I don’t know what to do.
The line rings in my ears—sometimes it’s louder in my own voice, sometimes in my dad’s. The confusion in his searching gaze haunts me, jabs and tears at the flesh of my heart and the sting sears through my veins and aches in my throat.
I don’t know what to do.
How many times did he ask me what was wrong? Why was he here? And I would tell him a variation of how the doctors found cancer in his stomach and in his liver and filling his veins soon to take over his heart. I told him how it was all preventing him from being able to sleep, from being able to get to the bathroom by himself and how Mama could no longer safely help him. So he was here where he could get help.
He would then say, “I don’t know what to do.” Those sad, hazel colored eyes have haunted me for years, though. I would hold his hand, palm-thumb curled—his right hand to my right hand, like arm wrestling with inevitable truth—and I would say, “Me neither. I don’t know what to do either, Dad. I wish I did.” Then we would sit together like that for eternity.
Later we were told that we (the so-called living) think in bigger pictures, more extended meaning, larger contexts. One who is as ill as Dad, one who is dying, has a very simple and immediate world. Answers should be simple and immediate. (Like he would ask if everyone was out of the house—we were in the hospice wing of the hospital—is everyone out of the house? Are we alone now? ... Yes! We’re alone...what word do you have for us, what insight, what treasure, what wisdom? ... No, he only wanted the opportunity to launch from the bed and outrun the orderlies to the bathroom for a little privacy to do his business.)
So how much worse did I make his confusion? How much harder did I make his transition? I apparently was as confused by his question as he must have been by my answer. He would look at me with such concentration and determination to understand. I languished in my determination to be honest and truthful. Then he would nod and put his head back upon the pillow.
Sometimes I think no matter how much time passes, I will weep tears of grief. Sometimes I think no matter how much time passes, I will feel pain in the memory of those last hours, days, weeks, months, years... a mere instant. Sometimes I think no matter how much time passes, I will long with every fiber of my essence to have him back, everyone back, everyone right, everyone here, everyone whole, everyone now.
What is it about that statement that twists the knife in my soul? I don’t know what to do.
This primordial drive to do something. Even so long since the dying. Even now. It is all one moment. I don’t know what to do. We long to act. Long to fix it. Make it right. Do something. Engage.
The only thing I know to do is write. Tell the story. Express. This helps me regain my sense of balance and being after the hopelessness of unknowing.
Is it really part of our nature, part of our original created essence, to need to do something? Or is it indicative of how far we have strayed from our true nature? Be still. Know I am God. These are two things we are told to do. Be still. Know I am God. Psalm 46. The whole psalm is about radical and violent change, and about a new heaven and new earth. End to war. God’s presence until then, God’s help in time of trouble. Be still. Know I am God.
It is only comforting, hopeful, when by some miracle you...I...do it.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Machete backstory
091514
Almost exactly a year ago the HOA (homeowners’ association) sent me one of those letters that lines out all the ways you’re embarrassing the neighborhood. Only this time it was a polite letter requesting me to give them permission to take out the acacia palms in the front courtyard of my house. They’re too tall so don’t meet the regulation of 15' max height. But since it was the previous owner who planted them, they said, they would take them out at no cost to me, would I please call to verify my permission. I called. I permitted.
Three months later I received a threatening letter about how I had 60 days to remove those acacia palms or be fined some gawdawful amount of money. I nearly swallowed my tongue, teeth, lips and chin! I was livid. I called. I asked.
“We changed our minds.” Yeah, that was all he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Because I have a letter, which you signed, which says you will pull them out with no charge to me and they haven’t been pulled out and I’m not paying a fine for anything.”
“I understand. We changed our mind. So you need to have those pulled up. I’m sure you understand that we can’t afford to bail out every homeowner who has a preexisting violation to the standards.”
“Then I have no choice but to repeat myself. I have a letter, a signed document, stating that they will in fact be pulled out at no charge to me.”
“I understand. Perhaps there is a concession.”
See, the other thing going on at the time was that 180 miles away, my father was very ill and had just been diagnosed with all sorts of horrific sounding cancer so I wasn’t really in the mood to negotiate what had already been clearly stated in a signed document.
“What kind of concession?”
“What if we have the landscapers cut it way back?”
“Well of course that works for me. Isn’t that what they do anyway? You can cut them down to the nubs, for all I care. I’m just saying I’m not paying a fine over it. I don’t care what you do to those palms.”
“All right then, I’ll pass along that information.”
Somewhere in between time I told my neighbor about this fiasco and turns out he’s on the board!!! Isn’t that peachy! I explained to him about Dad and he said he would back the HOA off a little—there were several items on their to do list, some of which I had done before getting the letter the FIRST time so to see it on the list of threats wasn’t helping me much on any level.
The first time the landscapers came through they did cut them back and trim them beautifully so I figured they changed their minds again and just decided to make them pretty. Didn’t give it another thought.
I was away nearly every weekend and then Dad died and I don’t much remember the last two and a half months of school. The minute I left campus for the last time I drove to Mama’s for our road trip to visit relatives and attend my niece’s wedding. Then upon return I spent the summer at Mama’s cleaning out the house as she was moving to a smaller, more economical apartment and I had to bring two full car loads home, mostly of Dad’s things.
Nobody had touched the acacia trees in those three to four months. No one. The landscapers had done NOTHING since that first time after the phone call. So they were way overgrown and I have a bush in the back that’s way overgrown. As Mama moved the first in between weekend of school, I was with her the following two weekends but this past weekend I had to proctor national testing so stayed home. Plus next week I am taking a couple of days to go over for four days with friends and cousins who are all picking up the last of the things Mama can’t keep.
Next month is when people walk the property and generate the list of threats and I’m royally ticked off about the acacia and now I want them DOWN. Just out of here. Gone. Tired of them.
A few weeks ago I wrote a couple of friends in the area to see if I could borrow a chainsaw. One flat out said no because she would not let me put myself in danger and her husband’s back was out so, no. The other one has been separated from her husband so she said she’d check. But then life happens. So yesterday, Sunday, was a pretty nice day. I texted my friend to ask again about the chainsaw, and then took the limb cutters out there to at least cut what young trunks I could. Made some headway. Got the ladder. Managed to also cut down some of the fronds that were bending back onto the roof tiles. But those damn trees had gotten so thick in the trunk!
Of course I’m muttering under my breath about the landscapers and whether I should go next door and mention it again to my neighbor friend—but then I remembered even HE forgot the agreement and somewhere in passing on my way out of town he asked from his driveway through my open car window if I was going to have those things removed or what? “DUDE!” I said, but I didn’t say dude, I said his name. “Remember? I talked to XYZ who said the LANDSCAPERS were gonna cut it way back. So I expect they’ll do that at some point along here soon?” And the sweet old guy nodded his head and waved me off with his lumbering arm and I thought we’d communicated. I was wrong.
Then I remembered! My dad had a collection of ornate knives from all over the world—big ones as well as a tiny hara kiri knife. I remembered one particular gorgeous machete in a beautiful leather scabbard from, I think, somewhere in South America. Could at least try it, right? I had nothing to lose? I unsheathed it inside the house, not wanting to attract any more attention than necessary outside. Wow did it feel good! The handle seemed made for exactly my hand! And it wasn’t heavy at all and the edge was shiny sharp. I started on the most hidden of the clump of trees and with two hands whacked down at one growing out of the side of a bigger one—the motion was straight down so would be the most successful to begin with, I thought. O my goodness, it was so nice. The blade was old and black with use but not really rusty per se. But the edge was sharper than anything I’ve ever used. I was hooked! It was a fabulous experience cutting down that tree. I cut down five in all. The ones growing straight I of course had to angle, but I maintained a somewhat straight down chop, angled slightly to the left and just went to town. Chips flew. It was so satisfying.
Thanks, Dad! Cool tools! Oh, there are still four trees left...but it will be a week or so before I could do that again!
Almost exactly a year ago the HOA (homeowners’ association) sent me one of those letters that lines out all the ways you’re embarrassing the neighborhood. Only this time it was a polite letter requesting me to give them permission to take out the acacia palms in the front courtyard of my house. They’re too tall so don’t meet the regulation of 15' max height. But since it was the previous owner who planted them, they said, they would take them out at no cost to me, would I please call to verify my permission. I called. I permitted.
Three months later I received a threatening letter about how I had 60 days to remove those acacia palms or be fined some gawdawful amount of money. I nearly swallowed my tongue, teeth, lips and chin! I was livid. I called. I asked.
“We changed our minds.” Yeah, that was all he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Because I have a letter, which you signed, which says you will pull them out with no charge to me and they haven’t been pulled out and I’m not paying a fine for anything.”
“I understand. We changed our mind. So you need to have those pulled up. I’m sure you understand that we can’t afford to bail out every homeowner who has a preexisting violation to the standards.”
“Then I have no choice but to repeat myself. I have a letter, a signed document, stating that they will in fact be pulled out at no charge to me.”
“I understand. Perhaps there is a concession.”
See, the other thing going on at the time was that 180 miles away, my father was very ill and had just been diagnosed with all sorts of horrific sounding cancer so I wasn’t really in the mood to negotiate what had already been clearly stated in a signed document.
“What kind of concession?”
“What if we have the landscapers cut it way back?”
“Well of course that works for me. Isn’t that what they do anyway? You can cut them down to the nubs, for all I care. I’m just saying I’m not paying a fine over it. I don’t care what you do to those palms.”
“All right then, I’ll pass along that information.”
Somewhere in between time I told my neighbor about this fiasco and turns out he’s on the board!!! Isn’t that peachy! I explained to him about Dad and he said he would back the HOA off a little—there were several items on their to do list, some of which I had done before getting the letter the FIRST time so to see it on the list of threats wasn’t helping me much on any level.
The first time the landscapers came through they did cut them back and trim them beautifully so I figured they changed their minds again and just decided to make them pretty. Didn’t give it another thought.
I was away nearly every weekend and then Dad died and I don’t much remember the last two and a half months of school. The minute I left campus for the last time I drove to Mama’s for our road trip to visit relatives and attend my niece’s wedding. Then upon return I spent the summer at Mama’s cleaning out the house as she was moving to a smaller, more economical apartment and I had to bring two full car loads home, mostly of Dad’s things.
Nobody had touched the acacia trees in those three to four months. No one. The landscapers had done NOTHING since that first time after the phone call. So they were way overgrown and I have a bush in the back that’s way overgrown. As Mama moved the first in between weekend of school, I was with her the following two weekends but this past weekend I had to proctor national testing so stayed home. Plus next week I am taking a couple of days to go over for four days with friends and cousins who are all picking up the last of the things Mama can’t keep.
Next month is when people walk the property and generate the list of threats and I’m royally ticked off about the acacia and now I want them DOWN. Just out of here. Gone. Tired of them.
A few weeks ago I wrote a couple of friends in the area to see if I could borrow a chainsaw. One flat out said no because she would not let me put myself in danger and her husband’s back was out so, no. The other one has been separated from her husband so she said she’d check. But then life happens. So yesterday, Sunday, was a pretty nice day. I texted my friend to ask again about the chainsaw, and then took the limb cutters out there to at least cut what young trunks I could. Made some headway. Got the ladder. Managed to also cut down some of the fronds that were bending back onto the roof tiles. But those damn trees had gotten so thick in the trunk!
Of course I’m muttering under my breath about the landscapers and whether I should go next door and mention it again to my neighbor friend—but then I remembered even HE forgot the agreement and somewhere in passing on my way out of town he asked from his driveway through my open car window if I was going to have those things removed or what? “DUDE!” I said, but I didn’t say dude, I said his name. “Remember? I talked to XYZ who said the LANDSCAPERS were gonna cut it way back. So I expect they’ll do that at some point along here soon?” And the sweet old guy nodded his head and waved me off with his lumbering arm and I thought we’d communicated. I was wrong.
Then I remembered! My dad had a collection of ornate knives from all over the world—big ones as well as a tiny hara kiri knife. I remembered one particular gorgeous machete in a beautiful leather scabbard from, I think, somewhere in South America. Could at least try it, right? I had nothing to lose? I unsheathed it inside the house, not wanting to attract any more attention than necessary outside. Wow did it feel good! The handle seemed made for exactly my hand! And it wasn’t heavy at all and the edge was shiny sharp. I started on the most hidden of the clump of trees and with two hands whacked down at one growing out of the side of a bigger one—the motion was straight down so would be the most successful to begin with, I thought. O my goodness, it was so nice. The blade was old and black with use but not really rusty per se. But the edge was sharper than anything I’ve ever used. I was hooked! It was a fabulous experience cutting down that tree. I cut down five in all. The ones growing straight I of course had to angle, but I maintained a somewhat straight down chop, angled slightly to the left and just went to town. Chips flew. It was so satisfying.
Thanks, Dad! Cool tools! Oh, there are still four trees left...but it will be a week or so before I could do that again!
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Machete Waits
Dark worn wooden handle settled in my hand like the cheek of an infant, pressed into, shaped into, it fit. My fingers curled around as if finding home and relaxed. Long blade crescent black and sharp glint of metal defining razor sharp. So light. Two hands one blow sank deep into flesh of acacia as big around as my calves. Each hack effective, exposing vibrant healthy pale gold. Like ancient farmer whacking down sugar cane. Quiet death to such strength and organic power no match for the cold cinder block construction around it and topped with terracotta tiles that absorb the ants crawling across the backbending fronds fountaining out through the topless courtyard prison. It had to die. Civilized concrete structure must be protected and maintained. Machete waits. Acacia will grow back.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
seeing auntie bb again being with auntie bb now
i did not post this when i wrote it in june 2013...seemed too personal. still is. but now i am gathering stories from between death and resurrection.
061213
Her eyes were green—slightly darker than peridot, slightly darker than the pristine waters at Abaco...they were vibrant with life and I looked into them as if by looking and holding the gaze I would hold her in my life and in her living. I wasn’t aware I was dreaming, I wasn’t really dreaming, but I was asleep, or rather, I was aware that this was a moment outside the time of wakeful passing. I was aware that I had to look at her, look at her vibrant green eyes in all their clarity and reality, dimension and being; it was up to me, to my unbroken visual and visible bond in seeing her that would sustain her and sustain me and sustain all the relationship that we had known my entire life. If I looked away, she would be lost to me. I made a mental note, too, of how the coloring of her eyelids matched that green of her eyes but not with the harshness of a teenager who might be experimenting, not with the cheap application of the shallow attempt to seduce, it was somehow a transfiguration, an appropriate compliment to her eyes, as if the color emanated from them like a prism throws light from the sun. There was a slight holding of my breath in that shadow of disbelief when gazing at someone loved and lost, having the perpetual body memory of embrace at the occasional physical meetings on holiday, that holding of breath in suspending the unmoving moment beyond time to absorb presence and recognize someone in soul while certain physicalities didn’t conform with certain memories. In shared life she was darker in hair color, and makeup—her lids were always a subtle red earth tone. Her eyes a fascinating gray like blue shadows over heather, the blue gray of distant appalachian mountains in mist. Striking beauty, heads would literally turn in double take when we were out and about. Her age had always been about 25 years older and while she did not look at all like a photo of her in youth, this was her soul gazing back at me through that color of green I cannot describe and is fading, dulling, shifting in the attempt. This “dream” did not have the timber of other dreams, it was not made of the same stuff. It was real. It felt like the clairvoyance I possessed when I was so young and prayed to have it pass. Now I regret that prayer. And now I have had this prayer answered. She was there with me. We shared our being, our connection, our selves beyond this material life but with the material that engages the senses. This time she did not touch me. When she was alive, I would dream of her and it would be the form of her I have always known and it would be her laugh and it would be our shared stories and it would be our walks along the beach and it would be her maternal embrace and it would be a visit that I always longed for and never had enough of and it would be her life without the hindrances of her commitments, and mine. But this was only being. This was only her face gazing back at mine, not looking like her but being her. I want to believe...that this was an outstretched affirmation that she is ... still ... living beyond this quintessence of dust and pain and heartache and situation. I feel her. I long for her. But not in the way I always had before in wishing I could figure out a way to travel to visit...but in a way that hopes beyond empirical doubts that there is more beyond this mortal coil and that we will BE in that space I glimpsed, that presence I felt, that connection I live in...
061213
Her eyes were green—slightly darker than peridot, slightly darker than the pristine waters at Abaco...they were vibrant with life and I looked into them as if by looking and holding the gaze I would hold her in my life and in her living. I wasn’t aware I was dreaming, I wasn’t really dreaming, but I was asleep, or rather, I was aware that this was a moment outside the time of wakeful passing. I was aware that I had to look at her, look at her vibrant green eyes in all their clarity and reality, dimension and being; it was up to me, to my unbroken visual and visible bond in seeing her that would sustain her and sustain me and sustain all the relationship that we had known my entire life. If I looked away, she would be lost to me. I made a mental note, too, of how the coloring of her eyelids matched that green of her eyes but not with the harshness of a teenager who might be experimenting, not with the cheap application of the shallow attempt to seduce, it was somehow a transfiguration, an appropriate compliment to her eyes, as if the color emanated from them like a prism throws light from the sun. There was a slight holding of my breath in that shadow of disbelief when gazing at someone loved and lost, having the perpetual body memory of embrace at the occasional physical meetings on holiday, that holding of breath in suspending the unmoving moment beyond time to absorb presence and recognize someone in soul while certain physicalities didn’t conform with certain memories. In shared life she was darker in hair color, and makeup—her lids were always a subtle red earth tone. Her eyes a fascinating gray like blue shadows over heather, the blue gray of distant appalachian mountains in mist. Striking beauty, heads would literally turn in double take when we were out and about. Her age had always been about 25 years older and while she did not look at all like a photo of her in youth, this was her soul gazing back at me through that color of green I cannot describe and is fading, dulling, shifting in the attempt. This “dream” did not have the timber of other dreams, it was not made of the same stuff. It was real. It felt like the clairvoyance I possessed when I was so young and prayed to have it pass. Now I regret that prayer. And now I have had this prayer answered. She was there with me. We shared our being, our connection, our selves beyond this material life but with the material that engages the senses. This time she did not touch me. When she was alive, I would dream of her and it would be the form of her I have always known and it would be her laugh and it would be our shared stories and it would be our walks along the beach and it would be her maternal embrace and it would be a visit that I always longed for and never had enough of and it would be her life without the hindrances of her commitments, and mine. But this was only being. This was only her face gazing back at mine, not looking like her but being her. I want to believe...that this was an outstretched affirmation that she is ... still ... living beyond this quintessence of dust and pain and heartache and situation. I feel her. I long for her. But not in the way I always had before in wishing I could figure out a way to travel to visit...but in a way that hopes beyond empirical doubts that there is more beyond this mortal coil and that we will BE in that space I glimpsed, that presence I felt, that connection I live in...
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