New Season?

I'm in the northern reaches of California, a wonderfully wild area where the coastal fog feeds the giant Redwood trees, and trout are plenteous in the beautiful rivers here. Kirsten has graduated from Humboldt State University, a journey she began in the fall of 2007 when I dropped her, her snake, and her few possessions in the tiniest single dormitory room I had ever seen, Redwood trees and ferns visible from the tall slender window in the center of her room. I'm so proud of her for her accomplishment.Peter would have been proud, too.

At these occasions that mark a milestone in our lives, it seems natural to reflect on the history of events and the people that have brought us here. These reflections rushed through my mind as I sat in the stands on a slightly overcast day, the majestic trees in the background of the "Redwood Bowl." And now, Kirsten has a new season in front of her. Via con Dios, dear daughter.

Summer Light

I've been thinking of places in latitudes above mine. Seattle, Minneapolis, Montreal, Oslo. I love the light that hangs on 'til late in the evening (in the summer, anyway.) People revel in those hours of light. Summer is such a celebratory time, given that in the winter, it can be so dark and cold. Nature gives us some sort of payback for the patience required and given to make it through those tedious months.

So, I'm thinking about summer, and wish of course that I had some more light with Peter - a little extra bonus time; that special evening time where the light lingers and one can play. I feel like the next thing after a grueling winter should be summer.

I remember as a child, the lingering summer light and other children's voices in the streets called us to play, but we were to be in bed "at a decent hour". It didn't seem fair. Mom used to read poetry to me and my brothers before bed, and often poetry by Robert Louis Stevenson. This is one about those nights:

Bed in Summer

In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree,

Or hear the grown-up people's feet

Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the sky is clear and blue,

And I should like so much to play,

To have to go to bed by day?

I think my themes are I feel the change of seasons coming; I am mad that Peter's not here - I feel like I've gone through the hard winter and it's still winter in my heart, but summer is tugging - maybe a little more light, and I do want to play....

Someone, bring in the garbage please

So, I've been busy; busy and having a good time visiting with people here and away. A thought I had was that I feel like I am coming out of a long, dark tunnel. I feel a bit bewildered, blinking back the light. I still feel a bit disconnected to things that I felt connected to before. (Like my brain. Where did that go?) I'm making some effort to swim along with the rest of humanity, and hoping that it's not completely obvious that I'm pretty bad at this. Yet, I can laugh, and I can connect with people. I just feel, well, different. Not sure of my place, identity, or anything else. Yet, I do know I'm loved. And that's a good thing. Loved even though I'm feeling pretty lousy about reaching out.

So, time keeps going by and here it is April already. I noticed that when I wasn't writing, Peter kept popping up in my dreams. I would awaken, sometimes disturbed, and not be able to go back to sleep. I wondered if my writing was helping me process (duh), and without it, I was processing all right, but it was put off until the night hours when I didn't have a conscious choice about it.

I try not to fall into self-pitying (pitiful!) thoughts, but this afternoon I slipped as I was driving home. I was thinking about the little chore that faced me of walking the garbage, recycling and compost bins up the driveway to the backyard after the pick-up this morning. (The driveway is hardly longer than the length of the car. This is pitiful.) That was Peter's job, and I was mad that I didn't have him to share responsibilities with; large or small. I noticed my foible, and as I was battling that thought back, I drove up to see that some kind person had done the deed while I was at work. I laughed, and was humbled.

Peter, I miss you like crazy. When this is all over, I wonder what I'll think. Wonder that it wasn't such a long time after all between seeing you last February and seeing you again. That darn time/space deal. It sure can be hard from this side. I'll try to be patient.

Rainy Sunday

It's been raining for days. On Friday one of our secretaries said she'd seen animals walking past two by two. Reservoirs are at 102%. How can that be?

Last night our orchestra performed at the Bankhead Theatre in Livermore. I had eight fans there! My son was the surprise, saying, "Mom, can my two friends come too?" Of course! I bought the three of them tickets.

This morning, the crew took off for southern California.

Yes, they all fit in the truck. It took some rearranging to get the guy on the left to sit in the front middle. You can guess why. Later, near Bakersfield, I got a call saying that there was some green fluid coming out of the engine, and that there was steam. I had shown Daniel how to add power steering fluid to the engine yesterday, but now I was a hundred miles away. Luckily I had told him not to open caps nonchalantly for fear of loss of limb or face. I got him in contact with a friend who is a car mechanic, and tried not to worry so much. They had the Grapevine to climb, and that is the ultimate in engine blowers. I called later, and they had employed duct tape and had filled the radiator with water, and were going around on Highway 101 instead of 5 to avoid the Grapevine. I'll be glad when I hear from them. The last time the crew went south, they were caught in a snowstorm on the Grapevine, and the seven hour trip took 18 hours. All in the adventure, right? I like what our friend said. "If he waits for the light to go on, and we call that the idiot light, he will be an idiot, because it will be too late and the engine will be blown."

I wish I wasn't the dad, too, right now, but I am grateful that I know something, and that I also have friends to reach out to.

Today I had more friends over, and of course my mom is here. Also talked to bunches of people this weekend, and have lots of good trips to look forward to. However, I feel like I am coming out of a tunnel, and I'm not sure about it. My eyes are blinking in the light, and I'm a bit discombobulated.

I cleaned my closet today. (I thought momentarily about taking a picture of the resulting chaos, but it was over-the-top crazy.) Things are put together now, and there are five black lawn bags full of stuff that will go in my car and then to Good Will. Of course I handled some of Peter's things, and that leaves me melancholic. I smell his clothes, searching for his scent, but I don't find it. I hug the clothes to me, hoping to impart some of him to me, but he is gone. Yet, I do feel him somehow near. I'm amazed at how long it takes to integrate a death into oneself. I wonder if there is some gift in grieving. I think I'll only be able to report later. Much, much later.

Hey - another sincere thank you to friends (and my family members are friends, too) - who are there and continue to be there. Love you all....

Kitchen Table Wisdom

I'm reading a book called Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D. In the introduction, Dean Ornish, M.D. says, "Telling stories can be healing. We all have within us access to a greater wisdom, and we may not even know that until we speak out loud." A statement he makes later also rings true for me: "During the times that we feel most vulnerable, that which is invulnerable within us becomes uncovered, becomes more apparent." I also love that the book is dedicated To everyone who has never told their story.

I'm glad that Peter and I could tell our stories, and that people so lovingly listened. It made all the difference. It still does. The book talks about community, and how we need each other. I agree. Do I always feel connected? No. I think a lot of times I've contracted into a cave to lick my wounds, so to speak. I'm still grateful for the patience of those that keep reaching out. I'm sure I look and sound pretty normal most of the time, but I'm still absorbing the shock and the reality of what has happened - still trying to make sense out of it, if there's any sense to be made. Maybe there's not. I agree with something I saw in the book, too, that our society is all about spring and summer, all the time, and never fall or winter. I know I'm in the fall and winter stage, and it is hard for me to open myself to another spring and summer. Spring coming means that I have lived through death. I sat down to paint with a troubled child in the counselor's office this week while I waited to speak to my principal. I painted a rainbow first; the colors just came and laid themselves one upon another. Then a tree. A barren old tree with no leaves. Finally I saw a bird in my mind's eye, a bird rushing in from outside the picture somewhere. Coming in fast. "What's with the bird?" the counselor gently asked. "I don't know - maybe it's hope." "The tree has no leaves," the counselor said. "I know," I replied. "I can't do it." It sits there, barren. Maybe the leaves will come. I think so. It has to be.

We had a dress rehearsal tonight for our concert in two days. It's been raining for days on end, and tonight we had quite a lot. Our conductor drives in from Palo Alto, and we heard it was near flooding over there, and we all sat in our seats past our definitive starting time. Finally the second chair violinist said, "At least we can get tuned." Then Virginia made the announcements. When she came to the end, she slowed down, and then finally said, "I don't have any more." Someone understanding that she was hoping to fill time chirped, "Then start again from the beginning!" A few people said, "Someone start directing!" At last a percussionist volunteered and said he'd try. A bunch of us encouraged him with hoots and clapping. "Do you have a score?" "I have part of one." "Don't worry," our principal cellist said, "just wave your hand and we'll go." Larry actually did a great job. Without the conductor, many of us unabashedly counted rests out loud and tapped our feet. After a couple of pages, we were still going full steam, and our conductor walked in, and carefully placed his score on the stand as Larry was still conducting, and then exchanged places and we continued on, though our mouths and feet were now disciplined and quiet. We had a good rehearsal, though this is the most difficult program we've played yet. One funny instance was when some brass players got out of rhythm. "Count!" our conductor admonished. "And you all are engineers from the [Lawrence Livermore] Lab? God help us all!" he said. We stayed until ten, and I thought that we have such a nice community in our orchestra. I'm really glad.

Connections, and community. I'm grateful. I need you.

Oh, What a Day

I wonder how things come together to shape one's day. I woke up this morning with a list of things I wanted to get done at work. List formulating in my head as I was in the shower, I was struck with an interruptive thought that I needed to be open to what would come my way. Arriving at work, I paused by the parking lot to say goodbye to the fourth graders who were boarding busses for a field trip to see the state capitol. As I was talking to the teachers, one of our secretaries ran out and said that I was needed in the health office. I ran in, and such started a day that ended up with a ride with a child in an ambulance, and a visit to the ER in the same hospital where Peter died. I didn't even think about it until I walked through those doors and suddenly the familiar surroundings knocked on that part of my subconscious, threatening to pull me down. I was strong, and of course felt strong in my role as surrogate parent for the child as I was her advocate and protector. Familiar process. I recognized the phlebotomist as someone who had worked on Peter both in the ER and on the floor. I told her so. She works in three different hospitals, so was noncommittal, but she came back in the room later and said she did remember me. I saw the head ER doctor, the one that was so kind to Peter and me on one of those first visits, the one who said he was so sorry for him, and for me, and for our family. "You're a good man," he said to Peter. "This shouldn't be happening to you." The doctor was working at a computer at one end of a station, and I just had a grateful thought, and walked by. So many months ago. A lifetime, literally.

I didn't return to school until noon, and then in fact I had district duties off campus. I said to my principal, "Nice seeing you today!" as she dropped me off at my car after picking me up at the hospital.

Later I took the truck to orchestra so Daniel could use my car to pick up my mom at the San Francisco airport. Another feeling of deja vu. Being in the truck, smelling it's familiar scent, feeling the way it rolls over the bumps, then laughing at the stories attached to the truck, including the golf balls. Bittersweet thoughts, and I allowed myself the leisurely mulling over them as I drove the twenty minutes to practice.

So, no, I never got to any of the items that were on the list this morning. But that is perfectly OK.

Stick Me Back in the Ground

I had a busy weekend - hardly enough time to think. On Friday during the day, I felt like crying. I promised myself that I could later. I kept my promise and had a nice cry in the car.

Friday night, I chaperoned a two school 7th-8th grade dance. Enough said.

Later Friday night, Daniel arrived home from UC Riverside with four friends. The five of them made it up through the rain and wind just fine. That night they found something to do in Dublin, and in the morning, I made them pancakes and sausage. They went through two containers of juice! Good to see the guys. I had warm chocolate chip cookies ready for them when they arrived. I kept hearing something like, "This isn't like Stonehaven." (Stonehaven is the on campus apartments where they make lots of macaroni and Daniel states without embarassment houses a lot of mold.)

Saturday night Robert came over. So good to see both of the boys. I made them Cornish game hens.

Today the two boys and I got up early and went to Denica's to meet the gang. We ate and shared stories and laughed. The laughter is the best part. When I took Robert home after doing some soccer shoe shopping, Asmita showed me something in his room that she wanted to fix. We talked about it. When I looked around to Robert's bedside table, I saw some neatly laid out artifacts from his dad. I mouthed something to Asmita, and she quietly brought me into the den where there was another very carefully laid out collection of Peter's things that I had given him. Robert came in and quietly smiled. I told him how nice it was.

On the way home, I stopped off to visit some friends who have been staying at his parents where his dad has needed some caretaking lately. I'd never met them, but the mom instantly grabbed me and we looked at her garden. It has been raining madly since Friday, but there was a break. She's from Hawaii, and in her garden were beautiful orchids, succulents and other things. Before I knew it, my friend had a shovel as his mom pointed for him to "dig up this" and "dig up that". Plastic bags appeared and were filled with beautiful plants. Rose stalks were cut along with a representative flower. Succulents pulled, snails killed, lots of laughter, and soon the back of my Subaru was loaded with living things. The mom had followed Peter's struggle closely, and even though we'd never met nor talked before, I felt a closeness to her as she now experiences the declining mental and physical health of her husband.

As she ripped out plants from the ground, I said out loud how the people with the greenest thumbs seem to be the most rough with their plants. "Just stick it in the ground!" she advised. "It will grow!" When my tentativeness came through, she said, "Just think positively!" I got home and planted and planted. It was therapeutic, and "grounding".

I feel like I've been ripped from my moorings, and I'm also self conscious about the snails that have dropped from me. I think I'll survive. Just stick me in the ground, let the rain fall down, and think positively!