Incense.:Daisy's funeral

Bells jingle...it is so cold outside...inside incense spirals upwards...

My childhood neighbor bends into a fetal position of grief...

the sweet smell of the inscense suffices..

I beseech my remembered grief

over the loss of my parents..

over the  loss of the past

memory suffices...

Riotous St.Patricks Day!!Ah

AH!! Such a warm and fine day here in the Midwest..all day the sun rose and the drink went down!!''
As for me..I dressed in green..even going to the synagogue..faith I did and faith if I didn't!!!

There were jokes and Green flecked challah in the shape of Shamrocks...more jokes all about and then faith if there wasn't potatoes and cabbage right there on the kiddush table..and what more!! quite a selection of Irish whiskeys to be tried!!! ah..but as for me..by pass the peat smoked Irish connemara whiskey..so what if it'sa memory and a stone's throw from the island I lived on once...one sip and I'm done!! but never done remembering how it was to clamber up the ladder of the old cottage I once lived in..ah never!!! and twas a fine time I had hauling a few precious pieces of peat down from the loft and yes...burning it...there in that very cottage all by myself..yes..it twas so if it was and if it wasn't...now I'amn't after telling you a tale...

and so the day of living it up and memory goes on..after a fine nap and a good read and a bit of a rest with my Dad in the back yard..there we are all gathered around the table for a fine corned beef dinner flavored with curry!!!

and then off to the pub where my dear husband and I knock back beer and whiskey in the company of a comedian and a violinist...and then ah sure the...bagpipers come out in force..the three of them bless them!! and a man on the drum....all so cute and blowing so hard their very faces turned red/!!! ah..all the more fun on this hot day of 80 degrees perfect for a laugh and a good time and sitting out on Lake Street drinking a beer and dashing down a whiskey..and me with my goofyleprechaun headband and green necklaces and sure enjoying the fun..enjoying the fun and drawing it all..
faith if I was and faith if I wasn't!!

I can't stop for crying..for Wallace

I cannot stop for crying March 2, 2011

I cannot stop for crying.
Three days ago we discharged my dear brother Wallace from HCMC. That stands for Hennepin County Medical Center. It is a huge rambling place. A hospital where they have tried to make the navigating easy but one gets lost. And when one is already winding through the inner labyrinth of stress, uncertainty and distress it is twice as easy to get lost in the winding corridors that almost lead somewhere.
But you do find your way back. As I did to my mother’s small room back in January. There she lay radiant and demanding, her head against the pillows. The windows looking out on a deflated sports dome with a large blown up poster of one of the demi gods of football looking back at us.
There the friendly hospice staff visited us and prepared us for the long journey back into mystery once Emily returned home. There in that room our spirits soared as I read her excerpts from Thomas Merton. We looked at his ink drawings. I read her spiritual passages. She thanked me for the branches I had brought her. What did I know. Nothing. I did not know it was our farewell evening together….
Later that evening the knd Romanian nurse brought me a huge brown recliner. I slept in it and held Emily’s hand throughout the night. She went home. Two days later she died. That brief night in the hospital remained with me once the swirling clouds of grief descended.

Funeral. Cards. Anxieties about my brother. Ten days after my mother died my sister and I brought him to the psych ward at HCMC. He was withdrawn and afraid. It was scary.
So back to the familiar place. HCMC. A few floors up from my mothers sojourn. There we place Wallace in an unfamiliar setting..sensing and knowing that late midnight as we sat in the ER…that yes, we had made the right decision. Yes…there was hope for Wallace, he could move ahead.
Days passed on the fifth floor. After a while Wallace found his footing with the deep support of his doctor, social worker and the right meds…
One crossroads and another…one decision and another.

We visited a group home for Wallace not far from downtown. To my astonishment and to my sisters amazement he loved the simple room with the duct tape on the carpet. The well worn, well loved place held many tired and weary souls..We had our uncertainties.

Monday we went to the hospital. I carried big paper pink flowers and met with his doctor and social worker. Over the weekend Wallace had waffled and not wanted to go to the group home. He wanted to go home. I was intrepid and uncertain….what was the right path. My intuition kept telling me to TRUSt….to trust…the quiet voice said trust.

With guidance from the doctor and social worker we decided that the group home was best. I started crying. I cannot stop for crying…..Wallace smiles now. He is able to express himself. He can describe his affliction. I cannot stop for crying. Looking back on the long road we have taken. All of his personal suffering and the help he did not get.

I went to my mother’s grave yesterday. My dad sat silently in the car. One can hardly see her grave now, it is barely a mound in the snow.
Mom I said. Wallace has wings now!! He can fly!! Rest in peace.

Dad said….Rest in peace. I love you. Don’t work too hard.

Wallace has wings now. He can fly. As I write this he is doing an experience day for artists with disabilities downtown.
He quickly sat down and started painting. I learned not to hover….
I cannot stop for crying.
Wallace has wings now. He can fly.

I cannot stop for crying.

Mnemosyne: The Goddess of Memory

My father's hands always hold some rich literary supplement. The New York Review of Books. The London Review of Books or The New Yorker. Always something with substance and depth.
I recall a while ago I escorted him to the upstairs bathroom at Lunds. As we passed the cheap pulp novels I said to Dad: "Avert your eyes, these books are not even worth your gaze!!!

As I lounged around at my parents house I came across a photo tucked inside the New York Review of Books that captivated me for a long time. I will share that with you.

There is the photo. A black and white photo of a woman reclining with her back to us. A marble woman who is the Goddess of Memory. The photo is an old one and one can see people in the distance in this park that in on the Upper West Side of New York City. I would have put money on a bet that this was a European photo, but no, it is New York City.I get a sense of old New York in this photo.

She reclines with her back to us. Weathered by time and wind, rain and sleet, the folds of her garment are darkened. I gaze.

My father's memory is not what it could be. He often does not know the date or time or place. There are holes that need filling.
If I could stretch out a magic carpet now and place it beneath my father's feet as he sits reading The New York Review of Books, I would take him up, up and away. I would take him up above our house on 3220 Hennepin up above the back yard where my parents spend their days in the summer as the red cardinal sings to them. Up above the trees that are bare in winter, with a rutted, iced over alley far below. Up up above Lake Calhoun where we walk to for our short walks. Yes, and then we would drift east over Wisconsin's lush green hills. Drifting with the wind we would swish over Chicago and Lake Michigan. Maybe touching down briefly in Detroit or Philodelphia, but pushing and drifting with the wind, up where the birds fly by.

There among the eagles and the herons, there we would gain speed until New York City was in view and finding our direction and wending our way delicately among the tall buildings we would find our soft landing in this park. There we would walk, the two of us towards this lovely statue. Not knowing what her face looks like I imagine we would look upon some lovely visage.

There before the Goddess of Memory we would stand. Gazing at her I would beseech her to restore my father's memory that has failed him now, off and on. Gazing at her, we would reach out our hands.

And waiting, I would liston as my father turned to me, quoting his favorite poems, making lively jokes and laughing with his marvellous turn of phrase. His angular features would be filled with expression. Soon, I imagine a small crowd would gather as they heard his discourse. Animated conversation has always been the anvil he pounds his opinions on in the most animated way. There!! Yes!! The sparks fly. He quotes, quips and we marvel at his brilliance. The still lyrical statue, the odalisque of memory smiles a mysterious smile. Yes, we have come all this way to worship at her feet.
To ask and beseech her for her gift of memory. She has answered our plea.

My dad's memories pour forth; times in Japan, life on the farm in Texas, picking cotton in the heat of a long hot day. Poems he's written flutter about. He picks one up and reads it. Then goes on to recite a sonnet he loves by Shakespeare.

Memory is mended somehow.....

I drift and awaken from my slumber on the couch. Looking over, I see Dad reading away in The New York Review of Books. I point out the photo of Mnemosyne. He smiles and quotes his favorite poem to me.

Dreaming and drifting

Today I attended a workshop on Attending to Aging Parents. The speaker was excellent and the power point presentation covered so many practical aspects of caregiving and the needs of elderly parents. I think the only thing I would have added was the need for a good sense of humor...unless you can find humor and laugh..you will cry for a long time.

The presentation underlined my present concerns and ongoing angst about my parents. Sometimes I just feel like I am trying to outrun time, to somehow get ahead of the merciless tick of the clock.....and what it forebodes.And yet, I realize I am doing the best I can...as the kids said in the Chinese Opera last week..(see middle photo!)
"You did YOUR BEST!! and THAT WAS GOOD ENOUGH! You did your best!!"
and
"Work Hard and Play Hard and Do Your Best!!Truth~ Truth was the Test!!

Other times I just wish to dream and drift like a mermaid...away from troubles and cares...into a place of pure art, beauty, joy and reflection...but then I awake and here I am, at the urologist, at the cardiologist or just sitting with my parents in their living room....I drift within these moments and I draw. (When I get my scanner up and running I will be able to share more...)


I do draw a lot and record each moment, each doctor visit and each subtle and not so subtle moment...Drawing has helped me navigate this unknown terrain... I shared my comments about all this briefly at the end of the workshop today...noting that drawings is a way to navigate the difficult terrain of aging and that Nothing is so
Scary you can't draw it...

So now spring is here, tulips poke up through the brown debris, time is moving on, another season is here...I drift with it and dream...sitting in front of my favorite tree.....it's wide embracing branches remind me to keep my heart of compassion open....even if it feels hard...to do so, to do that.

An Aria for my Mother ( Poem)

An Aria for my Mother

my mother grew up
in Vienna, Austria
home to opera
and many a triumphant aria
sung by passionate singers

now, there's an aria
I sing for my mother
hoping to lift
her spirits
as she walks through
the valley of the shadow

these long winter
days have held
her captive

and the loss of
the car
has been challenging

I try to sing a
sweet sure aria
from an opera
of her choice

something she
remembers
and loves

from her early
days in Vienna
when weekly
visits to the Opera
were her family's habit

I sing a very high
sweet tune
as I hold
her hand

I try to sing long enough
and hit the high notes
confident
that my singing
will bring a smile

there's an aria I sing
when I'm home alone,
thinking of my parents,
it's a song of grief
as I witness their
aging and the
passing of time

I sing each stanza
carefully
as I water the amaryllis
on the kitchen table
with my tears

that flower grows
slowly and
persistently
even when the thermometer
outside the window cannot
register the morning temp

I trust that
when it blooms
my mother will
be blossoming
too.

there's an aria I sing
made of memories of other times
I spin those strands
upon the wheel of time
and allow its turning
rhythms to give me strength
to sing the aria
that accepts times
turning wheels
with grace and wisdom.

written last year. 2009

Apprehension

I take my mother to see the urologist. Another visit, another day. Complicated news after the cat scan.

My mother is completely anxious and even the Book of Miracles that we glance at is not enough to calm her.I think we need a miracle.

I have her breath deeply. It almost helps. She is frantic and out of her skin with anxiety.
Perhaps because she knows and I know that we have to face difficult news.

The doctor examines her and finds something else.

It all gets to be too much to bear, to think about. As we leave I ask a nurse for a Kleenex.I cry and cry walking down the hall. I turn to look at my mother. She walks behind me with the most radiant happy smile. Calm, happy and radiant.