The Dream Time of Memory

Outside every window of this island house, one can view an expanse of water; a channel of ever-moving steel gray wavelets that flow between houses, trees and forests looking back at us from across the way. 

As a foreigner to this area and not being particularly inquisitive at the moment, I don't ask my hosts if the water is flowing out to the ocean or coming in to some sort of landmass. Anyway, in the time-space continuum, it matters not. It will all be gone in ten million years. Why waste my breath on useless information as no a-fishing will I go today.

Changing the scene is akin to changing your thoughts, only a lot easier. Here in this house by the sea, one in which I have never stayed before, there are no ghostly reminders of Michael's books, shirts, desk and papers, all lying in wait to vibrate my cells with the disbelief that a human being can simply vanish, leaving behind all the things he or she held so dear.

My heart-mind can't latch onto anything that would trigger the resentment of his disappearance. The laughter and chatter of friends who knew him even longer than me - talking about all their doings together, his behaviors, his place-specific behaviors, all seem real. 

He is alive in the dream time of memory and it feels good.



 

The Fly of LAX

I slouch in a hard leather seat at a gate in LAX, bound for the Pacific Northwest to visit friends - something my husband and I did together every summer. Going alone this time seems more painful than expected. More weepy. More disorienting. More physicality of grief as the entire chest area feels leaden and soggy at the same time.

And then a tiny fly bounces past me, in between the laptops' computer screen and my tapping fingers. He is a wisp of a fellow, perhaps a gnat, and his movements seem slow and sluggish.

And then, miracle of miracles, my maudlin gestalt lifts as I observe this fragile creature lost in the caverns of an international airport. The chance of his ever breathing fresh air or feeding off real nature food is almost nil. I stop feeling sorry for myself. His fate seems much worse than mine.

How this little fellow arrived in such foreign environs remains a mystery, but I wish him well on his lonely journey through fast food restaurants and stale air. At least I will be able to deplane in the champagne breezes of a peaceful land.

Where Is God?

In the silence of nowhere.

A Blooming Mystery

My laptop is shoved into its usual spot on the kitchen table amidst the messy stuff of business papers and bills. Peering over the top of its screen, a magenta orchid with thirteen pristine blossoms on a tall stem (and one withering comrade) command my attention.

"Oh my god," she thinks to herself in shock and awe. Michael bought me those orchids from Trader Joes right after he came back from Paris in mid-May.

Michael, the flesh and blood husband whose earthly remains sit in a brown velvet bag on my entry hall table and in other secret places. Michael, the ethereal being that has begun to take shape in my waking moments, gently surrounding me with his presence.

How can it be that this perky orchid in a corny gray and black striped pot has not only outlived him but still thrives? It looks as fresh, perhaps even more robust, than the day he brought it home, balanced between his forearm and cloth tote bags filled with Trades Joes salads and lettuceware. 

He went to that infamous market every Wednesday and Saturday, not only to restock the provisions but also to pick up flowers - a habit he developed when I was sick with cancer and my sister commanded him to keep fresh flowers in the house at all times.

Thus the orchids.

With no explanation, I simply gaze at the magenta speckled blooms and know that whatever grace has kept them alive, this last earthly gift from my beloved will eventually fade away.

The Third Act

Never particularly entranced by Arthurian legends, the version whereupon Guinevere cloisters herself in a convent  - after the death of the King - did not evoke much emotion in me.

Today, that tale of old provokes my attention. 

The first third of my life was spent being born, having a semi-nice childhood, a painfully stimulating teenagehood, and a wild ride through my twenties which included living in an ashram, breaking the rules of renunciation with a good looking male renunciate, bearing a child (in wedlock) and subsequently getting divorced.

The middle third of my life was spent with my King Arthur, or perhaps my Lancelot? He was both to me, which makes me a bit more lucky than that poor Queen, the infamous Guinevere. I never had to choose and lose.

Now comes Act Three - providing that the Grim Reaper doesn't see fit to take me before the traditional story arc is completed.

The ocean widens before me, and I carry on this voyage a sea trunk full of tricks: creative pathways filled with color and light - wandering the world over with a friend or two - possibly becoming a grandma - or reframing my house on the hill as retreat center and spending my days in prayer and contemplation (though not to repent like poor Guinevere but with the eye to enlighten).

On days like this when the glass is half full, I bless the air, the sun, the earth, and loving human beings for making life worth living. I can thank not only the teachings of the Buddha for this understanding, but CNN as well for providing the contrast, without which we could see nothing.

The Lucky Man

He died at home in a soft bed with his boots off - peacefully, surrounded by those he loved most on this planet. 

Outside the birds nested in the trees, singing their peculiar nighttime lullabies. In this room of departure, a soft light illuminated the still face as his last breath gently slipped into the no more.

Just a finite number of days before, he had been on another continent, attending to book signings. That voluminous tome, an embodiment of a lifetime of dreams and poised attention,  finally bearing fruit.

A finite number of days before that, he had been on yet another continent, even further away from that bedroom of no return. He had galloped up the steps of golden temples, gazed at giant Buddhas, picked his way through trash as women in colorful dresses balanced trays of watermelon on their heads and sashayed around his inquisitive gaze.

He was a lucky man.

 

Thirty Days Into Rebirth

In the sixth month of the Gregorian calendar, day twenty-six, a once in a lifetime event occurred - the death of my husband Michael. Although he was lover, friend, creative partner and dishwasher par excellence, nonetheless a vicious army of cancer cells swept over the terrain of his inner landscape. Breaking through cell walls, vanquishing bone, crushing together delicate brain tissues, this bodily terrorist silently and methodically snuffed out his life.

Three weeks postmortem, I make a visit to a chiropractor. The indistinct sciatica in my left thigh has entered front and center stage during the five week period between my husband's diagnosis of lung cancer and his death. No time for that dull limb pain to take precendent when the king is dying; no time for anything but the joy of seeing his smile when I come into the room to say good morning with fresh orange juice or a cup of tea. Some mornings I can't wait to see him and rush into the room to kiss his still tanned face, ruddy despite forced abstinence from the sun-drenched hiking trails of his beloved Santa Monica Mountains.

As a new patient at the chiropractor, there are the obligatory pages of forms to fill out, with words never to be read and simply filed away in a paper graveyard. And then, a box to check - a selection from which I can mark ___Single ___Married, or_____Divorced. There is no box to check for Widow or Widower. With the reality of this category of people ignored, I simply check ___Single, a seemingly inaccurate choice.

I am not single, I think. I am married to Michael. He simply has yet to appear, suitcase in hand and tired from a long trip, eager to get home to his castle and kin.

 But I know this foolishness. 

In truth, every day is a new day that awaits me and I have no idea how I will feel or heal. Someone has thrown away the score and I have to play it by heart.