For Margarette, a dear one who passed on too early. And a reminder to dance, even, no especially, when you or someone you love is suffering. I am reminded of Margarette’s laughter, a gleaming fountain that would gush from her and fill the room with magic; of the warmth of the light she would pour into you till you couldn’t help but glow; and of the ephemerality of this one precious life and, even harder to swallow, of those we love. An adaptation of a chapter from the memoir I’m working on.
Thank you, Michael. I've worked as an editor and writer for years, but sharing this personal work is really new to me. Doing so feels both freeing and vulnerable. That a fellow writer whose writing I enjoy is appreciating it is such a wonderful encouragement. :)
We (both Lee and I) thoroughly enjoyed “Light Snow, an Orange Bowl, and the Red Elvises.
I am struck by your dedication – “For Margarette.”
I think as I get older (almost 78), I marvel at the connections we share in this life. We met Bryan and Margarette over 40 years ago (when Bryan was one of Lee’s residents). Later he was a partner with Lee in practice. You have captured Margarette’s laugh and her personality that shone through that laugh perfectly!
Thank you, Brenda! And you, too, Lee! I can't say just how happy I am to have you both here.
And, whoa, the connections. I told Rita just recently I hadn't realized you two were friends and that it made perfect sense, as you're both wonderful women who I admire and think the world of. Now Margarette and Bryan too. What a small world. Yes, their family and mine have been dear friends since I was just a babe in diapers. Margarette did the gorgeous floral arrangements for my wedding, just one of the many, many ways I benefitted from her talent and creativity and generosity.
I'm thinking of this past spring when I learned of Becca's diagnosis. Anything that resembled pleasure or happiness felt unreachable and unacceptable. Slowly smiles and occasional laughter began to sneak their way back into my world. Then there was our trip to Breitenbush where one cannot deny the beauty of the world around us and of the pleasure our bodies can feel, our ability to release the mental and physical and emotional pain into a steamy body of water. It was a poignant reminder that life goes on. Life is still beautiful and wonderful while at the same time, immensely painful and impermanent.
Aw, yes. The freezing and thawing of our innards. Especially when someone integral to who we are in the world, someone we love dearly, is hurting or up against a terrific challenge, it can feel impossible that we might move period, much less move through. Thank goddess for the natural world and our bodies and the ability to adapt and integrate the paradoxes life brings.
Thank you for sharing.
And p.s., the snowflake photo with the wisp of pine from earlier in this post was from that very Breitenbush trip, taken while soaking in a steamy body of water.
The Red Elvises. Perhaps you remember Greg and I also saw them on that tour in Tucson. And, yes, it was the last time for a long while I jumped around sweaty and happy in a small room packed full of people.
I have found myself making a way through lots of stuff forever. And it's always helped that change is constant.
This winter Greg and I were stuck in Mexico for 4 months trying to have Bella Blanca's transmission repaired. Everyone thought we dealt with it so well. But it was like being in suspended animation. I could think about the future but I couldn't see it. I knew that I'd be right where I am right now today but the thought of it didn't seem real. Still in the back of my mind I knew that we'd leave eventually. And we did.
When Greg and I separated and I was living in the van alone I dealt by walking every morning. I'd wake up, make the bed, and drive out of the campground first thing to wherever I was going to walk. I walked for an hour and a half - little over 5 miles, 17 minutes a mile. Sometimes I was upset but I worked hard on not being. I listened to music, a podcast with different music shows called Real Punk Radio. My favorite show was Red Red Wine on a Sunday. Jerry, the host played an eclectic mix of punk, power pop, blues, singer songwriter, gargage band. He had a low soothing voice and intriguing nerdy music personality.
But, you know, at that time I don't think I thought of the future at all. It was all day by day. I never thought about whether that existence would end or what would be different when it did. I didn't make plans except for what I was going to do the next day. I just wanted one thing, to be understood. I just needed to know I was OK. And then I'd be able to move on to whatever came next.
As you know we have a farewell in our lives this week. My wish is for my mother-in-law to know that she has it in her to go on, to have a good life following this devastating change. That she is OK and that she has lots of support.
Yes, I had forgotten you, too, had experienced this same tour. It was one of those lovely connections we shared when we met, and you shared your spot.
This is a beautiful response. I can so relate. There’s something poignant about those holding patterns--the times we don’t/can’t think of what will come because there is only now. “I just wanted one thing, to be understood. I just needed to know I was OK.” I caught my breath. Yes.
And yes, I do know of your farewell. Sending my heart to you two and to your mother-in-law.
I really enjoyed this piece. Your writing is wonderful, it seamlessly carried me through your story in a way that made the experience a pleasure.
There were many other great lines, but I singled these two out because I just found them to be fantastic:
“Our conversation had been like match to flame, mostly because he, too, was touched by the potency of the written word.”
“And when I looked toward the stage, a grin like a burst of wind beneath an abandoned kite tugged at my cheeks.”
Beautiful words.
Thanks Holly :)
Thank you, Michael. I've worked as an editor and writer for years, but sharing this personal work is really new to me. Doing so feels both freeing and vulnerable. That a fellow writer whose writing I enjoy is appreciating it is such a wonderful encouragement. :)
Thanks Holly, glad I could lend an encouraging word - it’s much deserved.
Holly,
We (both Lee and I) thoroughly enjoyed “Light Snow, an Orange Bowl, and the Red Elvises.
I am struck by your dedication – “For Margarette.”
I think as I get older (almost 78), I marvel at the connections we share in this life. We met Bryan and Margarette over 40 years ago (when Bryan was one of Lee’s residents). Later he was a partner with Lee in practice. You have captured Margarette’s laugh and her personality that shone through that laugh perfectly!
I am so glad you’re writing.
And I’m so glad I’m following you!
Lee, too!
Brenda
Thank you, Brenda! And you, too, Lee! I can't say just how happy I am to have you both here.
And, whoa, the connections. I told Rita just recently I hadn't realized you two were friends and that it made perfect sense, as you're both wonderful women who I admire and think the world of. Now Margarette and Bryan too. What a small world. Yes, their family and mine have been dear friends since I was just a babe in diapers. Margarette did the gorgeous floral arrangements for my wedding, just one of the many, many ways I benefitted from her talent and creativity and generosity.
I'm thinking of this past spring when I learned of Becca's diagnosis. Anything that resembled pleasure or happiness felt unreachable and unacceptable. Slowly smiles and occasional laughter began to sneak their way back into my world. Then there was our trip to Breitenbush where one cannot deny the beauty of the world around us and of the pleasure our bodies can feel, our ability to release the mental and physical and emotional pain into a steamy body of water. It was a poignant reminder that life goes on. Life is still beautiful and wonderful while at the same time, immensely painful and impermanent.
Aw, yes. The freezing and thawing of our innards. Especially when someone integral to who we are in the world, someone we love dearly, is hurting or up against a terrific challenge, it can feel impossible that we might move period, much less move through. Thank goddess for the natural world and our bodies and the ability to adapt and integrate the paradoxes life brings.
Thank you for sharing.
And p.s., the snowflake photo with the wisp of pine from earlier in this post was from that very Breitenbush trip, taken while soaking in a steamy body of water.
The Red Elvises. Perhaps you remember Greg and I also saw them on that tour in Tucson. And, yes, it was the last time for a long while I jumped around sweaty and happy in a small room packed full of people.
I have found myself making a way through lots of stuff forever. And it's always helped that change is constant.
This winter Greg and I were stuck in Mexico for 4 months trying to have Bella Blanca's transmission repaired. Everyone thought we dealt with it so well. But it was like being in suspended animation. I could think about the future but I couldn't see it. I knew that I'd be right where I am right now today but the thought of it didn't seem real. Still in the back of my mind I knew that we'd leave eventually. And we did.
When Greg and I separated and I was living in the van alone I dealt by walking every morning. I'd wake up, make the bed, and drive out of the campground first thing to wherever I was going to walk. I walked for an hour and a half - little over 5 miles, 17 minutes a mile. Sometimes I was upset but I worked hard on not being. I listened to music, a podcast with different music shows called Real Punk Radio. My favorite show was Red Red Wine on a Sunday. Jerry, the host played an eclectic mix of punk, power pop, blues, singer songwriter, gargage band. He had a low soothing voice and intriguing nerdy music personality.
But, you know, at that time I don't think I thought of the future at all. It was all day by day. I never thought about whether that existence would end or what would be different when it did. I didn't make plans except for what I was going to do the next day. I just wanted one thing, to be understood. I just needed to know I was OK. And then I'd be able to move on to whatever came next.
As you know we have a farewell in our lives this week. My wish is for my mother-in-law to know that she has it in her to go on, to have a good life following this devastating change. That she is OK and that she has lots of support.
Yes, I had forgotten you, too, had experienced this same tour. It was one of those lovely connections we shared when we met, and you shared your spot.
This is a beautiful response. I can so relate. There’s something poignant about those holding patterns--the times we don’t/can’t think of what will come because there is only now. “I just wanted one thing, to be understood. I just needed to know I was OK.” I caught my breath. Yes.
And yes, I do know of your farewell. Sending my heart to you two and to your mother-in-law.