she's still teaching

I used to babysit a lot, long before I grew up and had babies of my own. I spent time with many pre-verbal toddlers, and learned to listen, to interpret, to understand their unspoken wants and needs.

In the big circle of life, my mom, now in diapers, is largely post-verbal.

And yet she's still teaching me.
When I can listen.

Today I sat with her, where she was, and understood that she wanted to look at the pictures of her loved ones, pictures that normally hang on the wall behind her bed. We started wtih the portrait of her four daughters. She could still read our names aloud, from the labels down by the frame. But even when I took my label and held it up to my chest--"See? Me! Cindy!"--she never could make the connection.

That ray of sunlight never broke through.

Then a little voice inside me said, "Take down the picture of her daddy. They had a special bond. She might remember."

So I did--and then sang to her the silly song that he used to sing.

Whether it's cold or whether it's hot,

We're gonna have a'weather, whether, whether or not...

As I rounded the turn to the final phrase, she pointed to the picture of Granddaddy and said, "She had a daughter who died."

"That's right," I said, "Sunny."

Not only did she have a moment of memory, but it was her earliest one, from when she was not quite three years old, the moment her older sister was hit by a car and killed. It's still in there.

And then she said, still pointing at Granddaddy's picture, "She's not still living. She died."

Mom may not be able to get her pronouns straight, but she remembered her daddy--her first memory of him, and her last.

And because I was able to listen, both to her and to my own inner voice, we were able to go there together.

What other miracles might happen if I really listen?

She's still teaching me.
When I can listen.

Listening

Earlier, as I left work much earlier than expected, I felt like I’d been given a gift. An unexpected most-of-a-day. I could do with it whatever I wanted. I felt light, buoyant. As I drove away from town and took care of a few moths that had been flitting around my head lately, I gradually became aware that there were butterflies there, as well as moths. But they darted so fast, I could only get a sense of their presence and color—not shape, or meaning, or anything else.

What was out there, just at the edge of my awareness? An almostness. Liminality, some call it. Something was there, flirting with me, teasing me, grabbing my attention and then running away with it, laughing out of my reach.

I came home and changed clothes, shedding my work self. I took my dog to the woods, to run by the river and smell the happy, verdant, freshly watered undergrowth. I felt the sun on my skin, felt my chest rising and falling, but didn’t feel the butterflies. Where have they gone? What did they want to tell me?

There was an excitement in the air around me earlier, almost tangible. Part of my physical energy. The promise of something coming, something good. Adventures, challenges, surprises, ahas. The butterflies were the harbingers. But now here I am, technology on my lap, lawnmower noises dominating the airwaves. And the butterflies have flown.

Butterflies, I’m listening. I’m still. You can land on me. I won’t run. You can light on my arm, and gently wave your wings, drying the dew in the sun. I’ll be still. I’ll listen. I’m here.

But I think maybe you can’t invite the butterflies. It has to be their idea. I can be open, stay open, and hope they come back. But they’ll only come back if they want to. And only stay if I’m ready for them, not distracted, still.

So instead I’ll let it go. I’m here, butterflies, if you want to come back. But I won’t be waiting for you. Instead I’ll change my clothes again—put on my visitin’ clothes—and get back in the car. I’ll drive down the road to visit my faraway mama.

And maybe she’ll know who I am.

Head & Heart

Today I got a phone call I've been expecting.

My sister called to say that the rest home said it's time.
Mama needs to move down the hill to the nursing home--
she's lost her natural caution about the parking lot,
and nearly collided with the garbage truck,
in her eagerness to see it.

"It's so big and loud!"

It would have been good for her, probably,
to have been able to finish up that way.
But not good for the rest home.
Or the truck driver.

Above the neck, I'm happy about this transition.
She'll get more care, probably, down the hill.
Maybe there will be an activities director that she can enjoy,
down there.
She has a good friend there already.
There will be more to do.

She wants a change.
Every time I talk to her, she tells me
she's not happy where she is.
She wants to move.
She wants to be "homeward bound."
This is a step in that direction.

But my heart's not so sure.

This will likely be the last place she ever lives.
And though she may not act like it,
she's still the only mama I ever had.
Or ever will.
And I miss her.

In my heart.
And in my head.