We can only be said to be alive in those moments
when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.

~Thornton Wilder

Mothers and Daughters, a Healing

Last Thursday, my mother was taken to the hospital. She is 89. They thought she had pneumonia, but she was dehydrated. I had not seen her since July. Until then I had been, or tried to be, the dutiful daughter, caring, yearning to make her life better –– I think in the desperate hope that she would turn finally into the soft, loving, accepting mother who filled my fantasies. But last July, the tensions between us had become so stressful that my health was being affected and I decided I had to make a long overdue separation. It was difficult. I wasn’t sure I could resolve my issues with her before she died. I did not know if I would ever see her again.

At first, when I heard she was in the hospital, I felt little, if any emotion. Both my sister and brother, who are very supportive of this separation, assured me I didn’t have to go see her. They would take care of her. But the following afternoon, I found myself driving to the hospital. I was not a decision I consciously made. My car, it seemed, was driving me there.

I walked into her hospital room, heart pounding. She was sleeping and as I walked by the foot of her bed, my fingers reached out to tickle her toes. No response. As I stood by her side, I gently tickled the palm of her hand.

She opened her eyes, focused and then looked at me in disbelief that quickly turned to wonder. “You’re here!” she said softly. “Emmy…”

I leaned over and kissed her. Her cheek was soft and warm. I sat beside her and held her hand. Although she was "not there" all the time, she was for a lot of the time, and her joy at seeing me was lovely. We chatted and laughed. Then, totally unprompted, she announced, “I can’t change, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “But I can change. I’m working on changes within me.”

She nodded and fell silent. It was a comfortable silence and, again, unprompted, she said, “I read what you sent me.”

Recently, I had sent her some pages from my new website, Creative Soul Works. I sent it along with a photograph of myself and my dog, Phoebe.

“Did you like them?” I asked, knowing, amazingly, that I would feel comfortable even if she were critical.

She said, “I had to read the pages a few times, and I’m not certain I understood it all, but I liked them.” She was quiet again, and after a few moments said, "This spiritual part has always been in you and isn't it interesting that it is now coming out in such a fashion.”

Wow! That was amazing for her. Not judgmental and insightful.

Then a chaplain came into the room. He asked if he could sit with us a while. We said, yes, of course. My mother began talking, not making sense if you didn't know her, but what she said made sense to me. She was talking about a woman where she lives who held Friday night spiritual gatherings and my mother always loved going. The woman is dying of cancer and my mother misses her.

After a while, the chaplain asked if he could say a prayer. He and I stood by my mother's bed and he held both our hands and I held my mother's hand, said a lovely prayer and left.

It was lovely, unexpected, mysterious and perfect.

I left feeling content and safe being my mother's daughter for the first time in a very very very long time.

I visited her again on Sunday with my sister. My mother wasn't quite as coherent as she had been, but she finally remembered that I had come to see her and she said she was happy that we were all together again. So was I. So was my sister.

Tuesday my cousin called and said she had visited and my mother was incoherent the whole time. I was up a lot of Monday night thinking about end of life and passing over.

Wednesday, I woke up early and went walking with Phoebe along a trail through the marsh near us. It was a bright, cold morning. Glorious. The sun sparkled on the thin covering of new ice, the first of the season. December was finally here!!

I was lost in the beauty of the morning. Nature embraced me. Nature in its denuded, brown beauty. Trees reaching to the brilliant blue sky in prayer. Me and my beautiful puppy dog and the marsh and the ice and the sun and the birds and thoughts of my mother and the beauty of age and even the majesty of death.

I have not had fear of death for a very long time. I didn't want my mother to be afraid. Not that she is near dying, at least not that she's very ill. Most likely she will recover and when she is home again, her consciousness will return. It's hard for the elderly in hospitals. That said, her slipping is beginning.

All this swirled in my mind as Phoebe and I walked through the marsh. And it seemed to me the trees and air were whispering poetry into my ear.

This came to me:

Guardians of Light
hear my sorrow.
Guardians of Death
soothe my soul.
The frozen marsh is a starfield
of December sun.
I fall into the Mystery
where questions are shackles
and the ancient memory of tress
shines.

When I got back to the car I knew I had to go see my mother. She was sleeping when I got there, curled up like a baby, white blanket tucked high about her neck. I sat beside her on the bed and nudged her into waking. She blinked and stared vacantly at me.

"Who I am?" I asked.

She smiled and said, "Emily." Then added, "Where did you come from?"

"A walk with Phoebe. It's beautiful out."

She drifted back to sleep.

"Wake up," I nudged her again. "Come on." I tickled her.

She laughed and opened her eyes.

"Do you still know who I am?" I asked.

"Of course!" She looked at me as if I were crazy.

We talked a bit. She rambled. I asked her if she had seen any angels.
She said, "No, but some men where chasing her all night thought the woods in Larchmont."
I asked her if she has seen my father or her mother?

"They're dead," she said.

"I know. But maybe they'll come visit if you want them."

She smiled.

"Daddy can protect you from the men chasing you," I said.

She drifted back to sleep.

I nudged her again. "I wrote a poem," I said. "Do you want to hear it?"

"Sure," she said.

"Okay, listen..." I read the poem. When I finished, I thought she had fallen asleep. I leaned over and whispered, "Did you hear the poem? Should I read it again?"

"Read it again," she said.

Once more, I thought she had fallen asleep.

"No," she said, I heard the poem. Then she was silent a few moments and said, "I understand the poem. I think you're telling me not to be afraid of death."

I smiled.

She smiled.

"Have you seen any angels?" I asked again.

She sighed. "I'm sleepy."

I leaned over and kissed her soft skin. "Sleep," I said.

"Are you coming back?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I'll be back."

Where Do You Find Peace?

I just found the following from the December 2002 issue of the newletter of the Fiction Writer's Journey, Writer-to-Writer. I think it is fitting to reprint here...

"The other morning I was listening to NPR, National Public Radio, and they had a wonderful special. It was called "Where do you find peace?" The reporter had interviewed many people, from a 14 year old on up, and asked them where they found peace. The answers were so moving, I thought it would be a wonderful subject for submissions on our newly organized Writer-to-Writer for the holiday season.

If this subject touches a cord in you, please add your piece, whether it is a few words or an essay to the blog.

These are the responses I received in 2002.



Michelle Marissa, New Port Richey, FL

I find peace in the occasional early morning hours of a day when I get out of bed only to prepare my twig tea, lie back on my pillows and read a novel I can get deeply into. This is so peaceful for me because it's the only time of the day when the house is truly quiet of people and the TV blasting down the walls; it's when it's quiet enough to hear the birds chattering outside my window; and it's when my Calico cat, Mizzie, sprawls on my lap, falls into her cat-coma of deep sleep, and purrs ever so lightly. Starting my day this way never fails to balance my soul, preparing me for a peaceful and productive day.



Moira Brown, Scotland

Peace is... the hush before dawn.
Peace is... the garden in spring, summer, autumn, winter.
Peace is... a bird singing its heart out for the sheer joy of living.
Peace is... listening to the silence and letting your heart fill with the blessings life has showered on you.
Peace is... holding a loved one's hand.
Peace is... the comfort and companionship of a good book.

And when peace is disturbed , fractured, scattered to the winds by all the evils that men unleash on our confused world - remember the old, Celtic rune that says, 'Let peace begin with me.'


Carolyn Howard-Johnson

I believe that the only way to find peace is from within. Unfortunately our culture puts a negative meaning on detachment. Its "true" meaning for me is to not only recognize that I have a boundary but that I must nourish the soul within that boundary; I must search for peace and nourishment for that inner place so that it can, then, nourish those other spirits (husband, children, friends, work) outside of it. This is not selfish. This is what we were put here to do.
In our culture it takes some doing to truly understand at a gut level that we are not our spouse, nor our offspring, nor our work, nor our car or house. All we are is our feelings and awareness.
Each of us must learn to nourish (find peace) in our own way. For me the food of life is a visit at some beautiful gardens near by, tea with friends, a bubble bath, time to exercise, prayer and meditation. (Not necessarily in that order!)
I believe that my writing comes from my soul and that the more closely aligned to soul it is, the better it is. In addition to getting in touch with the universe--with feelings--I must find time to write. For me there is even a difference between writing. Some is a necessity or work-writing. Some is love or creative-writing. This note is love-writing. To all you fellow writers at Christmastime. May we remember who we are so that we can give that someone at least as much caring and love as we give others.


Margaret Martin

This comes from a long history of family full of cancer victims. So I would have to say I find my peace at the end of a dirt road leading up to a garden of marble and stone where I can sit and talk and they all listen. my dad, my favorite aunt and favorite uncle and grandfather. I just say that when i am with them that it is really a feeling of emotion release because i can laugh with them cry with them and can get angry with them. But one thing that remains the same is with the faith of god. We all can still be filled with peace.


Karolina Mjeda

When I was four, I loved to play church. I would stand outside a closed
room, reflecting on the noises that surrounded me in contrast to the peace
behind the door. Pressing my toe against the door and wrapping my hand tight
around its handle, I prepared myself for the world I was about to enter.
Slowly, quietly, I opened it and stepped inside. Carefully, respectfully, I
shut it behind me. I was now in church, and had to be quiet. I didn’t think.
I didn’t even pray. I just tiptoed around the room, delighting in the
creaking of the floor. The distant noises of the world from which I had
escaped drew farther and farther away, and soon there was nothing but me,
and the peace that is God. I would play this game, going in and out of the
room, several consecutive times. As I grew older the game lost much of its
magic.

I grew up. A room was just that, silence became uncomfortable, and God
changed into an abstract concept in which I believed, but wasn’t quite sure
why or how. This continued until I recalled the game I enjoyed so much when
I was little, and the realization of how much I missed the feeling of just
being, hit me like a ton of bricks.

When I am outside, in the peace and quietude of nature, there is a simple
(but not easy) principle that I strive to practice. It is the following:
Time stops here.
This principle is achieved through three important steps:

1. I either take off my watch, or forget that I’m wearing it,

2. I allow all feelings of obligation, hurry, and distress to dissolve out
of my mind and being every time I exhale, and

3. I allow the timeless stillness of nature to take charge of my mind and
being. When time stops, life begins. My imagination is free to wander
wherever it wants. I receive inspiration for poetry, novels, stories, as
well as strength to carry on. No cheating is allowed. I am not to consult my
watch until I return indoors. Furthermore, I am not even to think the
question “What time is it?”

Remember that no one has time. We are all born into it without choice, and
we can’t govern time’s course. Those who seem to “have” time, make it.
Since I’ve decided to free myself from the slavery of the watch, to take
charge of time’s role in my life, every day and every place has become
sacred, and I once again know the peace that is God.



Teresa Muzio Caminata

Great floods have flown
From simple sources.
William Shakespeare (All's Well That Ends Well)
I cannot move
right now I see
but not because I can't
I cannot move
right now because
it's better that I shan't
the silence felt
surrounds my head
a golden halo bright
it seeps into my soul
asleep
and says
awake! it's night
be still it whispers soft and sweet
your heart can see this only
the secret place where motion sleeps
it is a place most holy
it is the place your heart finds rest
inside your inner being
it is the place your soul will go
to meet god at its best


Elder Coates

I have very few words to say on it, but it is a subject I was just
recently thinking about deeply. It is easy to find transient pleasure, but that isn't peace- it is just a brief covering to what we are really feeling. I've only found true peace in love for others. The more I think about others, and involve myself in their needs, the more and more truly I am at peace. I have found that without others in the equation, the best I can achieve is contentment. And I think only those who learn to love others can appreciate the difference between contentment and true peace. You may feel you are at peace enough keeping to yourself and a good book on a quiet day, and that is all right, but don't settle for just being content.

Thoughts for the Holiday Season

Musings from Emily... With a little help from my friend!

The Happy Ending: Love Conquers All or Thoughts for the Holiday Season

After discussing the matter of a holiday newsletter with Phoebe, (Shown in photo—she's the one with the beautiful face!) we agreed that the topic should be love. At first I suggested peace, but Phoebe quite rightly said that love was a precursor to true peace and, as she is an expert in both, I decided to go with her feelings.

"It can't be mushy love, all slurpy with wet noses and such," I reminded her. "Not that I don't love your slurpy, wet nosed kisses, but these are writers. Love, hate, war, peace, birth, death—the human drama—we can't be too obvious."

She turned away and began to slowly, lovingly lick her paw.

"Characters," I went on, scratching her behind her ear so as to get her attention. When I finished scratching, she glanced back at me with, well, the only word I can think of is love. I got all gushy and warm and silly and put my arms around her. We rubbed noses and I buried my face in her warm fur. She stretched out and I laid my head on her warm neck.

"Struggle," I went on. "Writers struggle a lot. It's not a dog's life, you know, being a writer. We write, we struggle, our passion ignites, unleashes the white heat that drives the pen without thought. But then, the door closes, we struggle again, scratch a bit, make tea, feel sorry for ourselves, maybe take our dog for a walk in hopes of inspiration returning."

WALK! She sat up, her tongue lolling with a the giddiest of grins. WALK! It was the rapid tail wagging that gave her away.

"Calm down, sweet girl," I told her. "I have to write this newsletter first. Then a walk."

The tail wagging wound slowy down. She collapsed on the floor with a groan and I lay my head on her neck again, stroking her soft, sweet tummy. It was then that true inspiration passed between us and I exclaimed, "That's it! The emotional rollercoaster ride of being a writer. The waxing and waning of inspiration!"

Phoebe yawned, as if I were waxing—a bit too poetic for her taste.

I explained, "The answer is both simple and complex, Phebes. Because, so long as we write and take risks with the writing, the journey never ends..."

She was beginning to snore. I knew I'd lost her. Kissing her softly, I returned to the computer and began to write:

For the writer, where life ends and fiction begins or where fiction ends and life begins is never quite clear. And that is, I find, one of the great joys of writing fiction. For the life inside me, the possibilities of experience, adventure and understanding that lie in the depths of my imagination, just waiting to step forth, are not only endless but endlessly exciting, mystifying and enriching.

• Who will be my next cast of characters?
  
• To what new landscape will they take me?
  
• Who will step forth as my darkside character this time?
  
• With whom shall I battle?
  
• Withwhom shall I fall in love?
  

Falling in love-it always comes back to that! (Phoebe is right, you see!) How we writers love our characters, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly! Love is the beginning and the end: love of the characters, love of the process, love of our self that comes when we journey inward to discover a person we never knew we were, whether it be a hero, voyager, dragon slayer, shaman, or storyteller.

"There is no reality except the one contained within us. That is why so many people live such an unreal life. They take the images outside of them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself."
~Herman Hesse

WE'RE TALKING TRUE LOVE, NOT A ONE NIGHT STAND

Taking your time developing the romance between writer and characters,
writer and story, is pivotal. It takes a lot for this romance to flower.
Because we're not talking about a one night stand. Writing is not
about instant gratification. No writer I know escapes without struggling
with characters, story and most of all, self. But the payoff is better
than anything you might imagine. For writing is a life journey. Unlike
athletes, we never grow too old to excel in our chosen field. We never
grow too old to imagine.

Have a wildly imaginative and abundant holiday season! And may many soft,
wet noses and wise creatures great and small come your way.

Peace and love,

Emily and Phoebe

The Frozen Tundra

If I were ice
would I fear the sun?

If I were a butterfly
would I fear the bird?

If I were a tree
would I fear the firestorm?

If I were truly alive
would I fear death?

A thought for the day, based on the texture of the fur of my geriatric puppy...

Every morning the first thing I do is lay down with my dog for a small snuggle. Today, as I buried my face in his fur, I realized that of course there is a God. Something as perfect as Max's fur simply cannot be haphazard. All these years I've wondered and now I know! A tricksy God, but a God nonetheless!

Pamela Nelson

The Divine Imagination: Inward BoundFrom the "Wild Geese" comes other thoughts... Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air: are makimg me feel freer than I've felt in a long time. Making the sadness and despair in my heart wash away due to the wind rushing past me, imto my face making my eyes water, clearing my mind. It makes me feel so free and wonderful, like when you hold a child's hand on a crisp fall day and trample through the leaves that cover the ground after they've fallen from the trees. The colors are so vivid and beautiful. The child and I laugh with delight as we skip along kicking at the leaves as we march along. Oh what fun we have during those fresh crisp, joyful moments that this goes on. These feelings, the laughter, the freshness of the fall air, the sound of the rustling leaves, the sounds of the leaves as they're being kicked around, the sound of our voices as we sing that made up silly, happy, song; will remain in my heart and in that sweet child's heart forever here after. It comes back to me on occasion and brings me out of myself that is sad as it knows it is a much better place to be, at that moment that is not a joyful one. Happiness from wild geese, laughing children and crisp fall leaves... Audrey Larkin
posted by Audrey 1:27 PM