wonder

June 26, 2021

It is early evening as we walk, heads down, through piney woods to a beaver meadow and watch grasses blow around. Bleached and bony pines guard the spaces where dense woods become open lumpy habitat for birds and black water snakes its way toward some other home. We stand for a while without words. Little by little our intrusion on this place softens and we begin to blend in, becoming part of what it was before our arrival disturbed things.

Mia sits among tall grasses with her sketch pad trying to capture the details. I stand, using the top of a fence post as a makeshift easel taking in the bigger picture. Black flies harass the corners of my eyes and crawl along the hairline on the back of my neck. I pause to brush them away and continue with my pen, remembering my wise artist friend Kate’s advice to be free as I sketch. Loosen my grip, don’t let it become too precious, embrace the mistakes, keep going. Good advice for arting and life.

After a little while I close my notebook and wander with the dogs through the tall grasses, their wagging tails disappearing just a few feet ahead of me. When I stop to write or sketch or look closely at the miracle that is a seed pod hanging off the end of a delicate stem four feet off the ground, the dogs come back to see what’s keeping me. They wait for me to finish, panting and wagging their tails until I accidentally make eye contact. Then they smile and wag harder. Okay I say quietly and we are off again, pushing through the waist high green. There is only the sound of breezes bumping into and flowing around the things that are pushing their way skyward, roots driving through black rich earth and muck. 

Near the beaver meadow is a spot where an old hunting camp stood for many years. The forest service has recently brought in heavy equipment to dismantle and remove it, dragging it out of the woods as if excising a human-made sore from this otherwise perfect place. Wild blueberries are already beginning to fill the spaces around empty bullet casings and other detritus left behind. Someone has carved a small totem of a bear out of a stump at the edge of the woods. Soon the tire tracks will disappear among grasses and briars, erasing human evidence altogether. 

On the way back Mia and I talk of ferns: how each fern is so many fronds, and each frond is its own miniature version of a fern. She collects grasses and we talk of what a miracle they are with their sometimes fluffy sometimes flat top hat of seeds just waiting. The dogs trot happily along, always ahead of us, sniffing things and chasing real or imaginary creatures. When the gap between us becomes too great, they pause and turn, making sure we follow.

showing up

July 2023

The loons call again this morning. Less frequently, not as near, a little less mournful, and then gone. They seem to prefer the quiet stillness of just after sunrise as the first shimmers of light hit the surface of the lake. The trail to Pont de Vieu is quite rocky and wet and we are at the lookout before much time has passed at all. I expect the view and yet it is always more stunning than I remember. We climb for a bit to explore what comes next on the trail, all the while chatting about life and challenges and realities and plans. The things that excite us and the things that make us stumble or question or pause.

The fresh start is a gift we give ourselves. Pushing the restart button, powering down first. Taking a look at the usual pathways and deciding if we like them and which ones we want to keep and which ones we want to leave behind. And then creating new pathways and seeing if we like where they lead. What still works and what do we want to change? What’s missing and what needs to be pitched? What do we want more of? What can we unburden ourselves from? What things in life bring joy? How can we make more of that? Do we need to actively do more or less? Or is it just about slowing down and taking note of miracles around us? I wonder which pathways I could create that would afford more pause throughout the day.

Maybe it’s not so much that the well is dry as the pump needs priming. And what do I mean by that? When it sits unused it forgets it is a pump but this doesn’t mean there’s no water in the well. It means the pump forgot its job. Or something. Anyway, I suppose cleverness aside it means the creativity is still there and still wants to be expressed. It hasn’t left me. I have perhaps left it. I hope we can come back to each other and hold each other again soon. I suppose hoping this happens is not as good as actively conjuring it to show up.

So what we could do is sit in a hard chair with the wind moving past my right ear and water lapping below where I sit. We could notice the now warm grey tea in the robins egg blue mug off my right elbow. What could come next is some time and space for whatever bubbles up onto the page. We could try facing the blank page and moving the pen and seeing if the pain in my neck lessens at all. And maybe tell the story of loons in the early morning lake mist and then an orange sunrise and also a cool naked dip in a quiet lake and the  beautiful pleasure of being alive.

All that is required is a willingness to show up and the courage to be mediocre and an acceptance that it’s not the success or brilliance or the failure of mediocrity, it is the showing up that matters. It’s bringing the pen to paper, uncapping the pen, opening the notebook, taking a breath, and then just… going. It’s not important whether my naked body looks good as it slides into the cool lake in the morning. What matters is that I move my arms and legs and stay present to the magic of water flowing all around me. What matters is the beautiful pleasure of warm sun drying my skin. What is amazing is the flow of movement through morning poses and that right here and right now being in my body and doing these things is a miracle and a gift.

sifting through

April 2023

A small glimpse of me today. The day begins with the oh so faintest edge of swirly. It builds and grows and begins to take hold as I move between pulling fresh bread from my dad’s oven and returning to my couch cushion to continue typing his bio notes. This has been a long procrastinated, frequently  started and stopped project. The sun pushes through the treeline behind me and we work a little while longer, the warm dough sitting heavy in my belly. I sip tea and work the keyboard. Lewie snoozes peacefully, our morning walk nearly two hours old now. 

It all gets put on pause as I lean into the grip of unrelenting angst and – finally, as the morning moves swiftly to midday – hit the trail. The hard packed icy trail feels like home under my slow moving feet. I find my groove and settle into the welcome rhythm of a winter run. Hood pulled tightly around my face, cheeks cold, hands warm in my mittens, Lewie trotting ahead and sniffing all the things. I have to watch where I put my feet so it’s 30 or more minutes before I realize the intense blue of this late spring sky behind the sway of skinny maples. I stop and take it in. I’ve been climbing awhile now, but so gradually I hardly notice. I’m paralleling a gorge on my right and a higher ridge on my left, the faint sound of water below. I push on down the trail and  through the trees, beginning to feel like me again. 

Later I bring an armload of things from the attic and hold them up for him, one by one. A bulky grey sweater – This one? Do you want to keep it? Yes, he says. How about this fleece? Yes. Shirt after shirt, all yes. I convince him to let go of the short sleeve button down with two stains on the front. I don’t want my dad wearing a stained shirt – it looks like no one cares about him. Okay, he relents.

the after

February and March 2023

At 6:30 pm it is still light out enough for my long awaited run. I take my swirly belly and bloodshot eyes and raw nerves out into the rain. The snow now sits in melted puddles on top of frozen ground. My feet are wet almost instantly. I duck beneath branches and hop over the small stream in my dad’s backyard, disappearing through the bare tree limbs toward the fields. I am out of shape. My ability to prioritize fitness has been hindered by the rhythm of the past 4 months and I miss it. I miss pushing myself and feeling strong. I miss the smells and sounds of my Ripton woods. 

Each day before opening my eyes in the still dark or just becoming light room I play a little game with myself: which bed am I in? Which house? Which town? It usually takes a beat or two before I remember. Little by little my morning routine has wasted away to a shadow of its former robustness. More often I prioritize sleep. My body aches for the morning movement of yoga or weights but I push snooze and roll over. I am wrung out, exhausted, raw. I cry easily and often. 

On weekends I have more time so I visit Pine Hill Park – a network of trails that wind all over the side of a hill in downtown Rutland. A gem in the middle of an otherwise unpleasing city. The trails are built for walkers, runners, and mountain bikers. They snake for miles up and across the ridge to Rocky Pond. It is many weeks before I cover the same trail more than once. I now have my favorites: Svelte Tiger, Rembrandt’s Brush, Lonely Rock. I almost never see people. Running the trails is happy-making no matter what, and I expect solitude. It surprises me if I come upon another person and luckily that is rare.

Rocky Pond is still frozen but the Canada geese fly over it low, looking for open water on their migration back north. Yesterday I saw a great blue heron, its spear shaped body matching the blue gray late afternoon sky. Water runs across the exposed ledges of rock,  freezing into treacherous little frozen rivers. Trickles of sweat run down my spine, warm under my many layers from running uphill. I spook a barred owl from her perch. I freeze in my tracks to watch her drop and glide silently between the bare branches, disappearing from sight almost instantly. 

During our afternoon walk up the street, Dad and I hear the cardinals calling to each other. A bright red male sits on the wire across the street, making its weeeeeeeeet -weet-weet-weet-weet-weet-weet song. A female answers from a well hidden spot. I hold my Dad’s two canes so he can  pull his hood up and tie it snugly under his beard of white. 

late shift

December 2022

I am doing overnight duty, curled up in the recliner in the fireplace room. Not sleeping, listening to the clock chime. A short chime every quarter hour, a longer chime at the half hour, the longest chime at the top of the  hour, including a bong for each hour. There is no sleeping between chimes which rouse me if I get close to dozing off.  Finally at 1:45 it occurs to me to see if I can adjust the clock somehow. I tiptoe to the shelf and pull it down, much lighter than I thought it would be. There are settings on the back which I tinker with for a while, first switching it to only go off on the hour, but it goes off again 15 minutes later, then a switch for no sound, which has no effect at all as it continues its relentless song. Finally I take a chance and switch it to the  off position. I settle back in the recliner and watch the clock to see what happens. 2:00AM comes and goes with no chime. Ah, sweet success. Oddly, I am now fully awake and despite being exhausted, feel unready to sleep. At 2:45 I can hear Dad moving down the hallway behind me, shuffle shuffle and click of the cane. He gestures that I should relinquish the chair and go upstairs to try and sleep – he will take over this overnight post. 

I thank him and make my way upstairs into my waiting sleeping bag, comfy and warm and ready to rest. Now that I can, I can’t. I lie in my cozy nest, perfectly relaxed and warm and wide awake for another 2 hours. Finally, I drift off and get in a couple of rounds of REM –I hope –and gently slide into wakefulness as the weak gray morning light slips through the windows. It is 6:39. I may have gotten 2 hours. Happy first day of 2023.

The drive is not bad. Flooded farm fields begging for skates to cut their surface at the next freeze. Hawks dropping from power lines to hunt in spent rows of harvested corn. Today, a barred owl surveying the grasses beneath her perch.

In the afternoon I wipe countertops as my Dad asks me what I think of our patient moving to a 24-7 care facility. We chat about it a bit. He says he respects my opinion, he values my perspective. It fills me with tenderness for him.

empty spaces

August 2022

On the dock with Dave, early morning, he casts, I sit to his left, hot mug in my hands. A pair of squawky blue herons complain at our intrusion in their quiet morning and flap their way to a new better spot. Canada geese gather and disperse in a way that both makes sense and is confusing, leaving stray feathers floating on pollen covered water. Dave throws his lure offshore again and again, reeling it in as we say little and sit in the cool morning. Eventually the line tugs. Got a bite, he says and reels it in. The anticipation is short as he pulls in an open mouthed big eyed flat and beautifully speckled something or other, removes the hook and tosses it gently back into the shallows off the end of the dock. 

Coming back from my run, I see Greg climbing into his kayak and shoving offshore, easy paddle strokes pulling him through calm water away from me. As I climb into my boat and move across the lake I remember his words from our childhood – a whiny plea to my relentless pull at doing whatever he was doing: stop following me!  And think, well… as I pull water from in front and move it to behind me, marveling at how the boat easily slides and slices through the morning lake. Mist rises and he is somewhere hidden behind it, silent as the morning. I aim for what looks like a cove, imagining sweet wild things slipping between cattails around the next corner. My paddle pushes through pollen-laden unmoving water. Soon enough I see Greg paddling toward me through the mist.  We move quietly through the early morning in parallel strokes, water dripping off the fat end of the paddle as ducks float and hunt in the shadows along the shore. 

My brothers and I climb up one of the old ski hills of our childhood in dew covered feet. A flock of Canada geese watches our arrival, far enough away that we are not a threat. An immature eagle or perhaps a hawk screeches as we approach its towering pine and launches its body into the sky, circling and continuing its warning cry. Greg carries our mom’s ashes in his pack to the spot where we can see the gathering place for so many years of ski instruction. We share memories of conquering a black diamond, breaking a leg, falling off the chairlift – successes and failures and memories too numerous to count. We decide on the just right spot and float patiently toward the just right time, each filling our hand with what is left of her borrowed stardust. Bits of ash are carried off by the breeze while others fall to our feet and become part of the grasses where next winter another generation will learn to ski. I brush my hands back and forth on what I now realize is creeping thyme, wiping off the last of the ash as a waft of sweet herb is released. Thyme. It’s everywhere, flowering purple and stretching like a carpet across the green slope. Thyme. The symbolism and a bittersweet memory hit me hard: it’s the moment the doctor is telling my mother she is dying. It takes several tries as it’s a lot to take in. Finally she begins to understand and she says, I thought I had more time.

gone west

departure

I am somewhat gratefully jolted from restless non-sleep by Mia’s effective if jarring alarm. It will not be light for hours. We dress quickly, gather our things, and head into the early morning drizzle. Our generous middle of the night driver Lydia switches lanes in the dark, depositing us curbside where we say our goodbyes on wet pavement, shivering in our down jackets. Lifting off at shortly after 5AM, I watch the pink suggestion of Camel’s Hump to the east, tapping my sternum and concentrating on a deep inhale, the pause, an extended exhale. On the rare occasion that I board a plane I marvel through tight shoulders and clenched jaw at the miracle of just all of sudden leaving the earth. We humans are meant for terra firma. And yet.

At our DC layover, I hold hot coffee in both hands and soak in the warmth of a sunny window by our gate. Endless trail running and hiking awaits us 2500 miles to the west in Coconino National Forest. For now though, we are strapped into tiny seats at 30,000 feet, peering through tiny plexiglass ovals at the weirdly geometric high tech irrigation systems and crops of the mid-west. I fidget my restless legs and peer through dehydrated travel eyes at striking snow capped mountains flattening themselves into dusty plains.

And then we are touching down in Phoenix, greeted by palm trees and swaying spiky tendrils on blooming ocotillo. It’s been all day and then some already, but moving westward thrusts the traveler backward in time. We have hours and hours of sun left in this day. We hurtle north on highway 17 to Sedona through prairie and cactus fields, parched earth and big skies, our cold and muddy dark Vermont morning just a memory.

sedona

As I explore our new neighborhood on foot, a Gambrel’s quail scoots across the road in front of me, headpiece flopping as he joins his mate under cover of a creosote bush. Northern cardinals, mourning doves, and sweet finches flit about and there is bird song everywhere.

We unload our duffels, put food away, grab a beer, and head outside to get the lay of the land. Our casita is at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. The air is dry and hot. Desert plant scents fill the air. It is red sand and dusty green gray and late afternoon blue sky. This rich landscape gives me a second wind and I forget I’ve been traveling for 15 hours. This place is energizing, inspiring and just plain happy-making. It’s hard to feel anything but an overwhelmingly full heart.

In the morning we are out the door to greet the sun from the top of our little mountain. The days follow a predictable pattern: sunrise hike & stretch, back to the casita for coffee & breakfast, pack up and hit the trails for a hike or trail run or both, a bit more exploring, some kind of food, local beer, another walk or hike, perhaps some art-making, watch the sunset, flop exhausted into bed. Repeat.

The approach to Brins Mesa run is river grade — minus the river of course — gradual at first, then a bit of a scramble up red rocks and through piney woods bathed in the scent of boxwood, ponderosa, sage, juniper, and cypress. We climb and climb, hearts and legs complaining for more oxygen. As we crest the mesa we find ourselves gasping as much at what we see as to fill our lungs. It is a stunning silver green soft and warm mesa scattered with burnt skeleton trees from a wildfire nearly two decades ago.

Coyote scat is deposited on top of a rock in the middle of the trail. We run on, dropping off the mesa into soft yellow sand and wide dry empty stone stream beds leading to the Seven Sacred Pools. Further down the winding trail we come upon Devil’s Kitchen — an enormous sinkhole which, when I tentatively peer over the edge, inspires a kind of primordial fear manifesting deep between my thighs. We wind our way up and over boulders and along the dusty meandering Soldier’s Pass trail — presumably namesake from a long ago white man’s story in which nothing good happened. Today though we cover five or so miles through soul-feeding landscape. The wind blows all day long, and a soft and lovely cloud cover protects our pale eastern skin.

As the sun threatens to set, Mia and I find a spot on the lee side of the little mountain outside our casita, sketch pads in one hand, a beer in the other. We sketch and sip and share big feelings. Late afternoon glow spills across my drawings, the slant of light and color wash the rough terra floor, desert succulents moving in the wind.

tucson

Today we leave Sedona’s red rocks and head south for the Sonoran Desert and Tucson’s sprawl. On the way out of town we stop at Bikes and Beans for coffee and one last look around at the magic of this place. Working our way back through rolling hillsides of Saguaro cactus, we watch the landscape change in reverse. Goodbye dramatic dusty rock faces and spring desert flowers; hello open cattle fields and tumbleweeds.  South of Phoenix jaggedy peaks emerge from the haze pushing up through the intense desert heat. We pass an ostrich farm and rows and rows of pecan trees. Two cows languish in the afternoon heat as clear water rushes just out of their reach through the irrigation ditch.

As the sun begins its descent we lounge in the courtyard at Moto Sonora Brewing Company, sipping Fog Lights IPA and catching up with Kate and Ted while we wait for our food.  We learn that the stunning yellow green trees we see everywhere are palo verde. Tucson sits in a bowl between the Ranco, the Catalina, the Santa Ritas and the Tucson mountain ranges. The Superstitions, Picacho, and Catalinas are likely what we saw on our way from Phoenix to Tucson. It is 94 degrees.

Later, the sun has sunk well below the horizon behind us as we rattle along washboards with windows down and soft dark air on our bare skin, mile after mile to The Land With No Name.  Stray dogs appear from nowhere, staring into our headlights. A young couple runs laughing across the road in front of us. A confetti filled pitcher of stars spills out of the sky. Hot air, dust, and the smell of desert sage drifts through the window. At the Studio House, we unload our things and open windows. Kate tosses mouse carcasses into the brush as coyotes move and yip through the desert night.

the land, day one

Just before 5am the moon spills through the window pulling me once and for all from the light sleep I’ve dipped in and out of for the past couple of hours. A repeated  chirp drifts in from my left — the call of a lone desert bird seeking something in the dark while I finger an emerging sore on my top lip. 

Mia and I watch the sunrise from the roof, light creeping slowly over the range behind us and bathing the stark desert in soft pinks and golds. We bring coffee and sketch pads up there and listen to the sweet desert owl, the wind pushing through window screens and tilting grasses steadily north.

We wander up the road for a walking  tour of the sculptures, passing wild onion, desert dalea, fairy duster and a craggy oak dying of thirst. Humans are not meant to live in a place with so little water. And yet. 

On the return walk down the dusty road I pause to watch the golden grasses move around in the wind, trying to capture the moment while Mia and Kate stride ahead. I see them pause, stooping over the imprint where a fat rattlesnake crossed the road.

the land, day two

The wind tears through here in a way that unsettles me and stirs my brain. I rise before light, make coffee, and head up to the roof to watch the light change. A desert woodpecker moves from one ocotillo cactus to another. Mourning doves fly together over palo verdes and up and out of rocky washes, disappearing into the softening shadows behind me. A hummingbird inspects the nearly budding tip of the ocotillo and is then chased away by the mating dance of two pale green birds. 

Kate has been sharing stories of those who have  come through this place. Artists come to experience the magic of the space, watch light and shadows move across the ridgeline, engage in whatever process comes. It is a retreat, a place for quiet study and opportunity for undisturbed creative pursuits. Some leave their work here, others take their work with them when they go. Still others come as a group to participate in a workshop or collective creative experience in this space. 

It is such a gift to be here, to experience the opportunities and offerings of this place. Kate and Ted move through their 24 hours with abundance and generosity, offering all of themselves, all of this place. To walk the land with them and get a glimpse into their deep knowing of the natural world around us and the stories behind each sculpture piece and each artist is staggering. Every moment here is practiced gratitude. 

It is impossible to leave this place unchanged. 

ache

We glide through tall pine corridors and open hardwood forests on fresh buttery snow. We startle a barred owl who stands watch over a rodent hole, then flies up into a nearby maple and stares down at us with her inky unblinking eyes. Jane calls to her but she does not respond. At every turn, with each push of my pole, I am acutely aware of our abundant fortune.  We are free to connect with an unspoiled nature just minutes from our safe and warm homes. We do this while Ukrainian babies are birthed amid bombs. We push ourselves on two working legs and breathe in the woodsy air. Meanwhile a young woman’s life is squeezed by the grip of a cancer that is as voracious as it is indifferent to her suffering. We stand under pines and drink in the afternoon setting sun, talk of plans for the future. We hold hot bowls of soup, watch dogs sleep in front of the wood stove and find things to laugh about. Others not so fortunate wonder if they will see tomorrow.

My heart aches with love for this life. My sweet friends, daily joys so accessible. This strong heart pumping in my chest, this gorgeous earth, this tiny blip of time we get to be here. 

It is a privilege too big to be contained by mere words, the vastness of the ache in my body as I watch birch and hemlocks sway in the morning rain. The love I feel for this life, this gift, the daily gems. Stopping to watch  a silky otter slide off the ice and into a flowing river. Looking up at a bald eagle, so close I can see his neck feathers ruffled by a breeze. Noticing the unkindness of a hundred ravens lifting as one from a warm mountain of steaming compost.  My happy dog trotting down the trail ahead of me. A strengthening March sun on my face. My chest is just too small to hold it. And so it flows out of my feet and onto the trails around my home. It slides down my arms and out of my fingers into warm bread dough. It wraps itself around wooden spoons stirring soup. It bleeds from my breath back into this world I love so much.

oceans

Three times in as many months I find myself at the edges of oceans. Gulls riding currents, squawking and crying. I have lost two mothers this year.  Both more or less in the natural course of events. They had lived long, death arriving as a merciful end to short suffering. 

I walk the boardwalk with my daughter, shivering in the wind.  The end-of-day sky sets orangey pink while the moon rises behind us. The November sea hurls itself, frothy and reckless, onto empty beaches. Beyond the high water mark the sand is perfectly rippled. The dune grasses whip spirograph circles. I have lost two mothers, she has lost two grandmothers, and the last living connection to the father she never knew. Too many deaths in her young life.

Ruth called us “her girls.” Wherever she was she made room for us, welcomed us, loved us, always. She and Charlie would pick us up at the airport and she would cry. Days later, dropping us off she would cry again. She taught me to be patient and to answer her questions with care, the same questions coming many times over, answers forgotten or misunderstood. She loved us like we were her own. Ruth taught me to cook my first Thanksgiving turkey. We would sit on her screened porch and chat about not much of anything. Sometimes when I returned from a run I'd find my clean laundry folded on the edge of the bed. She cooked salmon and cut up salad and we sat around the table together. Later we would clear the dishes and bring out the Sequence board, Hannah teaming up with Charlie and Ruth pairing up with me. 

Ruth’s nails were always painted, her hair ‘done', her outfit and jewelry coordinated. Her hands would shake when she lifted her pills to her mouth, lipstick on her water glass. Her home was sparse and warm and spotless. She always smelled good. On the phone she would ask me how my team was doing. I’d tell her about our struggles and triumphs on the soccer field. She always answered the same way. Beautiful, she'd say.

Today her body is laid to rest next to her husband and his parents for all of eternity. As the coffin comes to rest at the bottom of her newly dug grave, a big wind pushes past my right shoulder, swirling the November leaves, breathing on my neck like an unexpected visitor. Hannah feels it too and we share a raised brow. In the morning we place stones on her marker. A fox has left prints in the fresh dirt. 

weight

I step into my skis and glide through the frozen apple orchards of my youth. Through farm animals and the smell of musty sleeping bags, through the innocence of ice skates and metal runner sleds, and then on through long summer days as a skinny no hips loose pants two braids 11 year old. I ski through the confused and anxious years of wanting attention from boys but being terrified by it. Over snowmobile trails and through beaver meadows, I keep skiing as I revisit the day I got my period. The shock of seeing rusty stains on my underwear and the quiet confusing three days that passed before I mustered the courage to tell my mom.  And still not tight enough pants to be noticed by the boys.

Breadloaf mountain’s spine presses into the morning blue. I ski past last night’s meandering fox tracks and the unwavering laser-focused path of a pre-dawn coyote. My mother is dying. This is a fact delivered by science. I believe it. I understand it. But I don’t yet see it.

My whole life, ever since I can remember, my mother has been a mystery to me. Now, staring into the face of her end, I remember with a jolt something I read once about how people will show you who they are if you only will listen, if you only will really see them. Has she been showing me all along? I only saw the parts she was willing to reveal, but I always wanted more. Our relationship has been complicated. There is little time left and the things I want to know are not for this daughter to know about this mother in this lifetime. Acceptance of this has been hard won.

These are the things that come in the dark night when my mother is dying for real this time — not like the other times when we pulled her from the bottom of her bottle. This time her organs are riddled with cancer and there are no more second chances left and we don’t quite know what to do or how to balance the doing with the letting happen.

I am sitting on the bed, mom to my left, and the sunny window to my right. I’m reading some of my journal entries to her as the wind sends sharp blasts across the snow, creating wispy strands that float from east to west. The smell of death is in the room, even with the window slightly cracked to the bitter cold fresh air. I want you to know me, I tell her. I’m reading you these things because I want you to know who I am and because I always wanted to know such things about you.

The sun streams through the window and I find myself settled in the quiet confusion of weepy and broken gratitude that I can be here with her, even if only to sit uselessly by her side. She seems so peaceful, and the space is bright and comforting. Mary Oliver says, “it’s not the weight you carry but how you carry it — books, bricks, grief — it’s all in the way you embrace it, balance it, carry it, when you cannot and would not put it down.” Sometimes the load feels impossibly heavy, other times, we forget we are carrying anything at all.

Nat the Therapy Dog is curled up next to mom’s left shoulder, his head tucked into the crook of her neck just a few inches from her face. I hold my mom’s tiny bony hand and watch her face. All the complications of our relationship no longer important, I feel only empathy now. Just compassion for her struggles and acceptance that like all of us, she is a person with flaws who did her best. I watch her breathe and think Someday this will be each of us. 

I step outside and into 4 inches of cold blowing snow. The drive home is slow going — dark, snow covered, and wind-blown. It takes a long time, which is okay. As I approach the house, a barred owl leaves its perch near the front deck and flies across the garden into the woods, weightless, showing my mother the way.