Messages

I titled this post this morning, before Nat, Anna, and Ruby arrived.  I didn’t know then, what I know now. 

When Nat and Owen were growing up, they sometimes asked me what would happen to them if I died first.  I always told them that if something happened to me, I would find a way to communicate with them.  I didn’t know how, but I would find a way.  Magical thinking?  Maybe.  Maybe not.

Sometimes we say things to our children, to others, without knowing the impact.  We guard ourselves, and hope we’re saying those things they need to hear, those things that will help them through tough times.  Then, everything changes, and we are the ones who hope we hear things that may take on a magical tone - because we need to hear them.

I spent today just hanging out with my family, as I wanted, and I’m grateful.  As simple as our plans were, we had one of those days that came crashing in with too many unspoken objectives and too little time.  Packing, cleaning, laundry, reminiscing, cooking.  We got through it, and I was the fortunate mother who realized, yet again, that motherhood is forever. 

Significant moments of our day together:

They brought me flowers.

Ruby hugged me and said, “I’m going to treat mothers very nice today.”  (She’s five.)  She wished each and every one of us a Happy Mother’s Day, individually.  Didn’t matter that only two of us were mothers.

I was packing up some office supplies and found a stack of greeting cards.  I don’t throw them out, I keep them.  The last card in the stack was a Mother’s Day card.  It was from Owen, from last year.  This is what it says:

Happy Mother’s Day

Guardian angels

will sing you a song

To make your heart happy

and light all day long.

Wishing you the special Joy

that only God’s love brings.

Underneath the card’s preprinted message, Owen wrote:

“Hello, hope your mother’s day was a happy one, this card is weird, the Union and Howard’s Station was fun.  Love Owen”

Owen rarely wrote anything other than his name on greeting cards.

Nat asked me last week what we did for Mother’s Day last year.  I couldn’t remember.  When I read Owen’s card, I remembered everything.  Dave, Owen, and I drove to Occidental to meet Nat, Anna, and Ruby for breakfast.  The wait was long for our table at Howard’s Station, so we put our name on the list and walked the couple of blocks to The Union Hotel, where we got coffee and milled around, then walked back.  Our table still wasn’t ready, so we sat at a picnic table by the parking lot, drinking our coffee drinks and talking.  When our table was ready, we went into the restaurant, and spent our morning together.  All of us, just hanging out. 

Last Monday, I received two CDs of Owen photos from Carla, his former girlfriend.  She wrote in her note, that there was a short video clip of him.  I waited until today to look at the photos and the video.  I needed my family with me.  None of us have any video clips of Owen, and I didn’t think I could handle watching it, without them.  We watched, and it was both okay and torture.  Seeing his face looking out at the lens, and his hand moving across the screen, was unlike anything I could have imagined.  His hands are unforgettable.  Yet, seeing his long fingers move, sent me to a place I rarely visit, except in dreams.  15 seconds, that’s all.  15 seconds of motion, long ago now.  God, he was beautiful.  Nat and I cried, sitting on the couch, remembering, and missing him more than anyone can know.  15 seconds, and a lifetime.

At dinner tonight, Ruby told Nat to tell me this:  “Nowen said to tell Linda “I love you very much.”  He did.

After I talked with them, I went to the porch, and watched the sunset.  The wind was blowing.  I said to the sunset and the wind, “Thanks, Owen, for sending the message.  I love you, too, Owie.  Oh-Wind, I hear you.”  I cried mother-tears, and waited for the calm that did not come. 

Nat came out, and I asked him about what Ruby said.  He thinks I’m a little woo-woo, but he couldn’t deny the serendipity of the day.  After a few minutes of talking, I said, “Nowen.  No Owen.  N’Owen.  I didn’t hear it that way at first.”  He said, “Wow, you’re slow now.”  I laughed and we talked about how hard it is to get through our days.  He said, “And, the wind’s blowing.”  Last year, in the days after Owen was discovered in The River, the wind kicked up to unbelievable speeds and blew his chair off our porch.  None of us has ever forgotten the power of the wind in those days, nor the power of Owen’s presence - in his absence.

Several people called me today, to see how I was doing, and to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day.  It was hard for them to say those words, even knowing I’m still a mother.  I knew they were struggling…and I know how much they love me.  Thanks, guys.  I love you, too.

This post comes at the end of a long, quiet period of reflection, and I have two messages and a song to share.  Two messages from Lea Kelley:

Mother’s Day Proclamation

Thank you for the Mother of My Invention

When I drove out of Nat’s and Anna’s driveway last night, tonight’s song is the one I first heard on the radio.  Owen wasn’t a fan of The Police, but indulged me when I listened to them.  I think he liked them more than he let on.  Why else would he have watched the Sting concert with me, late one evening in San Diego?  Maybe, just to hang out with me.  We did a lot of that.

What do I know now?  Nothing.  And, everything.

And, tonight’s song:  Message in a Bottle, The Police (the last time I saw Owen was on May 28, 2007 - almost a year ago - “A year has passed since I wrote my note, I should have known this right from the start, Only hope can keep me together, Love can mend your life but love can break your heart…I’ll send an SOS to the world…I hope that someone gets my message in a bottle…”

http://youtube.com/watch?v=eJJgM23gLh8

 

 

 

 

 

Just hang out with me…

on Mother’s Day.  When my kids were young and asked what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day, that’s what I said.  That’s still my answer.  Nat and Owen made time for me so often, I never much differentiated Mother’s Day from any other day of the year.

I remember them asking me on several occasions, “Why isn’t there a Kid’s Day?”  My response (borrowed from my mom) was, “Every day is Kid’s Day.”  Not an original answer, I’m sure, but it served to start a conversation about greeting card companies, the commercialization of holidays of all sorts, and how this celebration of motherhood began.  I didn’t know much about the history of Mother’s Day, but knew that mothers had been specifically acknowledged in different cultures for several centuries, with a variety of traditions, and on a variety of dates.

People have asked me recently how this year will be different, without Owen.  I can’t know.  In a little over a week, I can speak about this in more definitive terms.  I still consider myself the mother of two sons, one here and one there.  The best gift I ever received as a mother was…each of them.  This year, I expect I’ll be hanging out with Nat, Anna, and Ruby.  Dave is sure to make great food for all of us.  I don’t want any gifts.  I already have them.

Living Up to Our Dreams

I thought we could live up to our dreams all those years we were raising our kids - and those we had before we gave birth to them.  We did sometimes.  Other times, we didn’t.  We did everything possible, though.  Can we find fault with that?  Yes.  And, no.

It’s so rare parents find absolute answers to anything related to raising kids.  A firm yes.  A firm no.  Those answers just don’t often figure into parenthood.  All it takes is one kid asking a question with many variables, and we have to admit there’s no perfect answer.  There are many answers, perfect and imperfect.  All valid.  Many difficult.

Today, I was reminded of long-ago summer nights at Disneyland, when my brother and I watched The Lovin’ Spoonful play on the stage that rose from the ground, next to the hamburger stand underneath the ride called something like Rocket to the Moon (?).  Tony, a coworker and friend, was on his way to Southern California with his wife today, for a visit to the Magic Kingdom, and we talked about the Disneyland of our yesteryears.  He told me the underground stage is still there. 

Nothing about Disneyland today can bring back those years when Emmitt and I paid our $12 entry fees just to watch those shows.  We saw some great bands there.  By the time I visited Disneyland with my kids in the 80s and 90s, everything had changed.  The last time I was there with Nat and Owen, about 10 years ago, there were no more rock bands playing in that very small, but very cool, arena.  My kids never experienced those old days in the late 60s and early 70s, when you could just pay your entry fee, avoid the rides, and rock to the popular sounds of the day, walk back to the parking lot, and review your night over and over on the hour-long drive home, with the memories of music that would someday end up on YouTube.  I never imagined it this way either. 

I never imagined so many things…this way.

Song for the night:  Younger Generation, The Lovin’ Spoonful

http://youtube.com/watch?v=TDEgB_ibhLw&feature=related

This is the strangest life…

I’ve ever known - nothing has been more true in looking back over my 53 years of this life.  And, nothing was more true for Owen.  I can only guess what Nat will think a few years from now.  Already, he sees our family’s history as odd, especially given our many losses. 

The Doors were one of Owen’s favorite bands from the 60s.  He went through a long period of listening to Jim Morrison and the group, reading everything he could about their rise to stardom, and their ultimate decline.  He often wondered what would have happened if Morrison hadn’t died at such an early age. 

I listen to a retro radio station on my way to and from work each day.  I hear The Doors a lot.  Hearing Morrison’s voice always sends me back in time, not so much to when I was a teenager (when they were popular), but to Owen’s teenage years, when he discovered The Doors, and was mesmerized by their sound.  I don’t know why he liked them so much, except that their sound resonated with him for reasons known only to him.  I got it, though.  Because when I was a teenager, I often put one of The Doors’ LPs on my turntable before bedtime, and fell asleep to their music.  Or, in some cases, fell asleep, then was awakened by Morrison’s voice yelling during “Horse Latitudes”.  This was when I would roll toward my cedar chest (the same one that sits in our living room now) that held my turntable, lift the needle from the vinyl, turn the player off, and drift off to sleep.  Really, that song is as scary now as it was then. 

Owen waited for Spring each year, as though it truly was a new beginning.  For him, it was.  The dark months were hard for him.  He was like a bear, hibernating in winter.  With the longer days, he rose from his den, and captured every little thing that was waiting for him…in the sun.  I’ve felt it more this year than any in my history - that waiting.  With each warmer day, I keep waiting for him to wake up, stretch, yawn that unmistakable yawn of his, throw the covers off, and bounce down the stairs with that old, familiar exhilaration known to people for whom light is life.

Reincarnation aside, this is the strangest life I’ve ever known.  I feel as though I’ve lived several lifetimes since 1955, when I was born.  I’ve had to reinvent myself with each huge life event - and there have been plenty, ya know?  I’ve always felt this was part of why I’m so flexible, almost impervious to change, even drawn to looking in new directions for the next big thing.  The next big thing has often been devasting and painful, but I’ve rarely limited myself just because of what might happen next.  Hmmm…maybe that’s where my kids got it.  Unfortunately for us, the next big thing for Owen, was leaving this life. 

After all, Owen’s was the strangest life…a great life, and strange beyond our expectations.  He liked it that way.  He loved it that way.

Song for the night: Waiting for the Sun, The Doors

http://youtube.com/watch?v=yj5WvpkYHz0

Something somebody stole

“I’m always searching for something…in the middle of the night…”

I heard this song on my way home from work yesterday.  I had to capture my body in mid-bend, mid-gasp, mid-loss, mid-remembrance…just to stay on the freakin’ road.  I heard these words and thought, huh, whah, hah-hah, “I go walkin’ in the…through the valley of fear…”  I guided my car home, but I was tired, and I was searching for something…Owen, I’m always searching for Owen.  Who stole Owen?

Jeez, another river song, but, hey, you can be-bop to this one, so I be-bopped my way home, and was glad to see my gravel driveway, while looking for that something.  That something is usually Owen and our family from last year, and the 20+ years before.  “…something somebody stole…”

Wow, how many of us are searching for something in the middle of the night?  Do you walk through the valley of fear?  We do.  And, we find this thing we’ve been looking for…peace and what??? hope.  Yep, there it is, in the middle of the night.  Thank goodness.  ‘Cuz, you know, the middle of the night can be a scary place…and then you go be-bop, “I go walkin’ in the middle of the…I go walkin’ in the middle of the…I go walkin’ in the middle of the…something I’d never lose, something somebody stole…”

Some people can just bang it out on the piano, and hey, it works.  Billy Joel could do it.  I wish I had that thing, that be-bop thing, that piano-banging-thing.  My mind does it, but my hands don’t.  That’s why I listen to music as often as possible.  You never know when the radio dial is gonna offer up something that somebody stole, and you get that rare opportunity to recapture it.  I did.  Yesterday.  And, tonight, when I looked for the song on the Internet.  Whoo-hoo.  Ya gotta love the congas at the beginning of the song…and Billy’s voice, “…the river is wide…”

Song for the night:  River of Dreams, by Billy Joel

http://youtube.com/watch?v=b36bJIEaJ-g

 

 

Can’t sleep, must write

It’s early Saturday morning.  Early…as in late Friday night.  3:43 a.m.  I hear the clicking of the keyboard, and wonder what I’m doing back here, back in the wee hours.  I thought I’d relinquished them to the past.  Only a few weeks ago, I thought I’d beat the odds of finding a new rhythm.  Ha!  That’s what I get for predicting my future.  I know this one.  Why am I surprised? 

This past week was “vacation” for Dave and me.  We took a break.  We drove up the Sonoma Coast, and stayed in a lovely house in the wooded hills above the cliffs, above the surf of the Pacific Ocean.  The scenery was beautiful, the sunsets awesome, and the quiet was…quiet. 

Quiet was exactly what sent me back in time, over and over, for four days.  I think Dave was surprised that I was somewhat distant, that I cried on our drives up and down the coast.  He couldn’t possibly see all the things I saw in my mind.  I wouldn’t have wished that on him.  He was the epitome of the patient-Dave.  This is who he is, so I was not likewise, surprised.  He cooked great meals, and left me alone with my thoughts.  I couldn’t ask for a better husband.  When we laughed, we truly laughed.  When I cried, he honored my time on another plane, in another time.

We took daily walks; visited Trinks, our favorite Gualala coffee house and bakery; climbed the stairs to the Point Arena Lighthouse; and soaked in the hot tub under pine trees and cloudy, blue skies.  Each morning and afternoon, we looked for the deer feasting across the street, or in the lot next door.  I think I have more photos of deer, than most people have seen in a lifetime.  Owen loved deer, so they are important to my attachment to him.  Every time I saw two young deer together, I thought of Nat and Owen playing in the many fields of their early years.

The night skies were beautiful, luminous, eerie, and…quiet.  I stood on the deck, and hoped for the sound of a mountain lion padding her way down the gravel driveway, not to eat me up, but simply to disturb the silence.  She did not appear.  She was me, and I was as invisible to the night sky, as my memories.  They were closely guarded, encased in my chest, my mind.  Only now, in the aftermath, are these words floating out into the ethers.  I hear the mountain lion’s feet, her soft purr, and I am grateful she wandered off to the trees, leaving me to my nighttime adventures.

Not even the drive home yesterday could break the quiet memories of our past year, or our entire lives.  As we drove south, all I could see were the years when Nat and Owen rode in the car with us - or with me and Michael (their dad) - driving those same roads on camping trips or afternoon outings.  I heard the voices, the laughter; saw their faces, their smiles; and wondered how it changed without my permission, without my acceptance.

It changed.  That’s all.  And, I’m left with the visions, the voices, the void.

Did I relax and rest on our vacation?  Yes.  Did I get all out of it that was possible, given the nature of our today-lives?  Yes.  Did I wish it were different?  Yes.

The first thing I did when we entered our vacation home, was play the piano.  Not the kind of playing a trained pianist would play.  But, the encounter of my fingers touching familiar keys with long-forgotten lessons, and a yearning for company, a teacher, at my side, instructing me on the finer points of composition and harmony.  I heard the sounds, and hoped my mechanical memory might tap in.  It did.  And, it didn’t.  I was reminded of an evening I spent with my brother, around Christmas of 2001 or was it, 2002? when we visited a church in San Diego for a communal singalong - part hymns, part “The Messiah” - a hymn, itself - but with a larger audience.  I recall him being surprised that I could still sight-read music.  Some things, old things, mechanical memory…never change. 

That’s what I kept finding on our trip north.  Those things that don’t change, are counterpoints to those that do.  That’s but one of the conflicts.  My own circadian-rhythm conundrum, another.  Any 24-hour period can be as comforting and as disturbing as any 36-hour period.  Tonight, this morning, whatever this time-zone is…well, comfort is not one of its attributes.  Conflict and disturbance are familiar here. 

Often, I wonder, where do I end, and you begin?  I don’t.  You don’t.  No matter if you are in my small circle…you are most certainly in my larger circle, and we are somehow, all one.  All memory.  All imagination.  All past.  All present.  All future.

Song for the night: 15 Step, Radiohead

http://youtube.com/watch?v=WedRDYmtvX4

On a break

I’m on a short break - remembering everything I can about our lives together before Owen died, and reliving everything from this past year, who we’ve become as a family, as individuals.  I’m walking a lot, driving a good bit, and sleeping when I can.  I’ll write again soon, but for the moment, I just have to let the sights and sounds of my life wash over me.

This is what I’m questioning: What is my cause, my effect in the world?  What’s yours?

Song for the night:  Message to Myself, Melissa Etheridge (…what you fear can make you weak…)

http://youtube.com/watch?v=IkygN_87Ols&feature=related

 

 

NOT too late

Did you miss an opportunity to apologize?  Did you hold tight to your message, just to later discover that your message was insignificant in the light of things that happened afterwards?  Did you rehearse what you should say, but didn’t?  Do you wish you could go back?

I could swear I posted tonight’s song a while back, but I can’t find it in a search of this blog.  Maybe I just listened to this song so many times on the radio and YouTube, that my memory captured the feeling, and my fingers, living in the moment, failed to add it to the blog.  This wouldn’t be surprising.

The first time I remember hearing this song was on my trip from Redding to Bellingham, the day after Dave’s mom died, about four months after Owen died.  I was conflicted about whether to drive north that day, but did, so Dave and his brothers could spend time together remembering their lives when they were young, and living with their parents - both gone, by the time I drove out of Barbara’s driveway.  My drive was lonely, and only music and memories kept me in the driver’s seat.  I was on my way to see Lea and Karma, and that, too, was motivation to stay on the road.

I’ve listened to this song many times since that day, often just in time to recall something important, something sweet about my life with Owen and Nat.  Nat and I talk about all the things we did and didn’t do, the things we did and didn’t say.  Being one who talks to the dead, I usually tell him it’s not too late.  My conversation with Owen continues, despite the fact that he’s not here to dispute my preaching - he most definitely would have something to add, something to dispute.  I don’t know how many other people talk to their dead loved ones.  It’s not something that everyone understands.  I’m not sure if Nat has the same affinity for this form of communication.  I hope he does.

I know plenty of people who think it’s too late to apologize once their loved ones have crossed over.  I’m here to tell you from personal experience, it’s not.  It’s not too late to apologize.  It’s not too late to say all those things you didn’t say when they were here with you.  The only limitations are your ideas about what’s in the here and now, and what’s in that space that allows us to transcend this physical existence.

Certain sounds, certain melodies take me away to a place of peace, comfort, and a greater knowledge.  That place is beautiful and sad, yet it makes me smile.  There’s a smile that comes across my face when I know that Owen knows.  And, everything is okay there.

Song for the night:  Apologize, One Republic (this is the original version, before Timbaland got hold of it)

http://youtube.com/watch?v=REsezs6cQRc

 

 

 

 

Money, Part Two

The best things in life are free…” 

Owen loved free stuff.  He recycled everything possible.  He loved those things he called “ground scores” - things you might find beneath your feet on a walk to a friend’s house, or on a bike ride to work.  His bookshelves still hold some of those precious items.  Mostly, he loved things that have little or no monetary value - family, friends, animals, sunsets, plants, poetry, conversation, writing, and sleep.  All precious.

He sure as hell loved his music and book collections, though…and they cost him some hard-earned money. 

Song for the night:  Money, The Beatles

http://youtube.com/watch?v=E3m-gOelA8g

“

Money

If you have a buck two-eighty, does it slip through your fingers like water?  This has been our experience for most of our lives, so we’re just wondering — is this the norm for most U.S. citizens?

We’ve spent years saving our money — then through need — depleting, saving, depleting, saving, depleting.  Raising five kids and supporting my mom in her later years contributed to the pattern.  We never looked too far ahead, because feces occurs.  We just went about our lives hoping for the best, and paying premium dollars for everything because we weren’t afforded that thing called “on approved credit”.  We laughed at television commercials that marketed to the conservative budget.  We determined that one can only retain a conservative budget if one is making more money than one needs.  How many of us does that include?

I don’t know those statistics.  I only know that we were rarely in that group of survey participants.  People who live on the edge of their personal finances pay a premium to continue in the mainstream.  Car payments, house payments, credit card payments, and something as simple as a house improvement were all calculated at the outside interest rates (premium) for us.  We began to turn a jaded eye at the finance industry.  We had no choice.  We lived in the present.  And, the present meant we had to feed our family, pay for cars to get us to jobs that paid less than we’d hoped, and pay inflated rents because we couldn’t qualify for house loans.  We’ve been a landlord’s dream for over 30 years.  Oy.

Owen loved payday.  He loved being able to pay for his clothes, his food, his entertainment, his musical instruments (a necessity, not purely entertainment), and his cell phone.  I wonder now, would he have been able to stay the course of adulthood sustainability (not to mention parenthood), given our failing economy.  Plenty of people would argue with me about whether our economy is failing or not.  A recession is not necessarily a failing.  Many would argue that a recession is just an adjustment.  Okay.  I get it.  But, who are those people that espouse economic strategies, and purport to know, and communicate, our economic futures?  Have they ever looked in a kitchen cabinet, and found only Bisquick, but no butter?  I’m guessing…no.

Few would think there is anything beautiful about being poor.  But, having lived on the edge of financial disaster, I can tell you, there is an upside.  It’s this: you don’t have to spend your days wondering if your meager retirement plans are “tanking”; you don’t have to spend your evenings moving your few dollars from one savings account to another; and you don’t have to agonize over loan papers for a house that may or may not be yours someday.  You get to live in the present.  And, truly, given that none of us can predict the future…that is a gift.  That thing about Bisquick?  I lived through it.  My friend took us to dinner that night, because there was no butter in our refrigerator to make biscuits.  I’m grateful for her kindness, and I’m grateful I know how to make do.

Moving on to the propaganda machine.  I could write about this for days, weeks, months, but here’s my question: Are we really experiencing a recession, or are we experiencing the media’s propulsion of an idea that serves the coming presidential elections?  I’m paying $3.85 per gallon for gasoline to fill my car’s tank to get to my job.  I’m paying almost $4.00 per loaf of bread (yes, I buy bread with some nutritional value - or so they would have me believe).  I’m paying what I believe is a grossly inflated rate for milk, and most other staple groceries.  WTF?  We have to eat, and the commodities markets are banking on our desires to maintain our mediocre lifestyles.  Please, sir, can I have more?

Song for the night:  Money, Pink Floyd

http://youtube.com/watch?v=4hkjkTe5kZE

(Sorry, I can’t get the video to post.  You know the song.  Either sing it on your way to work while your gas tank registers less than a quarter tank and payday isn’t until Friday - while hoping the price doesn’t go up before you get to the pump - or click on the YouTube link above and listen to Pink Floyd, while you sit in your living room in front of your computer monitor, and wonder what it’s like to live in Haiti.  Remember bread lines in the USSR?  I do.)