Week In Maine

Day 220: August 8, 2010

There is nothing remarkable about a 57 year old woman experiencing the final days of her mother. We hit a certain age and that becomes the common thread in people’s lives. But it is just this commonness that made me want to document this year. It is just the “everyone goes through this” quality of the experience that caused me to want to make it public.

I believe that death and grief are an avoided aspect of the human journey. I believe we do ourselves an injustice by avoiding it. Death is a beautiful part of the journey and our avoidance leaves us fearful.

My Mother believed this, too. She was embracing death as she courageously fought to stay alive. She faced each new day with a new face and new interest; towards the end she was weak. But up until the last 2 weeks she wanted to know about everyone else and although she was having difficulty hearing or uttering more that 2 words at a time her responses were right on, directly in reference to the other person.
I am glad I took on this commitment, and I realize this week has been shaky in regards to documenting, but I want us all to look at the common element of death and grief and to support each other in our experiences.







Day 221: August 9, 2010




Somewhere in that wooded area live a fox and his family. He keeps the rodent population down and in turn the woods provide him with a very peaceful and pleasant life.







Day 222: August 10, 2010




I must admit it feels great to be surrounded by beauty but there is a hole that is evolving inside of me, growing a little each day.







It is Tuesday night, the night I’m supposed to write. If I were at home I’d be listening to others read their writing at this moment and I would have written something by now that would have an inkling of poetic verse hidden in its margins.
Instead I am in Brooklin, ME. The rain is coming down; the biggest portion of the storm did not go over our heads but stayed to our east, probably over the ocean. It was a picture perfect day.



Day 223: August 11, 2010






I think this is what they call grief.
The colors in the pond have changes since 9 this morning; the then prominent blue is now a green brown. The sun is over my right shoulder, still high in the sky and large white clouds are blowing in from the east. Even when there is no block in front of the sun green and brown dominate to colors of the pond.
The activity of the dragonflies slows down when there is a breeze and when the sun is out and directly upon us, although the difference is minuscule, because there are so many of them.




Grief is a thin blanket laid on top of everything. I ask myself what is wrong. What is that slight discomfort, that slight need for readjustment? There is no need for an answer.






When I used to fantasize about losing my Mother I would fantasize about crying, a long difficult cry, I have not fallen into that cry, I only slipped a blanket, a light cotton soft blanket over my entire body.

I mostly miss my morning conversations, more for me than her. I miss the non-judgmental listener.
Mama, do you see where I am today? Not the sand dunes of Ptown that you appreciated so much, but immersed in the pond’s perspective on green.

Day 225: August 13, 2010








Gnarled hands
Gnarled hands that sewed up until the last 2 years.
Gnarled fingers that knew their own way
Around a flute
They had Debussy memorized.
Gnarled hands that cooked up until March
That tried hard to keep going – to keep going.
Gnarled fingers touched my wrist,
"I want to know, do you feel ok about all of this?"
Gnarled hands so good at so many things.



Day 226: August 14, 2010



There are many kinds of love that are eternal.