Poet Mark Nepo wrote: “The presence of the rest of life when I’m in pain is healing”.
I love his words. I am in many kinds of pain.
This day was about as perfect as a Spring day can be. Against the protestations of the one who loves me best, I insisted we keep the family Easter tradition and picnic in the forest. We stopped for sandwiches and iced tea and headed west, not even needing to decide on the spot. Pulled by the magnet of memories.
I found myself (as planned) lying on a blanket in the dappled sunlight, listening to the scraping call of nuthatch and then watching as they venture close, bug-hunting on pine bark. After a time, the voices of my family become soft murmurs as they go for a walk and I am left alone.
Slowly, as I open, I am almost overwhelmed by the “rest of life”. There’s the terra-firma against my back, reassuring in its solidity, its strength; and I feel held. White gauzy clouds move quickly across the brilliant blue of sky, reminding me that things pass. They do. I open more and ask to hear. The pines move in the gentle wind and I am cradled, a child in need of comfort, circled by these mothers who lull my spirit with their swaying.
I have been taking pills for days and it is in this place I find reprieve from pain.
I have been sleeping all week and it is in this place I find rest.
Hand on my heart, I say, “Things are hard right now.” They are.
And then, “I am not alone in my suffering.”. In my imagination I open my hands and my soul to those I know who are also suffering, and then to the many I don’t.
Finally, “What do I need?”. This, just this. The rest of life.
My grandma Lula lived about 20 miles from us and a highlight of my childhood was visiting her. In my opinion then, and still today, she was the ideal grandma. It was a privilege to get up at dawn and get into my dad’s truck, carrying my little suitcase, ready to go to grandma’s house. The smells of the drive, when I encounter them today, are what bring to mind the sharpest memories: the Juicy Fruit gum that my dad chewed when he gave up cigarettes, the thermos of coffee with milk that he somehow poured while driving, without spilling, and the smells of all things heavy equipment mechanic. It seemed a long drive to me, as those things do when you’re young. I was fascinated with the mug of steaming coffee that dad placed on the console in the middle of the pickup floor, one without cup holders. I loved watching the morning brighten as we drove west and was only distracted from the awakening day by my fascination with that cup of coffee that rarely ever spilled..
Somehow, grandma was always out front, waiting for me. And this was way before cell phones. I took this to mean that she was excited to see me. I was certainly happy to see her!
My grandma was born in 1900 in Missouri. She was married in New Mexico and eventually moved with her husband and 4 children to the Pacific Northwest. They arrived in Oregon when my dad, the youngest, was 8 years old. I don’t know a lot about my grandma’s life, she didn’t really talk about herself, but I have gleaned things over the years from my mom and my older siblings, and a little from my dad. My grandfather and eventually my dad and both of his brothers, were loggers. Dad’s father was an alcoholic and prone to becoming physically abusive. He beat his wife and children. I never knew this man as he died a few years before I was born. There are very few pictures of him, so mostly I am left to imagine. Somehow, in spite of poverty, abuse and loss, grandma remained one of the kindest, gentlest people I’ve known.
Visits to grandma’s were pretty idyllic. I certainly liked a few days free of chores! Grandma had never gotten a driver’s license so didn’t own a car. Fortunately she lived in a small town where everything was in walking distance. A highlight of each day was walking, hand in hand, to the grocers where I was allowed to choose whatever I wanted (within reason, I’m sure) to eat for lunch. The flip side to this was I had to eat whatever was given to me for dinner, again within reason. I usually chose, Spaghetti-O’s, Chef-Boy-Ardee canned ravioli, or canned tamales; treats because we usually had home cooked food at home. Those were my favorites and my choices rarely varied. Oh, and chocolate pudding. Grandma would let me choose a box of the pudding mix and it was my “job” to later stand on a chair at the table and – using old-fashioned “egg-beaters”- combine the pudding mix with 2 cups of milk, and beat for what seemed a very long time until the pudding became thick and glossy. Grandma never seemed to mind the scatter-shot of drops of pudding across the tabletop and my more than occasional licking of fingers.
A surprisingly favorite pastime during the lazy afternoon was to crouch on grandma’s front porch with a hammer. The goal was to pound in every nail until all were flush with the wood planks. The fun of it was, every blow of the hammer brought several surrounding nails up and into view. Which meant, more nails to pound!
Lula was poor and that is not an exaggeration. On the walls of her small house where the yellowed wallpaper was peeling, old newspapers could be seen beneath. But I never realized she was poor, it was just the way things were and I accepted it with equanimity. After all, grandma didn’t seem bothered by a lack of things that so many regard as essential. When she became unable to live alone and furniture was being moved, her dresser was found to be full of the gifts she had received over the years: slippers and socks, nightgowns and robes, all unused and most in the original packaging.
In her little kitchen sat a wood stove, not the kind used only for heating, but a wood cooking stove. And, other than a 2 burner hot plate, it was what she used for cooking. The skill of making and baking a prefect strawberry-rhubarb pie is not often given the admiration it deserves. You’ll have to take my word for it when I say it was delicious! Warm bathwater was another benefit of the stove. Grandma had a round metal tub and I would sit and watch her (or watch an old Western on TV) while she slowly boiled the water and filled the tub for my bath. The novelty of these kitchen baths made it all the more special.
Grandma was a composter: she would save her empty milk cartons and in them went all the food scraps, which would then be buried out back in the garden. Speaking of the garden, these days, if I happen upon a home grown carrot, the crunch and smell and taste immediately transport me back to grandma’s garden. There were tiny strawberries, surprisingly and incredibly sweet. And there were brightly colored poppies in abundance , as well as bluebells and pansies. Her house may have been modestly adorned, if at all, but she valued the beauty (and provision) of nature and her own yard was proof.
I love to remember Lula, outside in an old threadbare sweater, likely sporting many holes, over top of her “house dress” (I never saw her wear pants even on the coldest winter days), with her broom, sweeping the leaves. I remember her smoothing butter on my hands to remove pine pitch after an afternoon of playing outdoors, and sometimes I needed the butter treatment in my hair! I remember her ration books from World War 2 and the pages filled with tiny blue or red velvety coins. In the third kitchen drawer, lined with a tea towel, was a never-ending supply of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. She kept her silverware in a wooden box lined with green velvet. I loved the aluminum drinking glasses of various hues that made the ice cold tap water even more thirst quenching. Near the windows in the front room were several healthy red geraniums. I still grow my own every year and remember grandma’s love for this plant and it’s striking yet modest beauty. Grandma had a wringer washing machine and wash day was quite an ordeal, arduous and time consuming.
Somewhere on a shelf- I think it was just over the vinyl covered sofa, sat a box of stories and, what I now see as a time of precious bonding with grandma. I would frequently ask her to show me the contents of the box and listened with rapt attention as she told me story after story about each photo or newspaper article. I never tired of this tradition and I learned many things about family- some, living in far-away places like Texas, whom I didn’t even know. Often, after the stories, I would lay my head in grandma’s lap and she would run her fingers through my hair. At home, there wasn’t much display of affection, or at grandma’s either, and I remember feeling loved and content with this attention.
I don’t think there were any toys at grandma’s, there were a few magazines and maybe a Farmer’s Almanac. We sometimes watched TV- I remember shows like Perry Mason and The Andy Griffith Show, as I sipped a hot cup of Lipton’s Instant Cream-of-Chicken soup. Perhaps none of this sounds exciting, yet I don’t remember ever feeling bored. I wish I could somehow recapture the innocence and the slow-paced pleasures of my time at grandma’s house. I suppose that’s an intention of mine, (sometimes held with open hands because, you know, life) to slow down, to simplify, to have less and enjoy it more.
I loved my grandma dearly. I miss her still. I am truly grateful that she was mine.
A phrase from a song is traipsing through my head: “nobody said it was easy…”.
Fridays are a day I look forward to, with anticipation and not a little anxiety. This is the day, where it is my intention- maybe no more or less than on other days- to give.
Like Jesus, holding loaves and fish in outstretched hands… or maybe NOT like him because I want to say “it’s not enough” or “you want me to do WHAT?” or “give me more”. Instead, at least on Fridays, I hold out that which I have received and I whisper a hushed “thank you”. And whether it’s enough or not, I really don’t know.
A class, Eucharist, then lunchtime. I sit across from Marian. She’s fighting something off she says and my impulse is to lean away but holding out my hands (the whispered “thank you” there in my head), I hope it is enough. My ears are filled with a deep unfathomable sorrow as I hear of a son (“my baby” she say, again and again) putting a gun to his head. Something rattles in her throat, I think it’s pain. I myself, cannot breathe for what seems too long. She has a blanket and pillow, says she sleeps in her car. I remind her to drink lots of water for that something she is fighting off. I go in search of a fresh peach to give her but find none.
A little after, I sit in a different room with a different woman, one of the kindest I have ever known, and I speak out shards of glass, telling her of my internal conflict and existential confusion. With her gentle listening and spare words she reminds me of the Middle path, a way through. I am patched up for now and can stand upright, even feeling a sense of what seems to be peace.
Then comes a drive across town to visit my sister, broken in mind. I am armed with chocolate and the taste on her tongue elicits a smile. She wasn’t perfect and somehow her mind still clings to this knowing. But who is, really? All I know is she tried as much as she was able with what she had. Like me. Loaves and fish. Can I forgive myself as I have forgiven her? I sing to her a few lines of Feelin’ Groovy and she hums along tunelessly. I kiss her forehead and tell her I will come back. “Really?” she asks.
On my way home I stop at the grocery to choose what might be constructed into dinner. I move too slow with my cart and seem to be in everyones way. I stand too long, holding- one after another- pints of organic raspberries, finally choosing one from the others for a reason I do not know. In the meat section I cannot see because the tears… then I wander aimlessly, picking out a few things that seem to be what’s needed. Whether it is enough or not, I do not know.
by 
