Coming from another funeral - this time in Europe - the question lingers: What stays if we have to die anyway?
In this case, love stayed. Love stayed long after the body of the loved one was felled by a series of strokes. For a dozen years the spouse cared for the loved one, with a thousand fears and doubts and difficulties, but never faltering. After all those many years, the loved one died at home, with the family by the bedside. - We all wish for such a death.
And such a love. Not asking what is in there for me. But asking what is the needed thing to do now. - We hear too much about who should be allowed to marry and who not. We should hear more what marriage involves. Not figuring out what he/she does wrong, but what he/she needs now. Whenever I feel sorry that I am not getting what I want, I feel a distances from the people I am with. When I ask: What can I give? What does he/she need now?, I feel close - and rewarded.
(It goes without saying that I don't condone cruelty, abuse, and the myriad of vices that make a marriage unbearable.)
We all know too many examples of the contrasting outcome: The spouse divorces the ailing partner, and runs away with the money, to a better life.
A better life? I cannot think of life and time better applied than caring thus. Read More
Blog: On Health. On Writing. On Life. On Everything.
Mud Season in Maine
April 12, 2011
Wish I were a poet – to describe the beauty of Maine in early spring. They call this time “mud season” – with the implication that one better flee to warmer shores and leave Maine behind.
Usually, we don’t visit our cabin at this time of the year – nobody ever encouraged us. This year, I had to go up because a friend had died, and I wanted to go to her funeral.
The occasion was a sad one – yet how lovely it was! Yes, there was drizzle and fog, and the ruts of our dirt road seemed to say: Stay away! Stay away! But I didn’t stay away, and the ruts and potholes became a challenge of sorts – and at the end of the dirt road, there is the cabin and the ocean.
It was very, very early spring. Just a few crocuses were up. I looked at them and remembered that I planted them about twenty years ago. Contrary to what garden books say, they didn’t naturalize – they were just as spare as single bulbs stuck in the soil. Life is hard that far north. But those few crocuses – blue and white and yellow – cheered up the day. Daffodils were sending up green blades; no flowers yet.
I should know better but I planted again: a late pink anemone, and some liatris – planted them in the drizzle. They might come up in summer, or they might not. Important is the hope I planted (and the exercise!).
Outside, bare spring beckoned; inside, in the evenings, I had some logs blazing, making it cozy and warm. I played cello. It was a bit much to carry the cello with me for just three days, but I was glad I did. I did some Chinese brush painting. I wanted to write, but I am still reading Anna Karenina – it will keep me biting my nails for a while. Why would I even bite my nails? We all know it will end badly …
Of course, I attended the funeral, and it was heart-wrenching. But it also was good – to see the family and friends gathered to honor one good woman. She is now lying in a tiny cemetery, overlooking Tauton Bay.
This morning, when I got up to clean the house and leave for Boston, the sun was out and the sky showed Mediterranean blue. A strong wind had swept away rain and fog, and the world was as clear and beautiful as it can only be in Maine. Read More