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.

The Cat Scan

The Cat Scan

(First I will put some melodic Chopin music on in the background as I describe this moment)

She lays there, her young green eyes darting nervously about the room. I quietly hold her hand and reassure her, that yes, she will be fine.

My dear mother is in for a Cat Scan. Laying on the bed she looks small and thin. I stroke her face and hair. To me she looks both young and ancient. There’s an eternal liveliness to her eyes. I go sit in the hall while she goes through her procedure. It is both completely factual and it is a mystery. Health. 88 years old, soon to be 89. Yes, there she is, laying on the gurney looking so intact, so complete, so fragile and so strong. I marvel at her.

I sit in the neutral hall while the computer voice tells her to breath, or raise her arms or do something else. I sit under a perfect circle of light in this completely neutral environment. The circle of light is calming to me and it mutes my growing apprehension as to what will be found in the cat scan. Under this neutral light I allow meditative thoughts to emerge, to quietly flow while I look ahead.

Of course part of me is scared and wishes to just drift off to some safe fetal position somewhere away from here. But I am called back to the room and there she is, my own dear mother laying there on the white bed. So helpless, so strong, so wise.

The procedure is almost over. I gaze past this moment, past the sterile environment to muse on the richness of my mother's life. We pack up and leave. I hold her arm as we walk together under the calm pool of light into a future of questions and more doctor visits.

Bikkus Cholim ( for an old friend)

It's winter and here I am at Abbott Hospital again.It smells just as I remember and I know my way around. I hardly need to ask for help. There have been so many times and so many visits.
Today I am here visiting an old friend who I have not seen for years. I heard through the grape vine that he was in the hospital after major surgery. Ostomy and colonoscopy.Long words that mask a very long condition for him.
I think I've been in this room before, or have I? All the rooms blend into one long memory.

There he is, tubes and bandages.It's been a long road for him. We connect at once and regale each other with true tales and philosophical ramblings that come to the crossroads of tears and laughter. It's easy to go down either road. The road to laughter is wet with tears and the tearful road makes us really crack some good jokes.
Life has handed him these complexities and it's been tough. He is no stranger to pain and pain is his companion.
Yet he laughs and we make bad jokes.

Bikkur Cholim is the hebrew word for the mitzvah of visiting the sick. There is the feeling that through visiting the sick one can take away one sixtieth of their illness.
I enter his room feeling overwhelmed by the problems of my life. Family, finances, future...what? what? what? I ask.

I leave feeling light and happy. Somehow my problems have been put into perspective and I feel like I have wings.

There is a mystical light that shines through our most difficult situations. It is not easy to find, but it is there. It is like the streetlight on a snowy night, shining out and illuminating the hidden spiral of insight traced in the snow. You have to really squint to seet it...It is so hard to see, but just look, it's there.
You really can walk that inner road, yes, you can reach that inner destination. Just look, it's there.

Difficult moments have their own brightness and illumination. Not by the light of day, but the hidden light of intuition and insight. Look up. Look in. It is there.

Phone Conversation

"Hello Mom..

"Dad wants to get on the bus and go downtown and go get a car."

"Oh"

"What should I do?"

" Put him on the line."

"He'll only yell at you."

"I'll try."

"Hello Dad....I have really enjoyed putting your poems on the blog and honoring you in that way....
Dad, the roads are really bad now, why don't you wait until Spring to get a car??"

Pause.....

Long pause...

"Okay, Darling."

End of conversation.

I do not want to be a dictator and I feel my parents need and desire to get a car. I see how cooped up they feel. But..........