Forgetting

Someone dear to me is watching her mother disappear into Alzheimer’s one excruciating piece at a time. We reconnected briefly last week after several months and I could hear it in her voice—the mix of hollow fatigue and grateful determination to be that calm landing place, the privilege of blurring the line between daughter and caregiver and bearing the weight of that unusual, awkward role-switching. I kept listening, pushing aside the hard memories of the front seat I had for my father’s similar descent. It needed to be all about her. Nothing else mattered but listening and validating, seeing her and listening more. I nodded as her voice cracked and handed over my heart to her in silent solidarity. There are no words anywhere that would make this better, not even one inch.

I’m humbled and encouraged by her raw honesty, how she’s naming and claiming the emotions that threaten to engulf her and take her far away from her husband and children who also feel her nurturing touch in their lives. Her children are watching and learning. I imagine them remembering as adults the view they currently have of their mother tending to the impossible and showing them what love looks like in that moment.

On my walk this morning, I saw a young buck and a doe on the path parallel to the thick dark green woods. We stopped and considered each other, myriad options for what would happen next. The buck’s velvety rack caught a glint of sunrise while the doe took to browsing for a split second, her eye still trained on me and my two walking sticks. I gave my best imitation of a chuffing sort of snort, like they do when they meet up with their own kind, and the buck immediately leapt into the wall of sheltering trees, swallowed up by their mystery. I didn’t hear his hooves hit the ground or break any fallen branches. He just…disappeared. The doe raised her head, looked at me and then in the direction of her companion and, without panic, moved gracefully to join him. I continued my steps, wondering if I’d even seen them at all.

It wasn’t until I got to the path through the open field-becoming-young-woods that I realized I’d forgotten all about the load of heavy throw rugs I’d tossed in the washer before heading out, and how I’d set up my breakfast things so they’d be ready when I returned. I’d forgotten completely that I even lived in a house, that it and the cars and the cats probably still existed while I was out adding images of this cherished and unimaginably beautiful place to my bank of precious and impermanent memories. To leave sizeable chunks of our daily routines and commitments behind and trust that they’ll be there when we need to call them up again and move on with our lives…the word “gift” doesn’t even come close.

Alzheimer’s takes away what we take for granted—the ability to not be frantically focused on the data streaming at us, trying to sift through it for anything reassuringly familiar, the ease of setting aside even the most important projects and people in our lives to be immersed in the present moment. Some who struggle with dementia eventually cross over into that place of “pleasantly confused” but getting there can be brutal, leaving those of us watching and caring on the sidelines shredded in anticipatory terror that one day, there too we shall walk. It’s all we can do not to look, or run, away.

But love asks that we stay. And so we do. We go with the flow of a muddled sentence trying to recapture a tattered story, agreeing that yes, dad, that’s just the way it happened. We answer the same question eleven times as if it were the first time, with sincerity or surprise or whatever will relax a loved one’s furrowed brow and trembling hands. We no longer put out forks and spoons because it really isn’t any big deal to eat with your fingers (that’s why washcloths were created, right)? And we find a quiet place to cry alone when she can’t remember who we are, her eyes wide as she searches our face for clues that never come. For now, it’s enough just to be together because she’s in there somewhere. We’ll stay and wait and keep looking for her.

In the field this morning, I remembered that I could forget. And I’ll remember that for as long as I can, because this morning, someone dear to me is waking up and doing what love asks her to do.

A Creative Pursuit

I no sooner transferred all the tomato, chard, cabbage and marigold starts from their temporary shelves in the studio’s south-facing window and tucked them into the soil of the garden’s raised beds when my bookbinding supplies moved in with all their luggage—paper for signatures, waxed thread, fresh book board and repurposed hard book covers sliced away from their pages (scavenged from thrift stores), PVA glue and a bone folder for getting the edges of those signatures sharply creased. The book press Patrick made for me sits on the floor at my feet, and the guillotine paper cutter has a place of honor (and safety) on one of the folding tables I pirated from our farmers’ market set-up, its arm locked in place. The shelves barely had a minute to enjoy the absence of the weight they’d borne for the previous nine weeks.

The plan was to dismantle the indoor garden nursery and let the studio breathe into its less-cluttered self for a while, giving me a clear view out of that south-facing window from my relaxed spot on the couch (I need only turn my head slightly left to do this, and have a sweetly framed view of the cottonwoods that line the creek on it way to the Licking River). It never happened. I had lunch with my friend, Marilyn a couple of weeks ago, where she shared an apple-walnut candy with me for dessert. It was luscious and I said so, prompting her to find the box they came in, all the way from Washington state (her daughter brought them with her on a recent visit). The front of the box was charming so I offered to make it into a book, like I often do with someone else’s recycling.

It’s not difficult to make a book by hand; it’s just a process with a few moving parts and the need for space to let the steps of the process sprawl and evolve naturally. If I’m going to set up and haul out the supplies to make one book, I might as well make a dozen while I’m there, and the next thing I know it’s a week from last Friday and journals-in-process are still curing or awaiting their sewn signatures or covers are pressing as the glue dries. When I really get going, the process seeps into the living room where stacks of books serve as weights for book covers just glued up. The kittens enjoy leaping from one tottering pile to the next and I sternly shoo them away into another room but it’s no good—there are piles of books-turned-book-presses there too. At least I can close the door to the studio/guestroom and walk away for lunch or a tea break, hoping the kittens find other things to do.

Grateful as I am to be employed and insured, I think I could walk away from all of it just to sit in this space of creative ambition, hand-crafting books and journals and seeing what a Cheez-its box looks like with pages between its front and back pieces (I’m reluctantly gluten-free now, my last Cheez-it purchase a bittersweet memory, so now I’ll have to scrabble through your recycle bins on Thursdays or whenever you’re scheduled to put them out on the curb). To make it even more alluring, the rain this morning has been coming straight down in gentle sheets, letting me keep the windows open for sound and air—a cozy backdrop to the creative pursuits. It’s still morning as I write this, but looks like a cloudy autumn day, early evening. I could also be napping easily (the farmers’ market yesterday was a four-hour marathon of happy customers and dwindling inventory. I think I’ve earned a nap).

But the siren call of bookmaking has become part of me at a deep and cellular level ever since another friend, Evelyn, showed me how it all works. When someone says “forever indebted”, I have a new understanding and appreciation for what that really means. I also have stacks of hand-made books, all sizes and designs, waiting to be claimed by whoever their new owners will be. I give most of them away rather spontaneously and have recently been encouraged to sell them Somewhere. We’ll see. As long as folks keep eating Ghirardelli brownies made from a boxed mix or thrift stores keep selling hard-cover books for almost a nickel and friends hand over the rest of their long-abandoned scrapbooking paper, I’ll be at that table in the studio, rearranging the pieces into something that will press, cure and be wrapped in waxed paper for gifting at a later date.

Squandering, Reconsidered

Saturday night, 8:00p.m.-ish. I’m on the deck (I don’t say “front deck” as we have no back deck providing truth and the promise of symmetry to that sentence) as the sun pushes another day down into a breezy darkness. I was on the couch with the floor fan set at “3” and no sooner settled in to a great read (“One’s Company” by the late Barbara Holland) when a rather loud and admonishing inner voice scolded me into getting up and moving the whole evening wind-down enterprise outside.

I live in the lap of unbridled beauty. No one can see me or our house unless they do some pretty deep trespassing. The wild black raspberries along the driveway are coming on faster than I can pick them and stain my fingers; the cats are lying flat at my feet trying to distribute the coolness of the deck’s planks evenly across their fur-burdened little bodies. In that split-second, it made no sense and bordered on disrespectful to sit inside on a couch with a fan creating a breeze when the real thing was available at no charge just a few steps away. My inner voice is harsh at times, but she tells it like it is.

I’ve been on vacation for just over a week, with another half-week to go, and this stretch of days will certainly not win any awards for Completing A Most Ambitious Project List. Ashamed to admit it, but I sat inside and scrolled aimlessly and much longer than I ever do, watching my screen reports deliver the bad news of my idleness. I expect when I’m back at the office, I’ll feel more than a twinge of guilt and regret for squandering the days I was given. I plunged headfirst into a well of lethargy the likes of which I’ve never known. I’m a doer, not a sitter. It was strange, uncomfortable, and addictive all at once.

Yes, I painted the living room floor as promised and on schedule. That included all the dreaded prep and put-back work that naturally accompanies most painting projects—emptying bookcases of their slightly dusty contents (vowing to downsize, again), moving lighter pieces of furniture into other rooms (turning them into dangerous mazes when I needed to get a coconut water from the fridge or refill the cats’ food dishes), putting slides under the feet of the heavier furniture and pushing it all onto one side, sweeping and scrubbing the floor before applying that first dubious coat (the second coat always makes me feel better, like I made the right decision on color—Bermuda sand from the creative folks at Valspar), all the while keeping the cats exiled to the great outdoors for two days. They’ve just begun talking to me again. I touched everything much more than once, defying that great rule of Efficiency (“touch nothing twice!”) because it was necessary. When Patrick comes home all sunburnt and full of stories from Sundance, I hope he’ll notice how much brighter and unblemished the visible bits of bare floor look, adjacent to a sweet boho throw rug that takes up most of the room’s real estate. Tempted I was at one point to simply paint around that rug, and the chairs and couch and bookcases and blanket chest that serves as our coffee table. But no—I want to be there when it dawns on him that I moved everything by myself. Twice.

I also ventured outside and sang while I hand-pulled and cut down weeds nearly twice my height in the garden. “Honey, I found the garlic"!” I shouted to no one under the unforgiving sun and kept going because there were onions in there somewhere. I’m not ready to talk about the potato bed, but I did harvest the garlic scapes and put a handful in my morning scrambled eggs with a generous toss of sharp white cheddar shreds. And one morning, when it was cool enough, I made granola and a batch of rich and indulgent keto brownies to go with a kick-ass white bean chicken chili (thanking my friend, Marilyn, for the recipe she gave me after we finished a lovely lunch in her shady three-season room). Of course I made too much but Patrick will eat well when he gets home. I also had my teeth cleaned and my hair cut (short enough to gel and spike it and see if I can get away with that look at the office), and showed great restraint on a visit to Costco.

So…about this lethargy and aimless scrolling. I may need to re-evaluate that assessment.

The pace at the office was a solid seven-week relentless and brutal gauntlet before I hit the pause button and sped away in my car to this perpetual 41-acre retreat where everything good and refreshing happens. Numbing screen time rarely makes the to-do list; I was surprised how I allowed it to ensnare me so quickly. I’m no better a human being for viewing all the swimming pool and construction worksite fails that unspool mercilessly without a shred of dignity given to the poor unfortunates who feature unfiltered in these video compilations. I hold fast to that split-second moment when my conscience spoke up and called me out, literally, offering the wiser choice and change of venue, from couch to deck chair and more nourishing views. That decision gives me hope and reassurance that I’m not lost to the world of the shallow and meaningless. I’m just a good soul with some time off wanting to improve my immediate surroundings and eat delicious food. That sort of agenda is bound to bring on a bit of fatigue (see also “exhaustion”, “weariness”, “burnout” and “drained”) when there’s a steady stream (see also “river”, “deluge”, “gully-wash” and “torrent”) of improvement projects demanding all of my energy and attention and a few trips to Lowe’s.

I will always come off a long vacation wishing I did more, didn’t sit around doing the unvirtuous “nothing”, regretting some of my choices. The saving grace is that on that first day back at the office, I’ll get to return to the place where this vacation happened, always and forever known as “home”, and it will still be as refreshing a retreat as if I didn’t need to go back to work at all. I’ve frozen most of the white bean chicken chili and I can always make another pan of those brownies. In the unscheduled and meeting-free days that remain, I will linger, savor and cherish without passing judgment on all that has been placed at my feet and in my hands to enjoy.

Even those 8 Sweet & Savory Tortilla Wrap Hacks.

A Reluctant and Wistful Solitude

It’s not even 9:30 in the morning yet, and I’m making quick work of some horseradish pickles I bought from The Crazy Cucumber stand at the market yesterday. Not a choice I’d make on a weekday before heading to work but guess what? I’m on vacation for the next twelve days and last I checked my driver’s license, I’m old enough to own such a decision and all of its consequences. The cats, in various yoga-like grooming poses on the living room floor, couldn’t care less.

With Patrick away at Sundance, I’m more than left to my own devices, from food choices to what time I go to bed. Save for a precisely three exceptions (the two times I went with him and last year’s pandemic lockdown, when nobody went), we’ve had this arrangement on or around the summer solstice for going on fifteen years—him on his way to South Dakota and me at home minding the feathered and furry children, plus a few modest home renovation projects up my sleeve (he only knew about one of them one year—the kitchen remodel. I was at the mercy of the contractors’ schedule and they arrived the day Patrick was leaving. It was hard to ignore the dining room table on its side in the living room and the bathroom unplugged empty fridge on slides heading in the same direction. He made his exit rather hastily that summer). This year is no different. I’m prepping to paint the living room floor, one half at a time, and hoping to put the rest of the garden in after a cool and wet spring delayed planting everything but the onions and potatoes. It’s honest and enjoyable work, but…it’s lonely. After this past year living in such close and constant proximity, there’s a hole in the house’s rhythm and ether that only he can fill. I hear the kitchen clock softly ticking the hours around its face, but otherwise, it’s a thick sort of quiet, the kind that can make your ears ring if you listen too long.

In my mid-twenties as a campus minister, I made the youth retreat circuit giving talks about the virtues and benefits of the single lifestyle. At the time, I was six years fully into it, living in a Tudor-style townhome with beautiful leaded crisscross lattice windows just north of the local university. I was a block away from the paved trail that ran parallel to the river and logged twenty-five miles most mornings on my bike. On Fridays I’d come home, shower and make bread in the tiny kitchen, eating buttered slices while they were still warm from the cutting board. I even enjoyed paying my bills, remembering the good advice Dad gave me, “Pay yourself first, then your creditors.” Visitors were welcome, of course, but I felt no need to add a Permanent Roommate to the lease; I relished my independence and protected it fiercely. I also tested my vocal range on Barbara Streisand’s Broadway music with no one to critique it, cleaned up after myself rather easily and managed with candles when the power went out. At the end of a busy and peopled workday, I came home to four walls and two floors that held a healing silence; I unfolded myself into it with deep gratitude.

Meeting Patrick quickly evaporated the content of my youth retreat talk subject matter, replacing it with the virtues and benefits of having a wholly compatible life partner. A kindred soul who shared and outstripped my love for cooking, fresh ears for new stories and ideas, a trusted companion who received my vulnerability with grace and kindness, and a cheering section like no other for my humble accomplishments because he also had a front row seat to the stumbles and scrapes it took to get me there. I have no regrets. But on these longer stretches without him nearby, the ghosts of my singlehood start whispering in my ear and I take to listening carefully, remembering how I came to enjoy my own company. It’s a valuable lesson that some folks I know wished they’d learned, instead of going from being their parents’ child to someone’s spouse without a pause in between for some helpful self-reckoning. One’s own identity is a road map with many pins, marking the moments where innocence intersected with insights. To know and appreciate the gift of your own tears with no one but you to wipe them away, or the experience of total contentment with all that you’ve placed consciously and deliberately in your life, from the wide two-slice toaster and the missionary-style yard sale-acquired living room furniture to the friendships that you nurture with love and curiosity…such hard-won and thoughtful milestones are the substantive dowry we bring to a healthy relationship whose sentences end with “forever” and “always”.

Of course I want Patrick to come back home. He is that and more to me. But there’s an inviting sort of reimagining of myself that the next twelve days offers. I’m guided by a loosely-ordered agenda that doesn’t bump into his (or those at work), and the freedom of that is both delicious and intimidating. I’m not alone but there are precious few human influences on even the simplest of choices I make. The weather will be a primary framework determining how I arrange my day’s activities, and I’m glad to be back in touch with her again around the clock. It means figuring things out by myself, thinking it through and moving forward, even in a direction that I know Patrick wouldn’t take (if he just read that sentence somewhere between here and Sundance grounds, I’m sure he’s a worried sort of curious). Late Friday afternoon, I was sitting on a new curb-gleaned wooden glider that we set up on the other side of the mulberry sapling circle, facing the meadow, and as I kept one bare foot on the grass, I mused that Patrick’s own feet had touched nothing but the gas and break pedals for the past six hours. No grand conclusion from that image, just the tender acknowledgement that he fills my mind and heart so effortlessly and in the simplest ways. I’m sure there will be others as this vacation unpacks itself. I’ll hear his voice in my ear as I’m painting the living room floor, weeding the garden, making a batch of brown rice (he insists my methodology is all wrong; I remind him I lived just fine on the food I prepared for myself before I met him. He counters with “just barely”, we smile and get about the rest of our married life).

Patrick left Friday morning and it’s only Sunday. I worked the farmer’s market for the first time yesterday without him, in the rain and wind, with my stalwart and cheerful niece Andi to help keep the bags dry and the canopy from flying off in the wind. I napped off and on when I got back home, strolled about the front yard plucking mulberries from the lower branches of the trees and listening to one of the neighbors firing their automatic rifle until well past sundown. I felt strong and independent, calm and capable. Still do. I’m slowly deconstructing the living room, emptying it of most everything but the big pieces. And while I can’t put a firm timeline on this, I expect the novelty of being on my own will begin to wane about halfway through painting the other side of the floor and after I’ve eaten my fifth veggie burger because they’re easy to fry up in the only skillet I’ll be using for a while. I’ll wonder what he’s doing, if he’s staying hydrated in the scorching South Dakota heat they’re expecting for all of ceremony, and start planning his welcome home dinner (no rice. He trusts me with spaghetti and meatballs, though), eager to hear the new stories he’s collected across the miles.

A warm breeze blows the white window sheer across the end table and it’s load of thriving houseplants. For the next twelve days, it’s jut me and forty-one acres of rediscovery, a reassuring pulse that carries everything I love to a heart that carries it gladly. I shall make the most and the best of this sweet and welcome gift until I hear the familiar sound of tires crunching in the driveway.

I can’t lose.