A grumpy neighbor…

Neighbors on our little street would speak kindly about each other, unless discussing the grumpy neighbor. Sometimes her name would come up, and eyeballs would roll, and descriptive words would come up that were less than kind.

My first encounter with the much maligned neighbor happened when I walked past her front window, and she quickly hobbled out calling after me. I feared a scolding, but instead she grabbed my dog Zuni’s head and kissed her, exclaiming her deep affection for golden retrievers 

When an ambulance took her away one night, no one really knew how to get a hold of her. A stroke was followed by a triple bypass and a long stint in rehab. Her caregiver let us know our neighbor wanted no visitors, but I found out dogs were allowed in the care facility, so I brought Zuni.

She was sitting in her room staring sadly out her window when we entered. She turned when I cleared my throat, and she announced a bit harshly, “I said I didn’t want any visitors.” 

“That’s okay. I am not visiting you.  Zuni is. She missed you.”

After she returned home, her caregiver asked if I could supervise during her vacation. My aversion to bad attitudes did not prevent a reluctant “yes,”, but I quickly discovered our neighbor had a wicked good sense of humor.

I began to look forward to every single encounter because we laughed much, but we also had some really honest discussions about what it means to grow old and live with gratitude in bad circumstances.

While under my care, she texted me after she took her medication and finished her meals. But sometimes she actually called because there was something she couldn’t remember.

She just had moments of lostness, and don’t we all?

Her caregiver is back now, but our texting routine continues. Last night before I went to bed, I heard the familiar text “ding” and opened it,  expecting a simple, “I ate. I took my pills.” Instead, she had written,

“…all done. Love you. Sleep well,” and it made me cry.

We often still visit in person now to connect and laugh.  In those times, I try to remember, “everyone sits by their own pool of tears,” and listen as she tries to unravel a lifetime of scarcity when it comes to love. We have that in common.

Sitting with her now is a place of sacred listening where cracks open up and love is a two-way street. I get to witness the miracle of her discovering the raw territory of being loved not in spite of who she is but because of who she is.

A little grumpy,

A little broken,

And a little bit like all of us trying to make sense of a diminishing world.

The Places of Remembering

Love has a memory. That is why I think when someone passes, we often go to the places that they loved to honor and remember them. When my own mom passed away at 95, my brother and I each received some of her ashes, and we took trips either alone or together with family to leave a piece of her behind in the places she had loved.

For my children and grandchildren, the place that holds my mother’s memory the strongest is Leavenworth, Washington at our little family reunions, which she refused to attend until her last three years of life.

But how glorious those last three years were. I taught the the grandchildren two things for a nightly ritual for her. First, I tucked her in as the grandchildren gathered around her bed and sang “Good Night, Irene.”  Then I taught them to say what I said to her every night in her native tongue:  “Guten nacht”( good night), “schlaft gut” (sleep well), and “Ich liebe dich”(I love you)  as they hugged her one by one.  In the face of such love, she was powerless. Her face glowed.

During our July 2015 reunion, she and I danced to a polka band in the town square on a sunny Saturday afternoon. And the next morning, when we preparing to leave, the grandchildren sat on the steps of the condo and sang “Good Night Irene,”but we changed the last line to “we’ll see you next year.” Six weeks later, she was gone.

As we all processed our grief, taking her ashes to the places she loved helped us to remember her spirit of adventure and zest for living. And so I decided that when I am gone, I would just suggest to my own remaining family where they could meet me if they needed to feel my love.

Love Has a Memory

If it is a spring morning, take yourself to a dog park and welcome every dog as if it were your own. Ask their owners to tell you stories about their lives as you walk together for a while like old friends.

Know that  you will find me there in those moments, as you revel in the warmth of this spontaneous community and their generous acceptance.

If it is summer, take yourself to a clear lake and simply lean back, arms outstretched, until water surrounds you like a lover and the chill forces a primal scream from the deepest part of your lungs.

Know that  you will find me there in those moments as you surrender to the water, fully immersed in life.

If it is an early fall morning, get up at dawn as the sun paints an ombre celebration of dark to light. Listen as the universe creates a triumphant symphony in bird song, and swifts glide in impossible patterns.

Know that  you will find me there in those moments as beauty enlarges your heart.

And if it is winter and you pass someone shivering, give them a coat. And if they have a dog, give them a bag of dog biscuits. And if they are shoeless, give them the ones from your own feet.

Know that  you will find me there in those moments as your unexpected compassion becomes a tiny payment towards the huge debt all of us owe to love and to mercy.

In every season, know that you were my oxygen, and you were a sacred repository for every ounce of love ever poured in my direction. If you want to feel my presence watching over you, immerse yourselves in the things I loved. Let yourself notice and soak in small moments of daily grace.

You will find me there.

Take my advice (I’m not using it)

 Lately, I have found myself spending an inordinate amount of time, encouraging others to not lose sight of the value of what their creative pursuits bring to a world hungry for a tiny beam of light. And yet, I falter in following the advice I so freely give others.

To traffic in hope right now feels like walking through a raging battlefield blindly tossing daisies on the path in front of you trying to convince yourself that flowers in and of themselves are a form of ammunition.

To traffic in hope right now feels like cradling the children of war who hunger and thirst trying to convince them that everything will be okay as the bombs fall around you.

To traffic in hope right now feels like standing in the path of molten lava waving a paper fan, hoping it will cool the flow before it overtakes your feet.

 And yet, traffic in hope we must. Because the alternatives will never move us forward and will only deaden our souls.

And so, today I am going to take my own advice and begin again.

 I begin again not in denial of our present circumstances but because of them.

 I begin again because to cease to notice and celebrate tiny moments of grace and mercy is perhaps the most criminal of acts.

 And perhaps, most importantly, I begin again because proclaiming hope in a world filled with despair and uncertainty is our sacred responsibility…

to ourselves,

to each other,

and to the world in which we live.