An Ordinary Life

Yesterday we drove through the ice and snow to celebrate the life of our friend, Vinny. 


The memorial service was held at an old inn. Maybe fifty people were there. Vinny's wife and two daughters sat in chairs up front. His daughter, Stephanie broke down in sobs when she was invited to come up and read the letter she'd written to her Dad. Someone else read it for her, a love letter to a father from his daughter; we sat and held the space for her grief. And ours.


Vinny was a busy man, rarely idle. He laid tiles and wood floors (in our house!), did plumbing, electrical work. He could fix anything. He and his wife, Loretta, worked and lived together for many years. They were literally together 24/7. I don't know how Loretta is going to go forward, but she will.


Vinny never walked the red carpet. He didn't cure cancer. He had a noticeable scar across one cheek; a buck had crashed through his windshield many years ago, kicking him in the face. A face that always wore a grin...He loved his wife and kids above all else.


After the service, we came home, cleared the driveway, and climbed into bed. Claire snoozed. I thought about Loretta and how she wouldn't be able to rest her face on her husband's chest anymore. I pressed mine closer to Michael's.


When someone dies, it's a huge loss. We grieve; sometimes for a long time. Sometimes forever. But I am reminded again: 


Loss creates space, if only a sliver. New space to wake up to this most wonderful, tender, ordinary life. 


With gratitude.

Like When You're Born

In the past week, three people I've known have died. One, a friend from childhood, after a long battle with cancer. Our friend, Vinny died last Friday from a massive heart attack while splitting wood in his backyard. We got the phone call on Saturday night, listening to Prairie Home Companion, curled up in front of the fire. Vinny? Splitting wood? A friend's sister died from a sudden illness. She was forty-six years old. A teacher, a firefighter, her son's scout troop leader, mom of a ten year old daughter. She'd been at the hairdresser commenting on how she wasn't feeling quite right. Two days later...


I know this is the natural order of things. This whole enchilada is impermanent. We come into the world, burn brightly, then leave. Apparently, the sooner one accepts this, the more joyful and peaceful a life they'll live. I have a thick skull. All this dying is making me nervous. I've got, more acutely than usual, that old when's the next shoe gonna drop syndrome. Does waking  up this morning to no heat in the house count? I'm watching my squeamish-ness, tallying the losses. This letting go process isn't once and done. It's again and again. Inhale, exhale.


I was talking to Claire about this domino of loss.


"One minute you're here, the next your gone," I said, "it's freaking me out."
"Well, it could be the other way around, Mom, like one minute you're gone, then here. Like when you're born?"


Bingo...


which brings me back to my two snow-covered chairs in the backyard post from the other day. Have A Conversation was all I could muster. But I think it's good advice; have a conversation with someone you love, or someone you've had difficulties with, or a stranger who could use some kindness...


have a conversation.

Johnie-Girl

I fell in love with my mother-in-law the *moment I met her. She was dressed all in green, as I recall. Like some kind of beautiful grasshopper. Well, that's not exactly right, but...she was something bright.


I had flown out to California to visit Michael, part of our early courtship, and we'd driven to San Diego to see her. We were both nervous to meet, but that passed as soon as I walked in the door. She held her arms out and said, "Welcome Elizabeth!"in her Tennesee/Southern California drawl.


That was the beginning of what's been a long and lovely leaning into each other over the years. Mother-in-law, friend, grandmother to Claire, spiritual warrior extraordinaire, inspiration. 


Today is Johnie's 85th birthday. Oh, so many stories I could tell about her. But it's late and I'm tired and a bit blue that we're here, and not in San Diego with her. We called and sang a wobbly rendition of Happy Birthday. Well, it came together in the end. 


"Oh my!" Johnie said, laughing over the speaker phone, "You all sound amazing!" 


When I got on the phone with her we chatted for a bit. 
"I'm so sorry we're not with you," I said.
"Oh, Elizabeth, don't you worry about a thing. I'm getting stronger every day, I'm coming back, girl. And you know what? The best thing we can do for ourselves is to get the stress out of our lives. Period, Elizabeth. No worrying."


That's my Johnie-girl. 

*[I wish I had a picture of her from that day. This one with Claire is an oldie. It's grainy and dark but it catches her twinkly eyes and the two of them together feels sweet to me.]

Have A Conversation

The Blessing

Gentle snowy afternoon.
Dare I say some hope has returned?
Thanks for riding the peaks and valleys with me.


I'm cooing at you, dear readers.


xo b

Coo At You

Everything feels so fragile. Me. especially. My stomach has been hurting for a month, since Christmas Eve, to be exact. 


It's acid reflux, someone said.
Stress?
Maybe it's an ulcer.
Oh, lots of women our age start to get that.


My doctor didn't have an answer, so I'm taking a daily pill while spooning creamy, minty over-the-counter liquid into my mouth, hoping for relief from the burning. I have an appointment with a gastro-guy on Tuesday. Doctors scare me. They always want to run tests. I hate tests.


What is it that I can't stomach these days?


Our car died; money is tight. I need work.
Throngs of Egyptians are being tear-gassed.
A woman at Claire's bus stop told me her husband lost his job a year ago. Very hard, Betsy, she said. I had no idea.
Received an email from my brother this morning; our childhood friend, Sue, is dead after a long battle with cancer. She's left behind her fifteen year old daughter, Anna. Anna's father died a few years back. Sue would've been fifty-one on Valentine's Day. 


"Not feeling too good," I said to Michael.
"This is when the spiritual practice needs to kick in," he said.
I am not expecting to hear this from my husband, standing in the driveway, but it feels helpful, healing; the way he cups my face in his hands and looks into my eyes, kindly. 


I feel flayed to the suffering in the world. I pray, say affirmations, take pills called Mood Fix that I found at the health food store. I'm too sponge-like. I need to armor up, I think. I've had it with the constant loss and change and uncertainty. With people packing guns at supermarkets. But armoring up isn't the answer. Dis-armoring, is more like it, surrender. Okay, hands up. Heart open.

Sitting here in front of my big window, snow falling, dog whimpering, I feel this: I/we must practice kindness, over and over, treating everyone like a newborn baby, cooing at the sweetness, the lightness. Treat yourself that way too...

Coo at you.

Be Melting Snow

Lo, I am with you always 
means when you look for God,
God is in the look of your eyes,
in the thought of looking, nearer to you than your self,
or things that have happened to you
There's no need to go outside.


Be melting snow.
Wash yourself of yourself.


~ Rumi