Passages

One year.

One year ago

My mother died.

Online, I was silent.

Lynne posted the news on Facebook, in my absence.

Absence of public spirit, of articulated voice, of defining words.  I did write.  Mostly poetry.  I cried, still cry, complicated tears.  Of missing a presence, her presence, of loss of her place in my life.

I also cried the tears of one whose trial is over.  I cried the tears that I couldn’t let myself cry when I had no choice but to keep going.  I cried the private tears that aren’t explained, don’t have to be explained, to anyone.  I didn’t articulate the reasons. The grief that I felt was from a universal well.  That her life ended, that her difficult life ended, that I called her life difficult but she did not.  I didn’t want debate, or defense.  But I still envy those whose grief is pure, who wish their mother (father, sister, partner, lover) were still here.  I don’t wish that.  For her or for me. 

For her, I wish total fulfillment of love, the one thing that meant the most to her, as to any of us.  Love is the one thing I tried to give her, to interweave with the harsher realities of her final years.  She was confused, disabled, dependent. She was dependent on care doled out in a for-profit institution, by strangers who are assigned to care for her.  Some did, some did come to care for her.  You live through this process.  The days when caring wasn’t there, or when care givers reached the limit of caring, don’t have enough time to care for themselves, lose steam and yet can’t stop. 

I witnessed that the life of a care giver is a life of erosion, of wearing down your resources, your best intentions and your open heart.  I saw this in them, the aides who earn their living giving care under difficult circumstances.  I witnessed this in me.

Sara (my mother's care giver), Cooie Hedman, and Sky

My mother smiled at me when I arrived, usually, and that would be the best gift.  There were times when she did not, and I would try to root out the cause.  It could be simple—the wrong skirt on, or a wrinkle in her socks, or being left too long in one position.  It could be that the bird feeder was empty, or that she was confused about the day.  Sometimes she said it hurt, but I didn’t know what hurt.  I tried all the remedies that I could think of. I asked the nurses to give her more Tylenol.  The aides promised to get her into bed early.  We tried shifting her in her chair.  I ordered her some ice cream.  I played with her animals, making them all sing.  Later, I realized that none of these remedies addressed the pain that she was experiencing.  She said, at the end of her life, “It really hurts.”  I couldn’t help her except to call in the nurse, and eventually, to sign up with Hospice.  I encouraged her and told her how proud I was of her, because I was.  She did not complain much.  When we finally realized that she was eaten up with cancer, I was humbled by how brave she had been.

Who she was to me…  Someone I cared for, loved, but whose needs I juggled with my own, until the end.  Then it was too late.  There wasn’t enough time left.  I was there with her, Mari and Kit were there, Lynne was there.  The ones who wanted to be there, were there.  She was someone different to each of us.

I admire the women who say of their mothers, “I wish she was still here,” and “I keep her always in my heart.”  I do keep her in my heart, partly because her story is my story.  Her path was as uneven as mine.  I see myself in her.  I yearn for love the way she did.  I was not granted physical beauty anymore than she was.  I struggle to find my place in the world as she did.  She counted the badges she earned, she kept her awards and her certificates of thanks.  She took her volunteer jobs seriously, just like I do.  I define myself by my work, and without it I am lost.

On the Friday before she died, she was alone in her room when Sara came.  Sara let the silence remain as they sat looking out the window.  My mother said, “I hate not having anything to do.”  So they colored, until it was time to eat.

At her burial, my brother Thom brought a piece of embroidery that my mother had started, but never finished.  It was a Girl Scout insignia on white cloth.  The length of green thread that she had started to sew with was still there.  “This gives her something to work on,” he said, as he placed the embroidery hoop in the hole in the ground.

The unfinished embroidery is in the ground with her ashes.  The need to define your self with work lives on in me.

I have her ceramic Christmas tree on a table in our living room.  It is lit by fiber optics delivering colors from the color wheel out to the tip of each branch.  It fades from the glow of green to the glow of red to the glow of blue, then yellow, noiselessly.  I gave her that decoration when she moved to her first “independent living” apartment in Florida.  She put it on the pass-through between her kitchen and her living room.  In time, she moved it to her assisted living studio, and then to her second assisted living apartment.  I went to that apartment when she was in the rehab unit.  There was the ceramic Christmas tree, alone is her empty apartment.  I mentioned it to my sister who helped pack up her belongings to send to Bellingham.  It made the trip, and displayed its rainbow of colors each of the three years that she was here.  She loved the tree.  The last year, in her room at the end of the hall in the long term care facility, it stayed on 24 hours a day. She was past the point of noticing it.  As Christmas approached, I think it was on more for my spirit than for hers.  I had bought a Christmas outfit for her baby doll, but by the time I brought the gift to her room, she was fading away, hardly able to acknowledge the doll which had been her darling since we gave it to her for her 98^th birthday in July.  We propped the festively dressed doll up in bed next to her head, but she was already drifting into her final sleep.  I had hoped for one more expression of delight for her, but I was too late for that. 

In early December, I had decorated her door in hopes that she would like it, covering the door with red Christmas wrap and hanging up a red wreath and some gold ribbon. I had asked my friends to come to her room to sing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve, and they had kindly agreed.  The day before, I sent a short email of cancellation.  The moment was passed.  She had died on December 23^rd, 2014.  We spent Christmas Eve dismantling her room, taking down her decorations for the last time, and dispersing her belongings.  She didn’t need them anymore.

We are decorating this year.  My youngest sister Mari sent me three electric deer which I have planted on the front lawn. I hung the white icicle lights on the front of the house and the colored string of lights across the front fence.  I hung up the crystal reindeer that Viv, Lynne’s sister-in-law, had given us many years ago, when Lynne’s mother was alive and we celebrated with Lynne’s brother and sister-in-law visiting from Canada. 

Totsie Pharis, Lynne's mother, Christmas 2003

We lived in a big stone house in Kentucky, put up a tall Fraser fir tree in the living room, and had so many presents that they couldn’t all fit under the tree.  We spend Christmas morning playing Santa.  Viv had a particular knack for giving creative and thoughtful gifts, including to the dogs of both households.  Lynne’s mother would enjoy spending the entire day with us, keeping up a stream of conversation from her mid-morning arrival until after Christmas dinner in the evening.  The first few years, Richard brought venison, deer steaks and duck that they had hunted in Canada, and the house would fill with the smells of game for Christmas dinner.  Lynne misses those years.  Her mother is gone, Richard and Viv leave for New Zealand before Christmas.  We have a new tradition of celebrating with newer friends here, but we have wistful memories of those traditional celebrations.

Lynne misses her mother, in the classic way.  She wishes she were still here.

I am painting a portrait of our experience of this Christmas.  It is a mixture of memories of earlier Christmases, some treasured and some hard.  I am eager for this holiday because I notice in particular the messages of love and peace, of good cheer and delight.  I hear more music, and I sing along.  I delight at the Christmas lights, especially in contrast to the long hours of darkness that wrap around our short days here in the Northwest.  Today was the first day of sun for a week.  Mt. Baker has a record snowpack.  Lynne is playing the piano, and Winnie is asleep on the floor at my feet.  Life is complex, and beautiful.

 Merry Christmas!

The Eagle Dimension

                My heart leapt when we stepped out on the viewing platform and I heard multiple eagle calls filling the open valley. Before me, dozens of bald eagles were standing on the mudflats, some perched on rocks in the river, their dark yellow feet visible above the river; some standing in shallow water up to their feathers, some on the gravel edges of the mudflats. On the far side of the river, the field seemed to be scattered with dark rocks.  Peering through binoculars, I saw the rocks were actually more bald eagles, resting on stumps or logs.  They also occupied the branches of leafless trees along the river banks, where the giant birds posed quietly, seemingly biding their time, as if they were extras waiting to act in a movie.  Now I estimated a hundred eagles, just from where we stood.  By the end of the day, we saw more than we could count.

                Occasionally an eagle would rise up from a tree, spread its wings and fly along the river through the valley, then settle down to a new, still serious, stance. The lush, golden lowland valley is bounded by dark green forested mountains to the east and to the west. Not far downstream from our perch, the Harrison River flows into the Fraser River. This is the conduit for the salmon returning from the ocean to this place to spawn, and die.

                During other seasons, the eagles that I see around lakes or at the coast are so far away, soaring high above or perched at the top of the tallest tree.  Even at a distance, they are easy to identify because of their size and their white head and tail feathers. Having lived much of my life in a part of Kentucky where turkey vultures were the biggest raptors around, I am eager to see bald eagles, in part because their numbers have rebounded after facing the threat of extinction. I stop to look whenever I see one, or whenever I hear one.  Now living in Washington, I heard that I could witness a gathering of hundreds of bald eagles in early winter. Bald eagles migrate from all around to feast on dead salmon.  A particularly large gathering is on the mudflats at the confluence of the Chehalis and Harrison Rivers in British Columbia, less than 60 miles north of where we live. There, these carrion eaters scavenge the carcasses of salmon which have “expired” (as the scientists say) after spawning.

At first, seeing so many eagles on the ground was like seeing a flock of oversized, white headed, well-dressed turkeys.  Yet the resemblance ends there. The eagles exude casual dominance as they stood very deliberately facing upstream. They never ceased their visual surveillance, turning their necks every few seconds to assess the activity in all directions with their keen stare.  Yet at the same time, they seemed unconcerned by us, the humans peering back at them from the sidelines, where we were restrained by the simple rope or by the signs warning us to stay off the mudflats. Meanwhile, gulls wandered around them, picking at scraps.  The wriggling salmon fins cut the surface of the turbulent water nearby, as the salmon went about laying roe for the next generation before they died.

An eagle on the edge of the water about 30 feet from me was standing with a dead salmon gripped in its talons. Every few minutes it would bend its neck to tear off a chunk of the carefully guarded carcass.  The eagles near it were nonchalant. Have they already been sated? Were they digesting while they hung out before plucking their next meal out of the water?

Occasionally an eagle would open its massive hooked beak and stretch out its neck to let loose a loud assertive call: a musical warble of short descending notes that carried across the valley. The effect of having so many eagles gathered was to hear an ongoing chorus of captivating eagle calls coming from all directions.  I felt like I had stepped into a new dimension, the eagle dimension. I felt honored to be there.

Postscript: To get to this special place, Lynne and I headed north from Bellingham and crossed into British Columbia, following the two lane highways to a neighborhood near the eagle preserve, and then taking a short walk down a path to the edge of the mudflats.  Humans have a contradictory relationship with the eagles.  Local authorities have drawn boundaries around these mud flats to create Chehalis Flats Bald Eagle and Salmon Preserve (for the wildlife) and Eagle Point Park (for the humans), and have made a good effort to educate the public on respectful ways to see the eagles without tramping on the mudflats and tearing up the spawning habitat.  At the same time, a subdivision called Eagle Point Estates is being built right up to the edge of the preserve, a process which involves knocking down trees that stand in the way of the new upscale homes. I hope that the human intrusion will not keep the keen eyed impassive eagles from returning here each winter, allowing us future up close visits to the eagle dimension.  Here is a link to a discussion of this very issue: http://fraservalleybaldeaglefestival.ca/preserve/
If you want to see the eagles, here is a link to a map with suggested viewing sites: http://fraservalleybaldeaglefestival.ca/maps/CFBESP-MAP.pdf

Camping in greatness

The fluid songs of the Swainson’s thrushes rain down on me as I sit at a picnic table in Ft. Stevens State Park.  The tops of the dominant Sitka spruce and the prosperous Western Hemlocks generously provide shade for our shiny black truck and trailer.   Lynne and I are camping  in these coastal headlands of Oregon, where the mighty Columbia River drains into the Pacific Ocean.

Our home among the Sitka Spruce

We follow other humans, invading the space of this often fog shrouded maritime forest, trampling its seedlings with our feet, pulverizing the small flowers until we leave behind a bare sandy path.  Yet with the size of these master trees and the expansiveness of the preserve, this maritime forest withstands the impact of our human encroachment.

Flocks of sparrows, chickadees and bushtits flutter above us and perch in the low shrubs around us.  Green and grey lichen fall from the branches to refresh the carpet of needles under our feet.  A few mosquitoes buzz me as I walk alone in this cathedral of trees, so much bigger than I yet benign. I feel neither noticed nor rejected.

When Lynne and I saddle up our bicycles and pedal through the park on narrow paved trails, we pass teals, mallards and herons in the wetlands and a roost of ravens at the shallow end of freshwater Coffenbury Lake.   Following the out-of-date map, we end up surprised on an abandoned back road bringing us towards the dunes.  We turn around and soundlessly retrace our path through the woods, air on our faces and legs pedaling easily back to camp.

Later, we drive the truck on the paved roads which allow us easy access to the beaches as well as the 127 year old south jetty stretching into the mouth of the Columbia River. Climbing on the rubble mounded jetty is difficult, so we observe the engineering feat from the windy lookout. To the north lies the mouth of the Columbia made treacherous by shifting sandbars. To the west, the unceasing cresting of the waves marks the edge of the Pacific ocean spread out before us.  We quickly retreat to a lower, balmier setting to the south.

Near the mouth of the Columbia River

I smell the ocean before we crest the dunes that outline the coast. I witness miles of beach in both directions, north and south, and sand, some mounded in sandy hills, some styled into patterns, some hard and wet, some so soft that we spontaneously sink into it and lie down on its warmth, oblivious to time and pressure, soaking in a sense of undefined unlimited acceptance.

Heading back to camp, we pass Roosevelt elk browsing at the roadside, their light colored circular rump patches and tails and their larger size distinguishing them from the deer we see so often at home. A pair of elk grabs at the new growth of the low hanging maple leaves and shrubs, seemingly unconcerned as we watch them from the truck. Sand flows over the road we drive on in some places, and the pavement is uneven where the power of frost heaves have overcome the human attempts to smooth the surface of the earth.

In the middle of the night, nestled in flannel, I hear coyotes yipping.  Their outburst is short.  I nudge Lynne awake but too quickly the forest regains its silence.  There, when sound from humans, wind, animals and birds have subsided, I lie enthralled by the sound of the ocean waves breaking on the beach, a never ending drama: no intermission, no finale, no encore.  No beginning, no end. My spirit lifts; I fall back to sleep.

Woodpecker dining hall

The lightening of the sky at daybreak wakes me to a quiet campground, and then I hear a raucous wave of bird song sweeping high in the canopy through the forest. The start of the day for the birds, a time to proclaim their presence and stake out their territory, comes early in human time.

I treasure being a small visitor to a vast space, me, a human, occupying only a fraction of the space of one potato-chip-barked Sitka Spruce. The giant evergreen has no voice, yet it catches the wind and I drink in the sound of the air ruffling its needles and branches.  The trunk is unmoving, yet my eyes delight as the extremities dance with the wind.  At its base the green Salal and Sword ferns reflect dappled light.   The trees' roots reach into sandy soil, the same soil that outlines the park's freshwater lakes and brown tannin-stained streams wandering by. Around me are tens, hundreds, thousands of trees, vital in their interactions with air and wind and sun and rain and snow and fog, for now protected from logging by their presence on state park land.

When we leave this place, I will remember it. It will not remember us.  It will continue to  evolve.  I may have changed its course by the pathway I made with my feet, or the water I dumped in the brush, or by the emissions of our tail pipe.  But protected as a state park, this one robust piece of land at the junction of two powerful bodies of water has the momentum to continue its natural path.  I reflect on the power of nature, the intricate design and infinite beauty that I hope will survive humanity's presence.

How to get there

How to get there

If you get in your shiny new truck and drive 90 minutes southwest from Bellingham, you are heading the right direction.  If you take the state ferry across Admiralty Inlet to Port Townsend, then drive another hour south you will turn up alongside the Hood Canal.  If you get directions from the Ranger Station then you will know to look for milepost 310. If you turn right you will be on Duckabush Road and if you follow the Duckabush river on this two lane road and keep driving 6.3 miles you will end up driving on gravel. Then if you keep going 1.3 miles you will find the trailhead.  After you park your new truck, you can hike just under a mile, and you will be there: Merhut Falls.

130 feet of cascading water tumbles over cliffs and sprays from one glistening rock to another, wearing rocks smooth with its constant passing, then taking a sharp left and changing course for a new expression of cascading until the water heads into a final leap off the last cliff and falls unimpeded for the last 30 feet into a clear pool.  The pool holds the water only briefly before spilling it into the creek.

You watch from a wooden bench placed perfectly for absorbing this show: the perfect stage of the uncivilized forest and the perfect sounds of the unselfconscious falls. You can be there at the falls.

If years beforehand you met some friends and months before made a plan, if you all looked at your calendars and found an agreeable date, you can camp fifteen miles to the north and eat lunch on the beach at the Oyster Saloon before you drive down the state road to the gravel part to the trailhead and hike together.  Then, when you sit on the bench, your stomach still full of oysters, you have a friend to share the beauty with, the beauty reflected in your friend's face, her relaxed face, her eyes absorbing in the show, her quietness and peace, her stopping there to appreciate the scene.

If you've trained your dog to stay with you when you let her off the leash, when she proves her mettle and when the dog learns to like going for rides and hops right up in the back seat, you can have her along at that the perfect moment.  With you and your partner, your friend and your dog, you can hike to Merhut Falls.

If you found your life partner a really long time ago and you stay together 38 years, you can do all this with her. You can buy the truck together and bring your dog and be friends with other people and find a way to work well and play well together.

If you retire from full time work and move to a nurturing place like Bellingham, you can do all this on a Monday and get to this moment without a lot of other people around.

The falls shares its beauty ceaselessly. The water was falling when the guidebook was written five years ago; in fact, the falls were there before the author of the guidebook was born.   The trees that grow around the falls filled in after the first cut in this area, and now stand timelessly around the path.

You can pause on the trail and comment on the Maidenhair ferns amidst the sword and deer ferns, the bunch flower and banana slugs, and pause by the game trails that cross the path leading to mysterious places. You can listen to the Swainson's thrush and bring along water to drink and maybe some snacks.

You can do all this and then you have this moment, the moment of being with your friend, your life partner, your dog, and the trees, at Merhut Falls.

If you plan for a day in the spring when the temperature is mild you may be the only car at the trailhead. If you choose a day after recent rain, the woods live up to their rainforest lushness. Water droplets still rest on leaves and your steps are muffled in the soft earth as you walk.

You can invite your friend to ride along with you.  You can go from here to there and reach that place.  You can move forward to new memories.  And if you clear your desk and sit down and do it, you can share this memory with others.

Is it the lightness of the snow?

Is it the lightness of the snow under my feet, the spray of white that I kick up with every step?  Is it the crunchy feeling when I hit the ice underneath?  The muffled wind that I hear through my hood, or the surprise of birds chirping in this white landscape? 

Is it the fleece inside these knee high boots, or the multi-layer long underwear that keeps most of me draft free?  Maybe it is the solitude of walking in the Arboretum when the temperature is 16. 

It might be my dog (Winnie), so happy to be romping free in the snow, her black fur against the white field, sniffing and exploring, then racing back to me at top speed, happy to be outside again after 2 days of bad weather.  It might be the feeling of strolling along after scurrying from car to house and staying inside because of the winter weather.

It might be the expansiveness of walking along the path by the trees, away from traffic and houses, not having to watch for cars, feasting on the beauty of bare trees against snow. 

I hear the train whistle now, first to my left, then the wheels rolling down the track, then the whistle again to my right.  It might be looking through the trees at the row of houses from the outside. Or the friendliness shared when I encounter the occasional fellow enthusiast of winter’s beauty. 

It might be the way my mind can wander to touch on this concern or that, a quiet conversation unraveling within as I walk along.

It might be the thought of my friends reading these words, the hope that they will pause and feel the beauty of this moment too.  It might be the thought of my friends, near and far.  It might be the thought of us all, journeying.

2-4-2009