Maybe it’s just the noisy crowd of this big wide earth –
this thought takes hold of me as I barrel into having a website built.
My first blog. I stumble eager onto the web so that she can find me if she wants.
Maybe she feels the imposition of eyes at the agency as deeply as I do;
I’m gonna stand up, wave a sign, and make some noise.
Clueless, inspired, and boistered by the strong winds that are often mistaken for courage, I dive.
I have no camera and no agenda; not sure what to do but I want to be real.
I’d been earlier asked by a gardening client if I would make some notecards to sell,
like the little bites of art that I sent out with each invoice.
Making and sending them out on the waves of my days has poufed fresh breath back into some
places grown thin and now an idea bubbles up like a song:
I’ll write a little something and show a picture of what I make
– I think it’s the most childlike thing I’ve ever done:)
I walked into this room looking for her and found you.
And my voice. And my own way home.
This is pure gift and I know it.
I was jumping up and down so maybe she could see,
but in the way of serendipity, God was dancing me back to me.
In the years to come I send her bites of art that I feature in the images on my blog
with a tiny “Ripplespeak” sneaked in here and there, like a secret code that will lead her to me
if she wants.
It’s why I don’t use my name.
I laugh at this now, so deliciously silly and unnecessary,
but it empowered the joy that buoyed me.
She can find me if she’s looking and I take comfort in this as the years pass.
Five of them, busy and full.
Always challenging, often joyful, but deeply painful, too.
I reach and let go, grieve and hold on, riding the waves with my arms stretched mostly wide.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
March is always crazy-hard and it’s March again, 2014.
Edith calls just before her birthday and I hear sorrowful news in her voice.
“I’ve heard from Allison; she’s asked me to let you know that her mother has died.”
Her mother. One of the most influential women in my life.
She has been this mythical tower of intimidating virtue to my 16 year old parts,
the one who bested me,
and I’m 35 years grateful and jealous and altogether curious of this woman.
Now she’s gone, her memories and stories with her.
Years earlier I’d asked Edith if I could write her; would she please forward a letter?
No, I’d been told.
Now she has died and I’m so sad for my girl.
For this family that I’ve long loved and longed to know,.
It is a strange and dizzying pain to long to comfort the child you bore
because she has lost her mother.
Keep writing, Edith counsels; it’s lifegiving, Allison says,
and I’ve only ever wanted to give her life and so I do,
careful to only offer, invite, welcome and accept –
resisting hard the urge at times to push or press or plead,
and this feeds my life, too, in a way I can’t even understand.
But I feel it like a cold wind blowing,
my place in the storm,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Grief is a casserole best served warm and in good company.
Cold and unnamed, it’s ugly business to swallow.
“Was she strong enough to allow both of them to be themselves?
Bahama had instilled in her an honoring of promises,
but she could not keep her promises unless she was willing to allow Nik to be Nik,
not a projection of someone who could fill her empty spaces,
heal all her wounds.”
– Madeline L’Engle
Thanks for sharing this Summer series with me; it’s a tall glass of water to have you along.
I needed to take a smaller bite this week; my heart is wrestling this out as best I can.
I appreciate your patience.