9/30/2015

unreadiness

At last I've trundled a ways down the river path again, in shiny sun.



After a pause at the water's edge I wandered on into a familiar tree-lined corridor, even though I felt the burn of unused muscles. I was ready to turn back for home, but I couldn't help thinking how one never knows, in the brief warming autumn hour, exactly whether there will be another chance to push a little and go there.

My summer's experiences inspired this thinking.

The sun shone hot in late June the day Mom drove me to emergency. (This was to be the first of three ER visits, along with two ambulance rides and two hospital admissions, plus surgery, ICU, and lots of hours spent in the cardiac wing of Riverbend hospital.) Intense pain and difficulty breathing naturally made me wonder if today I might die. I recognized clearly that I wasn't ready.

Of course I was unready to leave family and friends. But in that moment I became very aware of my unreadiness regarding the end of this life, my spirit's separation from my body and experiencing what's next.

I didn't think about this in a despairing way. I prayed, as I've practiced many times, "Lord have mercy." Not considering God's mercy in the deep, judgemental-sounding voice of British actors in films where gallows victims prepare to hang: "May God have mercy on your soul." My belief is that mercy triumphs over judgement and is a free a gift, as free as sparkling ripples in the Willamette.


I wasn't terrified, but I was sorry. I knew I hadn't been paying attention half as often as would be beneficial. I was like a hiker who's signed up to trek the Pacific Crest Trail, looking forward to the gift of closer sky and the crunch of boots on dirt, the scents of cedar and campfire and the amazing vistas, none of which I created or imagined, all of which lie ahead to be experienced. But I was also like the person who prepares for this backpacking adventure in spurts, distracted often by everything else, unacquainted with maps and tools, hoping it'll all come together okay, anyway.

When a person has decided something is important, to the point of talking about it in anticipation and making some room in life for its approach, and then the person sees herself still pretty lackadaisical about the thing, there are options. One is to turn away from it altogether. Another is to seek help from others to make up for her lack. A third is to lunge into this impending appointment with everything she has, stumbling through mistakes and hardships to achieve her goal. There are more, I'm sure.

While in the hospital I faced into several options as I saw them regarding my heart's beliefs about life and death.


It was good for me. I feel, on the one hand now, like sharing on this blog every humanistic and theological nuance that arrived within my muddled waters. But trying to do so gets rather preachy and bogged down fairly soon. I'll say, for the moment, that I made a definite decision. While life is always changing, I'm not always aware of it. This summer, I knew my life changed again. I was brought to the point of seeing this, and I'm grateful.

Perhaps this is what each person is doing along the path toward the ending we all face. Taking steps toward seeing what's going on inside, being a bit chased sometimes by what happens, in order to be able to pause and make definite choices. Free beings that we are, let's push ourselves a little in the warming hours and go there, and decide. We don't know exactly whether another chance will be.

9/23/2015

gladdened mourning

Beautiful equinox, tangle of light behind blushing leaves, and yet I grieve summer's end.


Last Monday, an early call. Mom's quick assurance, and the news. "Dad and I are okay. But Uncle Larry is gone."

That fast. His dear wife left alone in the seconds between stumble and floor, breath and stillness.

At the wedding reception he and I had hugged. Same old Larry, trademark half grin and quiet smile until that burst of laughter. Photos capture others; he takes it easy in the background.


Mom and Dad's new-to-them van breezed the miles to their home on the Columbia. I had strength to drive, which wouldn't have been the case a few weeks back. All things worked together -- Tim came up Friday with James and Kimi for the service. My brothers and their spouses, other family. Hugs and music and cookies and food spread and campfire at dusk.

Home again this week, I sigh in the weather's chill, catching up some. Light, though shining fewer hours, slants easy in the garden, the background.



There is mourning and there is mourning, I suppose. It's all related. I miss summer. I miss Uncle Larry. The night he died, he had just finished supervising a chimney's completion -- his house fully finished after a quarter century. Our extended-family home now lacks something, someone substantial.




The Christian faith I've come to embrace gives me a narrative, a reason for mourning. Blessed are the mourners, pausing in life's background, watching rays slant and smoke rise, yearning for a turn from photo negative to the full spectrum: flavor, music, texture; the delight of joining together again.

9/01/2015

bright tympani

Rain didn't fall in Eugene for several months, until right after James and Kimi's outdoor wedding reception. My nail-biting beforehand wasn't necessary -- there were three or four hours between the party's end and the first lightning flash.

Whew.



Their wedding Friday morning charmed everyone. Both of the day's events were truly DIY, with nobody hired to cater or direct. The photographer, whose work will be available in a couple weeks, is a talented young friend building her portfolio.


 My shoulders feel lighter. I lived so long thinking, "What's next to do before the wedding..." that even on Saturday, roaming the mall with Tim and Victoria after a movie, my mind kept going there. "What next...oh, yeah, it's done!"

Some people really love planning events and making them happen. I think one reason I wasn't sure I'd ever have children  was my reluctance to carry out social obligations. Tim and I are nerdy, and so are our dear kids (each of whom I'm quite glad came along), and so are our friends. If not nerdy, they're different in ways that don't fit well with party planning.

And, especially now, we're not people with money. Yet we aren't so far removed from social conventions that we don't worry about having enough food (when the reception is only vaguely planned as a potluck) and about table arrangements and drinks (although we didn't worry enough there: the lemonade ran out).

But with a bride who's nearing completion of her baking degree, we knew the cake at least would turn out right. It was even gluten-free, tasting as good as it looked.


I guess weddings most always just somehow come together. There is joy and tension, lilting steps amid work. There are kind surprises, in the gift of family and friends helping. We were greatly blessed in this area. People who know how to think under pressure arrived and started setting up early. Some even stayed long after the bride and groom's bubble-blown exit, and so we were able to take most everything down before it poured.

I'm left this week afterward pondering marriage. Someone spoke to me Friday about their ambivalence toward the whole deal, the fuss, the to-do. I think this person was saying they didn't think James and Kimi needed to formalize their obviously caring relationship.

I responded, "But it's a blessing."

 
The support of others comes from true caring, expansive in beauty as the sky. When something as enduring on the planet as marriage sprouts to make a new beginning, the heavens can't help but gather their giving forces, displaying the rain of love, the bright tympani of affection. Though afterward this flow might seem to dry up for long stretches, mundane and difficult, its sudden abundance won't soon be forgotten.

The first flash at 2:00 a.m. Saturday delighted me. Thunder shook the neighborhood like laughter; then there overflowed the symphony of rain.


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