All Saints Day

These are some shots from a walk through Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, resting place of several famous people, including Gertrude Stein and the composer, Frederic Chopin. 

The oldest people buried here are a husband and wife, Abelard (1079-1142) and Heloise (1101-1164).  Many graves have been added since that time.  The most recent I saw was in 2011, but most are very old.  Many are moss covered or strewn with cobwebs; some have sunken over time.

Lots of the family plots are marked by crypts where the bereaved can come to pray.  The smell of incense and flickering of candles can be found at several graves.  As sunlight shines through the stained glass that appears in the back and sides of many of the crypts, color can be seen through designs cut into the doors in their fronts.

After all these years, I still felt as though I was witnessing the grief of the bereaved looking at these graves.  Seeing how they attempted to preserve the likeness of a loved one, or tell something about their lifestyle in the memorial they chose, I understood the desire to make sure the one they lost was not forgotten having experienced that same feeling.

Grief is such a painful process; it overwhelms us leaving both body and soul spent.  Once you have lost someone, I don’t believe you ever really stop grieving.  I think the best you can hope for is to find peace.

Peace to all who are mourning.

https://www.mamakatslosinit.com

Never have I seen a ghost; but if I did, I am pretty sure it would be here.

Mother's Dreams

When this photo was taken my mother was young and single.   She had no way to predict that she would be granted ninety-three years of life on this planet or be partner in a marriage that lasted over fifty years, ending only with the death of my father.  She could have had no idea she would carry ten babies under her heart, but see only eight of them survive her.

She is so young in this photograph.  The slight smile on her face and the gleam in her eyes hint at a heart filled with dreams.  I will never know what those dreams were.  Never know how many of them came true.  I can guess that having grown up an orphan she was anxious to get out into the world to make a life of her own, but she never told me that.  She offered very few glimpses into the life she had led before this photo was taken.

On summer nights we used to sit on the front stoop and look at the stars.  She often talked about the dreams she had for my future.  The world was moving fast then, and she saw fantastic changes in technology coloring the world I would know.  She would make outrageous predictions, and we would laugh.  As the laughter faded and she grew quiet, her gaze would return to the stars.  We would sit quietly each lost in our thoughts.  How many of her thoughts were of the young girl in this photograph and the dreams in her heart?  She would not say, and I would never know.

You Drown by Staying

edwin louis cole

I found this handmade card at an annual art fair this summer.  The words came at what must have been the precise moment I needed to hear them.  The message grabbed hold of my heart and has not let go. The artist's doodles appear like ripples reminding me that each life decision we make effects all those that come after.  This is a heavy message, but it comes with a reminder of hope.  When we are in too deep--when we are in over our head--we don't have to stay there; and in choosing not to stay, we choose to live.  

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TToT: Throwback to Summers Past

…back in Kansas,  there is much to be thankful for.

Little kids and their great sense of style.  How can you go wrong with a red glitter visor and patriotic tutu skirt?  Not to mention the confidence to wear it in public!

Rain that brings the temperature out of the “hazardous” range and offers a life saving drink to the outdoor plants.

Watermelon.  Cold, juicy watermelon.

Summer binge reading.  

An example of graciousness: Sunday at church an elderly gentleman mistook a decorative gem stone for a mint, placing it in his mouth and causing concern among the crowd.  I attempted to get him to spit it out for fear he would choke, but only succeeded in confusing and embarrassing him.  Soon after, a lady sitting near us reached for her purse.   Pulling out a tissue she lightly folded it into a square, leaned over to him and said, “When you are finished with what you have in your mouth go ahead and slip it into the tissue.”  Genius, unadulterated genius.  He swished the hard stone around his mouth a couple more times before discretely depositing it into the tissue.  Not only did she stave off a choking disaster, she allowed him to retain his dignity.  Her gracious act was a thing of beauty.

Sun tea by the gallon.  Cold and crisp.

Mammographic proof of healthy breasts.  And 364 days of smoosh-free existence.  I am never quite ready for my close-up.

Watching my friend at her father’s funeral this week, I was reminded of my mom’s funeral a few years ago.  My kids surrounded me with both physical and emotional support.  It is one of my earliest memories of them all three as adults, roles reversed with them caring for me.  The pride and affection of the memory is still as strong as it was in the moment; I am tremendously grateful for these three people who make life pretty much as good as it gets.

~~~~~~~~

The entry above was written several summers ago.  I happened across it today as I was deleting some old files from my computer, and it was a timely reminder of how much of what is really good in life remains the same from year to year.  As another week comes to an end I remain thankful for all that gives refreshment, for the love of family, the company of friends,  the innocence of childhood, the written word, and fathers.  This week I am especially thankful that I never had to face the possibility of someone beyond my control separating me from my children; and though it has been far too long in coming I am grateful that faith leaders are raising their voices to say that our government doing this to families is morally and spiritually wrong.

Ten Things of Thankful

A Mother's Love

In high school my daughter's friends gravitated to one home more than any other.  Their friend Eric is an only child and his parents graciously opened their basement to Rock Band, pool and all sorts of teen amusements.  Instead of one child, the house was often filled with a dozen or more. Scrumptious home baked treats were served warm from the oven and both parents created a welcoming atmosphere where the kids felt relaxed and at home.

By senior year the kids became aware of changes in Eric's dad, though it wasn't until later that they learned he was suffering from Alzheimer's.  Over time this gracious man retreated from the kids.  When we discovered his illness I felt awful for all the times this rambunctious group of kids descended on the family when they were already dealing with so much.  We could have easily shifted their gatherings to our own basement.  But at no time did Eric's parents close their door to the kids even when it would have been so much easier to do so.

Eric's dad died while the kids were in college. I attended the visitation and delivered a message from my daughter.  Off at school in Memphis she was unable to be at the funeral for this man for whom she felt such affection.  She wanted them to know she would be there if she could.

Eric's mom smiled and commented about what great friends these kids had remained in the years after graduation.  Looking so serene she pointed out that Eric would have a strong support system to help him deal with his loss.  At that moment I understood why she had endured teens screaming along with Rock Band while caring for her ailing husband night after long night, and I was awed by her wisdom.

While her husband's disease caused him to recede into the past, while her teenaged son lived fully in the present, this loving mother was thinking about the future.  In that future she knew her son would experience painful loss and would need strong relationships to help him cope. She determined to provide a place where those friendships could be forged.  As this realization flooded me I was struck with such respect for this woman.  My heart connected to hers mother to mother.  I understood again why this young man has turned out so well.

Surely Goodness and Mercy

This was a weekend for reflection.  I came home Friday ready to relax my mind and body.  Instead I was greeted by the news that a neighbor and friend from church had died suddenly this week.  Two doors down and I had no idea.

I didn’t find his death shocking because of his age or general health.  I find it shocking because I hadn’t even considered it happening.  Because it was yet another death in that generation that separates me from death. Because he leaves a wife who loved him and shared his life, and her pain makes me wince.  And so my weekend began with a funeral, a farewell to a wonderful person.

Afterwards, I met with a friend to create a gift for another friend.  I took individual strands of silk and marino wool and through the waft and the warp, through friction and pressure and the saturation of water that reminded me of the tears of a lifetime, I coaxed those fibers into a silky woolen scarf that will warm my friend.

Sunday afternoon I met my sister at an estate auction where a lifetime’s possessions of a man she knew were being sold.  Table after table told the story of a life.  A love of photography. A well traveled, well read man.  A long marriage.  His life had ended and was on display for all to place value on.

On the way home I considered how brief life truly is, and how grateful I am that goodness and mercy really do follow me each day.

Sunflowers

Friends recently sent bouquets of flowers to my church in memory of my mom.  Included with several kinds of flowers were these amazing sunflowers.  They practically glow when the sun hits their petals.

The humble sunflower is a fitting tribute to my mom.  It lacks the sophistication of many flowers yet has a simple beauty that is unmistakable.  Though some consider it weed-like, its infectious spirit brings accolades from others.  It is the Kansas state flower.

It keeps its face towards the sun; even as the sun shifts through the sky the sunflower follows it soaking in all the light it possibly can.  Scientists call this tendency heliotropic.  Thinking of this I realize my mother was a heliotrope.

(Originally shared in 2012, but posted again on Kansas Day 2018.)

Lone Leaf

Three leaves rustling in the breeze caught my eye.  The tree had shed all its other leaves some time ago, but these three were still firmly hanging on.

My mind shifted to Maudene, a dear lady from church.  Though she hasn’t been well lately she was always a spunky lady with a quick smile and quicker wit.  After their husbands died, Maudene and her friends, Lois and Carol, attended church and Sunday brunch together every week.  They could always be found at the 11:00 service on the East side of the sanctuary about five pews back, heads together sharing a story and laughter.

Tenacious as the three leaves dancing on the branch over my head, these ladies held on.  Both Lois and Carol’s memories and thoughts became muddled over time.  Their bright minds darkened.  Both ladies died in their nineties.

It was bittersweet after this to see Maudene alone in their pew on a Sunday morning.  More than once we moved to join her.

What must it be like to be the last one holding tight, no one to dance in the breeze with you.  No one to share the stories and the laughter.  There is tremendous blessing in a long life, well lived.  Still, there must be pain and loneliness that comes of being the last one still holding on.  The lone leaf.

I pray for Maudene’s restored health.  I pray she doesn’t experience pain.  I pray that some day when her time comes, she is able to let go peacefully, and that her soul is caught on an updraft, the lone leaf dancing across the sky.

I wrote this several years ago.  Maudene is no longer with us.  Coincidentally, my daughter was hired by a local dental practice earlier this year.  The office is managed by Maudene's daughter, Marti.  

Leaving Cedar Street

I climbed over my big brother onto the pickup seat next to my dad.  This was it, the last load.  When we left this time we would not be coming back.

The family had lived in other homes.  My siblings told lively stories about the Pearson house though I had no memory of it.  This was the only home I had known, the house on Cedar Street. I loved this house.

I hadn't wanted to get in the truck.  Hadn't wanted to leave. But when you are four no one asks your opinion.  You just have to go along.

As dad starts the truck I swing around backwards and climb up on my knees.   I ball my hands into angry fists and rest my chin on them with my elbows propped on the back of the seat. I never want to forget this place that I love.  I will keep it in my sights for as long as I possibly can memorizing every detail of it.

The engine sputters and we pull away.  One block on Cedar then a right on West Street. Not a long time to keep it in my sights.  It doesn't matter much anyway.  It is hard to see through clouds of tears.

http://www.mamakatslosinit.com

Childhood Neighborhood

This is my earliest memory.

And So It Goes

I heard a rustling as I lay in bed reading late the other night.  A swishing, hushed sound reminded me of noises heard in the darkened backstage of a ballet as dancers hurriedly swept by one another their satin tutus brushing.

The light of day revealed the source of rustling as trembling leaves that slid past the branches of a neighboring tree and continued downward bringing with them our hopes of hanging onto our dying oak tree for one more October.

This tree has stood proud sentinel at our house since 1931.  It has shaded us and others from the heat of the day and served as base for games of hide and seek.  Like a resolute palace guard it managed not to flinch even when draped in ribbons of toilet paper following a teenage prank.

As much as I dread the thought of cutting it down, this mighty oak is much too dignified to continue losing great chunks of itself until it finally falls.  

There is a sting that accompanies the demise of the grand oak, an acknowledgement that time for each of us is fleeting and finite.

MamaKat

a story in eight lines

Memories of Friends

In the past month I have attended funerals for two men who were the type of people phrases like "pillar of the community" and "salt of the earth" were created to describe.  There are so many reasons I am thankful to have known men like these.  They taught me much...

A moral compass and abiding faith are the best means for keeping a life on track.

People will remember if you have treated them kindly.

Your word is your bond.

Truly big people have no need to make others feel small.

Marriage is a lifetime commitment.

Parenthood is both a great responsibility and greater joy.

Neither fame nor wealth are the true measure of a man.

Understated wit is far more funny than the crude, in-your-face banter that often passes as humor.

Quiet souls run deep.

A noteworthy person feels no need to be noticed.

We can change the world quietly, starting in our own little sphere of influence by living a life others aspire to emulate.  

Rest in peace, Vern and Tim.  You have earned it.

                                                                                TToT

Remaining Thankful While Fighting the Urge to Punch a Big Orange Pumpkin

When the prompts were announced last week, I thought I would write a piece for Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop that outlined eight things for which I feel thankful.  After all I make my weekly list for Ten Things of Thankful pretty faithfully.  And this was to be a history making week.  At that point I thought I would be oozing thankful by now.  Well, by golly, I am sticking with my plan.  My list looks different than I thought it would, but my heart is definitely every bit as full as I anticipated.

On Tuesday of this week, I had the opportunity to vote for the first woman on a US major party ticket for the Presidency of the United States.  As soon as I voted I uploaded this photo to Instagram.  Today I am still incredibly grateful to have had this opportunity--for the vote, for the long overdue chance for the person of my choosing to be a woman, for the sense of pride that my candidate sported the best resume in the history of presidential candidates making her the all time most qualified for the job.  I am thankful for the three young adults to whom I dedicated my historic vote, and for their father who did such a fine job helping me raise them.  And I am thankful that when the dust settled my candidate, the first woman chosen by a major party to run for the highest office in the land won the popular vote.

I tried to think of something from the campaign for which I was thankful.  I am thankful that at all three debates, the woman candidate showed up prepared, knowledgable of both policy and history, touting plans for future programs, self-possessed and graceful.  She was a credit to her gender every single time.

For a minute I was thankful that I had not once during this campaign heard the phrase, "People are trying to decide which of the candidates they would rather have a beer with." I have always found this to be the most inane measure of who to vote for, but it seems to come up every four years. Then I realized that I likely had not heard that because this time around it had been replaced by the simple statement, "People just don't find Hillary likable."  Who cares if the candidate is likable by the way?  We  are not looking for Buddy in Chief here.  If I had to say which president in history I think might be most fun to have a beer with, I suppose I would say President Obama.  But here's the thing---if I got to spend a few hours with this guy, it wouldn't be drinking beer.  I would want to keep both of us sharp for the 225 or so questions I would have about what it is like to be the leader of the free world.  Come on, I work in a middle school.  I want to create a Venn Diagram... Skills it takes to work with middle schoolers/Skills it takes to work with Congress.  I am thinking the overlap has got to be tremendous.  

As the shock wears off I am trying to be thankful that I am no longer ignorant of the level of division in this country.  Let me be clear, the division itself makes me feel physically ill.  However, at least now it is apparent, so maybe we can do something to address the divide.  We are one country split in half ideologically.  This frightens me.  Abraham Lincoln speaking about slavery proclaimed in the Illinois Statehouse, "A house divided against itself can not stand."  The house feels threatened, folks.  I believe the threat is more substantial than many, maybe most, of us realized.  It has been exposed, and I am thankful for the voices suggesting it is high time to mend the rifts.  

There's my list.  Did I come up with eight?  Ten?  Truth be told I didn't count.  Somehow this week I just don't have the heart to spend another minute attempting to count things that just don't seem to add up.

TToT

All Saints Day

These are some shots from a walk through Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, resting place of several famous people, including Gertrude Stein and the composer, Frederic Chopin. 

The oldest people buried here are a husband and wife, Abelard (1079-1142) and Heloise (1101-1164).  Many graves have been added since that time.  The most recent I saw was in 2011, but most are very old.  Many are moss covered or strewn with cobwebs; some have sunken over time.

Lots of the family plots are marked by crypts where the bereaved can come to pray.  The smell of incense and flickering of candles can be found at several graves.  As sunlight shines through the stained glass that appears in the back and sides of many of the crypts, color can be seen through designs cut into the doors in their fronts.

After all these years, I still felt as though I was witnessing the grief of the bereaved looking at these graves.  Seeing how they attempted to preserve the likeness of a loved one, or tell something about their lifestyle in the memorial they chose, I understood the desire to make sure the one they lost was not forgotten having experienced that same feeling.

Grief is such a painful process; it overwhelms us leaving both body and soul spent.  Once you have lost someone, I don’t believe you ever really stop grieving.  I think the best you can hope for is to find peace.

Peace to all who are mourning.

From an original post in 2013

Ad Vitam Æternam

A gravesite featuring what I think represents the gateway to heaven as it proclaims eternal life is just one of the many sights that enchanted me at Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.  I couldn’t find my son’s favorite, one inscribed, “Enfin seul!” (in English, “finally alone”).

Light shines through palm leaf designs cut out of a metal panel in one mausoleum.

Moss and lichens blanket the grounds, statuary and graves throughout Père Lachaise Cemetery, softening the look of the expanses of stone over time.

There is settling in many areas, and even a few tombs which appear to have their lids sliding off in the very oldest sections of the cemetery.  The graves are everywhere, sometimes appearing to have been dug in a haphazard manner.

I love that every grave exudes its own personality.  Coming from a land where everyone must have a flat, rectangular marker to enable the riding lawn mower to zip over top each week,  I appreciated the beauty and individuality displayed in the tombstones and family mausoleums in Paris.  It seems right to me that the burial site should focus more on the remembrance of the individual than the simplicity of groundskeeping.

May all the Saints rest in peace.


(Originally published for All Saints Day 2014.)