Tangled.
in-scaffolding.
At first,
for the view.
(link here for dolphins songs)
The support was nice.
Then the edges,
poked at my sides.
(I dreamed…)
of Dolphins.
Caught.
in fishermen’s nets.
A melody sings,
for freedom,
of the sea.
3.24.2010
Under the Sea
I lied there.
Tangled.
in-scaffolding.
I climbed up.
At first,
for the view.
The support was nice.
Then the edges,
poked at my sides.
(I dreamed…)
of Dolphins.
Caught.
in fishermen’s nets.
A melody sings,
for freedom,
of the sea.
Tangled.
in-scaffolding.
At first,
for the view.
The support was nice.
Then the edges,
poked at my sides.
(I dreamed…)
of Dolphins.
Caught.
in fishermen’s nets.
A melody sings,
for freedom,
of the sea.
3.23.2010
Peeking through the Fog
My feet are dragging,through the mud of the days.
I leaned my back against the door,
and slid to the ground,
covered my eyes,
in a grand surrender to gravity.
The days slip themselves,
past long lonely nights,
and leave trampled grass
in their path.
My feet heave themselves forth,
to push through the heaviness,
of too many moments bunched into one.
I see space up ahead,
through a tiny telescope,
inside my nose.
It is peeking through the fog.
Balloons on the Sky
I wonder if I will leave
- a sad, sorry story.
of all the colors in the sky,
floating in the edgeless blue,
of no beginnings,
and ends with tendril tongues,
that reach through,
the round corners of space.
3.22.2010
Let the Children Play Today
fell a thousand miles down,
Traded in devotion,
for the fellows on the ground.
My magic fed me apples,
No matter where I went,
Yours put me in the fire,
Took the suppers that I sent.
I tried to crawl back up today,
Climbing to the top,
to find the magic rainbows,
of Dorothy and the dog.
Just reaching for the view from there
that let whole world in,
when Alice found her rabbit,
and scarecrows made your grin.
I gave my trust to grace and love
In days when I was young,
The old are weary, clever folks,
With bitters on their tongues.
Watchin' children’s faces.
Watchin' children’s tears. The fears. The fears.
Will I ever find the rainbows,
Perfect in my mind?
Are days of grace and virtue
Just pollution left behind?
The perfect little windows,
I looked through from my youth,
Are smoky, smoggy pictures,
Crumbled pieces in my mind.
The children are crying
The children are crying!
I reached for God in trees and plants
When ignorance was bliss,
Making all the graceful rules,
For school kids with a fist.
Let the children come out
To dance in the magic,
Of yellow brick roads
And top hats and magic
Let the children come out
To play in the fields,
Of tulips and daisies
And things that are real.
Let the children come out,
To take in the sun,
Of bright yellow days
No prisons or guns.
Let the children come out now
To old mother’s laps,
To rest their young heads,
Settle in for their naps.
Let the children move peaceful,
In worlds of bright colors.
They like it that way-
under the covers.
Let the children play today.
Let the children play today.
3.19.2010
The Nest
I made ancient shapes,
at the feet of the Artist.
She turned the camera around.
We found the most beautiful garden.
There were flowers growing there.
When I got home,
the windows had mirrors on them.
There was a nest at the door,
I brought it inside for the quiet.
at the feet of the Artist.
She turned the camera around.
We found the most beautiful garden.
There were flowers growing there.
When I got home,
the windows had mirrors on them.
There was a nest at the door,
I brought it inside for the quiet.
3.18.2010
Patterns of the Couple
When the patterns of the couple,
have worn themselves out,
Fear slips around their necks.
The cobra contracts Her mighty breast,
to siphon the breath from their lives,
and makes them into small, slippery things,
that crawl under the table.
“Rise up! Find the feet of the young to set your bones upon!”
“Place your mighty hands upon the walls and heave yourself forward!”
The eyes you hold each other in are born of cement.
(and smell of dank dungeons under the earth)
There is no room to move there.
“Go to the market; new eyes by the dozen!”
“Appease the fine serpent under your chin!”
The Mother is calling for you to dance.
She weeps at your stillness sometimes.
Her melody is dancing in the ocean.
She is waiting for you.
have worn themselves out,
Fear slips around their necks.
to siphon the breath from their lives,
and makes them into small, slippery things,
that crawl under the table.
“Rise up! Find the feet of the young to set your bones upon!”
“Place your mighty hands upon the walls and heave yourself forward!”
The eyes you hold each other in are born of cement.
(and smell of dank dungeons under the earth)
There is no room to move there.
“Go to the market; new eyes by the dozen!”
“Appease the fine serpent under your chin!”
The Mother is calling for you to dance.
She weeps at your stillness sometimes.
Her melody is dancing in the ocean.
She is waiting for you.
In between the rise and fall of the waves.
Tunnels of Gold
Libraries of ancient texts,
sleep in the trees.
a brow furrows,
in the glare of the lights.
intensity pierces,
well formed words.
humans build fences,
safety huddles in the middle.
(Don’t get stuck there.)
Wind whispers,
all her secrets,
inside the tunnels of gold,
of your heart.
sleep in the trees.
a brow furrows,in the glare of the lights.
intensity pierces,
well formed words.
humans build fences,
safety huddles in the middle.
(Don’t get stuck there.)
Wind whispers,
all her secrets,
inside the tunnels of gold,of your heart.
3.17.2010
The Bells are Ringing Nigh!
The orchestra! The orchestra!
The bells are ringing nigh!
The city streets are spilling forth,
with fields of daisies,
and waters from the sea.
(The rocks are singing to you.)
Oh! The ignorance!
Of those with deaf ears,
who turn their gaze away,
and sit in the graveyards
of the busy.
(It is calling to you.)
Rapture spilling,
from its edges…
to make you believe again,
in the world inside the lotus.
Oh! The walls. The walls!
That seal off the sound,
of God’s instruments of peace,
inside small seashells,
and swaying blades of grass.
I've heard them today,
echo in the chambers of my heart,
to bring fair tidings,
and vibrate the lonely heartstring,
that reaches to my Beloved,
in everlasting call.
3.16.2010
The Preacher on Channel Eight
The churches of my youth
beckoned for me
as morning called.
I saw Jesus strolling,
His feet were mine,
firm and solid steps,
connecting to the surface of the earth.
He was kind to children, I recall
taking them on his knee,
and telling them stories to,
bring hidden smiles to their young faces .
I became filled up today,
with yearning,
for Great Cathedrals
and wood pews to sit upon,
-one of the crowd.
The bravery and grace,
of those who carry “the word”
to wayward and restless flocks
pierced my heart.
Tears tumbled from my eyes,
for the static-voiced preacher on channel eight.
The Lives of the Busy
I looked for a bridge today.
The water seems so nice,
for swimming below.
Lives fill up,
with the unimportant tasks,
of busy people.
Can you see the fetus inside the egg?
She is floating,
in her mother’s juice.
From your full life,
is your shell cracking a bit,
or will you stay swimming,
in the center?
The water looked so nice,
under the bridge today.
3.13.2010
Sometimes Weary Warriors Lay Down their Swords
Sometimes weary warriors
lay their swords down ,
and mothers with dry, worn out hands,
come in from the cold,
and put their feet up on the hearth.
Sometimes old village doctors still come,
to your house to check on sick children,
and place their hands upon young foreheads,
to check for fever and illness.
They pull ancient potions,
from worn-in old bags,
and offer kind words,
in the hushed tones of dark rooms,
and soothe young mothers ,
who know not of childhood illnesses and uneasiness.
They’ll ramble down the twisty path,
from the house,
and you’ll be grateful for old ways,
and the kindness and wisdom that comes,
from a life well lived.
Sometimes life is a circus ,
sometimes days drag on,
as if night will never come,
to wrap its dark cloak around to you ,
to sooth the weariness out of long working days,
and too much talking.
Sometimes the sun rushes to greet you,
and applauds your arrival,
to the glorious play about to begin.
Sometimes the sunrise hides himself,
in gloomy old memories ,
of childhood tears spilling on to the curb,
from a kickball game,
with too many captains.
Sometimes it feels like,
we can take in everything,
become full! Overflow! Pass it around!
Sometimes winter stream-beds dry up ,
and wail in longing to drink,
from spring rains and cool melting snow.
The trees! Oh, the trees! They always remember!
Stand tall noble knights! Perfect your gaze!
She will bring it all around to you again…
as She always does,
since time started to tick.
They will tell you - the trees, of all the old stories,
when birds laughed in their branches ,
and they bowed to the sun.
They will tell you the times,
the carrots got rotten,
and small little chipmunks ate,
all of the berries.
They will tell you of blooms,
that pull breath from your lungs,
and of oceans of lavender that drift in breeze,
as they wave their thin arms at the sky.
They will tell you the times,
of the birth and the death,
and of all the cycles and circles,
that roam under your feet and over your head.
They will call you to stillness,
to a deep quiet place,
so you can watch and bear witness to all that will be.
They will tell you to sit a while,
take a rest from your running.
“Come hither, come yonder, I’ve branches for you!
I’ve roots for deep sleeping and leaves for the shade!
Worry not your small mind for all will be well.
Rest here, by my trunk and take in the show.
It will rain and get cold,
then sunny again!
You’ll see it all…become real, like one of the forest.
And then you will know without hesitation,
you are safe beyond safety,
forever to live,
with those who have held ,
the ground for you all this time.
lay their swords down ,
and mothers with dry, worn out hands,
come in from the cold,
and put their feet up on the hearth.
Sometimes old village doctors still come,
to your house to check on sick children,
and place their hands upon young foreheads,
to check for fever and illness.
They pull ancient potions,
from worn-in old bags,
and offer kind words,
in the hushed tones of dark rooms,
and soothe young mothers ,
who know not of childhood illnesses and uneasiness.
They’ll ramble down the twisty path,
from the house,
and you’ll be grateful for old ways,
and the kindness and wisdom that comes,
from a life well lived.
Sometimes life is a circus ,
sometimes days drag on,
as if night will never come,
to wrap its dark cloak around to you ,
to sooth the weariness out of long working days,
and too much talking.
Sometimes the sun rushes to greet you,
and applauds your arrival,
to the glorious play about to begin.
Sometimes the sunrise hides himself,
in gloomy old memories ,
of childhood tears spilling on to the curb,
from a kickball game,
with too many captains.
Sometimes it feels like,
we can take in everything,
become full! Overflow! Pass it around!
Sometimes winter stream-beds dry up ,
and wail in longing to drink,
from spring rains and cool melting snow.
The trees! Oh, the trees! They always remember!
Stand tall noble knights! Perfect your gaze!
She will bring it all around to you again…
as She always does,
since time started to tick.
They will tell you - the trees, of all the old stories,
when birds laughed in their branches ,
and they bowed to the sun.
They will tell you the times,
the carrots got rotten,
and small little chipmunks ate,
all of the berries.
They will tell you of blooms,
that pull breath from your lungs,
and of oceans of lavender that drift in breeze,
as they wave their thin arms at the sky.
They will tell you the times,
of the birth and the death,
and of all the cycles and circles,
that roam under your feet and over your head.
They will call you to stillness,
to a deep quiet place,
so you can watch and bear witness to all that will be.
They will tell you to sit a while,
take a rest from your running.
“Come hither, come yonder, I’ve branches for you!
I’ve roots for deep sleeping and leaves for the shade!
Worry not your small mind for all will be well.
Rest here, by my trunk and take in the show.
It will rain and get cold,
then sunny again!
You’ll see it all…become real, like one of the forest.
And then you will know without hesitation,
you are safe beyond safety,
forever to live,
with those who have held ,
the ground for you all this time.
Preface to my Book Part 2
The events that took place over those years after I drove out of my Ohio driveway in the U-Haul it with three kids in tow, irrevocably changed me in ways that I could have never imagined back there in my broken little marriage to Tim. The events that I struggled through and the places I went within my inner being were not just a little hard, there were times that it was hard all the time, or at least that’s how it felt. Every single relationship that I ever had or ever would have changed…forever. The ways in which I related to the world would never be the same…ever. This pissed me off on the many, many nights I lied in bed, tears rolling down my cheeks in an excruciatingly vulnerable fetal position. I would never see my children in the same way again. My relationships to community, my parents, my soon to be ex husband, the country and the world…all of it…changed… forever. I and all of my relationships irrevocably changed for the rest of my time on this marble of ours.
Part of me thought: “Oh -you should be on your knees in gratitude for the new chance you’ve been given and the new world that can open up to you now that you’ve freed yourself from the confines of a suppressive marriage and the lonely little life of a Midwest housewife!” And the other part of me longed to return to the plain old mom who put Band-Aids on wounded knees, cooked meals my kids loved and could sit down with my neighbors over a cup of warm tea and make the deep and genuine connection all of humanity longs for. All of that changed for me forever when I barreled down I95 full of dreams and hope and the yellow brick road. It was an experience that almost defies description. Words are oh so inadequate to deliver to you the journey I and my family went on. Never-the-less, here we are you and me. We shall both attempt to embark together on my long, long search for Oz.
BREATHE NOW…
I will tell you my story, of how that all happened. I’ll tell you of the places I went after I paid my tolls on the Throgs Neck Bridge bound for New York City. I’ll try to describe how I barreled over that bridge onto Long Island, swiftly turned onto the exit towards the Sunken Meadow State Parkway and arrived at my childhood home in Kings Park, New York. Now, there will be the usual tales of all the usual places, if that’s what you’re wanting, but frankly, I have to tell you, I barely left my perch in front of the fireplace in the worn out living room of 4 Captain Richards Lane, Kings Park, NY. (My mom will tell you I grew up in Northport, because that neighboring town has a high rent zip code and on the surface looks so much better than Kings Park.) I will tell you the usual stories of transition and hardship and sorry, single mothers making it in the New World, but I will tell you too of all the places I went in my mind. There are some exciting parts and we can travel back and forth over time’s yard stick together. I will remind you to breathe, as promised. Together we’ll travel along on the journey that turned my world upside down. For better or for worse, as they say, we can go together.
Part of me thought: “Oh -you should be on your knees in gratitude for the new chance you’ve been given and the new world that can open up to you now that you’ve freed yourself from the confines of a suppressive marriage and the lonely little life of a Midwest housewife!” And the other part of me longed to return to the plain old mom who put Band-Aids on wounded knees, cooked meals my kids loved and could sit down with my neighbors over a cup of warm tea and make the deep and genuine connection all of humanity longs for. All of that changed for me forever when I barreled down I95 full of dreams and hope and the yellow brick road. It was an experience that almost defies description. Words are oh so inadequate to deliver to you the journey I and my family went on. Never-the-less, here we are you and me. We shall both attempt to embark together on my long, long search for Oz.
BREATHE NOW…
I will tell you my story, of how that all happened. I’ll tell you of the places I went after I paid my tolls on the Throgs Neck Bridge bound for New York City. I’ll try to describe how I barreled over that bridge onto Long Island, swiftly turned onto the exit towards the Sunken Meadow State Parkway and arrived at my childhood home in Kings Park, New York. Now, there will be the usual tales of all the usual places, if that’s what you’re wanting, but frankly, I have to tell you, I barely left my perch in front of the fireplace in the worn out living room of 4 Captain Richards Lane, Kings Park, NY. (My mom will tell you I grew up in Northport, because that neighboring town has a high rent zip code and on the surface looks so much better than Kings Park.) I will tell you the usual stories of transition and hardship and sorry, single mothers making it in the New World, but I will tell you too of all the places I went in my mind. There are some exciting parts and we can travel back and forth over time’s yard stick together. I will remind you to breathe, as promised. Together we’ll travel along on the journey that turned my world upside down. For better or for worse, as they say, we can go together.
3.12.2010
Facing Death
I knew a woman once who got cancer and just decided to die…quietly. She was an in-law of mine and I will never forget her quiet decision, how it affected those around her and the peace, grace and steely determination that emanated from her over the long months of her death. She was not that old, in her 70’s I guess, but she was kind of a lifelong loner. She had a big family around her who helped and provided lots of cousins for her only daughter. She never married and raised her only daughter through sheer, scrappy grit in the days when single mothers who chose not to remarry were viewed on with veiled disdain and made EVERYONE uncomfortable. She had a “working man’s” job at AT&T and spent her whole working life there. She did what was expected; worked, raised her daughter, provided three square and a chair and paid the rent on her little house in New Jersey. The family finally found another lonely Aunt to live with her and there they went, making it in the New World, the two Aunts and the daughter.
I used to see her at family gatherings. We always smoked together out on the back porch in a simple ceremony of reprieve from the happy “aren’t we all glad to see each other” commotion that in inevitably rises to a fever pitch and then lowers itself to “it’s time to go home” sort of way, at those types of affairs. She was kind of cranky too, I liked that about her. She had a low, scratchy smoker’s voice and always told you exactly how it was. She had the stocky body of woman who lived alone and she always wore sensible shoes. One look at her and you knew she had strength and that she had “been through it”. I think everyone adored her really, but her refusal to conform made everyone a little on the left side of center. I liked her a lot. Every time I saw her in the family setting I could hear the familiar melody of “How do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” streaming through invisible speakers that popped themselves into the corners of the air.
One day, I saw her in Boston when my then husband and I went to visit her fine daughter. It was one of those warm spring days that Bostonians are eternally grateful for. She had come to visit her daughter to welcome a newly arrived baby and the recently a purchased home that usually comes along with new babies. My husband and I walked through the entrance to the big, new house and offered all the usual “oohs and ahh’s” to the proud homeowners, as expected.
“Where’s Aunt Gert” I piped happily, anticipating a good “this is how it is” conversation with her. The daughter pointed through the kitchen window to the second story porch and shook her head gravely. I gazed through the window and saw her standing off to the side, in the warm sunshine. Familiar swirls of smoke drifted up into the rays of sun that shone down on her. She looked skinny. Like a skinny, minnie, minnie she stood there… smoking…feet firmly planted on the long boards of the porch, like a tree who knew all the tales of the forest and exactly where her roots were planted. I was struck by her image for a moment. Her frailty seemed counterbalanced by some mysterious inner strength as if she held a secret. She was in deep thought, her gaze intensely focused downward, pondering the floor boards or perhaps the nature of the wood. Simultaneously, there was a ricochet action to her gaze, like a double headed arrow. It seemed to penetrate back into the inner dwellings of her being into some unknown, fiercely private place that no one could reach but her. I tapped gingerly at the glass of the shiny, kitchen window with my fingers. Her head rose as the sound pulled her from her inner abyss and drew her back into now. Our faces lit in recognition and she motioned towards the door for me to join her.
“Hi! How are you!” I bubbled as I walked through the entrance way to embrace her little football body. I felt comforted by her firm stance but noticed something unusual. I felt a weird bone sticking out of her back and a little nugget of worry shifted inside my own abyss.
“I’m good, I’m good.” She offered, as she pulled the cigarette to her mouth and sucked in a long drag. Her gaze shifted away from mine almost instantly and it become perfectly clear there was an elephant in the room and we were both going to dance around it with pleasantries and everyday conversation.
“You lost weight.” I busted out, anxious to state the obvious so we could get on with it.
“Yeah, I have.” She sighed, as if she’d had this conversation a thousand times over the last little while and wanted to get on with it too. The air hung still between us for a moment.
“So, you have a new granddaughter, your first! You must be so excited!” I ruffled through my purse to find my cigarettes and lighter. I didn’t want to do this little pleasantry play with her. I wanted to shout, “You don’t look good, Aunt Gert! I can see that you’re sick! What’s up with that?” But I remained silent and quietly waited for her response as I focused on the tendrils of smoke that rose from my cigarette tip and danced towards the sun.
Aunt Gert could make it perfectly clear when she was willing to discuss something with you and when she was not. Like magic, through some invisible ink, she could make clear all sort of things about how you should be with her. She did this by her mere presence alone. Her demeanor made this clear to me now, so I took a deep breath and tried to find ways we could connect under the surface of our words. I pulled a cigarette from my purse, placed it between my lips and flicked the lighter. We pulled our smoke together and she handed me the ashtray.
“Yes. Yes I do. I have a new baby granddaughter.” she said. We were finding our rhythm now in the mundane play, and we both settled in. We went on for a while like that, there on the porch. Smoked a bit, did our chat. Eventually our ritual flowed to a natural close. We pushed our butts into the ashtray and made our way through the kitchen door to join the rest of the world.
I was always grateful for my clandestine meetings with Aunt Gert at family gatherings. Two smoking loners, politically unacceptable, feet firmly planted, finding a reprieve in each other from the maddeningly boring world that lived outside the doors we stood next to.
I remember feeling glad for Aunt Gert, that she stuck around to usher her granddaughter, daughter to her only daughter, into the world. She died a few months later, quickly and without any fuss. She refused to seek treatment from the traditional medical world during her apparent illness. I never did hear an accurate diagnosis for her death as she refused to let anyone label her in life and I suppose she was never going to allow that in death. I think I did hear that eventually she was given some meds for the pain in the last weeks of her life. I believe she smoked right up until the very end. Her family pleaded and urged her frantically to get care as she withered away. Her daughter grew furious with her, as any daughter would, for not taking care of herself and not sticking around longer to meet her eventual second grandchild. And I suppose if I had been in the daughters her shoes, I would have wanted to shake some sense into her too. But in some secret way I always admired Aunt Gert. She did her death her way and her terms and I respected that.
Aunt Gert did it all on her terms with no excuses or justification to anyone. She lived a life. Maybe she lived it the hard way but she lived it. At least that’s how I imagine it. She was a single mom at a time when single mothers were not what was expected of women and were predominantly unsupported by most of the society. She put years and years into a job at a huge corporate company and retired when they said she should. She got up every morning and raised that little girl. She stood quietly smoking outside on the back porch at family gatherings and listened to all the happy chatter of the engagements of new couples and celebrations of the long lived marriages of old ones. She held babies, in her own gruff, “so cute” sort of way, and always gave a hand in the kitchen, taking her place among the other coupled women, to prepare the food for the family meals. Her private, soulful eyes and searching ears took it all in from the many doorways to patios porches, garages and backdoor stoops. She took in all growing up that families endure. She held firm as the family unit morphed and morphed again through marriages, divorces, deaths and births. The extended family did not exactly wrap themselves around her, for that was not their way, but they appreciated her quiet presence I’m sure. She was not the grand matriarch and received none of the glory from that thrown, which was occupied for more noble married women. No, she was a sort of a mysterious figure standing by the door in the most beautiful, fortified way.
For me she was a presence. I never felt the stress of itchy small talk or had to worry if my hem was straight with her. When I needed a quick escape from the often tiresome, relentless commonalities of extended family, I would slip out the back door and find her there, handing me the butt can. We would smoke, wordlessly sometimes, and take in the soft sounds of nature around us. We were both silently grateful for the unwritten agreement that there would be no formal pleasantries out there in the smoking section.
The good thing about smoking is that to partake, you are forced into nature because that is the acceptable place in most homes nowadays. As I slipped through the door, she would greet me, ask me if I needed a light and we would take the stances of our familiar dance. Once we were lit up, we’d both sort of sigh, plant our feet side by side, rest our bodies in chairs or against the edges of houses and gaze into the world beyond. We stood together smoking at all sorts of homes and establishments and in all sorts of weather over the years. There were spring days when we would gaze into the carefully groomed yards and casually remark on the warm breeze or spot some tulip pushing its arms through the wet earth. There were windy days when we would have to huddle over the lighter flame, in turn, until we were both appropriate lit. There were days of great snows when we would bundle up for a quick one and then rush into to warm house, like to robbers returning from a hoist. And there were cool autumn afternoons when we would have to brush the falling leaves away so we could get into position. None-the-less, like the postman; rain, shine, wind, sleet or snow, there we could be found, the two of us and the butt can with the sounds of happy extended family voices drifting through the nearby doors or windows. We both knew what we had out there together: two lonely smokers, getting a quiet reprieve in each other, in our own way.
I will never forget her, my in-law, adopted Aunt Gert. She symbolized for me the great resolve and sturdy determination of women who have seen too much but have learned to plant their feet firmly in the ground so that the wind could never blow them over. She had a tether inside to herself and I respected that. She may not have had tons of friends or cads of acquaintances but life had insisted that she find herself in the deepest of ways. She accepted you fully no matter who you were and refused to let judgment, opinions and labels deter her from her seat. She was a force in my eyes. I will always be grateful for the many lights she offered me and the way she never expected me to engage in trivial conversation but offered a deeper, silent connection instead. The threads of our reaching towards each other danced under the surface of our comments and gazes into nature and moved me in the deepest, most unpredictable of ways.
Today I see her, grinding her last butt into the ashtray and making her way through the doors into the warm house. If I could, I would build her a big thrown and sit her right up there on it. I’d make a soft platform so her short legs wouldn’t dangle in the air and she could rest her feet. I would sit down at her feet and give her all the glory she so graciously side stepped in her life, to the more worthy and noble. I would tell her all about the things she gave me as a woman and now single mother myself. I would tell her that I respect that she knew when her time was done and that I understood that she knew when she had had enough of it all already. I would take her little football body and give her big embrace. I would make her take it in for a moment, even if she struggled. I’d push past all the hard walls and heavy exteriors her life had insisted upon and tell her that… I saw her too. I’d tell her that I was in on her little secret and that I could really ‘see’ her, whether she liked it or not. I’d tell her I could see her, I respected her and thank her for all she had given me to carry on all these years later. I would tell her that labels aren’t really that useful and only serve to bolster the labeler. I would tell her that I think her life was indescribably noble and that I know, beyond a shadow if a doubt that her young granddaughters carry her firm stance and sturdy roots, in their bones. I’d make sure she hears me when I tell her that she wasn’t really alone and that all along we were holding hands under the surface, out there in the smoking section. I would tell Aunt Gert all of this, and then, I am completely certain, we would light up a smoke.
I used to see her at family gatherings. We always smoked together out on the back porch in a simple ceremony of reprieve from the happy “aren’t we all glad to see each other” commotion that in inevitably rises to a fever pitch and then lowers itself to “it’s time to go home” sort of way, at those types of affairs. She was kind of cranky too, I liked that about her. She had a low, scratchy smoker’s voice and always told you exactly how it was. She had the stocky body of woman who lived alone and she always wore sensible shoes. One look at her and you knew she had strength and that she had “been through it”. I think everyone adored her really, but her refusal to conform made everyone a little on the left side of center. I liked her a lot. Every time I saw her in the family setting I could hear the familiar melody of “How do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” streaming through invisible speakers that popped themselves into the corners of the air.
One day, I saw her in Boston when my then husband and I went to visit her fine daughter. It was one of those warm spring days that Bostonians are eternally grateful for. She had come to visit her daughter to welcome a newly arrived baby and the recently a purchased home that usually comes along with new babies. My husband and I walked through the entrance to the big, new house and offered all the usual “oohs and ahh’s” to the proud homeowners, as expected.
“Where’s Aunt Gert” I piped happily, anticipating a good “this is how it is” conversation with her. The daughter pointed through the kitchen window to the second story porch and shook her head gravely. I gazed through the window and saw her standing off to the side, in the warm sunshine. Familiar swirls of smoke drifted up into the rays of sun that shone down on her. She looked skinny. Like a skinny, minnie, minnie she stood there… smoking…feet firmly planted on the long boards of the porch, like a tree who knew all the tales of the forest and exactly where her roots were planted. I was struck by her image for a moment. Her frailty seemed counterbalanced by some mysterious inner strength as if she held a secret. She was in deep thought, her gaze intensely focused downward, pondering the floor boards or perhaps the nature of the wood. Simultaneously, there was a ricochet action to her gaze, like a double headed arrow. It seemed to penetrate back into the inner dwellings of her being into some unknown, fiercely private place that no one could reach but her. I tapped gingerly at the glass of the shiny, kitchen window with my fingers. Her head rose as the sound pulled her from her inner abyss and drew her back into now. Our faces lit in recognition and she motioned towards the door for me to join her.
“Hi! How are you!” I bubbled as I walked through the entrance way to embrace her little football body. I felt comforted by her firm stance but noticed something unusual. I felt a weird bone sticking out of her back and a little nugget of worry shifted inside my own abyss.
“I’m good, I’m good.” She offered, as she pulled the cigarette to her mouth and sucked in a long drag. Her gaze shifted away from mine almost instantly and it become perfectly clear there was an elephant in the room and we were both going to dance around it with pleasantries and everyday conversation.
“You lost weight.” I busted out, anxious to state the obvious so we could get on with it.
“Yeah, I have.” She sighed, as if she’d had this conversation a thousand times over the last little while and wanted to get on with it too. The air hung still between us for a moment.
“So, you have a new granddaughter, your first! You must be so excited!” I ruffled through my purse to find my cigarettes and lighter. I didn’t want to do this little pleasantry play with her. I wanted to shout, “You don’t look good, Aunt Gert! I can see that you’re sick! What’s up with that?” But I remained silent and quietly waited for her response as I focused on the tendrils of smoke that rose from my cigarette tip and danced towards the sun.
Aunt Gert could make it perfectly clear when she was willing to discuss something with you and when she was not. Like magic, through some invisible ink, she could make clear all sort of things about how you should be with her. She did this by her mere presence alone. Her demeanor made this clear to me now, so I took a deep breath and tried to find ways we could connect under the surface of our words. I pulled a cigarette from my purse, placed it between my lips and flicked the lighter. We pulled our smoke together and she handed me the ashtray.
“Yes. Yes I do. I have a new baby granddaughter.” she said. We were finding our rhythm now in the mundane play, and we both settled in. We went on for a while like that, there on the porch. Smoked a bit, did our chat. Eventually our ritual flowed to a natural close. We pushed our butts into the ashtray and made our way through the kitchen door to join the rest of the world.
I was always grateful for my clandestine meetings with Aunt Gert at family gatherings. Two smoking loners, politically unacceptable, feet firmly planted, finding a reprieve in each other from the maddeningly boring world that lived outside the doors we stood next to.
I remember feeling glad for Aunt Gert, that she stuck around to usher her granddaughter, daughter to her only daughter, into the world. She died a few months later, quickly and without any fuss. She refused to seek treatment from the traditional medical world during her apparent illness. I never did hear an accurate diagnosis for her death as she refused to let anyone label her in life and I suppose she was never going to allow that in death. I think I did hear that eventually she was given some meds for the pain in the last weeks of her life. I believe she smoked right up until the very end. Her family pleaded and urged her frantically to get care as she withered away. Her daughter grew furious with her, as any daughter would, for not taking care of herself and not sticking around longer to meet her eventual second grandchild. And I suppose if I had been in the daughters her shoes, I would have wanted to shake some sense into her too. But in some secret way I always admired Aunt Gert. She did her death her way and her terms and I respected that.
Aunt Gert did it all on her terms with no excuses or justification to anyone. She lived a life. Maybe she lived it the hard way but she lived it. At least that’s how I imagine it. She was a single mom at a time when single mothers were not what was expected of women and were predominantly unsupported by most of the society. She put years and years into a job at a huge corporate company and retired when they said she should. She got up every morning and raised that little girl. She stood quietly smoking outside on the back porch at family gatherings and listened to all the happy chatter of the engagements of new couples and celebrations of the long lived marriages of old ones. She held babies, in her own gruff, “so cute” sort of way, and always gave a hand in the kitchen, taking her place among the other coupled women, to prepare the food for the family meals. Her private, soulful eyes and searching ears took it all in from the many doorways to patios porches, garages and backdoor stoops. She took in all growing up that families endure. She held firm as the family unit morphed and morphed again through marriages, divorces, deaths and births. The extended family did not exactly wrap themselves around her, for that was not their way, but they appreciated her quiet presence I’m sure. She was not the grand matriarch and received none of the glory from that thrown, which was occupied for more noble married women. No, she was a sort of a mysterious figure standing by the door in the most beautiful, fortified way.
For me she was a presence. I never felt the stress of itchy small talk or had to worry if my hem was straight with her. When I needed a quick escape from the often tiresome, relentless commonalities of extended family, I would slip out the back door and find her there, handing me the butt can. We would smoke, wordlessly sometimes, and take in the soft sounds of nature around us. We were both silently grateful for the unwritten agreement that there would be no formal pleasantries out there in the smoking section.
The good thing about smoking is that to partake, you are forced into nature because that is the acceptable place in most homes nowadays. As I slipped through the door, she would greet me, ask me if I needed a light and we would take the stances of our familiar dance. Once we were lit up, we’d both sort of sigh, plant our feet side by side, rest our bodies in chairs or against the edges of houses and gaze into the world beyond. We stood together smoking at all sorts of homes and establishments and in all sorts of weather over the years. There were spring days when we would gaze into the carefully groomed yards and casually remark on the warm breeze or spot some tulip pushing its arms through the wet earth. There were windy days when we would have to huddle over the lighter flame, in turn, until we were both appropriate lit. There were days of great snows when we would bundle up for a quick one and then rush into to warm house, like to robbers returning from a hoist. And there were cool autumn afternoons when we would have to brush the falling leaves away so we could get into position. None-the-less, like the postman; rain, shine, wind, sleet or snow, there we could be found, the two of us and the butt can with the sounds of happy extended family voices drifting through the nearby doors or windows. We both knew what we had out there together: two lonely smokers, getting a quiet reprieve in each other, in our own way.
I will never forget her, my in-law, adopted Aunt Gert. She symbolized for me the great resolve and sturdy determination of women who have seen too much but have learned to plant their feet firmly in the ground so that the wind could never blow them over. She had a tether inside to herself and I respected that. She may not have had tons of friends or cads of acquaintances but life had insisted that she find herself in the deepest of ways. She accepted you fully no matter who you were and refused to let judgment, opinions and labels deter her from her seat. She was a force in my eyes. I will always be grateful for the many lights she offered me and the way she never expected me to engage in trivial conversation but offered a deeper, silent connection instead. The threads of our reaching towards each other danced under the surface of our comments and gazes into nature and moved me in the deepest, most unpredictable of ways.
Today I see her, grinding her last butt into the ashtray and making her way through the doors into the warm house. If I could, I would build her a big thrown and sit her right up there on it. I’d make a soft platform so her short legs wouldn’t dangle in the air and she could rest her feet. I would sit down at her feet and give her all the glory she so graciously side stepped in her life, to the more worthy and noble. I would tell her all about the things she gave me as a woman and now single mother myself. I would tell her that I respect that she knew when her time was done and that I understood that she knew when she had had enough of it all already. I would take her little football body and give her big embrace. I would make her take it in for a moment, even if she struggled. I’d push past all the hard walls and heavy exteriors her life had insisted upon and tell her that… I saw her too. I’d tell her that I was in on her little secret and that I could really ‘see’ her, whether she liked it or not. I’d tell her I could see her, I respected her and thank her for all she had given me to carry on all these years later. I would tell her that labels aren’t really that useful and only serve to bolster the labeler. I would tell her that I think her life was indescribably noble and that I know, beyond a shadow if a doubt that her young granddaughters carry her firm stance and sturdy roots, in their bones. I’d make sure she hears me when I tell her that she wasn’t really alone and that all along we were holding hands under the surface, out there in the smoking section. I would tell Aunt Gert all of this, and then, I am completely certain, we would light up a smoke.
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