write about the tiny dance motifs of our lives and yet I only managed to pen momentous moments or revelations. New Beginning - new approach. It is spring and I am going to write about my garden and my students - sometimes together because I am forcing the latter to do the former - but more often separately, as one is often tonic for the dealings the the other.
Today it is garden. I have begun a new plot (ha! fitting double entendre!)
The area on the side of the house was let go last summer, despite garden glory in the rest of the yard. Tim was immersed in creating the perennial garden in the front, the cutting garden in the back, the compost heap in the corner and, of course, the many rotating vegetable crops. It was quite enough for one individual to take on and he did it beautifully. The rebirth of his gardens, was the rebirth of Tim. I watched with unbridled happiness as both emerged, but for reasons I can't quite grasp, I didn't participate much. Oh, I weeded, cut and arranged flowers, processed and froze the steady stream of heirloom tomatoes, and thoroughly enjoyed the display. But after a blazing display of wild flowers from seed broadcast along the fence in May and June, the side yard lay fallow. In fact, when the wild flowers faded, we fenced in the area and put in a sand pit where Penny could indulge in her need to dig to China. That was a bust - to say she was minimally interested in the "legal" spot to dig, would be a massive over-statement.
Now - from the distance of a year, I think the problem was a conflict of philosophies. I garden quite differently than Tim. My approach is to start with a big picture and create in small steps. I like to begin with a blank canvas and fill in. Tim is very much a proponent of the chaos theory of gardening - put something together and see how it works. While I will carefully dig out every weed before planting - and then diligently guard that none return - he will only remove those that are in his way. I mulch the area with careful border lines, he only mulches what would benefit from mulch. Both our systems have value, but since we are so far apart, we really aren't much use to each other. Last year, I suppose, I was so delighted in his energy and productivity, I was not willing to impose any of the minor rancor that invariably results when we attempt to co-farm. We are talking about a very small property here. Our "back forty" is forty feet!
However, this year I just laid claim to the side yard. I scoured the nice, organized garden magazines Tim refuses to read (but then he digests the huge botany tomes I would use for pressing flowers.) I sketched out my plans and bought my plants and assured Tim I would not impose my views regarding anything he was doing if he would not give me a hard time about the way I proceeded. We agreed - but, of course, we both lied.
I am giving him part of my fence side for two tomatoes - so we are actually going to have to co-exist. And we will do fine. It is April 19th and already the yard is a neighborhood walk "destination." I'm so glad we are both attending this garden party.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Here and Now
Last week my son Rory, my husband Tim, and I refurbished our dining room. It is clean and bright and comfortable. This is the last room in the house to receive a face lift since The Day That Everything Changed." It is a tangible reflection of where we are now.
We didn't know on that day in late April two years ago that the events unfolding would open doors that we had been banging on for years. In fact, we thought, at the time, that the last glimmer of light in the dark world we had been inhabiting was about to be extinguished.
Tim had been slowing slipping away for a very long time, pieces of him being absorbed by the ever increasing amounts of alcohol he had been consuming since he was in his early teens. My children clung to a composed memory of the parts of their father, long since disappeared, that knew them, loved them and took pleasure in their presence. It is a tribute to that early fathering that they never rejected, never walked away, but stood quietly waiting for either an end or a beginning. They are remarkable that way. In all aspects of their lives, their capacity for acceptance and forgiveness is astonishing. They are true heroes.
So on this April afternoon, we came home to find that there was nothing left of Tim. He had, indeed, become quite mad. We thought we were witnessing a stroke in progress or worse and, as we had done many times before, called for help.
Tim was admitted to the hospital, something that had happened several times before with little effect. Now his heart was failing, and his liver was shutting down. We knew that this would be his last admission. He was not coming home. His mind had already gone and it was a short matter of time before his body followed.
But, that is not what happened. It seems that whatever tiny spark of Tim was still dwelling somewhere beyond recognition finally said, "Enough!" After 43 years, the man put down the bottle and never picked it up again. Just like that. Once he came around, he was the worst patient ever to inhabit the cardiac wing of that hospital. After 6 days, they essentially threw him out for being so much trouble (another story for another day.) But he didn't drink again.
His recovery was slow and uneven. At times I feared that what I was left with was even more difficult than what he had been before. However, gradually Tim reemerged. The good days outnumbered the bad. He found lost hobbies and interests and, most important, he found his children - who were never lost at all.
I can't tell Tim's story. I can't begin to imagine what it is like to rebuild a life after more than forty years of destruction. It must be something like waking from a coma. I don't know. I was certainly awake all those years and when I chose to remember, I am a bit awed that I could stand under the weight of so much pain.
I believed I would never forgive. But I didn't have to forgive. In the end, there was nothing to forgive. As that door creaked open and all that light began streaming in, I discovered that it was quite natural to live in the now.
There was always music. I always heard it. But now, that last line of polyphony, those tones needed to close the chords, they are all there. We always danced, holding hands with a fierceness that made our knuckles white and drew blood where are nails dug into our palms. But we were a broken circle. Now we are linked. We dance lightly, fingers touching and the music continues to swell. No doubt there are other movements to come that may not be so bright. But this is now and we are whole and that will do.
We didn't know on that day in late April two years ago that the events unfolding would open doors that we had been banging on for years. In fact, we thought, at the time, that the last glimmer of light in the dark world we had been inhabiting was about to be extinguished.
Tim had been slowing slipping away for a very long time, pieces of him being absorbed by the ever increasing amounts of alcohol he had been consuming since he was in his early teens. My children clung to a composed memory of the parts of their father, long since disappeared, that knew them, loved them and took pleasure in their presence. It is a tribute to that early fathering that they never rejected, never walked away, but stood quietly waiting for either an end or a beginning. They are remarkable that way. In all aspects of their lives, their capacity for acceptance and forgiveness is astonishing. They are true heroes.
So on this April afternoon, we came home to find that there was nothing left of Tim. He had, indeed, become quite mad. We thought we were witnessing a stroke in progress or worse and, as we had done many times before, called for help.
Tim was admitted to the hospital, something that had happened several times before with little effect. Now his heart was failing, and his liver was shutting down. We knew that this would be his last admission. He was not coming home. His mind had already gone and it was a short matter of time before his body followed.
But, that is not what happened. It seems that whatever tiny spark of Tim was still dwelling somewhere beyond recognition finally said, "Enough!" After 43 years, the man put down the bottle and never picked it up again. Just like that. Once he came around, he was the worst patient ever to inhabit the cardiac wing of that hospital. After 6 days, they essentially threw him out for being so much trouble (another story for another day.) But he didn't drink again.
His recovery was slow and uneven. At times I feared that what I was left with was even more difficult than what he had been before. However, gradually Tim reemerged. The good days outnumbered the bad. He found lost hobbies and interests and, most important, he found his children - who were never lost at all.
I can't tell Tim's story. I can't begin to imagine what it is like to rebuild a life after more than forty years of destruction. It must be something like waking from a coma. I don't know. I was certainly awake all those years and when I chose to remember, I am a bit awed that I could stand under the weight of so much pain.
I believed I would never forgive. But I didn't have to forgive. In the end, there was nothing to forgive. As that door creaked open and all that light began streaming in, I discovered that it was quite natural to live in the now.
There was always music. I always heard it. But now, that last line of polyphony, those tones needed to close the chords, they are all there. We always danced, holding hands with a fierceness that made our knuckles white and drew blood where are nails dug into our palms. But we were a broken circle. Now we are linked. We dance lightly, fingers touching and the music continues to swell. No doubt there are other movements to come that may not be so bright. But this is now and we are whole and that will do.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
At the Ball with the Prince
I met my younger brother, Bob, in Philadelphia on Friday night. He was in town running a conference on publishing research for a group of medical types - I never really got the details. We ate a rushed buffet dinner in a room jammed with ravenous doctors, most wondering aloud when the free drink tickets were to arrive. Suddenly a young man stood up, clinked on his glass and demanded "Shut the doors - everyone needs to stay for this." Clearly we were in for one of those rituals one loves to hate. My brother shot up, told me to grab my drink and we headed for the door. I specialize in moving invisibly through crowds and I slid through the door just as it was being closed. My brother ended up on the other side because he took a detour to the dessert table. I guess rank has privilege-even to leave- because he emerged shortly, carrying cheesecake in his hand (no plate) and we headed down broad circular steps to the lobby below. I felt very much like preteens escaping from wedding toasts (Bob's hasty consumption of his palmed cheesecake cemented that.) The only difference was that had I really been 12, I would have slipped off my "grown-up shoes" and run down the staircase barefoot. But I like my grown-up shoes, they make me feel - grown-up. So we descended to the lobby at a gracious pace which did allow Bob to finish his dessert. In that quiet, ornate space we began our own waltz, and it lasted over four hours.
I don't see Bob very often and I can't remember the last time we were with each other without
siblings, offspring or partners. I believe it was about 20 years ago. We had no problem finding conversation.
We began with him holding forth on his political views. I have no idea whether I agree with him because he is so well-read, so passionately involved, so globally knowledgeable, that it is impossible to contribute intelligently without the same preparedness - which few of us have - certainly not me. It is better just to listen, ask a few questions and then file it all away to put into context later. But discussing politics without rancor is a great icebreaker. We glided through all of that, nary a misstep. Now in rhythm and sync, we moved into the essential topics - the topics that could only be discussed alone and had therefore been waiting years to be given voice.
We began by talking about children. Our children. His are of the age where they tear your hearts out daily, mine, somewhat older are more pleasures than problems. However, I have years behind me of the same types of pain and I am qualified to say, "It is frightening, yes, but you are not in the red zone, not even close. It's OK to step back and let them breathe a bit. They can't learn to avoid falls if they don't practice tripping. We talked for a very long time about his children and mine. He gave light to some troubling fears, and I could, with all honestly, put most of them to rest. He literally danced down the hall later - like a man who has been told, "Your grim self-diagnoses is all wrong. You are going to be fine."
Then with the lights dimming and the day waning, we slowed almost to a stop. With mutual unspoken consent, we plunged feet first into the deeper, darker places. We compared our eight-years-apart impressions of long ago events that still send damaging suckers into the intertwined roots of our family. We picked at old scabs and then dabbed at the blood that emerged. We laid bare the idea of forgiveness and concluded reluctantly that there is not always value in forgiving. Sometimes forgiveness itself is destructive. But we agreed that the guilt that comes with non-forgiveness is consuming and it is that which must be set free if we are to have the strength to enjoy the rest of the dances.
We ended the ball with a early morning slow gavotte down Locust Street. My brother is not a city dweller. He saw muggers on the steps of every bar, hit and run drivers behind the wheel of every vehicle. I laughed. We were, after all, in Rittenhouse Square. And then he laughed. Because right then we had our palms planted firmly on happy. Right then the music was pure and sweet and jubilant and we were still dancing.
I don't see Bob very often and I can't remember the last time we were with each other without
siblings, offspring or partners. I believe it was about 20 years ago. We had no problem finding conversation.
We began with him holding forth on his political views. I have no idea whether I agree with him because he is so well-read, so passionately involved, so globally knowledgeable, that it is impossible to contribute intelligently without the same preparedness - which few of us have - certainly not me. It is better just to listen, ask a few questions and then file it all away to put into context later. But discussing politics without rancor is a great icebreaker. We glided through all of that, nary a misstep. Now in rhythm and sync, we moved into the essential topics - the topics that could only be discussed alone and had therefore been waiting years to be given voice.
We began by talking about children. Our children. His are of the age where they tear your hearts out daily, mine, somewhat older are more pleasures than problems. However, I have years behind me of the same types of pain and I am qualified to say, "It is frightening, yes, but you are not in the red zone, not even close. It's OK to step back and let them breathe a bit. They can't learn to avoid falls if they don't practice tripping. We talked for a very long time about his children and mine. He gave light to some troubling fears, and I could, with all honestly, put most of them to rest. He literally danced down the hall later - like a man who has been told, "Your grim self-diagnoses is all wrong. You are going to be fine."
Then with the lights dimming and the day waning, we slowed almost to a stop. With mutual unspoken consent, we plunged feet first into the deeper, darker places. We compared our eight-years-apart impressions of long ago events that still send damaging suckers into the intertwined roots of our family. We picked at old scabs and then dabbed at the blood that emerged. We laid bare the idea of forgiveness and concluded reluctantly that there is not always value in forgiving. Sometimes forgiveness itself is destructive. But we agreed that the guilt that comes with non-forgiveness is consuming and it is that which must be set free if we are to have the strength to enjoy the rest of the dances.
We ended the ball with a early morning slow gavotte down Locust Street. My brother is not a city dweller. He saw muggers on the steps of every bar, hit and run drivers behind the wheel of every vehicle. I laughed. We were, after all, in Rittenhouse Square. And then he laughed. Because right then we had our palms planted firmly on happy. Right then the music was pure and sweet and jubilant and we were still dancing.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Dancing Dinosaur
I am old. I was young for a very long time, but now - I am truly old. Not ancient, mind you, but old. My children are horrified at this label I apply -they assure me I am anything but OLD. We "boomers" are never supposed to use the dreaded "O-word." We are the generation that has made Youthful a mandate - a religion - a inalienable right. And indeed, I might be "youthful" but when you look at the years, count the days, do the math - I am old. Not such a bad thing when you consider the alternative. Time only goes in one direction. We still haven't figured out how to shift into reverse - although that would be so useful. So, the alternative to old is dead. Given the options - I choose OLD. I grab hold of old around the ankles and hang on for dear life. I want to be old for a long time.
Staying old is a challenge. There are lots of dangers out there that would hasten one to the next step. Dodging these, or confronting them head-on is all part of a days work for the staying oldster, but these usually don't make for very interesting discussion. (In fact, a sure signpost that one is tumbling towards "ancient" is the "Let me tell you about my gout" syndrome (or worse - it can get far worse than that.)
So what shall we talk about? Let's talk about the dancing. Lets talk abou the two-steps, wiggle your buns, slow waltzing, leaps for joy, swaying in contentment that we do each day to celebrate what is. Lets talk about looking forward ( a little) but mostly lets talk about looking here! There is nothing so important as now, this time, this day. The next moment may knock us over like one of those rogue waves I didn't notice while floating blistfully on my back in the surf. But thrown to the bottom and being raked over the rough sand and sharp shells, I am so much better off for having had that sweet moment of weightlessness. Standing on the shore, safe and dry isn't really all that safe and dry anyway. You can't look in all directions at once and sometimes that surf just swoops around and gets you from behind. Far better to go out there and dance in the waves isn't it?
Staying old is a challenge. There are lots of dangers out there that would hasten one to the next step. Dodging these, or confronting them head-on is all part of a days work for the staying oldster, but these usually don't make for very interesting discussion. (In fact, a sure signpost that one is tumbling towards "ancient" is the "Let me tell you about my gout" syndrome (or worse - it can get far worse than that.)
So what shall we talk about? Let's talk about the dancing. Lets talk abou the two-steps, wiggle your buns, slow waltzing, leaps for joy, swaying in contentment that we do each day to celebrate what is. Lets talk about looking forward ( a little) but mostly lets talk about looking here! There is nothing so important as now, this time, this day. The next moment may knock us over like one of those rogue waves I didn't notice while floating blistfully on my back in the surf. But thrown to the bottom and being raked over the rough sand and sharp shells, I am so much better off for having had that sweet moment of weightlessness. Standing on the shore, safe and dry isn't really all that safe and dry anyway. You can't look in all directions at once and sometimes that surf just swoops around and gets you from behind. Far better to go out there and dance in the waves isn't it?
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