I woke up at 4:30 a.m. The dogs were barking in circles around the house. After I put them back up and closed the doggie door, I couldn’t sleep. It was a full blown funk... bouncing from one worry to another... thinking of all I needed to do that I hadn’t done... nothing new, but it felt different. This morning while I sweated out the funk in exercise, it came to me... my mother is not the only one losing home when she moves here this month. I am losing home, too. As I formed the words in my heart, the tears began to flow. Of course...duh... what took me so long to notice?
Home... the farm... my mother and daddy’s dream... the house they built... the greenhouse dream... planting the pasture sprig by sprig during the hot summer...the years of raising cattle and gardens and grandchildren... sunsets over cypress knee ponds and green hayfields... fishing with crickets... watching my parents walk and love the land and the cows... all the laughter and grief, hard work and tears, memories of sister and father will be no longer tied to one piece of this sweet earth. I am caught off guard... surprised by the intensity of my grief... the tears that keep running down my face as I write about this ending.
All the stories... the history of our family in that place now live only in the memories of my mother and me... having to plant the pasture three times because the summer was so dry we couldn’t water the fields enough by hand... picking butterbeans in the garden until I thought my back would be bent permanently...I remember what the new house smelled like when we moved in... my new bedroom painted yellow... how proud my mother was of her new kitchen... her dining room... the sound of the screech owl that lived in the woods in the side yard... the rattlesnakes that could often be found coiled under the clothesline in the back yard... my sister ... oh, dear God... my sister. My sister’s death in 1980, a suicide, changed my family patterns in so many ways. Everywhere I look in the house I see her... wearing those Villager dresses that she loved.... getting ready to move out to the college dorm.... coming home for supper because she couldn’t stand the dorm food... her pink bedroom at the back of the house is still full of her presence for me.
I am a grown woman with a home of my own for over three decades. I have mothered three children to adulthood and now celebrate the presence of four grandsons in my life. The family farm has not been my home since 1969 but it is still my home in my heart. How can I let go... let the natural order of life and death comfort me as I face the ending of my childhood home as I have known it?
The words from an old hymn help... Be still my soul: thy God doth undertake to guide the future as He has the past. Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake... All now mysterious shall be bright at last. These sweet words remind me that I can only see through a dark glass as I move into the future but the vision of the past... the sense of home... the place where my family settled for a short while in South Georgia... my childhood home will shine brightly in my heart and in the memories of my children. I give thanks for my parents... that farm in South Georgia... the dear memories I carry with me as we pack mother up for the move to our farm in North Carolina... for the gift of memory that will continue to warm my heart long after I leave my childhood home for the last time. To every thing there is a season... this is my season for letting go... going home...
Showing posts with label grief and letting go. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief and letting go. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Betty and Sassy
It was beautiful day yesterday... cold, clear, bright sunshine... a perfect winter day. As we walked to Betty’s grave, a kilted bagpiper played Amazing Grace reminding us that all of life, even grief, is an occasion for thanksgiving. We gathered round and heard the old words... Let not your heart be troubled... The Lord is my shepherd... Neither death nor life can separate us from the love of God. And as we left, our arms wrapped around each other offering loving comfort, the sun continued to shine.
I came home, changed into my overalls and went to do the afternoon feeding. In the winter, the cows must be fed and checked twice daily, especially when the weather is cold. I went to the leaning barn (so called because it does lean) and loaded hay into the back of the mule. As I drove through the glen, snow was still lightly layered on the ground because the sun does not shine there for very long during the day. The cows had heard me coming and were waiting at the hay ring and the feed trough. The count came up one short... Sassy was missing.
Sassy came to us a young heifer, already bred, from daddy’s farm. Because she was so young to have her first calf, she had difficulty giving birth and we had to pull her first calf. It lived and grew to be a beautiful yearling. Her next two calves died. New mothers sometimes start removing the membrane from the rear instead of the head and that caused one baby’s death. After two calves lost, we had been watching Sassy closely as she waited to calve. The loss of those two calves in a small operation like ours represents a great deal of money down the drain. Where was Sassy?
My eyes flew around the glen... I heard her before I saw her. Sassy is always greedy and she wanted her food but she wouldn’t leave the small red bundle lying on the ground. My heart stopped. I yelled at the dogs to stay put and walked to Sassy with the feed bucket. As I got close, a little red head popped up and looked at me. I began to cry. The baby was fine. As her mama cleaned out the feed bucket, I went to the baby and ran my hands all over her body in a joyful blessing. New calves have not learned to fear yet and if the mother knows you and will let you, you can pet the baby calf.
After the new baby has its sea legs, all the other cows will come and sniff it, lick it, say hello and welcome it to the family. If you are there at the right time and can join in this ritual, the baby will consider you a part of its family, too. When a cow from the herd dies on the farm, the same ritual is performed. They file by, sniff and lick, and say good bye. I have never seen the good bye ritual but my daddy told me he had. The rituals of welcome and the rituals of good bye...
The rituals of good bye... the open casket at the visitation so we can really know the body is not the soul... the flowers that remind us of new life that comes after death... the comforting words from our Holy Book... the arms that reach out to us and the shared tears of grief... the cars that pull over to the side and stop in respect as the hearse and funeral procession drive by...the graveside service that reminds us from dust we come and to dust our bodies shall return... the comfort of ritual whatever its form.
The rituals of hello... touching the newborn, rejoicing in the presence of new life, celebration at the continuation of the lives that have gone on before, shared tears of joy, arms that hold us as we laugh and cry together, a dedication or christening (whether by sprinkled water or licking) that sets the new life apart as special and a part of our family... bring us joy in the morning after the season of grief.
I think we will name the new baby Betty...
I came home, changed into my overalls and went to do the afternoon feeding. In the winter, the cows must be fed and checked twice daily, especially when the weather is cold. I went to the leaning barn (so called because it does lean) and loaded hay into the back of the mule. As I drove through the glen, snow was still lightly layered on the ground because the sun does not shine there for very long during the day. The cows had heard me coming and were waiting at the hay ring and the feed trough. The count came up one short... Sassy was missing.
Sassy came to us a young heifer, already bred, from daddy’s farm. Because she was so young to have her first calf, she had difficulty giving birth and we had to pull her first calf. It lived and grew to be a beautiful yearling. Her next two calves died. New mothers sometimes start removing the membrane from the rear instead of the head and that caused one baby’s death. After two calves lost, we had been watching Sassy closely as she waited to calve. The loss of those two calves in a small operation like ours represents a great deal of money down the drain. Where was Sassy?
My eyes flew around the glen... I heard her before I saw her. Sassy is always greedy and she wanted her food but she wouldn’t leave the small red bundle lying on the ground. My heart stopped. I yelled at the dogs to stay put and walked to Sassy with the feed bucket. As I got close, a little red head popped up and looked at me. I began to cry. The baby was fine. As her mama cleaned out the feed bucket, I went to the baby and ran my hands all over her body in a joyful blessing. New calves have not learned to fear yet and if the mother knows you and will let you, you can pet the baby calf.
After the new baby has its sea legs, all the other cows will come and sniff it, lick it, say hello and welcome it to the family. If you are there at the right time and can join in this ritual, the baby will consider you a part of its family, too. When a cow from the herd dies on the farm, the same ritual is performed. They file by, sniff and lick, and say good bye. I have never seen the good bye ritual but my daddy told me he had. The rituals of welcome and the rituals of good bye...
The rituals of good bye... the open casket at the visitation so we can really know the body is not the soul... the flowers that remind us of new life that comes after death... the comforting words from our Holy Book... the arms that reach out to us and the shared tears of grief... the cars that pull over to the side and stop in respect as the hearse and funeral procession drive by...the graveside service that reminds us from dust we come and to dust our bodies shall return... the comfort of ritual whatever its form.
The rituals of hello... touching the newborn, rejoicing in the presence of new life, celebration at the continuation of the lives that have gone on before, shared tears of joy, arms that hold us as we laugh and cry together, a dedication or christening (whether by sprinkled water or licking) that sets the new life apart as special and a part of our family... bring us joy in the morning after the season of grief.
I think we will name the new baby Betty...
Sunday, January 21, 2007
grey days, grey tears, grey hearts
It is a grey morning... not the light dove grey of an approaching snow storm... but the dark, heavy, oppressive grey that weighs my soul down... keeps my spirit bent over. This light suits me this morning. It has been a difficult week.
All around me, I feel grief. My friend’s mother has no more treatment options for her cancer. Another friend is living through the anniversary of her husband’s death. My mother is grieving moving from her home on the farm in Georgia. Other friends are grieving the loss of a beloved uncle. Those of us who have traveled with grief in our lives know the roadmap is one with many detours, marked and unmarked. And, each persons’ journey takes a different route.
Our language changes and our bodies take on different shapes when we grieve. Unselfconscious pleas for remembrance in prayer... tears flow from the cracked hearts through our eyes and into the hearts of others... hugs become body prayers of love and hope... heavy hearts... heavy bodies held down by the difficult task of letting go. How can we take our road trips with grief and not get lost in the detours of hopelessness and despair?
As always, the Psalms provide one part of my map back home. The writers of the Psalms had no difficulty naming their griefs. "Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul. I sink in deep mire where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God". Psalms 69:1-3 The flowing water of tears shed for what has been lost can be the source of growth and expansion for the soul and spirit.
Too often we rush our grief. It makes others uncomfortable that we can’t get over it... it is seen as unhealthy to grieve too long (however too long is)... the naming of the person who died or is dying makes those around us twitchy... it might be their turn next. So we hurry through the pain, driving over the speed limit in our rush to get back to feeling normal again... happy again. The rush to "recover" prevents us from feeling not only the grief but also the gratitude for the gift of the person or place. Sitting, being still, letting the tears and the laughter flow, remembering and giving thanks for all that was, helps me find my way home.
The psalmists never stop entreating God to come..."Make haste, O God, to deliver me... make haste to help me...deliver me... save me... hear me..." They remind me of my cat Wiley who is a psalmist of sorts. In the mornings he begins scratching on our bedroom door at 6:30 singing a wake-up chorus of meows. Some mornings all he gets for his trouble is a "Go away, Wiley, dammit". Most mornings he gets his breakfast. But he always asks, and he always gets a response. Like Wiley, we need to keep asking God to come to us in our grief... help us find our way home.
So I will pray without ceasing... pray for the sense of the presence of God in the middle of my grey time... pray for rest and comfort for those who are walking in the valley of the shadow of death... pray for tears that heal and hugs that warm the spirit... pray for ears to hear God’s voice in the weeping... pray for eyes to see God’s love in the people around me... pray for a song to sing that transforms my grief... pray with thanksgiving for what has been and hope for a new beginning. Some mornings I may only hear "Go away, dammit"... but most mornings I will hear "I am with you always, even unto the end of the earth". That will be enough.
All around me, I feel grief. My friend’s mother has no more treatment options for her cancer. Another friend is living through the anniversary of her husband’s death. My mother is grieving moving from her home on the farm in Georgia. Other friends are grieving the loss of a beloved uncle. Those of us who have traveled with grief in our lives know the roadmap is one with many detours, marked and unmarked. And, each persons’ journey takes a different route.
Our language changes and our bodies take on different shapes when we grieve. Unselfconscious pleas for remembrance in prayer... tears flow from the cracked hearts through our eyes and into the hearts of others... hugs become body prayers of love and hope... heavy hearts... heavy bodies held down by the difficult task of letting go. How can we take our road trips with grief and not get lost in the detours of hopelessness and despair?
As always, the Psalms provide one part of my map back home. The writers of the Psalms had no difficulty naming their griefs. "Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul. I sink in deep mire where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God". Psalms 69:1-3 The flowing water of tears shed for what has been lost can be the source of growth and expansion for the soul and spirit.
Too often we rush our grief. It makes others uncomfortable that we can’t get over it... it is seen as unhealthy to grieve too long (however too long is)... the naming of the person who died or is dying makes those around us twitchy... it might be their turn next. So we hurry through the pain, driving over the speed limit in our rush to get back to feeling normal again... happy again. The rush to "recover" prevents us from feeling not only the grief but also the gratitude for the gift of the person or place. Sitting, being still, letting the tears and the laughter flow, remembering and giving thanks for all that was, helps me find my way home.
The psalmists never stop entreating God to come..."Make haste, O God, to deliver me... make haste to help me...deliver me... save me... hear me..." They remind me of my cat Wiley who is a psalmist of sorts. In the mornings he begins scratching on our bedroom door at 6:30 singing a wake-up chorus of meows. Some mornings all he gets for his trouble is a "Go away, Wiley, dammit". Most mornings he gets his breakfast. But he always asks, and he always gets a response. Like Wiley, we need to keep asking God to come to us in our grief... help us find our way home.
So I will pray without ceasing... pray for the sense of the presence of God in the middle of my grey time... pray for rest and comfort for those who are walking in the valley of the shadow of death... pray for tears that heal and hugs that warm the spirit... pray for ears to hear God’s voice in the weeping... pray for eyes to see God’s love in the people around me... pray for a song to sing that transforms my grief... pray with thanksgiving for what has been and hope for a new beginning. Some mornings I may only hear "Go away, dammit"... but most mornings I will hear "I am with you always, even unto the end of the earth". That will be enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
