Sabbath #143

I boarded the first of three planes with tears and breathing just short of sobs. I took the last seat available between an elderly business man and a sweet looking young women with tinted red hair. I sensed her looking up from  her book. Finally she said,”Is there anything I can do for you?” “No, thank you”, covering my face and stifling the heaves my body wanted to make. I cried as the plane taxied to the runway, I cried durning take off, I cried  from San Francisco to LA where I exited and boarded another plane to Chicago, east coast bound. I stopped crying. Sustained grief from constant parting with loved ones. Small children hugging and hugging good-byes, near tears. One last embrace. Holding, then letting go. My grown children busy, making the best. Maintaining a smile and pleasantries until I actually board the airplane. Then leaving is inevitable. It helps if I know when I’m returning. This trip I do not. My belief about independence has changed. For some time I have advocated interdependence and the true definition of hospitality  as originated by the Desert Mothers and Fathers. I stayed overnight in San Mateo with my daughter. We walked the path to her work, hiked near Half Moon Bay, drank coffee at her coffee shop, went to the closest dog park. Then we drove across the Golden Gate to Marin, San Anslemo, picking up pizza, arriving with food and suitcase presents. And kisses so sweet and dear. The children always want to wear any bracelets I’m wearing: prayer beads, sliver bangles. They ask what should we pray? This particular visit a special intention overlays my arrival with sorrow. A boat has been reserved, flowers ordered, lunch prepared.  My children will scatter their father’s ashes in the bay: their father, my former husband of thirty-six years. It has been two years since his death. A gathering of cousins and their children, their aunt and her husband. None of which we have seen in years. I carried the book of poems dedicated to him, not knowing if I would read. I did read the poem, my daughter, a blessing, my son explained why this particular location. My children held the bag together and slowly emptied it’s contents: bone and ash. The children took daisy blossoms and threw them in the water, then each adult, as well. The boat circled and the flowers formed a wreath around the discolor. We held tightly to one another in different sequences. A sea otter appeared and then two dolphins. We regained our composure. And today I’m back at my desk on the other shore, the distant shore with my loving husband and loyal dog. Yesterday I unpacked the boxes labeled “living room books,”  packed at least seven years ago. Fitting somehow to rediscover something of myself: a binder of unrecorded poems, notes from Dante’s The Divine Comedy. I’m opening my calendar, looking at the months ahead, thinking when will I cross the continent, shuttle back? There are more boxes to unpack, items to discard, furniture to sell or give away. A shift with resolve that perhaps I’m arriving in preparation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sabbath #141

My daughter writes, “It’s cold here, bring something warm to wear.” I’m thinking about the clothes I’ll pack, what shoes, which coat. Pants or skirt? Summer linen? Hair pulled back or straight? Which ring, earrings? A bracelet? Of course, none of this matters. Will I read a poem? Maybe, Pound’s The River Merchant’s Wife or Wright’s A Blessing. I walk to the bookshelf and open Dante’s Inferno: Midway on our journey, I find myself / in a dark woods, the right road lost. To Tell/ about those woods is hard-so tangled and rough…But when I came to stop / below a hill that marked one end of the valley / that had pierced my heart with terror. That seems right: pierced heart, dark woods. I need a labyrinth to walk. One path in, one path out. Another book, Unattended sorrow narrows our path. Haven’t I attended enough? How to liberate the heart? Loss is the absence of something we were once attached to. Grief is the rope burns left behind, when that which is held is pulled beyond our grasp. My hands have scar tissue upon scar tissue braised with new burn. I’m applying suave now. The fragrance of rose. I take comfort in rose. Outside there is no cloud cover and the temperature will rise to ninety degrees. It’s difficult to think about being cold by the end of the week on the bay. The other bay, on the other coast. And my sweet children… sad and sadder. Each in our separate suffering. My son rented the boat, my daughter and I ordered the urn in the shape of a heart.  Our hearts are broken. We ordered daisies for the little ones to place in the water, their first death, their grandfather. Next Sunday, the next Sabbath. We will eat a meal before so as not to be hungry. We leave from Sausalito. The Golden Gate, our gateway. A Prayer and a poem. What I desire for everyone: a softening by evening.