notes about random confusion

life continues to be confusing
easier      because I'm getting used to the progression of the same

that is
I'm getting used to life being confusing ...

I'm building two medicine wheels in my yard at the same time as getting used to
A SMART PHONE !!!
FINALLY
no big deal really
except it is
I love it !!!
I love texting !!!

I'm chopping down (thinning out) small trees and clearing wild tall weeds and small bushes from the edges of my property
I think my dad would like that
he was the yard keeper, flower gardener

the little voice I get says
"you aren't doing what you think you're doing"
I think when I hear that
"so what else is new?"
I haven't been able to see much ahead for years

sometimes the fog clears and I see something in the future
meanwhile the dome of fog around me seems less menacing and more protective
colors and sensations can be beautiful and saturated in the space here

Avro the cat and I are waiting for supper to cook
he's taught me a lot 
about himself and about me
and about the variety of little critters around

we're knowing fall is around the corner
I'll get to see more magnificent sunsets when the leaves are gone
the gifts keep coming
may we all be open to receiving the gifts we truly want

The "Good" Old Days (yes and no)

  I recently posted this picture on FB where I wondered what impression people would have simply from the photo. She was a beautiful young adult sitting there in a dress she had made for herself.
My mother grew up in south end Yarmouth (the poor end) pre-war, made it to grade 8 in the Academy and then went to work in the cotton mill. Later she got her high school equivalency.
Throughout her life she read a lot, and loved music of all kinds, and dancing. There was lots of dancing while the troops were training in Yarmouth - she could go with her older sister.

My mom's mother, Mary Sophia Moffatt (maiden name Muise, from Sanford area, just outside town) learned to speak english so well that no one knew she was French Acadian from the way she spoke. With a grade 2 education, she taught herself and her husband how to read. It was a time where signs asking for help in the shops in Yarmouth stated clearly "French or Catholic need not apply".
My grandfather worked dawn to dusk 6 days a week, well into an advanced age. He was quiet, contained, and proud of his children. His father had come to Canada from Scotland.

The nine children in the family were beautiful and dark with frizzy hair. My mom told me that when they were children some made fun of them calling them "Moffatt's niggers."
I never knew for many years of the speculation of her ancestry by some people here, until someone casually mentioned it one day after I was grown up.
The Moffatt children grew up strong willed and community minded and mostly stayed closely knit.

She shared with me that one of her sisters had been grabbed by a bishop in the basement of a church and when she broke free from him that he twisted her arm hoping that "she would never use that arm again"
She also shared with me that she had an uncle who she never knew existed until she was a married adult, because he had married a "black woman." 

My mom was a member and representative for the union at the cotton mill. She sewed her own clothes (and ours later on.)
When she was married to my dad and pregnant, a sister in law passed her a book on natural child birth and breast feeding, and that is what she chose.
She supplemented care from doctors with relaxation exercises for herself, and knew how to help us relax at times when we children were stressed with illness.
She told me her life had begun when she and my dad married after the war. She loved being a "stay at home mom" who was involved in the neighborhood in many ways, although she had her times of wondering if she had made the right choice.
She took her turn selling things like Tupperware and Avon to get some spending money and she loved the socializing aspect of that; she learned a lot about my dad's family that way when we moved here.
She sewed, knit and crocheted like a wizard.
She and my dad helped me raise my child (I was a single mom), and entertained her and her friends with enthusiasm while I was working.
Later on she taught many people how to swim at the pool at Ste Anne University - a hobby of hers sort of - she was always at the pool because of her arthritis.
She loved walking.
She had a great sense of humor and laughed easily.
When misunderstood she would shrug and claim being an Aquarius and ahead of her time ......
A person who wasn't expected to live the night she was born, who was ill often, and yet lived and loved life, and considered herself lucky, especially considering the beginning of her time here.

She was amazing in many ways - still a human being with her own struggles and a person of her time, she was able to transcend much of that time.
May we all trancsend. May we all have opportunity to laugh. May we all continue to grow.
May we all learn what real love is and practice it.

namiste

an offering - songs of a mother leaving - continued

I had the privilege very recently to witness the birth of a baby boy.
The experience was one of overwhelming joy, and when I say overwhelming that is what I mean - a week later and I'm still sorting through the experience, both consciously and subconsciously.
The lovely thing about the experience of witnessing births is that it seems to give my heart some parallel to the process of death - in my heart it's all birthing now - transformations and mystery.
My head is still confused, but I think it might be wise to let my heart have it's way for a while ...

so here are more of the poems of the suite "songs of a mother leaving"

integration

 

between marsh and ocean
grey moist day
cat of nine tails spread out
before us
sound of ocean behind
rocks, grey rocks
beneath our feet

seagulls and ravens flying
a breath of wind so
soft the whisper
"hi Jay"

in that instant I answer
"hi mom, hi dad"
so soft this
sweet, sweet
feeling

so strong this feeling
this lovely sensation
of family of earth of sky
of integration
of celebration





next logical step



a strange odyssey this trip into midnight
confusion fear and anger
a biting mother

a woman who seeing my socks said "oh my
what beautiful shoes" who let me sit and talk
while she pushed herself bit by bit
lifting herself along the edge of the bed with her fists

it was a monumental moment
the last day she sat up
no memory of what we spoke about
I was so amazed
the morphine gave her that last bit of
freedom
all the way down the edge of the bed
around the corner
to the centre of the foot of the bed

visibly fatigued
I said "you're getting tired"
she nodded
we got her feet up onto the bed
she lay on her side
and I pulled the blanket under her
up so she would be on the bed
another cover

sleep
blessed sleep

bed ridden after that
"seems dramatic, but just the next logical step"
my friend said

love

"don't sit on the little fellow
isn't he the cutest thing?
why do little babies have to suffer so?"

there are children everywhere

on the bed
in the room
she calls out to us - her
children
and her grandchild
she had helped to raise

we are all her children
no one but my mother can see us there
playing and sometimes needing
direction
or scolding
but mostly
just
love

walkers

on good days
we got as far as the bench
under the spruce
where sitting
we saw the bay
meeting the coast
a long view in both
directions
light house
a ways off to the right

some days
we strolled between
trees
on a path
where
she
can feel my father
there with us
they were walkers
those two

 

it's over

 

it's over
no more tending, holding, sitting
listening waiting, holding breath, conversation
touching
no more
it is over
a life has passed
your help, your grasp
your occupation has disappeared
but scars, oh
scars
the leaving was slow and painful

drink coffee, walk fast, travel, visit, sit still
you have time now

something inside doesn't know
it's over
"oh god, it's over"

recipes

scattered words
I thought
that is all I have of her writing
all her
beautiful
hand
writing

all I have are scattered words
drawn like art
in my drawing pad
coloured so soft

I had forgotten handwritten
recipe books
full of luscious
old fashion recipes
seasoned
with savoury memories

thumb cookies
war cake
molasses cookies

remembering now
rainy afternoons
movies
and ah!
surprises

we rolled from our bellies
to sit and receive treats
hot from the oven

today
I can bake
and dance
to the
music blasting

an offering - songs of my mother leaving - continued

we were heading to the shower one day when strength left my mother's legs and we collapsed together onto the couch - and there we stayed - me trapped underneath my mother's torso - for a period of about five minutes
I wasn't really sure if she was alive, or dead, or dying - but it felt like I needed to wait it out and she would come back to me
suddenly she did - as though the electricity was running again through her body and mind

my writing is sort of like that
I am trapped under it and then suddenly it is time to listen, and move, and see words forming on the page.

so I offer more poems while the electricity is running

bones

my mother

was getting hard

the softness of her body disappearing

bone so hard, obviously pronounced

the beauty of bones

long elegant leg bones, arm bones

rib and cheek bones

all pronounced

no longer blurred by flesh

drawn back tight over all those bones

cheeks hollowed out "my lost Mayan Incan mother" I thought 

the gaunt beauty of bones

she is connecting

with everyone

who has come before

and all unborn creatures

and she is leaving me here

she is leaving me here

she is leaving

close

she is holding towels

stacked

onto open palms 

and arms

the request

"when Bernice and dad come

I have to be ready

will you help me pack?"

a sister and a father

coming from the other side

"close" she was saying

"but we have time to prepare"

details

walking pathways thru the woods next to

the coast of the bay

step by step we

go 

slowly

my mother's painful pace

she stops

amazed

examining plants, stones

"are we going to slowly?"

"no" this is my chance 

to look 

at this part of the world

in detail

always

mindful

of my mother's pain

and her constant 

transcendence 

of the same

dreaming again

dreaming again

they are still alive   but I am certain we

buried them both

funerals, I'm sure

how long will I have to look after them?

so much care

these people are needing

dreaming again

my mother and I are tending

the vegetables growing

up through the slats in the floor from

the ground underneath

we are in the house that is not a house

trees and sky all around

but walls and a roof

how so? 

I don't understand

he shouldn't have left me 

"he shouldn't have left me"

"he didn't want to leave 

he loved you

it's not his fault that he died"

"I know"

she is looking at her husband's photo on the wall

helpful

a tiny scrap of newsprint she is holding

retrieved from the jewelry box

"you might find this helpful" she says 

"when?" I asked

"when I am dead" she says

it was the poem "do not stand by my grave and weep"

months later

she says

"I'm nothing"

"no" I say and retrieve the poem

from the box and read:

"Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awake in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die."

"see? you are everything"

"I know" she says

"but it's so hard to remember"

soon after 

we are all crying while

my sister in law reads

the poem at the funeral

in the moment

"see the house?"

"where?"

she is pointing to the stones in the walkway

we are having lunch in the sunshine

she gets up, starts to show me

then

"i'll loose it"

she sits down and directs my steps

a little this way

a little that way

focusing on the image

until my foot is there

where she sees the image of a house

the world crystallizes 

I am there 

my mother is there

in the sunshine

grey stones under my feet

the soil under the stones

grass all around

and sun

shining

down from the sky

all that is

all that was

all that ever would be

an offering - songs of my mother - intro

These songs are of my mother - an incredibly warm, smart, generous, witty woman who had lived most of her life while transcending pain caused by a variety of chronic physical conditions.
She loved life.
She left when it got too hard to stay.
Her last two years were spent with Alzheimer's added into the mix
Her last year we spent together; intense but good training.

She and my father and brother (who are also gone to the other side) show up at various times in the air around me, in the tasks I'm performing, in the warm feeling I get when thinking of how they would be so pleased for me at times, and how they would empathize at others.

They all died relatively young, but not before making me miss them, and at the same time giving me the love that sustains me in their absence.

I would like to hope that these writings are of some help to someone - they are a work in progress - and indeed they are for my own medicine. They are offered in love and respect for our human journey here.

They will be posted in semi random order and may organize themselves into another form entirely.

It's been a while (Oct. 99)  - I think I can share now.

against the tide

swimming against the tide
a young woman
my mother
a union rep at the cotton mill
and then a young wife
reading of natural childbirth
and of breastfeeding
from a borrowed book
and so we her children
swam to the surface
to nestle and suck at her breast

near death in her undershirt and  depends
climbing onto the long bureau
because she "simply had to lie down"
she carried some of that vitality
and simple grace of youth
complete with long legs, willowy frame
that I had only seen in photos
young, in a swimsuit on the beach
my god, she was lovely

an act of will

some part of me felt
that it was an act of will
her leaving
she had been
waving goodbye
disappearing in slivers
years before the Alzheimer's
"the disappearing woman"
I kept thinking

fear and pain
overtook her - a floater - she started to sink
exercise, relaxation therapy, self hypnosis,
drugs; they all slowed things down
but nothing could save her
not even me

before that
the two of us together
couldn't save her husband
my dad