Chewing the cud and serving up Jersey sauce with a dash of Vermont wisdom.
A man sees his young wife through a camera lens she’s wearing floral dress. tilts her chin forward. he snaps, captures
alas, the end result by our
fledgling photographer
skims away the top of her head
I think how could he?
after all this time,
now that she is gone
we understand,
the photo makes sense
we are fragments
none of us ever truly whole
as she will never be
again, to us
I have wondered how it feels
to become a widow
uttering these words
sounds profane, I know
forgive me
indulge me
but I’d be a liar if I said I never
imagined the call,
a strange sound from a
distant room,
or no sound from any room
required to stand
in a line of black
the funeral director
previously a stranger
would cup my elbow with his palm
guide me to the designated front row chair
Afterward, I’d organize my dresser
locate precious papers
re-read homemade greeting cards
signed with a heart
friends would comfort
and tolerate me
as I sobbed
into a glass of white wine
I’d set to work on the house
scrub woodwork
take down lace curtains,
(a job formerly his,)
wash them on gentle
iron as needed
climb a step ladder
hang them back up,
the room would sparkle so
that it would hurt your eyes
he would have been impressed with
my industriousness
though he might cringe
when my spaghetti sauce
botched his mother’s special recipe
the cats would move in on me,
permanent and needy
quilts upon a death grip
a nudge toward the middle
toward the edge
I really am a much better person
than I make out to be
It’s just that it is so much work,
this obsessing about the
access of what is good
suppression of negatives
that are wholly unacceptable to others
(especially you and you)
it’s an unavoidable dichotomy,
dear-only-ones-
whom-I-desire-to-impress
and-wish-to-be-remembered-by
everyone else
will have been fooled,
and who cares anyway
but you have been there
my constants
harboring an innate intelligence
you refuse to flaunt
my only ask is that you
hold this message close.
on rainy nights place it under
your pillow
consider it my
thank you in advance
for all the grace
the slack cut
the humility served
It was a long time ago
though these marks
one not only sees,
she feels them
on skin and bone and muscle
more deeply in soul and heart
these bruises are the sort,
in any usual corporeal sense,
where a doctor might say
we should probably
run a few tests
maybe some blood work
ask a few pertinent questions
if all results are negative
then we take a wait and see
until next time
Now and then, it comes up in random conversation “What disease was it that grandmother had?” asks my brother. “She was a total pain in the ass is mostly what I remember. And by the way, where’s that naked picture of her?
Why does he care, I wonder. It’s not like he would do anything with the photograph.
A photograph, dated 1924, of a young woman. She dared. He dared her. Maybe it was a honeymoon photograph — shades of sepia and cream, taken with an old-fashioned camera. Every bit of young grandmother revealed, as she posed on a wooden side chair, her only adornment, a bow clipped onto her bob hairstyle.
Shocking, laughable, a bit frightening was our father’s mother.
If our mother had known this photograph existed, she would have shredded it. Or burned it. I scold myself for losing it. The treasure. The spontaneous X-rated, personal memento of a time when our grandmother could show off her lithe, 19-year-old body. A photograph meant for her new husband’s eyes.
Before motherhood. Before the mental illness truly took hold.
And now my brother wants the photograph. My niece asked for a copy to convince her pals that her great-grandmother, indeed, posed lewd in the nude. I think tomorrow, I will rummage through my boxes of old photographs once more in search of my grandmother. But so much time has passed. I fear we have lost her for good.
This ancient mountain town
is a great and lovely climb
back to simple ways
so good for the heart
visitors are easily distracted by an insatiable greed
for deep red wines
all times of the day
those wretched broken cobbles threaten
church bells, tender pets,
contented faces
turn my head
spike heels strike like flint
that might twist an ankle
set a fire
colorful earthenware
bands of gold
adornment strung from doorways like prayer flags
I feel a chill of late fall.
Wrapping my sweater snug around my shoulders, I shuffle home kicking pebbles with the tip of my scuffed black and white saddle shoes.
I have left the town fire hall, where the local girl scout troop meets each Thursday at 4 o’clock.
Grownup women, other moms, are dedicated to we neighborhood girls.
Mrs. Carroll shows us how to build tiny houses with glue and popsicle sticks.
We create greeting cards out of construction paper and dime-store paint.
I love the feel of applying the brush onto paper, its tiny fibers drawing others in, so they may see how I see. Or maybe they will find a surprise in themselves or the world.
We sing. We read and talk about nature. We are kind toward each other.
As I meander home, the nearby creek trickles like wind chimes.
I wonder if these leaders are as nice to their families as to us.
The fire siren sounds for the day’s sorrow like a warning. Here comes the night. Your mother will worry, don’t be late, come into safeness. Hurry, gather round, love, or dinner will get cold.
(and look for upcoming new piece in Zig Zag Lit Mag, September 2022)
——-
I sink into the ’68 Cadillac’s plush back seat and gaze out the window as peach orchards, fields and farmhouses whiz by at sixty miles an hour. Our builder accompanies my young husband and me to a building lot where we hope to build our first home. We drive due east so long it seems we might end up in the Atlantic Ocean, but after thirty miles or so, the car takes a hard left onto a country road that fringes the New Jersey Pinelands, and we pass nothing but woods until we arrive at the land where our future home will be built. A beautiful setting, though pretty damned desolate I think to myself.
We move in October. I am twenty-three years old.
Ask anyone who lives in the woods or at the base of a mountain - the subtleties of light just aren’t the same in these places. Hills obscure a sunrise. A ceiling of trees can blot out the bluest sky.
Stunted, spindly oak trees glut the forest surrounding the house, their scrawny condition a result of their own overshadowing, as if the setting contradicts its own natural beauty. On a sunny day when the trees are full, the filtered light dapples the air in clarity and calm, light and shadow; but for much of the year the trees stand as dismal sentinels amidst a wetland forest. Pin oaks are late to bloom and early to shed and any leaves that remain are worn as interminable auburn tresses. Even the minimal amounts of Jersey snowfall clings to them, which sends out seasonal mixed messages.
After a few weeks in our new home, I learn that I am expecting my first child. At three months, I nearly miscarry and ultimately leave my job. When our daughter is born the following spring I am relieved that all is well, and happily take on my new role.
Days go by when I don’t interact with another human being aside from my husband and daughter. Our life in the woods is enough distance away from family and friends that a forty- minute drive on an ordinary weekday seems unsuitable and frivolous.
While the baby sleeps, I call a friend or read a book, but mostly I watch too much television. Bless that boob tube and its distraction. I immerse in the odd comfort of soap opera characters’ lives. I gasp at Erica’s latest hi-jinx, and admire Rachel’s wealthy lifestyle.
My husband, baby and I occasionally bundle ourselves up to visit my in-laws. We play guinea pigs to my mother-in-law’s adventurous meals prepared from recipes found in Woman’s Day or Family Circlemagazines. My father-in-law fusses over the baby.
I bask in the fact I am out of the house for a few hours.
Some days I drive to my own parents’ house so that I can lunch with my mom on her mid-day break or hang out with my younger sister. Sometimes we browse the local shopping mall together on days my sister gets out of school early.
Maternal responsibilities don’t worry me the way it has some of my friends, who can’t seem to make it through the day without calling their mothers or the pediatrician as they fret over every little rash or diaper surprise.
I don’t miss the legal assistant job I left behind, not even for one single day. And although I am married, my husband is gone in twelve-hour clips as he provides for the three of us while building his career; plus, he has his “guy” hobbies - hunting, fishing, and bowling, while I seem to have spare time, perhaps too much.
*****
The onset of my malaise occurs in autumn of that second year, but I trace its origin back to the previous May, when my father-in-law died suddenly at the age of forty-seven. We had visited him only the evening before, and I had noticed how quiet he seemed, not at all like his usual self. The next morning, he pulled his Chevy utility van out of the driveway and made it halfway down the street, when he must have sensed what was happening in time to put the van in park, then slump forward onto the steering wheel. It is the first time anyone close to me had died.
Empathetic and polite, I console my husband, mother-in-law and rest of the family, but I now pinpoint my father-in-law’s death as the trigger to a depression that has risen in me. The minimal initial reaction has morphed into thoughts about death all the time. Not my father-in-law’s, but my own.
*****
A bit sluggish on the uptake when it comes to processing shock or tragedy, I’ve observed how I often defer my reaction to uncomfortable situations, and I believe this is a common phenomenon. The death occurs, we go into rescue or survival mode, and when we’re expected to be officially done mourning - when our loved one is buried or has been cremated and everyone assumes you’re back to normal, that’s when the real journey begins. Healing runs on its own timetable.
******
In September, my husband and I plan a Vermont getaway. He then does his best to weasel out it by luring me with “stuff” – new clothes, something for the house - anything to replace the vacation I have longed for since our honeymoon fell through four years earlier, but I am adamant that we will go. We leave our daughter with my parents. I return home with a memory of unspoiled mountain views, lush green fields, and natural paths, inviting me to meander and linger a bit longer.
Upon returning to New Jersey, hints of autumn appear. Evening falls earlier each day, and I become acutely aware of the diminishing light and feel an inexplicable restlessness. My name is a Gaelic derivative of the word, “light.” Apparently, I require a steady measure of it in my life.
I read the copy of Vermont Life I purchased at a country store in Brattleboro. One photo features a village green, gazebo, and school bus set amidst a stand of vibrant maples. Another includes a rosy-cheeked little girl named Emily dressed in plaid flannel jacket and brightly-colored knitted cap as she plays in the middle of a leaf pile. I can almost smell the scent of dried leaves and burning wood stoves, which stirs old memories or a longing for things that might be again some day. The little girl’s mother is credited with the photo. The little girl looks very much like my little girl. I obsess over these idyllic scenes until the corners of my magazine tatter with wear and realize the images elicit my desire for a life other than the one I am in.
I experience more frequently a sense of dread that something awful might happen with no reasonable basis for feeling this way. Insidious aches and pains make themselves known, or I feel light-headed. One evening my arm hurts, enough so that I call my mother-in-law for advice, since she encounters bouts of bursitis. She recommends I soak in a hot tub.
Or I run to my family doctor, but when I get to his office, I don’t know what to say. I wonder how he might respond if I tell him I catch myself clenching my jaw or my back aches for no apparent reason. I’m convinced he’ll think I’m a nut if I talk about the pins and needles that I sense at the top of my head before I fall off to sleep at night, and I’m afraid to admit that I think about dying way too much. It’s as if my childhood is finally being shut down forever, and I am forced to acknowledge a milestone I’d never previously considered. My father-in-law has died, and I notice death everywhere.
Death evokes fear, and fear has become my intimate. The possibility of how swiftly I might be taken away with no chance of weighing in on the matter has consumed me. My mind chatters with talk of cancer, car accident, and heart attack. If a person can die at age forty-seven, what’s to stop someone from dying at forty or thirty? I know of two young people who died, but I hadn’t been close to them. One guy died in a motorcycle accident. My sister’s high school friend, Sandy, died from breast cancer the year after graduation. Not close enough for me. Doesn’t affect my life.
But now it’s different. I’m not immune, and if death happens to me now, who will care for my daughter? Layer this maternal responsibility on top of mortality anxiety on top of lonesomeness; throw in a ration of seasonal affective disorder and a young marriage that isn’t thriving as it should, like those scraggly oaks in my back yard, and I easily rate “10” on the “Stressed-to-the-Max Richter Scale.”
In the meantime, regardless of my underlying worries or my marital issues that will not erupt or resolve until several years later, I know that I must learn how to cope in the now. I’ve faked my way through the early part of the winter. It hasn’t been so difficult, because beneath the anxiety there is still the same old me. I love life and despite my emotional upheaval, I’ve never felt desperate. I merely need to unlearn my fear and accept life’s impermanence.
*****
One mid-January evening I go out alone. I first drive to Stafford Hill, where my husband and I lived before we moved to the country. I park in front of our old apartment and stare. Do I imagine I might get my old spark back by osmosis if I sit here long enough? It’s as if I am attempting to conjure up the past, or the me I used to be – innocent, unspoiled, and oblivious to pain. Eventually another tenant emerges from his apartment. He trudges across the parking lot to empty his trash into the dumpster, signal for me to move on.
I drive to the nearby mall and walk around aimlessly. A kaleidoscope of lights, sales people and merchandise surrounds me, but I recall most vividly the moment I ride down the escalator, my hand grasping the rail, the hand attached to me, yet I feel detached from my life. I can’t stand another minute. I run out to my car and drive to my doctor’s office. I stumble through the door and ask to see Dr. Sheldon.
Yes, I need to see him.
No, I don’t have an appointment.
Yes, I will wait until the end of the evening if I must.
No more vague excuses. I speak to Dr. Sheldon using the words “sad” and “anxious,” He nods and takes notes. I can tell we’re getting somewhere.
I leave his office with a one-month supply of Trivial.
Over the course of several days, my anxiety begins to diminish. But I only have a thirty-day supply of pills. No way do I intend to revert back to my pain, yet I suspect there is no forever drug, at least for me. I cut the pills in half, then in quarters, unconcerned with chemical or medical consequences. I feel more whole, but this will be temporary if I don’t find a more natural, consistent way to work through the anxiety I now feel brave enough to face.
As my pill supply dwindles, I drive to the post office one afternoon to pick up the mail. I flip through the stack of envelopes and circulars to find a flyer that advertises adult education classes at my old high school. Registration starts in a few days. Classes will begin soon after. I read the various offerings: Basketweaving – blech, not interested. Conversational Spanish – too cerebral for my immediate liking. As I continue to scroll down the list, Beginner’s Hatha Yoga catches my eye.
I have always been drawn to yoga and often practiced while watching Lilias, Yoga and You on PBS when my daughter was an infant. While she napped, I’d grab a pillow and a super-sized towel, and follow along with Lilias. I learned how to stretch into poses, assuming various asanas that promised to build strength and balance. I loved Lilias’ serene manner and the gentle music that played in the background.
I register for hatha yoga. I arrive at class in tights and leotard, toting my pillow and mat. The yoga instructor, Jen, a petite middle-aged woman with short brown hair, greets our small class. She motions for us to settle onto our mats, and introduces us to yogic warm-up stretches. She recites the Sanskrit name for each pose. Jen encourages us to follow along as she moves into cobra, locust, and eagle, explaining how each asana supports a specific part of the body, stimulates circulation, and improves muscle tone.
During class Jen talks about body-spirit connection. She states how the body houses the spirit and that a healthy spirit requires physical balance. She discusses food choices for better health. “If you are deciding on whether to eat a piece of cake or an apple and decide on cake, then eat the apple too! An apple is alive - if you put it into the ground, it will grow.”
Jen leads the class in a guided relaxation at the end of each session when I always feel ready to rest, grateful for the hard work I have done. She asks us to assume Savasana, corpse pose, on our mats. With eyes closed, I lay flat with my legs and arms slightly outstretched. Chant music plays softly in the background. I inhale and exhale in slow, natural rhythm. Jen encourages us to relax first our toes, then the muscles in our legs, our lower back, abdomen, legs, arms and fingertips. “Erase the worry line on your forehead,” she says. “Soften your jaw and your eyelids.” All it takes is a little coaching, and I feel at ease. I visualize a tree with roots planted in the earth – its limbs and branches rising up into the sky. I allow my body to adopt this image.
The phrase, “corpse pose” suggests how one lies in death - simple repose. I focus my mind on my breath. As I do so, worrisome thoughts dissipate. With arms and legs positioned slightly away from the rest of my body I feel less resistance against life and myself. I relax and imagine sinking into the mat, suspended in a peacefulness that calms and centers me, no pills required. As I take on the shape of my mortality, I tap into a stillpoint and sense my own source of being.
For so long I have felt a disconnect from myself, but what I had been experiencing was actually a reflection of body/mind/spirit relationship. My body manifested what my spirit felt and vice versa. One influences the other. My minimal exposure to light affected my mood. My unrequited desire for communion with others outside of my home suppressed my spirit. My body craved interaction with the earth. I faced the fact that I remained motionless for far too many hours in the day. My main activities had been: carrying my baby around; and lounging on a sofa eating yet another snack, indulging myself in dead foods rather than choosing the apple.
I continue yoga classes through that winter, and grow stronger and more confident each week. I advance to Halasana, plow pose, an evolved version of shoulder stand – difficult in its own right. I practice yoga for thirty minutes every afternoon on my living room floor. I sense accomplishment I have never experienced before, having been one of those kids always last chosen for the high school volleyball team.
It is now April, and the sun has begun its return to my woods.
*****
I recently sifted through boxes of old photographs. In them, I found a photo of me taken around that time. My hair was long, straight, honey-colored, swirling across my face in the spring breeze. I wore no make-up. It’s so weird, I always thought myself ordinary looking, but as I gazed at this photo of myself I saw an evocative, wholesome, contented, fully grown woman with a look in her eye. I was coming back into the light.
It is morning once again
here we go with another
night’s dream
a flowing universal theme
enter a house
climb a stairway
descend into the cellar
I interject my usual comment
spiced with Jung,
not as if I actually know
what I’m talking about
but I’ve taken the usual
psych courses
and I read
you said you dreamt of a place
filled with grief and cobwebs
you wander aimlessly, questioning
and I, too, appear in your dream
I think how lucky you are to have
recurring dreams
they’re like a friend who is always there for you
even as you sleep.
then I realize
how lucky am I to be floating along
in these dreams with you
~~~~~
sunlight pours in
through our screen porch
my coffee cup in hand
these early hours
are so often the best
as I practice active listening
on your behalf
so go on, please tell me more
until your dream is done
I’m ready for the weekend
without you
lolling for hours with a book
puts an Adirondack chair to proper use
antiquing? no, thanks
these days, it all seems like junk to me
I’ll hike the park instead.
I’m alone
except for a hungry cat
and I love it, I won’t deny.
though you configure nowhere in this solitude
But I can’t work the damn TV remote
and I’m weirdly proud of that fact
though I am sorry I don’t pay attention to your helpful instructions,
I appreciate that you try
texts for breakfast
texts goodnight
texts that let me know you’re safe
I’m safe, too.
how did you sleep
I’ll make you dinner
bring me a present!
don’t forget your water
your phone
your hat
because I am still here
drawn to the porch at dusk
we sit without speaking
until the orchestra begins
wasn’t it a vireo we would hear
by the old barn at sunset?
I miss that sound
blue jays’ insistent morning squawks.
woke my childhood home
one by one
doves
gold and purple finches
their vibrant tiny bodies
feed, attract, give notice
all day long
finally, at evening
the soft trill
of shy robins
they, too, sing in daylight
but no one hears them,
drowned out by the din of life
waiting for their chance to say
goodnight again, I love you
This evening, no different
a pot of tea
family stragglers gather
around a table
always casual conversation
guess what? she said.
Juan Samuel came into the
post office today
oh he was so nice
I’m sending a package to my mother, he said
Spanish accent, pronounced
English, perfected
so young
far away from home
Juan, the Phillies second baseman
a fan favorite
he has the nicest smile and the prettiest teeth
a little embarrassing to think of how she glowed
she seemed starstruck, bedazzled.
I bet he thought the same about her
I know I was dazzled by her
my entire life
we all were.
Curtains appear in windows
one by one dressed in crisp white
a candlelight ceremony
sheer and soft like snowfall
steam iron heat hisses
tap water sprinkled from an amber corked bottle
blessings of her constant labor
children gather
safe from bitter winter
a warmth given freely by this woman
***
so many seasons
this, the first time she seems elsewhere
for a moment she cannot find me, her daughter
she has turned her attention away
toward the window
with woods and spring birds
and back to me again
toward my voice
toward life
I draw the hospital curtain.
around us together
as on the first day
which held only she and I
I wish I had a friend
who liked walking in the dark
she would come knock for me at the door,
the way
my seventh grade friends did
when we went to the lake in winter
after I’d washed the dinner dishes
left to dry on their own
snowy sky
skates slung over our shoulders
we would make our way to the
frozen lake
the wood fire
the boys
as a young mother,
children off to sleep,
I and my neighbor friend
(who is long dead,)
would meet out on the sidewalk
humidity down
oak leaves at peak growth
perfect measure of
gossip and wisdom
“how to get rid of a sinus headache;
wonder how much the new people paid for their house”
cicadas chirp their primal calls
the only other sound,
low timbre of our voices
these days I’d be satisfied with a brisk, brief neighborly walk
my adventurous friend and I would breathe in the crisp cold night
lungs strong
report on our days
philosophize
(free-form the way I did as a child)
excited talkers
intent listeners
I see a woman standing at her kitchen window
she’s washing dishes
lost in thought
lost in the golden light and steam
wishing for stars.
