Night Sky

 

I went outside the other evening, well after sunset, and wandered through the greenbelt down to the Sound. Front door lights and street lamps cast pockets of light along the way; in only a few spots was it so dark I was unsure of my footing. As I approached Chambers Bay, light was all about me, streetlights, car lights, light from homes across the water. Looking up, I cupped my hands near my eyes to block what light I could, to better see the stars.

It had been a long time since I was out alone at night, quiet, looking at the sky. It takes effort now. Growing up on a farm, all I had to do was step outside behind the house, just halfway down the hill, and all was quiet, dark. Country dark, then; just starlight, or, if there was a moon, moonlight. 

All I need to do is cast my mind back, and I am there, a child standing on a hill.

It’s autumn; the dog is with me. The sun has just set, and as I watch, the fields and colors of the day are hidden by the settling night.  Shadows blur and blend to a seamless dark, until finally I cannot see my feet.  So quiet.  I close my eyes. All I hear is the hollow rattle of empty corn husks, like thin, wooden chimes. The dog leans against me.

Slowly I open my eyes and look up. Stars, thousands of them, brilliantly bright, are poured across the country sky.  I follow the sides of the Big Dipper to the North Star; I see Orion and his belt. Swirling paths of light, filled with stars, arc through the constellations. Earth; boundless sky; I am part of it, lost in it, the stars all but singing out to me. And I am near to bursting suddenly, chest full.

It is different now. And I am different now.

Now I look up at the stars, fainter and fewer, and think about time and space.

Stars live so long a time. The largest live for only millions of years, but others, like our sun, for billions of years; others up to a trillion years. Such a length of time is unfathomable to me. Nor am I able to envision billions of galaxies spinning in an observable universe 28 (or 93, depending how you look at it) billion light years across, and extending beyond that, ever-expanding, possibly infinite.

I yearn for a more human scale. I turn to the starlight.

The light from most stars we can see with the naked eye are anywhere from four to perhaps a thousand light years away. So the light I see has been travelling anywhere from four to a thousand years.  And only now has it reached my eyes.

Perhaps the light began its journey when Shakespeare was writing plays, or clocks were invented, or a magnetic compass was first used for sea travel.

If I could somehow view Earth from the stars, I could see it happen, watch history unfold: ancient civilizations, the development of writing, sailing ships and steam engines, Magna Carta.

But I would choose other things: to see my parents when they were young, when they met, when they married. See them lift me from my bassinet. I would revisit times with people I’ve loved and lost or linger on moments when my children were small.

And perhaps I might see myself, a child on a hill, dog at her side, thrilled by the night sky.

For now, earth-bound, I stand, lost in memories of people I have known and loved, dear people beyond my reach, beyond my touch. I see them moving among the stars, somewhere in space and time and light. Looking up, my heart full, the stars seeming so near, I feel them with me.

May, 2019

 

No Perfect Way

 

I’ve walked the trail near Chambers Bay thousands of times. But one recent afternoon when I swung onto the path, I pulled up short.

The trees were light, dark, bare, budding; full, scraggly, thick, thin. Dead. Vibrant. Straight and tall. Blown backward by the wind.

I saw color and depth and heard birds.

And I had to sit down.

A few years ago, my husband, Dan, was diagnosed with Stage IV esophageal cancer. Six months later, I was diagnosed with cancer, too. We went from a handful of medical appointments a year to over 150 in eleven months.

We made our plan: we would tackle the situation with humor and a positive, matter-of-fact attitude. And we did.  We plowed through surgery and treatments, asked friends to recommend funny movies, made jokes, laughed, remained upbeat.

And we tried to protect our children. Tess was in graduate school in New York; Blake was just starting his freshman year of high school. Urging them not to Google Dan’s diagnosis, we stressed his was an unusual case: he was fit, healthy, a nonsmoker. And we clamped down on the information we imparted to friends and family, carefully controlling the tone and content.

Though Tess had to cope from a distance, she didn’t witness the day-to-day reality of dealing with a serious illness.

I was more worried about Blake, who was on the front lines. Reserved and quiet, he didn’t want to talk about what was going on.

When Dan returned home after his extensive surgery, Blake never said a word about Dan’s stoma, or feeding tube, or the staples in his neck.  Blake’s face, which had been anxious before the surgery, became tight and set.

However cheerful we tried to be, underneath we were all exhausted.  I admired how Blake got up and went to school every morning. He did his school work, helped at home, and, I knew, was determined not to add to our stress.

And he was very, very quiet.

I was tracking appointments and insurance, keeping the household running, and working as much as possible. Though I tried, I couldn’t give Blake much fun.

Gradually things got better. After six months, Dan was able to talk. A few months later, he could eat solid food. A few months after that, I finished radiation and Dan was back at work, slowly increasing his hours. Things were looking up.

Then Blake got sick.

He had headaches and nausea. He was dizzy. He slept nearly all the time. He was unable to go to school, and this went on for weeks. Medical tests came up empty.

Was there some unknown medical cause, or did he finally feel safe enough to collapse after bearing up under the stress of the previous year? I was a jangle of anxiety, not knowing which way to jump. Should I push him to return to normal life? What if this went on for months? 

One morning I insisted he go to school; he could always call me to pick him up. We pulled into the lot; he sat, looking miserable. “Just try,” I said. I watched as he wobbled into the building.

And suddenly, for only the second time in this entire ordeal, I was in tears. I flung myself out of the car and found Blake leaning against his locker, eyes closed, utterly still, his forehead against the metal door. I took him home.

Now, sometimes, I think of Blake, pale, limp, sleeping for weeks. I remember how hard he worked to make up a month of missed school work; how he never complained, not once. How he didn’t want to talk about our cancer.  How he still doesn’t.

I did my best. We all did our best.

And we are all here, and we are okay.

I am grateful beyond words.

But I sit at Chambers Bay, and wonder: Does Blake see the color?

 

 

April, 2019

 

Toss the clutter; the real magic is in our memories

 

With the start of a new year, I decided to sift through the house, getting rid of clutter and excess.  Following the advice of famed author and organizer Marie Kondo, I was to consider every object and ask myself, "Does this spark joy?" If not, out it went.

I began with linens and toiletries. I found little joy. Odds and ends of hair products: tossed!  Old towels, serviceable but frayed: donated to pet shelters. Old bed sheets, worn but potentially useful as drop cloths: I struggled with myself, and kept only one.

Next, I tackled my clothes, and soon had a heap on the floor: the scratchy sweater, some faded knits, and anything I'd want my husband to throw out if it were his.  

Turtlenecks I buried deep in a drawer to await my post hot-flash life.  But as I did, I caught sight of a small bag tucked far in the back. I knew exactly what was in it, and my heart dropped.

I half-reached for it, then hesitated. For long moments I knelt there, my hand hovering; finally, I picked up the bag and sat on the floor. Drawing out two pieces of clothing, I held them on my lap. 

Maybe it was time to part with these, I thought. Over the years, every time I happened to see them, I felt so sad.

The yellowed t-shirt belonged to my father. Decades ago I bought a plain white shirt and cross-stitched a cow across the front--a cow, because he had a dairy farm; just a silly gift. Dad must have worn it hundreds of times, mostly to bed; the knit was comfortable, light and soft. I ran my fingers over the cross-stitched thread, thinking of my dear dad, his large, rough hands and gentle voice, his laugh and bright blue eyes.

Then I touched the soft blue and white nightgown which had belonged to my mother.

One late spring day I saw it in a shop, and it made me think of Mom's blue and white kitchen, the beating heart of my parents' home; the place countless relatives, neighbors, and friends stopped in for coffee, sharing jokes, telling stories, and confiding troubles. I bought the nightgown and mailed it off.  

A few weeks later, Mom had a massive heart attack in her sleep. She died the next day, and left my father, even though he held her hand.

I sat stroking the clothing, thinking tender thoughts of my parents and the place I called home. That blue and white kitchen, the morning sun pouring through the open windows. Mom at the counter baking bread, cakes, cookies, pies.

Outdoors, the pop-pop-pop of the tractor, Dad standing tall, straddling the seat, looking over the fields.  The two of them walking back from the garden together, holding hands.

Raspberries like tiny red cups, and tomatoes still warm from the sun. Apple blossoms in a tall vase on the table. Homemade doughnuts in a yellow bowl. Hot cocoa and toast by my bed when I was sick. Dad coming home from work, always cheerful: "Hello everybody, I'm house!"

And then, the smell of coffee, the clink of spoons, and voices murmuring, laughing: my parents drinking coffee together, telling each other about their days.

The shirt and nightgown are back in their drawer. My husband understands. He keeps a pair of battered mittens he's had since was sixteen years old, a gift from his mother the winter before she died.

No, these keepsakes don't spark joy. But in a way, they symbolize absolutely everything that really matters.  Love, and loss, and even joy, they're complicated.

Life doesn't move along according to some chart. The big things come upon us whether or not we're prepared.  Usually we aren't. Life is messy. It's untidy. We muddle through, loving. And remembering love.

January 2019