Day 165

This is the writing I promised people a week ago. I wrote it on June 8th. I don't think I will put pictures amidst it, I will put a few at the end.




It’s actually chilly out here in Edite’s garden, it’s sweet though. It wasn’t all that long ago that she and I came out here to get some fresh air and she did a little weeding and a little watering and I worried she’d pay too much for doing it in the middle of the night. But here we are sitting in a little lush garden full of little delights. She’s not physically perfect, but she is not writhing in pain either.

It’s strange; I really can envision the life I want. I do know what the changes look like, I just have to start. One step at a time, start, and taking the time to write in Edite’s garden, in spite of the fact that I’m chilly, is one of those ways to start.

I actually had to fight myself to be writing tonight. Emma sobbed in my arms and begged me to stay or bring her to writing, too. “I’ll write with you!’ But once I explained that we all do this together for three hours, longer than a movie, she agreed she wasn’t ready to start writing that way yet, but would I at least call her before she went to bed and would I let her fall asleep in my arms right then in her bed, now? Would I sing to her?

She wants me to sing to her. I still love singing to her, I don’t think I remember the words as easily as I did when she was 2 or 4, but it didn’t mean that much to her to remember the words, now she remembers better than I do.

Cynthia died on Tuesday morning, August 3rd. The Friday night before she died, when she knew she was going to die she said to me, “sing to me, Lindy, sing to me like you sing to Emma.” I did. “I never had anyone who’d sing to me,” she said. I did. I had a whole house full of people to sing to me. It has always signified safety to me or “a member of the pact.” When I fell very ill in ’88 all I wanted was for Jason to sing me to sleep, which he did. He sang me great songs at the foot of my hospital bed, a lot of Beatle songs,
Someday you’ll find that I have gone
For tomorrow may rain and I’ll follow the sun
Or
Or
Or
You know them all. There were birds on a hill…
Anyway, I’ll sing Emma to sleep when she’s 25 if she still wants me to. At the moment I am willing to sing my Mom to sleep, too. She needs that security. I’m sure that Barb and Paul could do a better job singing to her, but I’m not sure if they have the same feeling about being song to sleep as I do. I mean music, and voice in general, is their passion, they are learned and good at it, but for me it means Daddy and security in a good way.

I’m writing out here in Edite’s garden listening to the contrasting sounds of life, birds, several different kinds, children yelling, parents screaming, cars and motorcycles zooming by, the wind, or actually the leaves. Swallows, doves, a grackle and baby, a dog barks, and I am full of adrenaline.
I am not sure how I will start this new chapter of my life, but I do know it is time. Writing and singing and listening will all continue to be a part of it, too.