Remembering Jonathan Glass

Perhaps, just perhaps, I am one of the lucky ones.  Maybe. Sometimes. Living with many memories, hopes, disappointments and dark feelings for a lifetime helps one get to know oneself very well.  That voice of despair is always there, a little bit to the left of my left ear.  A demon, a thought born of stress and a very dark upbringing.  Exercise helps and being outdoors can send that demon packing.

Having said all of that, I am remembering a man named Jonathan Glass who died in February.  A brilliant, capable, funny, outdoorsy man who ran LandPaths for many years gave me the chance to show up on Thursdays, clean up the database a bit and be a part of something positive.  Jonathan gave me the chance to allay my own darkness in a time of unemployment.  He gave me a purpose and a place to sit.  He helped me to belong and feel purposeful.  He helped me stay alive.

And so it was with great sadness to know that his own hidden despair ended his all-too-brief life here in northern California.  To say he is missed is not to fully comprehend how Jonathan made open space happen here in Sonoma County.  He was cherished and his absence here is profoundly sorrowful.  There is a great emptiness where that beaming smile lit up the room.

May he now be free and may the rest of us find a way to ask for help, show understanding where we only think of ourselves, take chances, make a statement and know that living does mean that we are one of the lucky ones.

The Lemur In The Backseat

I look up
  from the overpriced plant that I am
  watering,
  in a nursery where I work
  for pittance wondering
  what happened to my beautiful life,
  to see a silver sedan pulling into the parking lot,
  slowly moving forward seeking the perfect
  parking spot,
  and there is a lemur, wide eyed and taking in all that washes
  before her through a  car window,
  short in the seat,
  she is tiny and very real.
I look up
  realizing that my lemur is an old woman,
  shrunken by age,
  viewing the world through eyes
  like pie plates,
  on her outing to the nursery where she will move slowly
  on the arm of her adult child,
  with those huge, hopeful eyes upon all
  that she will be missing.
I look up
  and wonder what happened to all that I had
  planned and know
  one day soon,
  I will become the lemur in the back seat.

That'll Be Me

That'll be me in about 20 years
 with my translucent skin over sharp
 cheek bones,
 asking a retail clerk to get something for me that I cannot
 reach,
 my teeth hanging on by a thread of tissue,
 my eyes will become distant as if I see the end of my life but
 I am not there yet,
 just this frail, petite wisp of a body that
 doesn't walk well or quickly anymore.
That'll be me with my thinning hair and excellent manners which
 tell the story of a much different generation where
 texting was something strange about to take over a nation and
 great Pie was the way we told others
 about our joy for living.
That'll be me with my ache to be seen,
 long gone now as others look past my diminishing body,
 they fail to see themselves or even realize that
 one day
 they will be saying to themselves
That'll be me
too.

A Sense Of Wonder In A Pile Of Dung

I can say that life has been challenging, knowing that, in itself, is a euphemism for a bunch of crap. Making a living in California, where our sales tax is about 10% is very "challenging" to say the least.  Finding a job that is tolerable and perhaps, enjoyable, that pays more than $10 an hour, without benefits of course, is almost unheard of, to say the least.  Getting a job at all is like magic.  I wonder if things will ever be different here or anywhere post 2008.

So, enough said about the hardships though after a Roto Rooter bill to the tune of $337.50-what is the .50 for?-and a broken VCR, well making $10 an hour doesn't leave much else.  Groceries, utilities, dog food and gasoline round out the full spectrum.

I found my sense of wonder in the rising moon tonight, albeit viewed through the power lines, to be my own talisman.  I do try to find those things that make me wonder why I am here.  Sometimes it is the grandest sunset from our driveway or the stars at night over our old, freezing house or the about-to-be full moon. 

All of these images were fueled by a book that my mother had called "The Sense Of Wonder" by Rachel Carson.  I often looked through that book that my mother strategically placed on the coffee table.  For me, a child already too old for her years, it awakened who I was already in that painful childhood home. I was fascinated by the photography of the magic of nature.  I still feel that profoundly though I wonder, every day, why am I here and why is life so damn tough?

Finding that "sense of wonder" in a pile of crap is harder but never far from my grasp.  I feel fortunate to still have that desire and amazement of all that nature offers to us here on earth, struggling and not, rich and not, wise and not.  Thank you mother earth!

Sunrise

A hawk sits
 at the edge of sunrise,
a desolate perch against the growing blue,
swollen feathers braced against the frigid morning as
I run by on
 this February morning,
disappointed with my life yet
 still moving forward, running on old, skinny legs,
hoping,
clueless,
fragile.
A hawk sits
 at the edge of sunrise,
her silhouette black against the growing light,
at the edge of the lake where I
run by on
 this February morning.

Jade Man Doody Turns Ten!

One of our Greyhounds had his 10th birthday yesterday.  For a Greyhound, he is getting ancient and it is so important to keep loving him and to cherish every day with him.  Don't get me wrong, he is a big Diva-man.  However, he is the most gentle dog who has ever called me theirs and he still cracks me up that he is so very serious.

We celebrated by singing Happy Birthday to our Jade man and he and Omi got some turkey in their food too.  Yucky meat for a vegetarian and so it is that Jade was treated like his royal self.  I am one of his minions and gladly so!  I love those big Greyhound guys and he weighs almost as much as I do!

Happy Birthday Jade-no one wears a hat quite like you do.

A Grief Shared & The Past Comes Knocking

An old friend and I had lunch on Saturday at a pseudo trendy place in our town.  As the entree was being served, my friend's story of her mother's recent death spilled across the table between us.  I listened full tilt forward and left my fork where it lay.  My friend began to cry and I saw that sharp pain in her green eyes blaze, something I had seldom seen in those eyes over our many years as friends.  I watched and listened riveted to my chair.

Her story was much about her shock which is still seated in her heart and the cascade of words about the lack of a last will and testament, her cousin's deception and betrayal in a matter of days, the changed locks to her mother's house and an archaic law that tries to tell my friend that she is not her mother's daughter.

For my friend, there is still time to catch her grief and she will.  For me, I was haunted by her story which led me to the vivid memory of my mother's face and her body the night she died.  For me, I was right back there the day after lunch with my friend, hollow and raw with the vision of my mother's slackened face and half closed eyelids shockingly still. I was right there by her bedside.

I began to cry driving to work only to realize as I drove that my friend's grief is a shared one and still so very sharp for me. I was surprised at myself and yet knew that the past can always come knocking and it does again and again, sometimes without a proper introduction.