I’d like to go back in time and talk to myself about longevity. About the gift of organs, for instance, like the liver and the skin.
“A hangover doesn’t just steal a day,” I’d say, “There’s a hidden surcharge, like an insurance hike after a speeding ticket.”
And what of the adrenals.
Sure, I could burn the candle at both ends in my youth, but what if I knew then these overextensions came with a cost—tapping my immune system and reaching into the future to compromise resiliency.
And what of emotions. I was praised for not letting them get in the way of productivity and responsibilities then, but now I sit across from the therapist processing all that pain because encrusted, it blocks the flow of joy today.
Shouldn’t our early Ed & elementary & high school & college curricula be infused with the study of Anatomy & Physiology, Psychology & Consciousness so that the systems of our bodies might be revered, protected and nourished rather than neglected and abused?
Because neither the Earth or ourselves are commodities to be spent, but gifts to be treasured.
Imagine if, each life, like each body of water, flourished with respect.
~
What if we prayed not just Mother-Father God, but child God, Sister-Brother, Daughter-Son God and even great-great grandbaby God?
What if we prayed Water-Sun-Air-Fire God, Soil God, firefly-mosquito-tick God, traffic-shooting-gardener God, immigrant-racist-misogynist God?
What if Our Father wasn’t in the sky but in Everything, 360 multi-dimensional degrees of Creation–Dear Mother/Father/Daughter/Son/Great-great grandbaby…
How would we love? How would we care? What would we ignore? Who would we hate?
After 2 winter nights in a room crammed with two dozen aging and restless women, rolling back and forth in a narrow, fragmented, fraudulent sleep on metal-framed bunks, my husband gave up his spot in our Queen back home and I took up all 360 delicious degrees, like da Vinci’s L’Uomo Vitruviano.
Kripalu.
Similarly, but like a pinball, I expanded at Kripalu in 360-degrees, multi-dimensionally, dropping down under the fault line of my marriage, beneath the lush hills and clear pools of Love.
Established, 1986.
Simultaneously, I moved across and down and around a carpeted floor with high ceilings, 4 microphones, 109 guests, 5 fellow assistants and 1 NY Times bestselling author whose program I’ve tended from Still Writing to Hourglass to Inheritance while continuing to plug along on a single work of memoir of my own.
Devotion.
Sometimes, too close to the light, hers and other luminaries, like a moth to a flame of conflicted desire, I overheat and arrive or depart with a migraine, so afraid am I of surrender.
Dharma.
Afterward, I fling myself as far out as possible, repelling from consciousness to—caffeine or chardonnay or shopping—or as was the surprising overshot this time–to all of that, one upon another—followed by a margarita served while sitting on a swing.
La Casita.
~Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?
I don’t know…
Maybe this life of mine is too small.
Always was.
Or has become.
~Well, I’ve been ‘fraid of changin’ ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you But time makes you bolder Even children get older And I’m gettin’ older, too.
While in the bright lights, big city, of Kripalu, in sharp contrast to my hermitage on 8-wooded acres in Vermont beside a woodstove, I move my bowels and brush my teeth and bathe in the dark basement beneath the hum of yoga mats and healers and seekers.
~I’m getting older too.
“Tender,” I said, on Friday night as the mic moved through 116 hands and arrived in my own.
The Stories We Carry.
“Questioning,” I said on Sunday morning as the mic moved around once again.
~I took my love, I took it down Climbed a mountain and I turned around And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills ‘Til the landslide brought me down.
Though I departed the Berkshires in the early afternoon for the two-hour return north, it wasn’t until the sky grew dark that I found myself rolling up a dirt and snowbound road in the Green Mountains that I have these 14 years called home.
~Well, I’ve been ‘fraid of changin’ ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you But time makes you bolder Even children get older And I’m gettin’ older, too.
Mother. Wife. Teacher.
~And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills, Well, maybe, the landslide will bring it down, down.
~
I can trace the lineage as far back as my great-great-grandfather and his daughter and her husband, followed by their son and his son, both surgeons.
“Born to Cut,” says the t-shirt in the old photograph of my father on his 40th birthday.
Like them, sometimes I think of myself as a healer, wielding the pen instead of the knife, but this month, instead of crafting, I find myself dissecting each of the previous drafts of the body of work I began 7 winters ago.
More than a dozen casualties are lined up, and I’ve heard that this many is a sure sign that the work is fatal.
Like the organs stored in separate containers on the shelves of the morgue where I worked the summer I was 16, I continue to sort parts by date or theme or person or place, like the plane accident that resulted in the largest jars that I looked at each afternoon, while I rinsed formaldehyde from surgical tissue, occasionally coming across a thyroid or a prostate, a fetus or a breast.
Cutting into the work like this makes me uncertain. Am I a murderer, a madman, a mortician? Or am I a doctor, an artist?
After the surgeon cuts, the lab tech dissects, preparing a specimen for testing–benign or malignant?
I’d like to think that no such test exists for art, but I’d also like to think that I might find myself, as my ancestors did, mastering craft in service to a higher calling.
I came of age in a Captainless ship. We all went down one by one. Which may be why these wintry nights with wild winds evoke terror inside. Or maybe too, in another life, I perished at sea, and I’m almost certain that’s true because I don’t want to know. Just the thought of it almost extinguishes me, while I write at the kitchen table with the sun rising over the mountains, a wave of light cresting the satiny snow, as the tea kettle whistles and the woodstove ticks and the timbers of this frame raised by neighbors creaks with the last few gusts before the sap on this hill begins to run.
I was 18 when I began keeping vigil with all that was lost; which is to say, I began writing.
My youngest is 18 now.
His older brother was home this afternoon for a quick half-hour, just in time to hop in the car with his father and head south to my husband’s family home 300 miles away.
I waved from the mudroom as they pulled down the driveway and then Aidan and I turned to empty the dishwasher. As I was bent over the silverware it hit me. “All three of you share something I don’t,” I said.
Home.
Turns out, it’s hard to give your kids something you never had, and not for the obvious reasons.
While it’s been healing to offer the kind of upbringing I needed, it’s also surprisingly painful, especially now that they’re the age I was when there was hardly a home or parents to turn toward.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about moving. Far away. By myself. Like the time I lived in London or the time I backpacked through Europe or the time I went out to the Rockies. At 18 and 23, my boys are like bookends of the age I was then. It must be time.
Integrity is one of several paths. It distinguishes itself from the others because it is the right path, and the only one upon which you will never get lost.
I came across this passage in a framed print at the second-hand store years ago, and slowly it wove itself into our family fabric, especially as my boys entered adolecence and I asked them to recite it again and again.
I leaned into that instruction myself, intuitively, 30 years earlier, after a miscarriage, as I prepared to leave my first teaching position. A colleague remarked on my diligence with the end of the year paperwork. “Why bother,” she said. “You’re leaving for Vermont.”
It was something I would hear echoed, again and again, each time I left a job, a rental, a relationship.
Integrity.
Ending well.
Tonight I looked for jobs across the ocean.
What must it be like to have a home to which you can return? I wondered this as my older son sat beside me on the stairs before he left with his father. “I’ll be leaving right away when we get back on Sunday,” he said.
I marveled at how he could “drop-in” to the familiar sights and sounds and smells of a lifetime, and then be on his way again, securely rooted and released, without any need to grasp or hold on or catalogue the memories before they vanished.
The restlessness I feel inside is almost unbearable. UPROOT, it says, UPROOT!
I don’t want a house or a husband or a community.
But I’ve cultivated a lifetime of tools that enable me to stay with what hurts and what is uncomfortable and what makes me want to run.
I used to joke that I had as many blogs as my mother had children, and I’ve since surpassed her fecundity, and yet a Google search with my name and this particular topic comes up empty.
Perhaps it’s always been too fragile a thing to share with others.
Perhaps what I felt then is what I feel now–that any telling would be unworthy.
The incident, if that’s what it’s called, or the miracle, took place before I’d begun writing publicly, and maybe that explains it, and yet I’ve scanned my journals from that time and there’s nothing there either. It’s as if it was all a dream. It would make more sense as a dream.
Source of all we hope or dread Sheepdog, jackal, rattler, swan…
Even the verse out of which the miracle sprung was more like a dream than a song.
We hunt your face and long to trust That your hid mouth will say again, let there be light…
I guess I’ll have to start from scratch in the telling.
A clear new day…
We lived in The Little House at the time, of that I’m sure, and the incident or miracle would have taken place sometime during the publication of James Redfield’s Celestine series but sometime after the release of James Taylor’s two-disc live cd.
My mother and I read The Celestine Prophecy together, albeit 300 miles apart. We’d begun reading the same books during the summers when I was in high school and college–everything from the classics to historical fiction to works centered around consciousness, particularly after she entered recovery, which was just after she needed two escorts to walk down the aisle at my wedding because she was too drunk.
My mother was sober when I left my home at the sea three years later following my first miscarriage. I settled at the foot of the Green Mountain National Forest beside a brook in an 1800’s Cape that the landlord called, “The Little House.”
By the time the snow began to fly that year, I miscarried a second time.
But when we thirst in this dry night…
The winter of ‘93-94 was one of the longest, coldest, whitest winters of the twenty-five years in Vermont since. There were still patches of snow on the school playground where I taught well into May.
“Why bother doing what nature will do herself?” the old-timer used say to my husband, in his thick Vermont accent, as Casey shoveled off the back porch again and again. Howard often lumbered past our backyard in his rickety jeep, living as he did up behind our place, a good mile or so in the woods, off an old logging road which passed by his hunting cabin.
In the softer seasons, and sometimes in the winter on snowshoes, Casey and I’d would hike up that road into the woods, about a 1/2 mile up, stopping at a little bridge that crossed the brook that ran past our house.
Everyone loved visiting us at The Little House, all those friends and relatives we’d left behind at the shore, and we all still reminisce about it despite its family of mice traipsing across the hearth and the squirrels in the ceiling and the dirt foundation in the cellar and the astounding hatch of black flies from the brook each June.
We arrived at The Little House in our twenties and by the time we’d outgrown it, I’d lived there longer than I’d lived anywhere, and something else, we’d become a family–with two boys–a five-year-old who called the landlords (as we still do) Uncle Lenny and Aunt Diane, and a newborn who doesn’t recall being born in the tiny bathroom upstairs.
I can still feel the embrace of the mountains around The Little House in Autumn, and the sound of the brook when the door to the small balcony off our bedroom was left open on summer nights.
Once at dusk, I approached a deer in the field until we were face to face, and then afraid, I was the one to turn away. Once I fell to my knees in the garden during a rainstorm, overcome with a sense of release I hadn’t known possible. Once I ran up the woods road behind the house, blinded by grief, and when I arrived at the small bridge, too out of breath to cry out, I discovered a profound communion with the brook and the light as if everything would always be alright.
Just before we left The Little House, we returned to the sea. My mother and I were in the middle of the most recent Celestine book which I would finish without her. I would sit beside her bay window on that visit, my youngest, barely a month old, at my breast, as my mother took her last breaths, her body poisoned by cancer.
We drink from hot wells poisoned with the blood of children…
It was that line, from track 15, on the first cd of the 2-disc, live collection that once reverberated through The Little House, for months or years, like a haunting.
“Are you sure you don’t have the receipt?” I asked my husband, again and again. Casey had splurged on the collection as a birthday gift for me at a time when we couldn’t afford such indulgences.
He had tried wiping down the cd, cleaning the player, skipping past the song and returning to it, but track 15 continued to pause and repeat the same chilling place:
We drink from hot wells poisoned with the blood of children…
“It doesn’t even sound like a James Taylor song!” I complained. “I wish it wasn’t even on the cd.”
Eventually, we remembered the order of songs so that we could stop the cd before the poison well, we remembered that after Shower the People, a song which was sung at our wedding as I brought a rose to my mother, came How Sweet It Is, a song which played on our recessional track, and after this, the jackal and the rattler and the poison.
Once to rid the Little House of squirrels, Casey placed poison in the crawl space above our bedroom only to later find the blue pellets in the drawer in the tiny bathroom and somewhere even more alarming–under the small pillow in our son’s crib.
“Quick, stop the cd!” we’d holler to whoever was closest to the cabinet that stood at the top of the stairs on the landing.
Sometimes we’d make it just in time to avoid hearing about the poison.
I loved that landing. I did so many firsts atop it. I practiced yoga and fashioned an “altar.” I read books about things that made no sense but which beckon me still—women’s circles and journeys and talking pieces. I labored on that landing too at the top of the stairs with both of my boys. I stood on the landing outside the guest room where we placed our son’s big-boy bed. “It’s okay,” I said. “Mommy’s right here.”
At night, Casey and I would sit on the landing at the top of those stairs and look across at the built-in shelving that we filled with framed photographs of our extended family—his siblings and mine, grandparents and aunts and uncles, a nephew, our first niece. We’d lean on each other’s shoulder and talk about whatever needed talking about. Finances. New jobs. Is the house getting too small? Should we move to the town where we want Lloyd to go to kindergarten? Will he ever get to be a big brother? What if my mother has cancer? What if she dies.
Once I cried there by myself after I’d put the baby to bed, weeping to Casey when arrived home to find me seated the alone on the landing at the top of the stairs, “I can’t remember what it was like to earn a real paycheck,” I said. “To have a real job, a real life.”
There was a small window at the top of those stairs beyond the landing, small because The Little House didn’t have a full second story, so the window and its deep sill were right at floor level. When I sat at the top of the stairs, I could pivot and look out the window to the stonewall and our first flower garden, to the big evergreen and the swing, and beyond that to the brook as it arrived down the mountain in our backyard.
One early morning while practicing meditation at my window sill altar, I saw a black bear lumber by.
But I was seated at the bottom of that narrow staircase when it happened. The stairs the only place in The Little House that was carpeted, with a sturdy woolen-white fabric. It’s only now in this telling that I realize that the carpet was reminiscent of the one on my grandmother’s stairs, just as rugged, but in light shades of green, a favorite stilling place when I was a girl.
My memory is that I was alone in The Little House that day, which would have been rare, and my guess is that it was summertime and the front door was open so that the breeze caressed my bare shins as I sat on the bottom stair with soles of my feet on the tile floor.
It was in this moment, in this place, that the Celestine book that I had been reading with my mother met track 15 of the 2-disc James Taylor collection given to me on my birthday.
As the book instructed, I meditated on my experiences of “transcendent love.” I did this even though I barely knew what meditation or transcendence meant, and then needing someplace to direct the love that I was to gather at the crown of my head, I sent it up the stairs behind me, to the cabinet with the stereo, and in particular to the cd player, and specifically to disc one of the two-disc live collection, targeting track 15.
Source of all we hope or dread Sheepdog, jackal, rattler, swan We hunt your face and long to trust That your hid mouth will say again, let there be light
A clear new day…
Inside this meditation of love may have been the time I knelt in the garden in the rain finally knowing in my bones that I had loved my young son well enough that even if I died, he would be okay.
But when we thirst in this dry night We drink from hot wells poisoned with the blood of children…
What I’m certain was gathered in the folds of that meditation of love as it unfurled from the crown of my head to the top of the stairs was my experience in the woods behind The Little House on the day that I ran sobbing up the mountain until I was out of breath. That day, I grieved for a loved one who had been betrayed, and bending over the small bridge that crossed the brook, out of breath with my hands on my sides, I suddenly found myself in a transcendent communion with the water and light.
And when we strain to hear a steady homing bee Our ears are balked by stifled moans And howls of desolation from the throats of sisters, brothers, wild men Clawing at the gates for bread…
I gave everything I was to that meditation, and I sent it swirling from my crown up the stairs to the cd player off the landing.
Even our own feeble hands Aim to seize the crown you wear And work our private havoc through The known and unknown lands of space…
When I finished the visualization, I stood up and knew for certain that everything had changed.
Absolute in flame beyond us Seed and source of Dark and Day Maker whom we beg to be Our mother father comrade mate…
And still, as I climbed the stairs and pushed play, I expected to hear what I had always heard, the haunting stutter of pain.
Til our few atoms blow to dust Or form again in wiser lives Or find your face and hear our name In your calm voice the end of night…
Even after I’d heard the New Hymn play all the way through more times than I’d heard it skip and sputter, each time without a skip was another surprise. Even now, when I think of it, I feel the echo of the haunting skip in my bones.
If dark may end…
On the early September morning that my mother took her last breaths and my youngest nursed at my breast, I felt that same sense of Everything being okay. That summer had been the hardest, rainiest, darkest ever of our years in The Little House, and I didn’t mind because that was how I felt inside with my mother’s impending death.
Wellspring gold of Dark and day…
In the intertwining of their two lives, my mother’s passing and my son’s arrival, I understood that there was no way to avoid loss or heartache or brokenness, that in abiding presence to what is, there is within the Mystery, bliss.
Two Owls Calling 