In a few minutes, with tousled hair, an untucked tee, and a backpack and lunch pail in tow, Maya will step down from her pencil-yellow chariot to the stop where I kissed her goodbye, and we parted eight hours ago. Dressed in the ensemble she picked out herself, she will return to my care. I will solicit answers to questions and although she will eventually fill me in on scattered details from her day, others will slip away through the cracks when I'm not looking, like her first tooth.
I'm still getting used to these growing spaces between us.
I seized the opportunity to hold onto my little girl and to keep her close in the name of tradition this Thanksgiving. She reluctantly agreed to leave the family festivities early so we could go to our third Nutcracker in Seattle Friday night. It was magical.
We slumber partied, pedicured and painted our way through Saturday before Paul and Cole returned home. By Monday morning, after a week-long, fun-filled break from our routine, the spaces in our togetherness seemed small. Obsolete.
But under our roof last night, with our backs momentarily turned, Maya slipped from our grasp like one of the dishes I was washing. In a mad dash to cram as much as possible in the last ten minutes of wake before bed, Maya missed a step and tumbled head first and backwards down an entire flight of hardwood steps. Time moved aside, and my heart stood still.
"Mommy, I really hurt myself," she sobbed.
I was frozen, panicked and paralyzed, while Mommy scrambled down the stairs after her fallen daughter. She stepped in, and she knew what to do. She made sure my baby was okay and rocked her tenderly. She let Maya cry her tears of pain, fear and shock. She remained calm in the storm. She nurtured me too once the tears subsided and assured me that my daughter would be okay.
This morning, somewhere between upward and downward dog, Mommy let her guard down and the gravity of those stairs and the spaces in between hit my heart. I ached beneath the weight of my love for this child. The torrent of my own tears finally came.
This morning I wept both tears of gratitude and bitter tears of pain. I wept for yesterday and for tomorrow. I wept for my daughters, my mothers and my sisters. I also wept for every misunderstanding, misstep and mistake. I wept over beginnings, ends and the spaces in between, and I wept for the weight and the ache of this love. Oh, it is beautiful. It hurts, and it is hard.
Just a few days ago, while Maya and I roused from sweet dreams graced by Sugar Plum fairies, four Seattle officers were mercilessly gunned down. They kissed their families goodbye then slipped through the cracks when no one was looking.
This morning, as I wept in the space between my child and I, I wanted to hold her and keep her and never let her go. But then, through the ache and the sting of my tears, I watched my daughter ascend the stairs she had fallen down the night before. She donned a smart outfit of her own design, with disheveled hair she had already styled. In that space, she had also made her bed, packed her bag, and she was poised to face another day.
So we ran down the hill to the bus stop, my sugar plum princess and I. We heartily laughed our way down the hill as her chariot approached. I held Maya tight, kissed her goodbye and then let go. Just before the bus rounded the corner and pulled away, I saw her once more. She was still breathless and beaming.
02 December 2009
14 November 2009
09 October 2009
I choose life
I live on an island.
I came to this island to write.
I came to this island to die.
In the back of my mind, I've wondered when the terminal illness I have not yet discovered will reveal itself. Did You bring me here to die?
Why else would You give me the keys to the kingdom with outstretched arms when I asked for them? Why else would You swing these doors wide open and invite me to come? Why else would our journey south take this miraculous and unexpected turn northwest and within, then bring us back to Whidbey?
Back, "...bring us back." I sense I have lived here once before.
Perhaps, but I haven't written, and I'm still alive.
Sort of.
I didn't think it through. It all happened so quickly. There was no time to analyze, to examine, to obsess, to weigh, to measure and to count all the costs. I think it was by design.
Now, I am beginning to see and to understand that in order to grasp a thing, to truly master and perfect it, we must poke and prod, unglue and undo at the expense of life. Absolution, completion, knowledge and rebirth are only possible by way of death.
"This year, 2009, is the year of the Lord's favor for my family and for me. It marks a turning point, a new beginning... "
I had no idea what it would mean for me to write these words down and to speak them aloud. How could I have known how much it would cost to take these keys from You?
With the great reward of freedom and change comes a great price.
I asked to go deeper. I asked for more. I purged and pruned, and the path became clear. As it unfolded, I followed you to this peaceful place, where the air is gravid and grey. I am home in a way like no where before. I am where I've been aching to be. It is overwhelming.
Yet in the shadows has come terrifying darkness. In the black of early morning, I can no longer see the road beneath my feet or my hand before my face. As fires that raged have burned out, I have grown cold and unsure. The sharp tools I once used have grown dull and obsolete. The clothes I donned are incongruous and ill-fitting, and yesterday's order wears the mask of a stranger.
With my words and my request, with the light from my lamp, with the shuffle of my steps, with the jingle of these keys, with the creak of this door and the timbre of my "Yes," I have roused a resting giant and stirred this sleeping cancer. She bears the name Fear. She bears the name Obsession. She bears the name Compulsion. She bears the name Deception. She also bears my name.
I came to this island to die.
In the thick of these clouds, You have helped me to see what I couldn't and wouldn't day after day in perpetual sunshine. My eyes are adjusting, and the walls of this prison I've erected have come into focus. Brick by rigid brick, I have fortified myself in this shell that no longer suits me.
Abimbola. Abi, come.
In the shade of tall trees, you have wiped my brow, rubbed my back, and given me time and space to rest. You've revealed the salve of Sudoku and crossword puzzles, and You have strengthened me with bread, wine, and fresh oil for my lamp. With neither fanfare nor guarantees, You have called me by name and bid me once again to come.
I only see the doorway in the faint flicker from my lamp, but that which lies on the other side of this wall is dim. I have tasted the wine you turned, then shed, and I know You have traveled this road before. I needn't walk it alone.
This week, through my mother, my father, my soul sister, my children, a medicine woman, my pen pal and my partner, You have opened my eyes. You have restored my hope and graced me with courage to face my own death.
So tonight, in the earliest hours of my 70th day on this island, I lay myself to rest. With gratitude, I reclaim my joy, my hope and my name, and I sprinkle these ashes atop the rubble at the trail head of this less-traveled road. I look forward to the day when words will rise as the dust from these ashes.
And with the morning sun, I too will rise again.
I came to this island to write.
I came to this island to die.
In the back of my mind, I've wondered when the terminal illness I have not yet discovered will reveal itself. Did You bring me here to die?
Why else would You give me the keys to the kingdom with outstretched arms when I asked for them? Why else would You swing these doors wide open and invite me to come? Why else would our journey south take this miraculous and unexpected turn northwest and within, then bring us back to Whidbey?
Back, "...bring us back." I sense I have lived here once before.
Perhaps, but I haven't written, and I'm still alive.
Sort of.
I didn't think it through. It all happened so quickly. There was no time to analyze, to examine, to obsess, to weigh, to measure and to count all the costs. I think it was by design.
Now, I am beginning to see and to understand that in order to grasp a thing, to truly master and perfect it, we must poke and prod, unglue and undo at the expense of life. Absolution, completion, knowledge and rebirth are only possible by way of death.
"This year, 2009, is the year of the Lord's favor for my family and for me. It marks a turning point, a new beginning... "
I had no idea what it would mean for me to write these words down and to speak them aloud. How could I have known how much it would cost to take these keys from You?
With the great reward of freedom and change comes a great price.
I asked to go deeper. I asked for more. I purged and pruned, and the path became clear. As it unfolded, I followed you to this peaceful place, where the air is gravid and grey. I am home in a way like no where before. I am where I've been aching to be. It is overwhelming.
Yet in the shadows has come terrifying darkness. In the black of early morning, I can no longer see the road beneath my feet or my hand before my face. As fires that raged have burned out, I have grown cold and unsure. The sharp tools I once used have grown dull and obsolete. The clothes I donned are incongruous and ill-fitting, and yesterday's order wears the mask of a stranger.
With my words and my request, with the light from my lamp, with the shuffle of my steps, with the jingle of these keys, with the creak of this door and the timbre of my "Yes," I have roused a resting giant and stirred this sleeping cancer. She bears the name Fear. She bears the name Obsession. She bears the name Compulsion. She bears the name Deception. She also bears my name.
I came to this island to die.
In the thick of these clouds, You have helped me to see what I couldn't and wouldn't day after day in perpetual sunshine. My eyes are adjusting, and the walls of this prison I've erected have come into focus. Brick by rigid brick, I have fortified myself in this shell that no longer suits me.
Abimbola. Abi, come.
In the shade of tall trees, you have wiped my brow, rubbed my back, and given me time and space to rest. You've revealed the salve of Sudoku and crossword puzzles, and You have strengthened me with bread, wine, and fresh oil for my lamp. With neither fanfare nor guarantees, You have called me by name and bid me once again to come.
I only see the doorway in the faint flicker from my lamp, but that which lies on the other side of this wall is dim. I have tasted the wine you turned, then shed, and I know You have traveled this road before. I needn't walk it alone.
This week, through my mother, my father, my soul sister, my children, a medicine woman, my pen pal and my partner, You have opened my eyes. You have restored my hope and graced me with courage to face my own death.
So tonight, in the earliest hours of my 70th day on this island, I lay myself to rest. With gratitude, I reclaim my joy, my hope and my name, and I sprinkle these ashes atop the rubble at the trail head of this less-traveled road. I look forward to the day when words will rise as the dust from these ashes.
And with the morning sun, I too will rise again.
Abi: a Yoruba prefix meaning birthed; born
10 August 2009
06 August 2009
blackberries
It's late. It's been a week. I live in Washington.
Paul's grandma is passing, and coincidentally... amazingly... thankfully, we are here.
We saw her today. Her mouth was open, her breathing was labored and her room smelled strong and familiar - like childbirth. She was a shell of the woman we saw just a few weeks ago. Today, she was there, but she wasn't, but she was. I get that. She was beautiful. I wonder if she is still here.
I'm on a hill, on an island, in Washington. Now I live on this island. I live up on this hill.
Yesterday after dinner, we went down to the beach. There were smooth stones and empty shells - remnants of lives once lived - everywhere. This is nothing like I've ever known or seen before. It's hard to describe what it feels like to be 32 years old and to experience the wonders and treasures of the sea for the first time.
Along the road and our beach and our town are bushes and bushes of blackberries. When we arrived last week, they were crimson and firm. Yet by yesterday, many had turned. They were plump and juicy and rich with color -- tart and so very sweet. Paul, the kids and I picked blackberries for nearly an hour. We reached past prickly bushes and collected three quarts of fresh fruit. I've never experienced this either.
Tonight we danced and cried and ate lasagna and blackberries with cousins and siblings. It's all new and beautiful and difficult and wonderful at once. I'm still marveling at the magical journey that brought us to this place and this moment.
I miss my family and my friends.
Just a few weeks ago, my kiddos visited and snuggled with their great grandma for the first time in four years. They, nor we, had no idea what this day would bring. Tonight, Violet is laboring out, surrounded by her children. She is wrapped in a quilt her mother made. The empty shells of mussels, clams, crabs and all sorts of other creatures rest on the beach down the hill from my new home.
The blackberries are turning. Transitioning. We will collect a few of the thousands and thousands and savor in their sweetness as long as we can... blackberry jam, blackberry dressing, blackberry smoothies, blackberries and yogurt, blackberry muffins... Many will fall to the ground. They will leave beautifully rich marks -- violet -- and then they will be gone. But today, Today, they are here. I am here - in Washington. And at least for today, I savored.
Paul's grandma is passing, and coincidentally... amazingly... thankfully, we are here.
We saw her today. Her mouth was open, her breathing was labored and her room smelled strong and familiar - like childbirth. She was a shell of the woman we saw just a few weeks ago. Today, she was there, but she wasn't, but she was. I get that. She was beautiful. I wonder if she is still here.
I'm on a hill, on an island, in Washington. Now I live on this island. I live up on this hill.
Yesterday after dinner, we went down to the beach. There were smooth stones and empty shells - remnants of lives once lived - everywhere. This is nothing like I've ever known or seen before. It's hard to describe what it feels like to be 32 years old and to experience the wonders and treasures of the sea for the first time.
Along the road and our beach and our town are bushes and bushes of blackberries. When we arrived last week, they were crimson and firm. Yet by yesterday, many had turned. They were plump and juicy and rich with color -- tart and so very sweet. Paul, the kids and I picked blackberries for nearly an hour. We reached past prickly bushes and collected three quarts of fresh fruit. I've never experienced this either.
Tonight we danced and cried and ate lasagna and blackberries with cousins and siblings. It's all new and beautiful and difficult and wonderful at once. I'm still marveling at the magical journey that brought us to this place and this moment.
I miss my family and my friends.
Just a few weeks ago, my kiddos visited and snuggled with their great grandma for the first time in four years. They, nor we, had no idea what this day would bring. Tonight, Violet is laboring out, surrounded by her children. She is wrapped in a quilt her mother made. The empty shells of mussels, clams, crabs and all sorts of other creatures rest on the beach down the hill from my new home.
The blackberries are turning. Transitioning. We will collect a few of the thousands and thousands and savor in their sweetness as long as we can... blackberry jam, blackberry dressing, blackberry smoothies, blackberries and yogurt, blackberry muffins... Many will fall to the ground. They will leave beautifully rich marks -- violet -- and then they will be gone. But today, Today, they are here. I am here - in Washington. And at least for today, I savored.
19 July 2009
sunday run
I just returned from my run.
It's the Sunday morning route I've run hundreds of times: down my street, across 108th, up through the office park, up and back down the killer hill, down to the trailhead, winding through the golf course, back across 108th, and a sprint back home.
I rose with the sun as I got out of bed this morning and realized that this old familiar run would be different. Today is my last Sunday in this house.
With strong, fast steps, as I ascended the killer Simms hill, quietly chanting my mantra of late - hills are my strength, hills are my strength, hills are my strength - I recalled the mid morning walks from my first summer here. Breathlessly, I once pushed the jog stroller in which my baby girl slept. There was a time when I could barely walk up this hill.
From its apex, I was warmed by the amber and gold cast by the rising sun. I saw, and I remembered. I see, and I remember.
I see the city, the mountains, the lake and my neighborhood. I see my home. I have logged many miles, laughed and cried many tears. I have dreamed dreams and prayed fervent prayers along this long, scenic route. I have lost myself and found myself again and again. My thirst has been quenched. My questions have been answered, and I have found peace in this place, with its valleys and its hills, its green grass, sprawling oak trees and colorful wildflowers. I am swifter and stronger than I once was. I am changed. I am thankful.
And now, I am back home. I sit in my old familiar chair - fortified and hidden by shrink-wrapped furniture and boxes. The walls are bare in this house that has become my home. It is familiar and unfamiliar at once. I think this is what they refer to as the beginning of the end. But it is no longer sadness that I feel. Rather, it is peace and pleasure and awe. It is time, and finally... finally, I feel ready.
It's the Sunday morning route I've run hundreds of times: down my street, across 108th, up through the office park, up and back down the killer hill, down to the trailhead, winding through the golf course, back across 108th, and a sprint back home.
I rose with the sun as I got out of bed this morning and realized that this old familiar run would be different. Today is my last Sunday in this house.
With strong, fast steps, as I ascended the killer Simms hill, quietly chanting my mantra of late - hills are my strength, hills are my strength, hills are my strength - I recalled the mid morning walks from my first summer here. Breathlessly, I once pushed the jog stroller in which my baby girl slept. There was a time when I could barely walk up this hill.
From its apex, I was warmed by the amber and gold cast by the rising sun. I saw, and I remembered. I see, and I remember.
I see the city, the mountains, the lake and my neighborhood. I see my home. I have logged many miles, laughed and cried many tears. I have dreamed dreams and prayed fervent prayers along this long, scenic route. I have lost myself and found myself again and again. My thirst has been quenched. My questions have been answered, and I have found peace in this place, with its valleys and its hills, its green grass, sprawling oak trees and colorful wildflowers. I am swifter and stronger than I once was. I am changed. I am thankful.
And now, I am back home. I sit in my old familiar chair - fortified and hidden by shrink-wrapped furniture and boxes. The walls are bare in this house that has become my home. It is familiar and unfamiliar at once. I think this is what they refer to as the beginning of the end. But it is no longer sadness that I feel. Rather, it is peace and pleasure and awe. It is time, and finally... finally, I feel ready.
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