Yesterday I attended the memorial service for my friend Denny, a friend for 45 years who died at age 90. Evidently she happily faded away, which is what all of us would expect from her. I remember Denny telling me that when she was a little girl she noticed that she often felt sad. “So one day I decided to pretend to be happy. And you what? I started being happy and I’ve been happy ever since.”
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More about Mom and her sewing group. The town-wide Sewing Group was comprised of many subgroups--knitting, crocheting, needle point, and actual sewing. There were two big sales a year, with all proceeds allocated to local charities. Each member made a commitment to contribute a certain number of items to her group (um, don’t know if any men were involved). Mom group knit little baby clothes, and I mean little--newborn to one year-old. Mom’s specialty was owl sweaters (a row of owls with button eyes across the chest), size zero to 3 months. I don’t know how many blue, pink and light green sweaters she knit over the forty or so years that she went to her Monday afternoon meeting, but she was a big producer of a very popular item. However, during the last few years I doubt that she contributed more than one sweater, and I pretty sure that the group waved her obligations, although up until the last year when her memory faded away, she hardly missed a meeting. After she stopped driving at age 95, someone in the group would pick her up and off she would go with her knitting bag, but probably only to smile and eat the goodies provided. They loved her presence and on her 100th birthday her sewing group friends celebrated by planting a tree on the grounds where she lived. Of course we, her daughters, wanted her to knit an owl sweater for each of our grandchildren. The first few great-grandchildren were lucky enough to get one, but the younger ones were too late. When my sister asked Mom about it, Mom pursed her lips and said that she had to knit for the sewing group. This didn’t see right or fair. Mom was being selfish. Well, maybe not. Maybe we were being selfish. Mom must have figured that it would be selfish of her to knit for great grandchildren when her sweaters could raise money for less-fortunate children!. And besides, Mom was not a big gift giver: ‘I want my grandchildren to love me for who I am, not because of anything I give them.’ I still have Mom’s knitting bag with a blue owl sweater half completed. My sister thinks we should finish it. Um, maybe that will happen. Mom would like that. The holidays have been put away, as we say. What a relief to return to a simpler day-to-day existence. No, existence isn’t the word I want, for it lacks soul. It connotes making it through the day, and although that’s the way for us sometimes, we don’t want that. My thesaurus offers ‘survival’, with ‘extinction’ as the antonym, so you can see, existence is not quite it. I’ll have to settle for being, day-to-day being, which may sound rather awkward, but it’s what I’m reaching for. Much of the solitude that I long for has to do with being; sitting, walking, reading, writing, praying, all at whim, not because of obligation. Turning 74 a few days ago helps this being feel right—one of the benefits of ageism. I’m done with most of my obligations. Snow has been falling since 1 AM Thursday and now it is 7 AM on Friday. Only 8 or so inches here but more in Boston and more still at the cottage. By the time I get there on Saturday the driveway will have been plowed and all I’ll have to do is shovel the steps. Right now there is solitude here at home. Being is a state of mind, and so, here I am, being, minus the walking. I meant to post this yesterday, but not to worry, the New Year has just begun and undoubtedly we will all need a little help throughout the year. So, whether you have weight deadening on your shoulders, or you are feeling the clarity of light, take this blessing for yourself and send it out to others. Beannacht (Irish Blessing) On the day when the weight deadens on your shoulders and you stumble, may the clay dance to balance you. And when your eyes freeze behind the grey window and the ghost of loss gets in to you, may a flock of colours, indigo, red, green, and azure blue come to awaken in you a meadow of delight. When the canvas frays in the currach of thought and a stain of ocean blackens beneath you, may there come across the waters a path of yellow moonlight to bring you safely home. May the nourishment of the earth be yours, may the clarity of light be yours, may the fluency of the ocean be yours, may the protection of the ancestors be yours. And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you, an invisible cloak to mind your life. beannacht John O'Donohue What could be better than to celebrate my birthday with my granddaughter at the MFA? It has become a tradition to go there whenever she visits. Our routine is simple. We arrive at 10 so we can park in the lot right next to the entrance. We leave our coats in the car so we don’t need to stand in line to check them. Always, and I mean always, we head directly to the Egyptian Wing, her favorite. From there we wander at random until we reach the cafeteria. After lunch we wander some more, always to the Renaissance gallery, my favorite. And then, at the exact same moment, we look at each other and agree that it is time to head home. This visit we each took a sketch pad and pencil. Clearly sketching helps me look in a new way. And then, there is the camera, the results of which I’m sharing here. If you been following this blog for any length of time you may be aware that I don’t write much about my personal life. Or to phrase it another way, the only person I talk about is myself (and a little about my mom), leaving out specifics about family and friends, protecting their privacy. Today, however, I must divulge that it is our 50th wedding anniversary. I can’t believe that we are that old. Both Jim and I have always looked and acted young even though we never found the fountain of youth. Quoting the tile of a book by Ann Lamott, we would say, wow and thanks (but not help). Calling forth Mom’s last words at age 101, we would say, very grateful. I’m thinking about widows today. The many I know, and the many I don’t know. It has to be a particularly poignant time for them. All those memories, the good, the bad, the bittersweet. A widow friend died yesterday. She was in her 90s and just stopped eating and faded away. Good choice if we have it. She always saw the bright side of things, so no surprise that she let go so gracefully. Her husband died ten or so years ago. His birthday was December 25. Their granddaughter was born 30 years ago on the 24th. Births and deaths, all of a seamless cloth. Um, I imagine that there are some interesting birth and death statistics surrounding December 25th. My sister and I included, both born on December 30 six years apart. December, such an energy-filled time. The Boston Red Sox won the 2013 World Series. Fan or not, you all know that. It was amazing for the players, Red Sox Nation, and for Boston Strong, but you all know that. On the good days I was into it, but having been disappointed by the Brooklyn Dodgers back in my formative years, I knew how to keep my distance on the bad days. On the day that game six returned to Fenway, however, I knew it was going to be a good day. A good enough day to stay up and watch the celebratory hugs and lavish quirts of champagne after the final out. On that late night, or more precisely in the early morning, I was wide awake until after 12:30 when the networks closed down for the night. It was amazing. Also amazing, but in a very personal way, was my response the next morning. The game was behind me. In place of all the emotional, mental and physical noise of the season, I was ready for silence, not just in my ears but in my very way of living. The silence was with me the very moment I woke up, having slipped in quietly during the night. I glanced at the headlines and then went on with my life--no game recap from TV or the Boston Globe. In the next few days I’m sure I’ll read some articles and wallow in the recaps. Undoubtedly I’ll take more than a glance at the Duck Boat parade on Saturday. After all, who doesn’t like to feel good? But I won’t be creating my own ‘Wait ‘til next year’ scenario. This was a moment in time. This was this year. It’s hard to get back into silence, solitude and simplicity when everyone I see is wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. How can I ignore Major League Baseball in October when I have vivid memories going back to the Brooklyn Dodgers? My grandmother was the most ardent of fans, yelling at Duke Snider through the TV: ‘Duke, you need glasses.’ She was primed in front of our black and white TV, the daily major league standing cut from the NY Times on the table in front of her, waiting to hear ‘play ball!’ She didn’t have a TV in her Brooklyn apartment so she was often with us in Connecticut for important ball games. I remember, however, talking with her on the telephone after the Dodgers finally won in 1955. She and my aunts and uncles were going out to celebrate on the streets of Brooklyn. The Red Sox aren’t as dear to my heart as those Bums were, but if you live around Boston you gotta care. Last night’s game was miserable from start to finish. As the Sox were losing, I was reading Sonia Sotomayor’s marvelous autobiography, My Beloved World. Tonight’s game starts at 8:30, too late for me to stick with until the end. I’m slowly creating distance and getting back into silence, solitude and simplicity. |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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