Hope is a green duck with sunglasses

My German immigrant mother once reflected that I suffered from Weltschmerz growing up …a weariness or sadness arising from an acute awareness of suffering and evil in the world.

... a “world-weariness.”

Of course, a certain amount of that feeling was probably related to adolescence and the inevitable coming-of-age moments that color and shape our lived experience. But in these recent unpredictable and often cruel times, I have found myself once again battling that soul-deep discontent and sadness.

The only way I have found to keep that dark wave at bay has been the daily ritual of walking in natural places whenever I can. And that deep hunger for a moment of peace took me to Birch Bay State Park today on a very windy and cold morning. Since the campgrounds were closed, a walk underneath the towering cedars and firs was almost guaranteed to be solitary, and though the wind moved wildly through the tops of these trees, the air beneath was still and beautifully quiet.

During that walk, as the poet Rilke suggests, I tried to live the questions that occupied my mind, but in these days, the question on repeat was, “Why? Why? Why?“ Knowing the dangers of obsessive thinking, I tried the antidote: notice what is happening in this moment.

• My golden retriever was analyzing the world through her nose.

• The stream song was quieter today than the last time I was here.

• The frogs started a choir, and their practice songs were a warm blanket in the cool air.

In the middle of my noticing, I looked down, drawn to the sound of some small creature skittering around a tree, perhaps celebrating the arrival of spring. My gaze settled on the base of the moss covered trunk. Someone had perfectly placed a bright green plastic duck with sunglasses in a small opening in the tree’s bark.

Raw joy exploded from my heart before I could defend against it. It was as if the forest had been holding its breath, like a child playing a practical joke, just waiting for someone to discover this little intrusion into the natural world.

Emily Dickinson would tell us that “hope is a thing with feathers,” but today I tell you that hope is sometimes nothing more than a green duck with sunglasses hidden in the hole of a cedar tree, a moment of unexpected joy in the most unlikely of places.

And today, that was just enough to keep the Weltschmerz at bay.

The thing I do not want to know…

I do not want to know my expiration date. I would only obsess about what was coming rather than living each moment to the fullest. My Maker has already determined my last breath and because that information is being withheld from me, I have made peace with denial in this area.

I do not want to know when the rapture is coming either, and I do not want to know when the Cascadia fault is going to slip, causing an earthquake and a tidal wave.

So that begs the question -what do I want to know?

That is much simpler.

I want to know on what day the sun is going to start getting up earlier and by how much.

I want to know when the king tides are coming and how much the full moon’s pull will strengthen them.

I want to know where all the waterfalls are that are not hard to hike to, and I want to know if there are any river rafting companies that will let me take my dog.

I want to know the name of every single, smiling, gurgling, or sleeping baby that is rolled past me in a stroller, and I want to memorize the faces of the mothers who soak them in these songs of whistling trees and whispering rivers.

These things are worth knowing.

The thing I do not want to know is tied to my impending mortality. But the things I want to know are inextricably woven with threads of joy, beauty, and hope.

So, in the days that remain - however long or short - I want to befriend spontaneity and a perceived lack of purpose and a schedule that is never followed.

I want to just blithely follow the muses every day.

- the weather muse - the dog muse - the spirit of adventure muse - and a host of other muses I have not met yet.

No… I do not want a roadmap to the journey towards the end of my days.

I just want to bathe in delicious uncertainty until something or someone announces, “time’s up!” - knowing that then, and only then, will life truly begin.

Ordinary angel…

“When she first saw him across the room of an old Victorian mansion, she says he stood there like Rasputin or John Lennon, and he stopped her heartbeat for a split second. He wanted to take her to the opera and, though overcome by what passes for love at 42, she agreed. When at last she confessed that this love was impossible with 15 years between them, he told her the strength of their love and not the distance of their years would determine the authenticity of this love. And so they wed, and moved into an old home in San Francisco, one room wide and four deep, wrapped in art, opera, and symphonies. He found peace there where he could no longer hear the taunts of childhood or the screaming of his father.  Years later when they had to make peace (they refused to call it a battle) with the cancer that overtook his bones she often said, “With fifteen years between, I always assumed he’d tuck me into my grave, and I worried how he would survive. Instead, it is she who nursed him into quiet death in his sleep.”     From “Fourth Watch”

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My eldest brother, Will, died far too young, leaving his widow, Anne, at sea. My younger brother and I stayed in intermittent touch with her for decades but noticed over the years that Anne seemed more confused and a little paranoid. Then it seemed all of a sudden, she disappeared from any communication from us, and we did not know if it was by choice or circumstance.

But I continued to try, and after years of failed attempts, I decided to go old school. I sent a postcard to the only address I knew to let her know that I was concerned about her well-being and wondered how she was doing. A week later when I got home, there was a voicemail message from a woman who had been given the postcard by the new owners of Anne’s home in San Francisco. The woman, Sandra, had been a neighbor and friend of Anne's for decades, and it was from Sandra we learned that Anne had sunk deeper and deeper into dementia, nearly setting the neighborhood on fire and wandering on several occasions through her neighborhood, lost and alone. Because we were not blood relatives, there was no record of us for anyone to contact.  Sandra was unaware of our existence.

Through Sandra, we found out that Anne had first been placed in a lovely facility where her neighbor visited her almost every day just to feed her a meal and let her know people still cared about her. But a tragedy befell my brother's widow that sadly befalls many elderly: she ran out of resources, and as a result, she had become a ward of the state and moved to a facility where her needs were barely tended to.  That is when neighbor Sandra truly stepped in with the gift of her friendship.

Sandra loved Anne, and noting the spartan nature of room, purchased a cozy, beautiful comforter to keep her warm and did other little things to make life more bearable for Anne. Even though Sandra had her own family and obligations, she devoted herself tirelessly to visiting nearly daily, feeding Anne meals and chatting with her as though she were still present in her mind.

As I listened to her painting a picture of Anne’s life circumstances, I was brought to tears by her great kindness towards Anne, the woman who had saved my brother. Will was in his late 20’s when they wed and in his 40’s when he died. Anne was in her sixties then. But in their short years together, she had loved him into becoming his best self, allowing him to shed the thick armor his life circumstances had demanded.

And it was now nearly three decades later that she was getting ready to join him. Decades of setting a place for him at the dinner table each night.  Decades of missing his presence, his love and his touch. Decades of waiting.

Had I not sent the postcard… had the new owners not given it to Sandra, I would never have known what had happened to my sister-in-law, nor would I ever have known that there was someone standing in the gap for her in her time of greatest need and vulnerability.

Sandra did not do it for money. As a matter of fact, she turned down all our efforts to pay her back in some way for her kindness. She needed no thank you from us - this was just a gift of love, neighbor to neighbor, friend to friend, given simply to ease the transition from this world to the next.

When the phone call came a few weeks ago, announcing Anne’s death, I could hear the brokenness in Sandra‘s voice. A woman of faith, Sandra knew that Anne was now free of pain and together again with Will, but she was torn up, nonetheless. As we ended our call, I felt a need to tell her one last thing.

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

During this season when pine trees are crowned with shiny tree toppers cradled between delicate wings, and the air is filled with songs and stories of angelic hosts, I just wanted to take a moment to honor Sandra – the most ordinary and extraordinary of angels in my life - the woman who selflessly loved my beautiful sister-in-law to the other side.