Journey Through the Storm

"There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm."

- Willa Cather

The Storm - Pierre-Auguste Cot, Oil on canvas, 1880,
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, New York

Violent storms swept through Weldon Springs last night and into the morning. Vivid lightning, crashing thunder, and bursts of noisy hail joined torrents of rain in the assault. What a crazy night.

I felt as though the storms were a sort of manifestation of the storm that's lately been passing through the family ethos here, as well. As we prepare for the family to caravan to Kansas City in a couple of days for a weekend celebration of my mother's life, we seem to have entered a phase of conflicting, sometimes downright warring, emotions. We're a household of crazy people.

It can't be helped. I know this. I just don't know if the rest of the family knows it. We'll get through this...we have before and we will again. They don't seem to remember this, though.

It's stressful. Planning for any trip is stressful these days, even if it's just for one traveler. Multiplied by nine (with two of those travelers being small children), things that would normally be small issues seem to cause storm clouds to gather quickly. If we factor in the reason for the journey (the anticipation of a difficult goodbye to a dearly loved person), those storm clouds are bound to burst open.

Some in the family are focusing on transportation issues. Cars need repairs and cleaning and expensive gas in order to make the trip. Airline travel has been arranged for The Graceful One to fly into Kansas City. Hmm. I guess someone should plan on picking her up at the airport.

Some are focusing on keeping children occupied for hours in the car...handheld video games and players seem to be the saving grace for today's parents. Hmm. No more "Billboard Bingo" I guess.

Some are focusing on clothing for the occasion. Does everyone have socks? How about jackets? What will the weather be like (heaven knows!)?  Hmm. What does one wear to a memorial service to be held at a resort/spa?

Yes, that's what I said. My mother's memorial will be held at the hotel/hot springs resort/spa where my mother and father spent their honeymoon over 65 years ago. It's called The Elms in Excelsior Springs, and is about 40 miles north of Kansas City.  Here is a picture of it...

The Elms Resort and Spa

The Elms is over one hundred years old and is famous for the healing mineral waters that used to draw thousands of visitors each year back in the early days. One of its most famous guests was President Harry S. Truman, who stayed there on the eve of his re-election in 1948.

He must have heard how much my parents enjoyed it.

But I digress. I'll tell you a bit more about the plans for the memorial tomorrow. If I have time between the cars and the video games and the clothes shopping.

Now that the storm has passed through, the morning is cool, the air is clear, and the light is returning. Let's hope the family can manifest that, as well.

Today, I hope you can see past the storm.

I've selected a favorite song from a favorite genre of my parents' day, the Big Band Era. The inimitable Les Brown and his Band of Renown plays "Sentimental Journey" with the divine Vikki Carr singing the vocals.  Enjoy!

Grace Notes

"I do not want the peace which passeth understanding, I want the understanding which bringeth peace." - Helen Keller

Fantasy Bust of a Veiled Woman (Margeurite Bellanger?)
Albert-Ernest Carrier-Belleuse, c. 1865-1870, terracotta
Chester Dale Collection, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

The last two weeks have been extraordinary, profound, and healing.

Just days after my mother's passing, I traveled to Maine to meet a dear friend and see my daughter perform in a ballet there, and then with only one full day in between trips (barely enough to unpack and pack again), I traveled east again, this time to spend a few days with two friends in D.C.

I struggled mightily with the decision to continue with my plans for these two trips. I had just suffered a significant loss. I was in pain. I wanted to curl up and hide under the covers. I was wrapped in grief.

In fact, when I saw the bust pictured above at the National Gallery a few days ago, I was covered with chills and thought to myself, "That's just how it feels." Veiled. Swathed in yards of heavy sadness. Grief, thy name is Margeurite.

Two weeks ago, I thought these two trips might be inappropriate or ill-adivised. I wasn't sure I could physically go. Could I even find the energy to pack one suitcase? Two seemed impossible. I wondered if I could make it emotionally. Tears come at unexpected times when we're grieving. Would I completely embarrass myself? What if I burst into tears in the middle of the airport? Or worse, in the midst of happy friends?

What I understand now is that there are no accidents. These trips that were planned well in advance of my mother's death had been scheduled at the perfect time with the perfect people in the perfect settings for the purpose of healing. I am in awe, and I am so very grateful for having decided to make these two trips. 

They were grace notes in grief's symphony.

[Grace notes are extra notes 'suggested' by the composer (they are indicated in classical works by printing a note that is much smaller than a regular note, sometimes with a slash through the note stem) for extra embellishment, but not necessary for the harmony or melody of a composition.]

They aren't necessary...just rather special and really appreciated.

As I progressed through the last two weeks, the layers of weighty sadness fell away slowly and gently, removed tenderly by family and friends who care for me.  The heavy veil was lovingly replaced by a weightless armor of understanding and peace.

If you offered a word of comfort, a hug, an act of kindness, or a smile to me in the last few weeks, know that I heard and saw and felt it. Each act is a grace-filled note in the poignant symphony of grief.

It isn't exactly necessary to the process, but very special and deeply appreciated.

I will share more about these trips, but for today, I want to leave it here...in grace.

May you have added grace notes to your symphony today.

Music today is Mischa Maisky playing the Prelude to Bach's Cello Suite No. 1. Enjoy.

Cherry Amour Therapy

"Every now and then go away, have a little relaxation, for when you come back to your work your judgment will be surer." -  Leonardo Da Vinci
 

 

Fleurs De Cerise (Cherry Blossom) - Oil on canvasEmile Vernon, 1916, private collection

I'm heading to Washington, D.C. this morning to catch up with two friends, Reya and Linda, and fill a prescription for a little Cherry Amour therapy. That's Reya's way of describing the effects of the Cherry Blossom Festival this time of year in her corner of the world.

The Japanese cherry trees were given as a gift to the city of Washington, D.C. by the mayor of Tokyo, Mr. Yukio Ozaki exactly 99 years and two days ago, March 27, 1912.

That is so cool.

This trip has been in the works for several weeks now, and I thought it would be a fun frolic with a couple of girlfriends, laughing and walking in the warm D.C. sunshine, and taking hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures of the annaul spectacle of spring.

I had no idea what was in store for me.

I see now that it is no coincidence that these two trips, one to see The Graceful One perform last weekend, and one to dance among the cherry blossoms with my friends, were perfectly arranged to follow the death of my mother.

What was to be a celebration of a great performance turned into a chance to hold my child and grieve with her for the loss of her dear grandmother. To be able to be with her, see her for myself, and share tears and hugs and memories with her was healing therapy for myself as well.

And now, to have the chance to be among the trees and friends and art and music and all that is a part of Reya's city is healing beyond belief. Cherry Amour therapy, it certainly is.

In truth, the weather forecast calls for rain, but that's of little consequence to me. I feel that the three of us will be given all that is needed for our time together, be it rain, or snow, or sun.  I'm extremely grateful to Reya for coordinating this.

I'm not bringing my laptop, and I won't be posting until I get home late Saturday. Instead, I'll spend my time marveling at the wonders of nature (in whatever form), the wonders of friendship, and the wonders of these great synchronicities we all get to experience every so often.

Today, I wish you your own version of Cherry Amour therapy.

The music selection today was very difficult. Should I go with something Japanese? (Truthfully, most of it grates on my nerves.) Something about cherry blossoms? (There are a few, but they're mostly love songs...too trite.) I finally decided to stop wrestling and choose something from my go-to guy, Chopin.

In honor of the predicted rain, I have chosen Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude in D flat Major, Op.28 No.15. It's the longest of all his preludes, and is a lovely study on the comfort of rain. 


Chopin wrote this while he was staying at a monastery, convalescing from what we now believe was most likely tuberculosis. Chopin worried constantly about his wife and son, but playing the piano offered relief from the anxiety.

He was reportedly hypnotized by the sound of the rain on the roof one day, and wrote this prelude as a result. It's quite beautiful...listen for the repeating constant A-flat eighth notes pitter-pattering in the bass, sounding like the rain on Chopin's roof tiles and downspouts.

This version is played by my favorite pianist, Vladimir Ashkenazy. I love his tempo, his expression, and the way he allows the rain to wash over us all. Enjoy. 

The Convalescence of Grief

''Healing,'' Papa would tell me, ''is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.''
- W. H. Auden

The Convalescent (Zeffy in Bed) - Oil on canvas
 Lillian Hale, 1906

It’s been one week since my mother flew away on the supermoon. At least that’s the way I like to think of it, her soul lifting up out of her now-unnecessary body, soaring upward to alight on the gleaming giant moon, looking down at the glory of Gaia’s earth, then moving on to realms unknown.


Or maybe her departure was more like the explosion of fireworks, with tiny sparkling shards of her soul arching out in all directions , lighting up the heavens, some of them piercing into her family and friends’ hearts as the true “final resting place.” Who can know for sure?

What I do know with certainty is that I have barely begun the grieving process, and I need to be gentle with myself. I’ve been through the process before (who at my age hasn’t?), and there is no set time frame for healing to occur. I have no expectations but to allow the process to unfold as it will, feel what I must feel when the feelings arise, cry the tears I must cry when they erupt, and endure the pain that I am sure to encounter along the way.

Already I have reached for the phone several times, thinking it’s time for me to check in with Mom, when I remember that she won’t be on the other end of the line. It’s a strange and sad feeling.

When my husband insisted soon after our marriage over 35 years ago that we move to his hometown (ancient, pre-cell phone days), I acquiesced, though secretly I felt as if he was moving me to the other side of the world, rather than the other side of the state. I had not, at that point, traveled much in my entire life, and my roots had grown deep and spread wide and set firmly in the soil of my hometown. I agreed to yank myself up, roots and all, on one condition. He could not complain about the long distance phone bill. Ever. To anyone. Especially to his family. He agreed.

To my knowledge, he never did. I spoke with my mother frequently…not every day, but at least once a week at first. Then, as I went through pregnancies and childbirths and illnesses and injuries and birthdays and first dentist appointments and first soccer practices and first days of school and such, I was calling more frequently.

By the time I found myself with three little boys under the age of five, I was speaking to Mom every day. Of course I would. After all, she had raised four boys of her own, so there wasn’t much that she didn’t know about these feral beings and how to tame them. Oh, yeah. She was so wise. [If you want to read some of her “mom-isms” you can read them HERE.]

Mind you, she rarely called me. In fact, she rarely called any of her children. If the phone rang and her number popped up on caller ID, I was sure that either it was my birthday, or there was an emergency. She was the kind of mother who never meddled in her children’s business, never inserted herself in their plans, and never played the martyr. The truth is, she had a busy, productive life of her own outside of her children, and so maybe…now that I think of it…just maybe, she enjoyed her freedom from us!

At any rate, I never felt pressured to call her. I simply loved her company, her great good humor, her sage advice, and her attention. After all, I was one of six children, so it was with no small measure of satisfaction that as an adult I discovered that the best way to bask in my mother’s undivided attention was to speak with her on the phone.

As her health declined and my trips to check on her increased, our phone conversations waned (she never could get the hang of her hearing aid), but we still laughed a lot during our conversations. I loved making Mom laugh, and she certainly knew how to tickle my funny bone.

Even in the final weeks of her life, I would regale her with stories (complaints) about my routine experiences (problems) with everyday life (family), and soon we would both be laughing. She looked at me once on a recent visit, held my hands in hers, and said to me, “you are such a funny girl.”

“Funny, “ha-ha”, or funny, “odd?” I asked, which set her laughing again.

“Funny, “ha-ha,” she assured me, to which I asked her, “Now where would I get that trait?”

She released my hands, put both her thumbs in the air, and pointed them at herself, which of course, tickled me pink.

Yes, I think I will need some time to adapt to the quiet mornings without the phone conversations with my mother.

I guess I'll do what we usually do while healing...lie in bed a while longer than usual, get fresh air, breathe deeply, and carefully nourish my body.  Like caring for a convalescent, I'll give myself a little extra TLC.

It'll be nice...it just won't be as fun.

Today, I wish for you a great conversation with one you love.

Today's music selection is the aria, "Song to the Moon" from the opera "Rusalka" by Antonin Dvorak. I'm sorry to say that this beautiful version has no English credits to share with you. I assume this singer is Korean, though I may be mistaken, but there is no mistaking the gorgeous talent she holds.

In this aria, a water nymph, Rusalka, sings to the moon that the moon might hear her desire to find the prince she loves.  I especially love Dvorak's lyrics beseeching the moon;

Silver moon upon the deep dark sky

Through the vast night pierce your rays

This sleeping world you wander by

Smiling on men's homes and ways

Oh moon 'ere past you glide, tell me 

Tell me, oh where does my loved one bide?

 Enjoy.