What the Water Said...

Hello and Happy New Year!

I know it’s been a minute—we went across the country to visit my sister so I haven’t been writing much. I did, however, do a fair amount of watercoloring…

Selections from a whole new series of cat cards! And a few chickens, of course…

Dad came with us on this trip, which felt essential since the rest of the family was together. It was a risk—people with Alzheimer’s tend to do better when they are in a familiar setting, and this is definitely true with my father. But he was a great traveler. He came along for hikes, enjoyed my sister’s cats, briefly joined a dance party my nieces and I were having in the yoga studio off of the living room. We played music and sang, and visited some his very dear friends from graduate school. I don’t know if he remembered everyone the whole time. I don’t know if any of us cared. Sometimes all that matters is that the air in a room is warm and forgiving.

I know this is all lucky. When Dad first started getting the disease it was so hard. He was angry and depressed, and at times he was mean. This was unlike him and that period was so rough that I buried it until one day, almost a year after Mom died, I was at an uncle’s funeral and my sister-in-law asked me how Dad was doing.

“Good!” I said. “Better.” Then I started talking about what we’d been going through, and grief stirred in my hips. Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes. "That must be so hard,” said my sister-in-law. “It IS,” I said, and started to cry. (Oh well. This is what I like about funerals. There is no time for small talk.)

There have been many moments like this for me—sad, frustrating, put-your-head-on the-steering-wheel-and-weep moments. And equally hard or harder moments for Dad. I know they will come again. (And you will probably hear about them.) Right now, though, I am cherishing the softer ones. I write them down here, in my journals, little pills I can use for relief when grief or pain comes. This may or may not work. That’s okay. I know the idea that I have a modicum of control over anything I feel is an illusion. But who sees everything with absolute clarity? And what would be the fun in that?

Near the end of the trip, I asked Dad how he was doing. He said, “I’m not always sure where I am, and I’m not always sure who everyone is. But each time I open a door, I find a room full of lovely girls, dancing or talking or singing. So that’s nice.”

* * *

On another note: this month I’m excavating my notebooks for things I might want to turn into larger bodies of work. Here is a piece I found yesterday. It lightened my mood around work—maybe it will be useful to you, too.

What the Water Told Me…

This afternoon when I was down by the creek I heard the voice of the water.

Listen! it said. Your culture is nuts! It’s like a demented old man in an asylum running around in his pajamas, wearing a helmet, giving orders, believing he is a very important official. None of the nurses, who see everything, take him seriously.

Think like they do.

If your culture yells WORK HARDER, work softly, with tenderness and purpose. If it says DO MORE, do less. If it says, “You are not enough!” cup that crazy old man’s face in your hands and say, “Sweetheart! Take a NAP.”

Then, when you’ve put him to bed, listen to your own rhythm.

Yes! To that whirling dervish in your heart, that untamed dancer. How does it want to move? Who does it want to listen to?

“You!” I said. It has never really served women to be good, has it? We are best when we are wild, when we are swimming in the rain and the mist and let our hair go crazy. We are so beautiful then, too.

Water, I want to listen to your ancient voice that has no fear—who knows how to move around obstacles, or through the ones that need to be dissolved.

And to the birds and the flowers that sing in my garden.

I want to breathe in the lilac bush, her leaves still drunk from last night’s rain.

I want to hum the symphonies made by the honeybees until my cells buzz, too.

I want to fall to my knees, awestruck by everything that is available without me even having to ask, and say to Mother Earth,

All this,

all this,

all this,

is You.

Thank you, as always, so much for reading! I’m so happy you’re here and welcome to all the new subscribers. If there’s anything you want more of from me, please don’t hesitate to send me a message. I love hearing from you.

Have a great month!