Ornamental

light and dark and the mist in between

i've been so negligent here.  please, all, forgive the gaps, the silence, the empty space.  i find it hard to separate a small pocket of minutes to sit here and attempt to sort my feelings out in front of all of you.  but to sit down and write about what seems trivial - spring flowers, birds' nests, a new pair of glasses (after eight years of the same ones i am thrilled, i will say) - seems forced right now.  i feel like time has both sped up and slowed down to a crawl - like there is no accurate measurement of the hours, the minutes, the days.  time seems to be a vague concept, nothing else.  i know this makes no sense.  life makes no sense.  does anything?  'm beginning to think nothing does, anymore.  what a grand ride it is, though - roller coaster and all.  i've been down in alabama for going on three weeks - was home after artfest for all of two brief days before leaving the budding green spring of firefly road and driving down to the deeper south, where spring had fully exploded.  i missed seeing it come out across my beautiful mountains bit by bit, along the edge of the river, and that makes me sad.  a lot of things make me sad right now, but a lot of things make me feel enlightened and wiser and upbeat as well.  i feel aware.  that can't be a bad thing at all.  ever.so much good has come of this time i've had with treasured family - with daddy who fades (and fades and fades), with my sister and mother by my side all day and every evening.  we've rallied together, this little clan of mine, and in the middle of loss and grief, the sort that comes so slowly with a loved one dying bit by bit every day, in the middle of that loss come quiet gifts as well.  embrace this time, i remind myself; try not to resent, to be frustrated, overwhelmed.  it is a balancing act, one i continue to work on every single day.  it is difficult to live with myself on the best of days; i can only imagine what it is like to have me as a daughter, a sister, who is venting and stumbling and expressing every emotion that comes this way.  but, i am here, and i express my love, and i smile and try to sit quietly in the close presence of my mother, of my father.  i walk the dogs, muster sandwiches for our lunch.  daddy does not eat.  he is eating nothing by now, barely drinking two sips of this or that.  on friday morning, three am, my sister and mother and i all rose, quiet as mice, and turned on the tv to watch the royal wedding of a handsome prince unfold.  it was dark, so dark, outside the french doors, and it felt decadent to be setting out ellen's waterford champagne goblets, the scalloped cucumber sandwiches mama had made, the scones with strawberries and double cream.  pots of english breakfast tea were brewed, tiaras out, a veil draped across the top of the tv.  what a girly party it was, the three of us in pajamas, eating english tea party fare at four and five am. 
straws were drawn to see who would wear the veil when champagne was poured for the royal kiss (picture ellen and me, still in pajamas and barefooted, standing out in the driveway as the day opened up, struggling to pop the cork at 630 am); guess who was the lucky girl? she insisted on passing on the privilege for a moment to a very patient isaac, bless his heart.it was a wonderful thing to sit there with my mother and sister, leaning forward for a closer view in that middle of the night dark, watching as the day slowly dawned, dewy and  clean, hopeful and bright.  it felt good to witness something magical and good, full of promise as it happened across the ocean, there on the tv in our living room. and, from the bottle's wire top, a chair.  a tiny royal keepsake chair.
 
i'm sure by now that you've all heard about the horrendous tornados that ripped through the south, and hovered over parts of alabama.  we weathered the heavy winds and rain, secured the wildly swinging hanging flower baskets, the tender new vines of confederate jasmine growing on twine that my mother has laced along the side of the french doors leading to the patio.  it was a long afternoon, evening, and even longer night of watching live videos of massive black twisters tearing through what was once a neighborhood in the heart of tuscaloosa, north and west of here.  whole towns are gone; the death toll continues to quickly rise.  my heart aches for those who suffered loss; my heart aches for so many.  so many.  i want to run an auction for a necklace with proceeds to go to the appropriate places - red cross? - and when there's time i'll share that here with you.  i have a necklace i made a month ago, into which i hammered the word "survivor".  that seems appropriate, now.  if i can ever get things together - when?! - i will.

one final message here of goodness, and hope.  my beautiful son roy graduates may 14 from the university of north carolina in wilmington's film department, on the coast of beautiful north carolina, and i will be there, come hell or high water.   and hopefully, so will my wonderful sister.  a prouder mother of two fine young men, there has never ever been.  xo photos by a friend of roy's in wilmington

xo

i look at this picture i've snapped just now - maybe ten minutes ago, as new light poured in through tender green leaves, through the white of newest dogwood petals - i look at this and my heart goes TWING, a sound even you can probably hear, like a firmly plucked harp string ringing true.  heart string.  twing.  i hear it, and i hear walter's, too.  i see the sunshine after yesterday's rain, i see the green of spring, i see the familiar beloved buddha and the blue bottles gathering morning light, i see the look in walter's eyes, i see the wicker, even the screen, the wind chimes (thank you linda, thank you roy), the paper lantern lights.  i see it all.  my home, something so distant to me these days.  i see it all. i see myself here, wedged open and raw like an oyster pulled from the sea, exposed and open and not knowing what comes next.  or, knowing and not knowing how to feel about the knowing, if that makes any sense at all.  i took this photograph of myself the first morning i was in port townsend, all the way out to the tip of this country, walking those rocky beaches alone, sorting through sand and rock for bits of glass, peering out over the water, thinking, thinking, thinking.  i was alone, that first blustery morning, i was alone and thinking and i was there.  it seemed like a miracle to me, and in a way it was.  i was there. i took so very few photos in the short four days that i was there, so very very few.  the camera was forgotten, most of the time.  my mind was on other things; my mind focused on the classes, on teaching my students most things that i know, and my mind was so very much all the way across the country in alabama.  (you know it continues to be.)  the entire trip seems like a dream.  i pick up the bits of worn sea glass i carried, absentminded, home with me - the bits that fell out of pants pockets when laundry was done - and know that i was there.  talismans, this glass has come to be.  it tumbled its way through years of water and rock and sand, it tumbled its way to me, to my pockets, to my hands.  it tumbled its little way to little me. i want to write and tell you all of my trip to california in february, i want to tell you of my time in port townsend; i don't know when that will be.  it may never be written here.  time seems to run through my fingers like water.  time seems to run through everything.  time leaves me worn and tumbled, and a little transparent, like the glass.  time runs through everything. there is a bridge not far from here, a bridge on a trail that runs through the woods, there is a bridge that crosses rushing water and rocks, that leads the one who walks its path into higher places, through woods and sunshine and along a roaring stream.  i am fascinated by bridges, i always have been; they take us to new places, they close the gap between the here and the there, they clearly point the way.  i snapped this photo two days before i left for the west coast, two days before i tearfully boarded a plane that carried me far, far, far from the homes that i know.  i had, again, forgotten my camera; thankfully there is a limited one on my phone, and i thought to pull it out to capture a late afternoon moment at the foot of a crooked, creaky bridge.  this photograph is for you, daddy.  i took this photograph for you.  i wish that i could show it to you, and maybe i will have a final chance.

i'm on my way back to alabama this morning, as soon as i can finish up here, close the laptop shut, get out of pajamas, run a brush through my hair.  there is a pile of luggage and provisions (dog food, bananas, jewelry makings, wine.  of course, some wine) waiting at the door.  my mother, on the phone last night, said to me (my mother, who is not the demonstrative sort, my mother the gracious southern woman who lets things explain themselves as they may) "i am SO GLAD you are coming tomorrow, it will be SO GOOD to have you here", and yes it will.  daddy lingers, but barely.  the light is going out, is all i know to say.

i'm not sure when i'll be back here at ornamental.  it could be tomorrow, it could be next week, it might be another three weeks; i do not know.  to those of you who've written, i thank you; to those of you who've sent your prayers and kind thoughts, i am eternally grateful.  i have never felt as deeply loved and appreciated as i've felt, these past few weeks.  i can feel your presence, i can feel your wishes for strength.  i can feel your hearts going twing, right there along with mine. 

happy spring.

xo