In Reading I Become....

(From a talk given to the Fairfield Women's Club)

* Resources Listed at the End

In Reading I Become....

In the book, An Experiment in Criticism, C.S. Lewis argues that 'good reading', involves surrender to the work in hand and a process of entering fully into the opinions of others: 'In reading great literature, ‘ he states,  ‘I become a thousand men and yet remain myself'.

The year was 1997.  My husband Devin had been diagnosed with leukemia.   We were living in the Northwest.  Friends and family began sending books, tapes, CDs, on topics ranging from vegetarianism to golf.  In the solace found in a bookstore, I came across a small book about a young sports writer who returns to visit with his teacher after that teacher is diagnosed with cancer and had progressed to the terminal stage.

My husband and I were engaged in our own battle with leukemia. We deemed our struggle an assured win, and were not intimidated by the reading of this book., thus began recommending the book to friends and family.   They reacted surprised by the fact we would offer something struck so close to home. 

But we didn’t view it that way. We felt the book was speaking for us.  By now, you probably recognize that little tome, as Tuesdays with Morrie, which went on to inspire a movie and millions of supporters.

Through sharing Tuesdays with Morrie, we could offer a glimpse of our present life to others, allowing them to become individuals living in our brave new world of cancer. 

But we also took comfort in that Mitch Albom could represent in words, what we were feeling inside.  The impetus for our reading Tuesdays with Morrie was also derived from another quote about C.S. Lewis’ life, “We read to know we are not alone.”

I have always been a lover of books, from the time my mother would sit and read nursery rhymes from the Family Treasury of Children’s Stories, which sits on my bookshelf today.  I learned from my mother not just how to read, but how to love reading.

I had moved away from that love until my early thirties, when Devin progressed through three years of his disease. In that time, we both did a lot of sitting.  Reading became an escape, an exercise for the mind when the legs had no strength.

The Northwest was known for their bookstores, and I had occasion to pick up a few paperbacks prior to Devin’s treatments.  I randomly selected David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, without knowing why.  Later, a leading bone marrow expert would give me the raised eyebrow for reading this during Devin’s transplant, arguing I could certainly have found a more engaging read than Dickens.  But I underlined this quote:

“It seemed to me so long, however, since I had been among such boys, or around any companions of my own age…that I felt as strange as ever I have done in all my life.  I was so conscious of having passed through scenes of which they could have no knowledge, and of having acquired experiences foreign to my age, appearance and condition, as one of them, that I half believed it was an imposture to come there as an ordinary little school boy.”

This trove of paperbacks included Katharine Graham’s Personal History.  Katharine Graham lead the Washington Post through the Pentagon papers and Watergate. Her awkwardness as I child, I identified with. Her tenaciousness as a grown woman, navigating the storms of a male world was admirable. She writes of her mother’s guidance in raising she and her siblings, taking them mountain-climbing.

I was immersed in her story at the time Devin was undergoing another round of treatment prior to a transplant.

“The fatigue of the climb was great but it is interesting to learn once more how much further one can go on one’s second wind. I think that is an important lesson for everyone to learn for it should also be applied to one’s mental efforts. Most people go through life without ever discovering the existence of that whole field of endeavor which we describe as second wind. Whether mentally or physically occupied most people give up at the first appearance of exhaustion. Thus they never learn the glory and the exhilaration of genuine effort.”

This next passage, from Love in the Time of Cholera, came to me as Devin was in the final stages, Gabriel Garcia Marquez writes, “Contrary to what the Captain and Zenaida supposed, they no longer felt like newlyweds, and even less like belated lovers. It was as if they had leapt over the arduous calvary of conjugal life and gone straight to the heart of love. They were together in silence like an old married couple wary of life, beyond the pitfalls of passion, beyond the brutal mockery of hope and the phantoms of disillusion: beyond love.  For they had lived together long enough to know that love was always love, any time and anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death.”

Though on the outside, I would have appeared to have nothing in common with any of these character. In these times, I became David Copperfield, Katharine Graham and those of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novels.

During Devin’s illness, the added reading, the time to immerse myself in other worlds, lit a new spark.  I began to write, first as a task,  a true past-time, to absorb some of the boredom that bounced off the walls in waiting rooms.  Next, the words became news, an outlet to share, as David Copperfield had, experiences which none of our peers could possibly have known or witnessed, and third, as with Katharine Graham, it fast became a second wind, a way of life.

As I wrote in greater length and frequency, I achieved a depth that could only come through repetition, a flexing of the writing muscle.  In these deeper waters, I experienced a peace that only came by putting words on paper. For had I said them aloud, in our little family of three, a toddler and husband on pain medication, the words would have floated away, but on paper, each sentence carried weight, anchored me.  And I went from being a reader, to a writer, and experiencing writing from the inside out.

I was also realizing when one uncovers a gift, the gift is to be shared.  We had gained many insights through Devin’s cancer and we were adamant they be revealed if not through his life, then through my words.

When my husband lost his battle with cancer, I discovered an organization called Women Writing for a Change, founded 20 years ago, by Mary Pierce Brosmer, a former English teacher, who recognized women often needed a safe, supportive environment in which to write and share their stories. I brought my evolving manuscript to those writing circles, which held my words and confidences.  Six years following Devin’s death, I would publish my memoir, I’ll Be in the Car.

During that time, I did not read much. I did not want to veer from the voice I had exposed. I did not want other writing voices to interfere with mine. I was finally hearing myself speak from the inside, and through that, was embracing life.

Fast forward to present day.  I am in what the media terms the sandwich generation.I call it of the big mac variety or club sandwich, with the extra bread in the middle.   Remarried, raising four young adults, overseeing the care of aging parents, and maintaining focus on my vocation and self-care.

When I was asked to speak here, Pam mentioned the topic of reading and writing and summer diversions. I began pulling books off my shelf and my nightstand. During that effort I rediscovered the three books mentioned earlier.  As I examined that stack, and the recently read pile I was creating, the common threads remained the same. I am drawn to reading books that resemble my life.

For instance, several years ago, I initiated a writing circle at the Alois Alzheimer Center, a seed planted from experience with my mother’s disease.  As that work progressed, my focus on fiction and non-fiction related books on Alzheimer’s remained steady.  Still Alice was written by Lisa Genova. The author is a neuroscientist, and she has written one of the most accurate portrayals of early onset Alzhiemer’s, as well as characterizing family reactions to the disease. I also find the read fascinating, as she is able to translate her scientific knowledge into fictional world.  Another book I enjoyed along the same lines is Please Look After Mother by Kyung-Sook Shin, told from four viewpoints of daughter, son, husband, mother.  Not only was I drawn in by the mother’s disappearance, but the author’s ability to capture four narrators in this novel.  Other works in the Alzheimer category are Myth of Alzheimer’s by Peter Whitehouse., which offers plenty of statistics on misperceptions of a cure for Alzheimer’s and the ignorance about care, as well as The Forgetting: Alzheimer’s Portrait of an Epidemic, by David Shenk, a straightforward, humanistic look at the disease.

I also work with a non-profit called Starfire, and create writing opportunities for young adults with developmental disabilities to write.  As I immerse myself more into this new landscape, my students find poetry particularly attractive and accessible, esp. helpful is the volume Beauty is a Verb – The new Poetry of Disability.  When I ask students what topic they want to address in writing, sometimes they list dogs or family or sports, but always, they want to write of their disability.

Kenny Fries Excavation:

Tonight, when I take off my shoes:

three toes on each twisted foot.

I touch the rough skin. The holes

where the pins were. The scars.

If I touch them long enough will I find

those who never touched me? Or those

who did? Freak, midget, three-toed

bastard. Words I've always heard.

Disabled, crippled, deformed. Words

I was given.

Recently published books I have read include –

Rules of Civility by Amor Towles (tolls).  This I happened to discover through an Amazon’s “if you like reading this, then you will like this too.”

Christmas had been descending upon me, and I found a book where I could escape, to the 1930s boardinghouse, young women beginning to work, to envision a life not in the home. Jazz, coming of age, Manhattan, mysterious love interest.  You will fall in love with Tinker Gray and wonder what ever happened to him.  And too, I am rivted by male authors writing from a woman’s point of view. 

Death comes to Pemberly was written by  P.D. James, a mystery novel writer who is 91.

Her best known hero, the detective Adam Dalgliesh, is a man. When asked what it has been like being, as it were, inside Adam’s head for the past 47 years PD James responded: ‘Well, he is a male version of me. Brainier than me but his emotions are mine. The empathy is mental rather than physical. I never describe Dalgliesh getting up and getting dressed.’ When asked if she was like her hero, unsentimental? She replied, ‘Yes, I’m very unsentimental. Very.’

She wanted to combine her love of Jane Austen, with crime novel interests, and at 91 wrote Death Comes to Pemberly, where the Pride and Prejudice’s character Elizabeth Bennett, who had wed Fitzwilliam Darcy on the large Derbyshire estate, becomes the scene of a murder.

My intrigue at PD James’ age drew me into this novel, and also set me on a path of re-engaging with Jane Austen, perhaps giving her a second look, as I had done with Dickens years before.

Another favorite was American Dervish by Ayad Ahktar.  I have a daughter pursuing Near Middle East & Muslim studies.  And recently, WWFC co-sponsored a play culled from stories of the Afghan Women’s Writing Project.

A young Pakinstani American boy is charmed by his aunt, who comes to stay in his family’s household in America. The aunt’s presence is, at first celebrated, but the customs of the old country and gender discrimination bring about many challenges for the family.  It is one of many books being read, as insight into cultures we so rarely appreciate except from the point of terrorism or war.  Here is a quote:

"Hayat, her intelligence has been the curse of her life. When a Muslim woman is too smart, she pays the price for it. And she pays the price not in money, behta, but in abuse."

Finally, I have to give a nod to historical fiction.  I discovered Henry and Clara by Thomas Mallon while listening to a podcast about Mallon.  Henry and Clara is a story of the couple who sat in Lincoln’s box at the theatre the night he was assassinated.  We never learned in history class about the collateral damage this event brought on this couple.  You will find Clara a headstrong determined woman of Washington, and in Henry, you find compassion for a man who never knew if he did the right thing that fateful night.

Waiting in the wings. One book that I am itching to read by Jonah Lehrer: Imagine: How Creativity Works. In it, Mr. Lehrer advocates that creativity is not limited to those with a gift, there are certain processes individuals can utilize more effectively to become creative. He also describes blue-colored rooms which foster creativity and proposes that the urban setting is a prescription for creativity and invention due to the “proximity of all those overlapping minds.” As writer, this book has piqued my interest, as well as the fact that I will be moving to Over the Rhine, in a year so, when the home we are reconstructing is complete.  We are moving for the very reason the author states, "the overlapping minds.”

Before closing, I want to offer information for those who might be interested in a jump start of your writing life. At Women Writing for a Change, we believe everyone has a story to write.  The practices of WWFC, including small groups, time divided equally, development of listening skills through tactful feedback, were created to invoke, inspire and improve upon writing, without fear of criticism or embarrassment. 

For the first few classes of WWFC, I was sharing material full of raw emotions over the death of my husband, and guilt in being the one left behind.  Like reading a book where I identified with the characters, each writing circle where I participated, the women identified with me, and likewise, I with their stories.  Together, ordinary women embarked on journeys to write of their extraordinary lives.

I have put flyers on the tables, listing upcoming classes, samplers, mother-daughter workshops.  You can access our website for these listings and others.

I want to end with a poem, by Mary Oliver. Mary Oliver was born in Ohio. Much of her poetry is rooted in nature, in part due to her raising in Ohio.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Thank you to Pam Nothnagel for inviting me here today. Thank you for lunch, for listening. I hope you take the summer, to read other’s words, to put your own words on paper, and take the time to imagine, perhaps in a blue room, who is it you will become in your reading of books, who it is you want to become in the writing of your words?

Fairfield Women’s Luncheon, April, 2012

Books Referenced Today:

1.     David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

2.     A Personal History by Katharine Graham

3.     Love in the Time of Cholera, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

4.     Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

5.     American Dervish by Ayad Akhtar

6.     Death Comes to Pemberly by P.D. James

7.     Please Look After Mother by Kyung-Sook Shin

8.     Henry and Clara by Thomas Mallon

9.     Imagine: How Creativity Works by Jonah Lehrer

10. The Myth of Alzheimer’s by Peter Whitehouse

11. Forgetting by David Shenk

12. Beauty is a Verb – The New Poetry of Disability

13. Swan by Mary Oliver

On My Wish List:

1.     If Walls Could Talk:  A History of the Home by Lucy Worsley

2.     Gods of Gotham by Lyndsay Faye

3.     A Book of One’s Own by Thomas Fallon

4.     Island of Vice by Richard Zacks

5.     Gods without Men by Hari Kunzru

Other Books Recommended:

1.     Tabloid City by Pete Hamill

2.     Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace

3.     American Heiress by Daisy Goodwin

4.     In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson

5.     Picking Cotton by Jennifer Thompson Canino

6.     Freedom Writer’s Diary by Erin Gruwell

Other Resources:

1.     Mercantile Library of Cincinnati – Author Series

2.     Public Library of Cincinnati

3.     Book Review New York Times – Podcast

4.     Poetry Foundation

5.     IllBeintheCar.com / ThreeArchPress.Com

6.     TheseWritingShoes.blogspot.com

Somewhere Hearts are Light - Baseball at the Alois

It is time to talk baseball at the Alois Alzheimer Center today.  I wear my Cincinnati Reds gear, as proudly as any Cleveland convert.  It is a concession I make every Spring and Fall - to cheer for the home team.

Mostly, my friends here in the sharing and writing circle, are or were Reds fans.  A few did not grow up here. One used to watch the Toledo Mud Hens, as he was originally from Findlay, Ohio. I want to ask him if he had ever been to Tony Packo’s (Klinger on MASH owned a restaurant there) but I would be pushing his memory over the cliff.

So we open with my interpretation of Casey at the Bat, written in the 1880's.  It is not quite James Earl Jones, but I use a little Kentucky twang picked up after years of living near the border to snicker, “That ain’t my style!”, and the audience delights in the performance. I do too. I am getting lost in the game.

N., always first to raise her hand and offer her story, tells us how her grandfather, a state legislator, used to read and perform the poem to her and her brother.  She was amazed he would make time for her, given how busy he must have been.

F.  just wants to talk about the baseball going “whack” then “zoom”, and he motions like one who knew how to hit it out of the park.

As we continue our give and take moments, K. talks about being left on the sidelines, and she never knew why. Only that she and her brothers were always into “some monkey business when it came to playing baseball”, and they played until the street lamps came on, and even later.

R. begins to share, then holds back. I sense this was a common pattern in her life.  When its time to write, she refuses, while the rest of the group busies themselves with words on paper, or telling us their words so we can transcribe them.

When it comes time to read aloud our stories, we go from ML. to W. to P. and N. Then D.  tells us, “We had to decide what to wear and how much money to take.” And RU., whose mother was the only baseball fan in the house, writes,  “She was always in front of the television. She would move the chairs and wouldn’t pay any attention to us.”

Around the other side we move to hear L., R., F. and D. who was obsessed with winning, and finally back to R. I am fully prepared to skip her, though I do always ask, when she blurts out, “Baseball was my second life.”

What she had heard this day, about stadiums, home runs, hot dogs and listening to games on the radio were a barrage of images that penetrated the bunker of her memory. In that one instance, a hole had opened up, as if someone had pitched a fastball right through her hippocampus.  “Baseball was my second life.”

When she uttered that phrase, it was like we all, circle members, staff and myself, had hit one out of the ballpark. Because from that, she opened up and shared how she didn’t know anything else, other than days sitting around the radio, listening to baseball games.

While R.’s revelations were the highpoint of the morning, there was poignancy in B’s piece, who related what baseball meant to me, and the many legions who still hear the game called on the radio, attend the ballpark, and renew their hopes each Spring.

“My dad and I would talk about the ups and downs of the world’s oldest game,” B wrote, apologizing for her writing, saying it wasn’t deep. But I, and others, objected. The attraction to the game exists for that sole reason – because baseball parallels the ups and downs of the world’s other oldest game – life.

3/27/2012

A Way Station - SWAN Day Revisited

Yesterday, I ran away to here. This building. It’s not much, a singular, non-descript gray building in the middle of Silverton.  The doors have now been painted a Chinese Lantern orange.  Someone pulled the old taxis bushes from the window box and planted a colorful array of pansies which sway gently in the wind or as I whisk by.

Upon entering, I am immediately greeted by old friends.  They are old friends in that we know each other in our souls and through our words, our writing words that is.  Everyone here is a writer, not because they have all published books, but because we believe that every one here is a writer. Everyone outside these doors are writers too.

It is SupoortWomen Artists Now (SWAN) Day. The vast interior of the building is filled with folk music, landscape art, intricate quilts, and laughs about bowling, middle age, white chocolate peppermint bark.  As I settle into a chair and put my purse on the floor, I let my shoulders down too.

I am carrying so much weight these days, not on my frame, not in my purse, but in my heart, my head.  I wanted to step outside all of that and be free for a time.  I was met by hearty renditions of the Andrews’ Sisters, Bei Mir Bistu Shein, To Me you are beautiful, originally sung at the Apollo Theatre, and a stirring tribute to Raison  d‘ Etre’s lead signer’s grandmother, as she imagined the two of them, sipping tea, listening to grandmother’s stories.  I leaned my head against a column and slipped away into this portrait she was painting.

Someone asked if I planned to read later, at the open mic readaround.  I had no copies of any of my work, other than a book published years ago, which languished on a bookshelf for others to take down and ponder.  I didn’t even have my smart phone, where I could have accessed my blog, and read one of many entries about Alzheimer’s, life in the city, or the sunflowers that grew rampant last summer.  I wondered if I had purposely left the phone at home to disconnect from the flurry of calls I had received earlier that day about the sale of my parents’ home.

No, I was hear to listen.  To hold others’ words.  That was no more apparent than when I found myself in conversation with a gentleman who had been one the guests on our podcast show.  His son had committed suicide but his son’s life was now being lifted up in a play.  He asked if I was available attend the reading of the script.  We discussed many facets of the play and life for a period of time, and I found myself realizing how gratifying it can be, to sometimes be the listener of the stories and not the teller.

To sometimes be the holder is equal an escape from ordinary life. If one is the teller, you are in the midst of trying to figure it all out.  But if one is the listener, you are holding the words upon their release, as one might a special gift. In it, you might find delight, sadness, or your own wisdom.

I left the day, with a tune by local artist, Shelley Graf, in my head – an earworm worth keeping around…”I’m amazed that her spirit dances on.”  And really, resilience is all we can ask for in this life, that, and a way station, a place and time to rest, contemplate, and gather strength from the journeys of others.

Women Writing for a Change

SWAN Day, 2012

 3-30-12

Learnings in Winter - Reflections from the Alois

Today. Winter, as a theme, or memory. Not a reality, not yet, not until later tonight, when the meteorologists are predicting accumulation. But here, at the Alois,  memories and learnings amass not just for the residents of the Alois Alzheimer Center, but for those facilitators who occasionally walk the path with these kind-hearted souls.

When we first began offering this class, one student, now quite the stinker, refused to read her words.  Following the first class, which involved the prompt, “I am From”, based on the poem by George Ella Lyon, F. took it upon herself to toss out her words. She remained leery for weeks, “What are you going to do with that?” she would point to the paper where she had hardly scribbled a word. Her distrust was alarming, but also understanding.

Someone had betrayed her words, her voice, many years ago. We had no knowledge of who, or when, but we hadn’t named the program, Found Voices, for nothing.  Our work and F.’s continued presence would prove out, and over time, we would watch her laugh, joke, and even flirt with the farmer-resident.

In looking back, our first mistake had been to call this a "class."  For the generation of 80-somethings, the word "class" brings back horrid memories. Teachers rapping rulers on knuckles, or the pressure of a deadline, or test, for material one didn’t know.  Certainly, each in this circle has a slight grasp on their condition, so the prospect of reciting poetry or recalling the dates of the Civil War was terrifying. And too, the proverbial red pen had once made its way to each of their papers.

Some of our participants, experiencing significant memory loss, often don’t comprehend they are in a “writing class”. They come for camaraderie, to hear a reading of Robert Frost, to share a memory or eat a donut. They might saunter in, without a care in the world. It is a benefit of their disease.

When my own mother was progressing into a new phase of dementia, she passed through anger and frustration, and into more light. Worries had been wiped off her face, a face which in the past had sported pursed lips and creased brows.  Of course, she still worries about who is coming down the hall, and “where is your father,” but her general trust in people around her is evident.

This condition, while beneficial, and a relief oftentimes for loved ones, is also cause for regret. For often, the person with memory loss cannot connect to other emotional aspects of their life, this including worries.  And while all their thoughts, or their daily take on life, are upbeat, there is sometimes a hollowness, as if they are trying to fill a cup that keeps leaking, and they can’t quite tap into how to plug the leak.

On the rare occasion, the hole gets plugged, their cup will fill up, and they will tap into their reserves, and produce something akin to a fine wine.

Today, we readied the community room for the group. Our regular assistant was absent, so we waited on the staff to bring the residents to us. When they did, we ushered one group of residents that enter through the side door of the room. This I take it be the non-wanderers, or those that have been around longer, and therefore have stayed in the older wing.  I don’t ask many details about the residents’ lives, preferring to let them surprise me, let them show me their story, instead of someone else telling it for them.  First rule of writing. Show, don’t tell.

As this group of regulars, our long-time participants, were filing in, holding the hand of the person in front of them, one was missing.  The assistant mentioned N. would be right back. She was using the restroom.  We situated each as they entered the room, securing name tags, moving chairs, relocating walkers.

When I finally got around to saying Hello to N., she had removed her hearing aids, which drove me crazy. We would have to speak louder or move closer to her, but it was her prerogative.  She wanted to tell me something else though.

N. began, in her halting voice,  “I didn’t bring a pen.”  To which I replied, “That’s OK. N.   We have plenty.”  Then, she mentioned, “I didn’t know where I was going today.  I was worried this would be a class like school.”

She went on, “but then I learned I don’t have to worry.”

I don’t have to worry. What beautiful lines, what a mantra to speak over and again, as the flipping of the calendar sets fire to a hurried pace.  Here, in our circle, N. does not have to worry.

When N. began coming to class, some of the prompts at that time dealt with love and family. N. had been adopted, her memories on those themes were painful. Now, she shares writing that is honest, hopeful, devout.  After her last reading, I felt as I had been absolved of my sins for the week.

Her writings now are more light-hearted, more faith-filled. This could be due to her slipping into the next phase of her dementia, or a change in medication, or working with prompts that don’t touch on touchy subjects.

Or quite possibly, due to the safety N. feels in our circle, and that Winter cannot impact her inside, she no longer worries.

Jesus and Mary Go to Tampa 


After the cattle completed their lowing,
and the three Wise Men returned to Afar,
after the Star in the East ran out of hydrogen
and began to grow dim,
Jesus and Mary went to Tampa.

They stopped at Hamburger Mary’s,
a burger joint known for its inclusiveness.
There on County Road 574, they stumbled upon
Drag Bingo, and a show called Daphne’s Doll House.
Having tired of challah and soup,
Mary ordered the Hot Legs tossed in special sauce,
and, as a side, the Hail Caesar Salad.
while Jesus ordered off the menu for Little Lambs.

Upon hearing her name called out by the wait staff,
Mary stepped up to the mic for Mary-Oke.
As Mary crooned to Madonna’s Like a Virgin,
Jesus left room for dessert of fried bananas foster,
trying to erase the taste of hay from his mouth.

After that, the manager got an inkling
these two were on their way to stardom.
As Mary and Jesus prepared to leave,
she asked Mary to stand against
the blank wall nearest the kitchen
and drew a feint chalk outline around her.

She let them exit through the back door,
en route to San Marco, Texas for the outlet malls.
Meanwhile, the rest of Tampa flocked
to Hamburger Mary’s, lining the county road
to see the miracle they had just missed.

AJW
1/11/12
In reference to a news item about Mary’s image showing up in a Tampa Bay restaurant.

http://www.andrewzmorningshow.com/2012/01/11/the-virgin-mary-has-turned-up-at-a-restaurant-called-hamburger-marys/

Self Space

Self Space

 

Clean out the closet of your “self.”

Toss out right or wrong.

Some days, you will feel right.

            Remember those days.

Do not expect perfection but be open

            to humility.

Gather friends, hold them near.

            Keep writing more so.

Let go of the warm bed in

            winter’s mornings.

Do not write willy nilly, but

            with intention.

Proclaim that you are the goddess

you have been looking for.

Capture while you can the poignancy

of the transient moment.

You will never be done, you have

            barely begun.

1/1/2012

AJW

Christmas Solstice

(Solstice from the Latin word sistere - to stand still)

Quiet house, full house.
Sun greets Morning,
asking Night to extend a hand.

Lights flicker at the neighbor’s,
Santa having already arrived.
He won’t show
–across the street –
for hours or more.
He will have time to stop
scratch his belly, and the dog’s.
He won’t need Rudolph
when he sets down his sleigh
nor candles in the window.

The dog paces
waiting, wondering.
The coffee has grown tepid,
the children have grown up.
But in their waking sleep
they generate energy enough
to stumble from bed and upon belief -
the magic emerges with the sun.

12/25/2011
AJW

My Mother's Christmas Gift

Two months ago, my parents moved to an independent living care community nearby. They live independently only because my father’s mind is intact, if not his ability to sign Christmas cards. A caregiver attends to Mom’s needs once a week to give Dad respite, and encourage Mom to participate in activities around the community.

The monthly calendars published by the Lodge Community boasts all sorts of field trips – Cracker Barrel and Movie, the Mighty Wurlitzer at Music Hall, Sharon Woods in Lights. Many of these my father takes advantage of. Mom’s outings are limited in scope because of her attention span, and her “sundowning”. At dusk, she becomes anxious and wants to return home.

Within the community, there are activities for Arts and Crafts, Let’s Have Fun, Chair Volleyball, and Communion and Rosary. But there is also the Choraliers. A musically-inclined piano player, Alice, comes to the Lodge, and directs residents who choose to participate in choral practice once a week. Then, the group performs for various audiences in-house, families, and last week, traveled to another senior center.

At my urging, Mom “decided” to join the choir. The caregiver, Elizabeth, accompanied Mom to the first practice. No one had any idea how long Mom might sit. But Elizabeth was getting paid by the hour, so it was no matter to her.

For a few weeks, Mom attended practice with Elizabeth. Even Dad took Mom one week, and was forced to sing along.

The week before the Choralier’s performance in front of their peers, Mom was visiting at my house, rolling meatballs at my side. “What are these for,” she kept asking. “Wedding soup.” I replied, assuming she recognized the season of Christmas was always accompanied by Italian Wedding Soup. “Yeah, but whose wedding?” she pestered. “No one.” “Then why are we making these?” “Mom, it’s Christmas.”

Though Mom had just been singing carols, the concept of “the most wonderful time of year” was lost. We switched the music over to Frank Sinatra, and she whiled away the rest of the rolling with Frank’s music on her lips. When she walked away to look out the front door, a common chore of hers, Mom stopped mid-step and said, “You know, I always loved to sing. Ever since I was little.”

I agreed heartily with her, recalling her days dragging us to Midnight Mass so she could sing in the church choir, and too, she was part of the Resurrection Choir, which sang at all the funeral masses. Her voice, though not booming, was always perfect pitch, and devout.

“I wish I would have learned how to sing when I was little,” Mom reiterated.

I looked up puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I wanted to know how to sing.”

“Oh, like taking lessons?”

“Well, yes, something like that.” She beamed knowing I understood.

Mom moseyed off into the family room, to perform her other task at my home, closing the plantation shutters.

Monday of Mom’s performance arrived. I met up with Mom and Elizabeth, strolling through the lobby on their way to be seated for the show. Mom kept motioning for me to sit by her, in the choir’s chairs. I repeatedly signaled that I would sit in the audience. I took a seat near the front, but didn’t want to be distracting.

Like a young girl who spots her parents while singing in her first concert, Mom frequently waved to me from the back row. I would give a wave, we would lock eyes, and then sing in unison, “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.”

On occasion, I had to look away from Mom, because I was in tears, reflecting on the years of Christmas past, her beautifully-decorated home, her perfectly round meatballs, and crisply pressed pizzelles. But Mom didn’t miss a note, singing happily - no, joyfully.

When I was five, my mother had bought me a Mrs. Beasley doll for Christmas. In high school, Mom gave me purple corduroy jeans as a Christmas gift. Over the years, her selections were conscious choices gleaned from scribbled lists, dog-eared pages of the Sears catalog, or a whisper from a sister.

Mom could not have known, that at age 84, the best gift she could have presented to me was her voice.

12/19/2011

Goodbyes Part I & II

I.

I am miles from home driving past whirligigs for sale

and berries baked in pies sold off Amish buggies.

A hundred trips have led me past signs

offering farm raised perch and kittens raised by hand.

In a few weeks or maybe months,

Mom and Dad will sell the thirty-year-old home.

I am afraid that no family home means no family.

Memories of our youth will no longer rock

our own children to sleep, the ghosts of our teens

will not keep them awake.

The pool table will have been sold despite parties it once held.

Wide mouthed canning jars will no longer

capture the juiciness of the summer.

And zucchini, fixed 1001 ways, will become a relic of the past.

A picture of Mom and Dad, squinting into the Sunday sun

as they stand on the cracked drive of 724 Lincoln Street,

will be all that is preserved.

Dad’s too wide blue tie stands out against his

white shirt with short sleeves - the style he wore

every day to the shoe store.

Mom still sports white pants - always black or white –

only now a few sizes less.

This day, my baby sister and oldest sister with her baby

march out from the garage to join and wave

as I reverse my course.

It is still tradition

that whoever is home leaves the Sunday paper,

the Saturday cartoons, the Monday morning wash,

to take up their role outside the garage

and stand side by side as the committee of goodbyes.

AJW 7/9/2007

II.

Today, as I bathe Mom, she is open to my bossiness,

only if Frank Sinatra flies with us, or Crosby croons

a white Christmas into existence in her very bathroom.

She even declares her legs need more lotion.

Dad tells me they did not attend Mass

for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception,

He also confesses to not taking Mom to choir practice.

After lunch in a noisy café, we hang

stockings embroidered with letters on the rocking chair.

Mom repeats names, “E for Ettore, J for Jean.”

Alright, I say, gathering my keys. You take care of each other.

Mom takes Dad in her arms, hugs him too tight.

“Oh we will. We take care of each other.”

Alright, I mutter again, trying to leave.

Mom cuts ahead, opens the door,

a chore she daily performs, expecting a guest who never comes.

She keeps it ajar while I walk out.

When I turn, Mom is standing in the hallway.

Dad is leaning through the open space.

The scene is reminiscent of goodbyes once hailed

from the garage of their family home.

Only now, they are piercing the blandness of a fourth floor hall,

waving wildly, wishing me buon viaggio

in my travels outside of their world.

12/8/11

AJW

Never Give Up - In Memory of D.

Reflections from the Alois –

Thanksgiving, we told the circle, was just a week away. Without any concept of time, each one shook their head in acknowledgement, but was unable to connect blue skies and sunshine with the typical rainy Ohio Thanksgiving in their

past.

We laughed about how many turkeys Americans might consume on this day, could it really be close to 250 million? And oh, the pounds of cranberries, and not just the kind that come in the can.

F. marched in with a new autumn orange sweater on, to match that of Leigh’s. I too had dressed up, and felt the occasion was a worthy one.

Per our usual routine, R., the assistant at the Alois, rounded up the residents who would be participating in the sharing circle. Looking back on notes from our first class, only ML. and W. and F. had been in continuous attendance. And too, B., whose had fallen off. She wore a trench coat inside now, where there was no threat of rain.

And J. ,when asked about, I was told, “She is too confused anymore to sit through a class.” J. who first wrote, “I am fun. I love to make silly jokes.” In recent times, she had simply sat to listen to our voices, and give hugs when requested. She would no longer be in attendance though she would always be part of any circle that we remembered. Our favorite remembrance of J. would be, as we discussed food, and she motioned, “those little crunchy things you pour milk over.” "Cereal," we shouted in unison. Her description is still a catchphrase for us, when we are at a loss for words.

As R. made her rounds, I asked about another one of our originals, as we like to call them. “Where is D.?” She hadn’t been in attendance all Fall. Rinda replied, “D. passed away last week.” This I was told before beginning our circle, and thus, my interaction with each resident took on new meaning, for I didn’t know when it might be the last.

I locked eyes longer, made more jokes at my own expense, and really listened, sometimes prodding them for more information than they might have first offered, producing a treasure chest full of sentiments.

After class, M., the activities director extraordinaire, spoke again about D., “We held the memorial service here, and her family then took her to be buried in Pittsburgh.” He explained how crowded the service had been, and that he was sorry he didn’t think to invite us.

I shook that off, as we acknowledged how residents come to feel like family here. “The staff really took an interest in D. She was a mess when she came, but everybody worked with her, to get her in the right meds, get her walking. They never gave up.”

They never gave up.

These words echoed in my head throughout the day, as I reflected on Mom's condition. Lately, I have been hit with an onslaught of peers moving their parent to a secure facility. I tell them nothing compares to the Alois, the staff, the treatment of the residents, how they support outside activities, how they push each resident.

When one enters the Alois, it is not with the intention that this is the end. It is with the goal of starting over, correcting mistakes by other medical or non-medical staff not as educated in the field of dementia, helping the resident re-establish a healthy routine which they might have fallen out due to lack of oversight, as is the case with my mother and when she finally stopped cooking or bathing.

I push my mom. It drives her crazy. Sometimes, she will throw an air punch at me and say, “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” I have answers for her, a play on my own fears, but even deeper, a resolve to never give up on Mom.

I see much of her in the women at the Alois- the reflection is in their eyes, their laugh, their singing. But mostly, I see Mom in their sheer effort to be awake in the moment, despite their physical and mental challenges – encroaching blindness, crippling hands, weakening minds.

Today, the circle, average age 80-something, gave thanks for their “good health”, having eyes and ears to still see and hear, for God and “Gospel friends”, family and “being included.” Today, I give thanks for D. and the rest of the circle, for Mom, for never giving up.

Observing Freedom at the Alois

Last week, we had the honor of facilitating our sharing circle at the Alois, with the focus on America and freedom. What began as a concept to ask the participants to write it means when they see the American flag went deeper than imagined.

We began with Emma Lazarus, her beautiful sonnet "The New Colossus" engraved on the Statue of Liberty. I had visited the Statue of Liberty a few summers ago, but somehow the meaning had more impact as I read her words. “Imprisoned lightening”, “Mother of exiles”, “sea-washed sunset gates”, all these phrases and concepts are missing from our everyday jargon that reference the Statue of Liberty. These stronger images are the ones that touched me most deeply.

As participants were asked, what the pictures in front of them meant, each was able to articulate a time when the war took life away from them.

N. mentioned herself, as a young wife, waiting for the return of her husband. She still waits today, though her husband has passed away.

R. mentioned, “I cant share.” I took this to mean she didn’t want to participate, but when gently nudged, I realized it was the pain she was bearing keeping her from sharing her words. “All those boys that died needlessly,” she finally uttered, with a sense of relief, but almost as if it were shameful to address death, or question our country’s motives for war.

R. was charged with ferrying the Japanese POWs to camps. We knew this about him, but he too was reluctant to share. Just opposite R. sat M., who bears scars of a bomb dropping in her hometown in Japan.

L. always with something upbeat to share, mentioned “I served in Korea from 52-54, but I didn’t do anything extraordinary. I don’t want to brag. I wasn’t special because I served. And those who did not serve should not be ashamed either.”

A different R, who, when presented with a picture of men in uniform across the war and ages, noted how many wars our country had fought. When prompted, the picture meant more than just men in uniform. “I was a young nurse. I was behind the lines, taking care of these men.”

And finally, F., always the quick-witted one. When shown pictures, she didn’t connect to any of them. But when asked to write, she shared, ”My brother went off to war. I remember my mother crying all the time.”

We closed our time that day with a rousing rendition of God Bless America. I was grateful for our work that day. I felt like the woman Emma described in her poem, “a mighty woman with a torch…from her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome.” For liberating the words of our participants from some depth inside them, that we only touch for seconds. And while the words only last on paper, and their minds often travel elsewhere, their sense of freedom has lasted a lifetime.