11 Jan 2009
The last two weeks of December was wrapped in winter's pure white. The snow came, it melted, the snow came, it stayed. Then within one day the snow melted as if the desert sun had dropped in for a show. It became apparent that the holidays would see many people “stranded” in their homes, becoming restless for the freedom to come and go. Some went anyway, just not so easily by car, so many people chose to stay cocooned in the warmth and safety of their home. For those who dared, the roads were treacherous, especially for novice drivers who chose to bail their homes for the freedom of independence. Damn those novice drivers, they’re worse then teenagers on a sugar high! Cars became wedged in the hoard of snow piled up to one and half feet high, or skidded along glassy ice, or played bumper cars, their faces all but smiling. Out my picture window I saw cross country skiers, happy snowshoers, and kids dragging their sleds to Clinton Park. Most everyone had a story even without leaving their home. By the time the snow melted and people released themselves onto the roads the most common theme was how one felt restless, ready to jump back into day to day activities. I felt restless too and then watched “After Innocence”, the true story of eight men wrongly imprisoned between 6 ˝ to 23 years. Each one was exonerated after DNA testing then released from prison into a society which held no accountability to integrate them back into a productive life. I imagined what it might be like to be locked up for so long, the world driving ahead in technology, friends and family living life and me, stagnate like a broken clock suspended at 3:00pm. By the end of the documentary my heart was heavy and tears pierced my cheeks for the injustice the men lived through. They are heroes though, teaching us resilience, teaching us what the human spirit is capable of. I looked back upon the three weeks of off and on snow and thought to myself how fortunate I was to know freedom in the literal way. Freedom, that’s a subjective word. What does that really mean? I realized after I watched the documentary that I had kept my heart in prison too. Ever since Andreas died I sought refuge from anything that could hurt me emotionally. I wear an invisible shield locked tight. I have no cold metal bars or cement floors to call my home. I have no gray shirt and pants that I call my only wardrobe. I have no squeaky cot covered with one green wool musty blanket and a tattered used pillow. Each day I don’t hear the cell doors open to meal call or hear heavy metal doors slam behind me. I have no daily cursing or white cement walls that envelope every direction. I have no bulletproof clear panel that I look through to see a relative that has come to visit, the phone and their eyes the closest human contact I can look forward to. Yet, I have imprisoned myself to the past with Andreas existing in my every cell, my every thought. I long for him, long for the dream to wake me up, Andreas snuggled next to me. I can’t imagine loving any other person who could make me feel like Andreas made me feel. But yet, the longing for familiarity yearns at me. At the end of November I started a friendship, one in which has awakened the past and brought turmoil inside of me. His name is Taylor. He is in my yoga class. Taylor is a kind man and I’ve found myself drawn to him. He’s calm and caring. We are similar, somewhat reserved, amiable, reflective, and curious. He’s unlike Andreas who was a self-assured adventurer and quick to make decisions but like Andreas in his playfulness and thoughtfulness. Taylor’s wit is infectious and the first time that I was the bearer of his antics I laughed, really laughed. It caught me off guard and it took me to a memory of Andreas playing jokes on me. I couldn’t help but stare at Taylor and while I looked at him I saw Andreas staring back at me. I wanted to run, to run from the sensation I felt. It happened again when Taylor innocently put his hand on my shoulder, as an okay gesture when I had forgotten my yoga mat. It brought chills running down my back, the kind that triggers physical desires. That evening I pleasured myself and filled my head with sensuous thoughts about Andreas. The days that followed I began to imagine touch, the simple pleasure of holding hands, the soft warm breaths upon my skin, light finger strokes brushing my lips, the teasing of kissing, the reaching for moistness. I imagined it with Taylor and knew he too was drawn to me. Taylor and I began spending time with each other. I found myself becoming comfortable in his presence and even to the point of looking forward to seeing him. It was like a found slipper and I wanted to keep wearing it. He was somewhat apprehensive about diving into something too quickly but he was also flattered by my attraction to him. On our 2nd date, which was to an Italian restaurant I made a quirky joke about eating garlic and kissing. He asked me if I was planning on kissing him later in the evening. I just smiled and then we both chuckled and went back to selecting our entrees. We walked hand in hand to the car after dinner and then back to my place. That evening we kissed for the first time. When our lips met the sensation of it swept through me. The longing of touch, the longing of feeling Andreas was so great I drank our kissing as if thirst had wrung me dry. I think Taylor knew this – it was not him I was kissing in my head but the longing of connection with the one I loved. He didn’t hold off, and took his own pleasure and honored mine. We kissed for over an hour, our clothes still intact but damp. I felt his hunger as we lay side by side and felt my own as if a stream was surging to the ocean. We were both respective of the other. That night we fell asleep on the couch entwined in each others arms. I had no care, no thoughts of anything except for the present moment. The morning amber rays found harbor through the translucent creamy lace curtains. The room began to lighten and we rustled awake. It was a little awkward waking to a stranger, we were really, but yet it felt comfortable, it felt safe, it felt right. In looking back at the beginning with Taylor I was living in my mind with Andreas and Taylor made that possible. For Taylor it wasn’t that way. He didn’t have someone in his past that he still held dear. Our hearts are in different places struggling to understand.
20 Dec 2008
It was thirteen years ago that Peter died. I know the story, it lives with me, just a short portion of it but a vital portion. It was a warm July day when Peter and Andreas packed their climbing gear; helmets, ropes, carabiners, quickdraw sets and shoes then headed on out to the Monch. It was a Wednesday and the Monch would be sparse with climbers, if any. It would not be a hard climb; perhaps for a novice but not for experienced climbers. It was early afternoon when the call came. The mountain rescue team was in the midst of rescuing Andreas. He was in shock, suspended and frozen in place on the rope. It took three hours and in that time my head was spinning with grief. Andreas was taken to the hospital, Peter was taken to the morgue. No one knows the pain of loss until it sears into one’s own body, branding it for life. Andreas stayed in the hospital for two weeks sedated for most of the time. The day following the accident he woke in the night screaming and flanging as if he were in the middle of a gang fight. He was restrained and sedated, his pale face ashen like that of a motionless cupie doll. I stayed by his side for four days without leaving the hospital. I read to him, held his hand, softly whispered “I love you” to him and brushed my lips across his soft warm cheek. He was turned every two hours so that bedsores wouldn’t begin to appear. Each morning and evening I massaged his arms, hands, legs and feet to keep the circulation going to so that he would feel human contact. He loved listening to the American band Queen and to the babbling streams that ran their way down the mountain to Lautterbrunnen. Throughout the day one could hear from the hospital hallways Queen and the sounds of streams - these sounds so opposite of each other yet that is what was so unique about Andreas – his complete independence to savor as many facets of life as he could. It is frigid in Portland. My Swiss blood has grown used to the more mild temperatures of Oregon. For the last week a snowy cold storm has blanketed the city teasing us every couple of days with just enough warmth to lay bare the pavement. This morning I awoke to a new snowy blanket as virgin as the Arctic sleeping quietly. Within an hour tire hallows and foot paths where making themselves known. I have sipped four cups of tea in two hours and my snow hat is a constant companion throughout the day and into the night. Wilber is content and seems to be sleeping more during the festive snowfall. He is curled up next to my brown wool stocking feet. Needless to say, one part of me is warm! The Vegetarian Chili I made a week ago saw its last scoop yesterday. It was yummy but after a week of Chili and boisterous smelly combustion I have decided to forgo such big pots of soup for a block of Cheddar Cheese and fruit. Today will be cookie making day – perhaps some Bratzli which were Andreas’ favorite Swiss cookie.
13 Nov 2008
The rain came today, drenching me all the way to work and then again back home but I didn’t care. It was refreshing, even the winds where yelping, tugging to the side of me. The bike traffic was sparse, puddles along the streets stretched in places to the middle and I swished through them as if a child splashing in delight. It reminded me of when Andreas and I would bundle up and ride our bikes in the dash of a rainy day to visit Palio’s Café for hot cocoa, dessert and a game of Scrabble. Wilber is snoozing by my feet, the pumpkin candle fills the room and I hear heavy droplets making music against the aluminum siding. Ray came to visit on Saturday, Nov 1st. We drove along the scenic Gorge highway to Angels Rest and hiked to the top. We sat upon the flat plateau overlooking the Columbia Gorge. It was windy, our jackets flapped like a wind sail, our hair stood up in wild play. One could imagine being a bird, taking off in flight to the temperament of air currents. What makes one think it would be glorious to fly? Is it the freedom to soar in a space unfiltered, to flee in a flash, to fill the eyes with more then what a snapshot could hold? Ray and I walked back down slowly to linger in our time together, to pause and stare at the last buds of a wildflower holding fast. Ray said he was going to help his daughter with their goat cheese making business and then build himself a small two bedroom bungalow on an acre near her. He didn’t need a large place to live. In fact, he was going to build a shop for his woodworking projects. He makes rocking chairs, the kind in which the flat spools curves to ones back so finite and the wood sanded silky smooth. The seat is the most challenging because he has to decide on which sizes would be the most common for prospective customers. He employs his friends and takes molds of their backsides and then uses that as a pattern for the chair seat. It is a spectacle to say the least. No buts about it everyone’s butt is a possible inspection! Our day ended with dinner at Marco’s in Multnomah Village, Ray’s favorite place. He delighted in the warm bread pudding and versed a story about the colorful eclectic umbrellas that hang from the ceiling. I’m tired; my eyelids feel like a heavy door being blown shut. I haven’t slept well in the last few days since Ray moved this last weekend. It’s a part of me that is caving, a part of me that is grieving a loss of someone close even though I know it’s natural for people to come and go out of one’s life. I feel this emptiness, much more then an empty glass. I went into a depression when Ray and I departed after our day together. My heart was filled for Ray but my heart was empty for me. I hide my grief from the outside world. Only Wilber knows of it. It’s softening if I look at where I was a year ago. I try not to think about tomorrow but people say in time the hurt will not hurt so much. Should I believe them? It’s as if I’m becoming like Andreas became after Peter died, somewhat wilting, yet still yearning for thirst. There are times in which I want to close my eyes and feel myself sinking into Andreas’ hug. I miss his comforting arms around me, the beating of his heart against mine and his warm breath teasing my skin. I’m going to slip into bed, close my eyes and think about our toes meeting each other under the sheets in playful joy. I miss you Andreas.
01 Nov 2008
Happy Halloween Andreas - love, Rum Raisin Baby. That was Andreas’ name for me. I called him “Gugel Cakes”. Both names intertwined each other. Andreas came up with my name first because my favorite treat is a Rum Pound Cake with golden raisins made in a Bundt pan. In Switzerland during the holidays we often ate Gugelhopf which is a Lemon Pound Cake with golden raisins. The cake is rich in eggs and butter. Grandmother Rosie made the cake with a generous serving of dark rum instead of lemon. It was a treat for me as I delighted in the robust flavor of rum. Grandmother Rosie had a spunky twitch to her personality. One Christmas she gave me eight Rum Pound Cakes. I had them eaten in one month. One day Andreas called to me, “Where’s my Rum Raisin Baby?” Without thinking I spouted back, “Over here Gugel Cakes!” From then on our names stuck. I dressed Wilber in a Halloween costume. I wonder if animals could speak what they’d say when their owners take it upon themselves to adorn them in cute silly costumes during Halloween. Since Wilber had the coloring of a Guernsey cow I decided to adorn him with horns, four plump teats and a piece of unraveled brown twine to the end of his tail. But the best part of his costume besides the four teats was the little cow bell, the type that is traditionally put on Swiss cows during a festival – wide black leather strap adorned with stitching and emblems of cows, men with liederhosen blowing on their alp horns. I decided to take Wilber for a walk this evening before it got dark. I wanted to show him off. Wilber was not happy but he played along. I thought I better make it a short trip; Wilber could go into another one of his carnival ride jaunts as his way of exerting independence. We took off towards Clinton Park and he got plenty of smiles and giggles along the way. Kids loved Wilber, wanted to pick him up but he’s fussy about strangers. He’d begin to arch his back when someone got too near, it worked for him. This happened except for one time. We came upon a group of teenagers who cackled their way along the sidewalk. One girl wanted to stop, the others kept on. She stooped down to pet Wilber and he let her. He, let her! She asked what the cats name was and I said, “Wilber”. She wanted to know if it was okay to pick him up and I said, “Yes". Wilber purred, she picked him up, the bells swayed and sang out. She was adorned in black and red, the “She Devil”. Her honey brown dread locks were spotted with black and red splotches, skinny silver rings spiking through the frazzled locks. Her face was mostly covered in red. I looked into her dark eyes and at that moment I recognized the girl who not so long ago lay as a lump in my neighbor's driveway one early cool morning. It was Jennifer. I didn’t say anything because I assumed she wouldn’t remember me. I remembered her though. She put Wilber back down and said, “Thank you.” I smiled, she smiled and we both went in opposite directions. After a few steps I looked back and she was too – we smiled and both turned back around and continued our separate treks. Happy Halloween Gugel Cakes!
31 Oct 2008
My morning pages are turning into evening pages. Wilber wants to snuzzle and I never deny him. I’m sure he is grieving too but he can’t tell me his pain. Maybe I just assume he’s going through a little of what I’m going through. Maybe I’m projecting my grief upon Wilber. Maybe I just want to feel someone understands. Maybe I just want to feel empathy from someone who understands. Maybe I’m just feeling self pity. Wilber always has been a snuzzler. The truth is that I need him. I need to feel that someone cares for me. When I arrive home Wilber comes to me, purrs and waits until I pick him up. I scratch his head, scratch his back and hold him close. When I lounge in our living room he is there, either next to me on the couch or close to my feet. It’s an unconditional attachment pets give us humans. I’m not so sure we do the same in return, some don’t. Every day I bike to work there are more leaves blanketing lawns and hovering in the curbs, piles blooming. Leaves, they have their own journey, like the Arctic Caribous annual April migration to their calving grounds. Leaves, their death, unlike ours is always known. The Fall comes, the thermostat declines, the leaf’s veins die. No longer can it sustain itself it breaks away of mother and falls to earth. Their fall can be whimsical, especially on a windy day like this past Sunday. The two plum trees out front were swaying as if practicing the Hawaiian Hula, their leaves scattering, running from an imagined Tsunami. I, stood, holding my warm yellow coffee cup and stared through my spacious living room window as the dancing continued. It’s the cycle of life. Does nature cry, does nature mourn, does nature want to stop? I picked up a leaf today and tucked it inside my wallet against the flat of my credit cards. The bright reds and oranges catered to one half of it while the other half dabbled in its original state. Like stones and pebbles I can’t help but feel as a magnet to leaves too. There is no other art unabashed as nature, no pastels or watercolors could ever mutate to what nature lays out to us. We pass by every day something that is birthed, something that is lingering, something that is decaying yet so much goes unnoticed. Ray called last night. He asked if we could get together this weekend to say good-bye. On November 8th he will move to Roseburg to be near his daughter. I’m going to miss him. I feel as if I’m losing another. Ray represents a part of Andreas and I know it’s selfish of me to want things to remain as they are. I don’t want anymore changes, not just yet. I understand why he’s going. Older people go through it. They get to a certain age, whatever that age may be, 50, 55, 60, 62 and then reflect on what they have done in their life. Sometimes there are regrets which can’t be rectified, sometimes they are unhappy in their career, family or other things and see that life is passing by. I think old people could write books on this. I’m happy Ray will be closer to his daughter. I’m sad because he’ll be farther away from me. I’ll visit sometime, maybe this Spring or early Summer. I use "maybe" too much. My decision making is at best “unruly”, at times impulsive and then at other times turns into a mild sedation. When Peter died Andreas sealed himself within his anguish. I could only imagine what his pain might be. It was hard for us, it was the hardest time of our marriage, we’d argue at little things, silence grasping. Later, we’d apologize; hold each other, Andreas stroking my hair. Our love making ceased for five months and Andreas would take long walks alone. He went into himself, closed the door and sank into a misery of guilt. I visited our black box often, looking inside and then closing the box again. Grandma had given Andreas and I our own black box for a wedding gift plus a small amount for a down payment on a future home. It was on my tenth birthday that Grandma told me about the black box, a tradition that had been handed down for many generations. The black box, she told me, held everything we needed in our lives. I didn’t understand, it sounded completely silly, absurd and illogical. I listened because I adored Grandma and maybe there was something I was missing. Yes, there was something I was missing. She opened the black box, told me to look inside and tell her what I saw. I looked inside. The contents were the same as when I first looked into the box two years earlier. Puzzled, I looked up at Grandma and said I see nothing, it’s empty. And, she said, “Honey, it’s all there. Whatever you want you can imagine, you can dream, you can hope. When you despair look into the box and imagine where you want to be.” Grandma told me that she agreed to marry Grandpa after she asked him to open the black box and tell her what he saw. Grandpa opened the box, paused and then began telling her a story. It was all see needed to hear. They were married three months later on August 12th.
29 Oct 2008
This evening Wilber was waiting for me at the front door on the outside, not on the inside. I’m not sure how he got out but he did. Wilber looks big but his long fur fakes it for him. His white paws and legs stand out. To describe him is quite easy. If one thought of an all white cat and then covered it with a honey brown saddle one would have Wilber. Everything else is white. His fur is very fine and soft. His olive green eyes are alluring. He is a contented cat and only occasionally like the other night he bursts into a carnival ride. When I arrived and looked at him with my impish grin he sauntered over to me. I began to scratch his back and he arched it up like I do when I’m in yoga on all fours arching up and then arching in reverse towards the floor. Fall has brought a quietness to me, a hibernation from my active and busy life Summer seems to bring. On Saturdays I love to go to the Portland Farmers Market and be there at 8:30am when the start bell rings. It is bountiful with winter produce so colorful and arranged that it is hard to select which vendor to buy from. It is like flipping through a travel magazine having come upon a well known Farmers Market. Grapefruit size Red Bell Peppers, hardy Winter Squash, harvest Apples, late growing succulent sweet Strawberries and Basil found their way into my red cloth carry bag. There are numerous bakeries, salmon venders, and abundant Fall flowers. A treat for me are the roasted bagels hot and tasty. The roaster is like a large black looking barrel setup at one entrance of the market so you can’t help but pass by it. The Winter Squash fed me for two nights. So easy to make, cut in half, dab a pad of butter in the vat of it, sprinkle cinnamon and release into the preheated oven. My pumpkin scented candle fills our bungalow, Wilber is curled up in his favorite spot on the red, blue and gold Persian rug near the fireplace. I’ve decided to rearrange one wall of our pictures in the bedroom which if in bed is on the wall directly across. These pictures, 8” x 11” close ups of feet, hands, mouths and eyes were taken on our many outings. All the pictures are singular of Andreas and me, and all are of various emotions: laughter, contemplative, funny, loving, seductive or playful. A large picture hangs over our bed that was taken in Murren when I was 12 and Andreas was 14. We took Andreas’ skis and used them as our base to make conjoined twins snowmen without the heads. We dressed them up with tree needles, twigs, and rocks. My bright orange knee high socks were stuffed with snow and used for arms. The snowmen were six feet tall so we made a snow step behind each one so we could plop our head on our respective body. Grandma agreed to be our photographer and was patient while we playfully squabbled about what our facial expression should be. Grandma settled it though and suggested wearing an expression as if looking at each other so that is what we did. The product of these facial expressions greeted us each night as we slumbered off to bed. If we had a day where our grouch buddy had surfaced then seeing our picture was a reminder to leave “grouch” behind before entering. Andreas and I had a game with our bedroom pictures, all fifteen of them. The first Sunday of each month one of us would rearrange them. When the rearranging was completed then the one rearranging would point to two pictures and the other person would have to say which picture was previously there. It was like playing card concentration. For each picture guessed correctly one received a thirty minute massage and a box of their favorite ice cream – optional to use as part of the massage, licking privileges granted and encouraged! Or, one could save the ice cream for afterwards. It was our monthly game and either way we played it all the way through. When I speak about Andreas it is still so natural to talk as if he were still here so I unknowingly say “is” rather then “was”. Claudia reminds me of this and keeps hinting for me to see a counselor. I have no intentions and frankly it irritates me when she suggests it. There are days in which I want to feel Andreas so much I crawl into our bed and imagine him laying next to me, gentling touching me, the tips of is fingers soft and when he slides his stroke to the sensitive opening of my wrist I know that it’s the offering of more. When we were teenagers we fumbled at the first of our sexual budding, everything so awkward and new. Later on we would laugh at our trials and experiments, some of them not working at all! Eventually we grew to know each others desires and throughout our life there were ebbs and flows of how often lovemaking occurred. But there was always daily affection of touch. We both loved to hold hands, linger in hugs, cuddle on the couch while watching a movie, play footsy, spaghetti our legs when we were reading on the couch. Andreas loved to come up behind me and smell the scent of my hair. Usually he did this at home but he would also do it at the grocery store or anywhere public we went. He always did it in a way that I wouldn’t know, so he thought. He didn’t sink into my hair but stood behind me while he secretly took the scent of me. I never let him know I knew because it wouldn’t be the same. It was his to savor and yet it was mine too. It made me full inside, full of love, full of knowing my husbands devotion.
27 Oct 2008
The wind yesterday, twirling its invisible currents swept the trees of their pride. It had followed into the night and this morning the ground is a colorful carpet being swooshed here and there. People took advantage of the sunny Fall day yesterday leaving behind the warmth of their homes for the naturalness of outside. My neighbor and his daughter were slicing into their five pumpkins giving them each a face of disguise. The park down the road was bustling with a soccer game and little kids bundled up in wool hats and gloves were engaging in the playground. All three swings were merrily influencing smiles and giggles. I could smell the scent of fresh cut grass and see the drooping annuals near earth's graveyard. When flowers die, they don’t really. What’s left of them fuels the earth, lays dormant for Spring to start a new cycle. It’s Earths reincarnation. I’d like to come back as a Squirrel just so I can dash across the tightropes of electrical lines, jump from tree limb to tree limb and hide nuts in planter boxes. I’d want to have a pair of roller skates handy though so that I could make it across the road quick enough not to have to stop and decide which way to go when a car or bike barrels down the road. A memory took me to Grandma’s black box and I thought it quite possible. She kept the small black box in the buffet. It was always in sight for a reason. Grandma said it was a special box, the contents priceless. One day when I was eight I took the box and wanted to know what was inside. The box was old, it had seen many seasons. I inspected the box under and over, shook it and noticed the small cloth latch that held it closed. No one was near. I quickly unlatched the box with anticipation. I stared, I looked, I stared some more, confusion surrendered. I latched the lid closed, tucked it back to the same spot in the carved buffet. I wanted to tell Grandma what I saw but then I wasn’t sure if she’d believe me so I kept it to myself. Over the years she talked about the black box and how it played a part in her and Grandpas early years but mostly that it was their beginning. She never talked about the contents specifically which bothered me and if I asked she would sway from answering but go into another black box story. My curiosity was so piqued at times but I couldn’t let her know that I actually opened the box and saw the contents. It was a puzzle that I would later learn about but in her time.
26 Oct 2008
I called my Grandmother Rosie this morning. It was 6:45pm in Switzerland, nine hours ahead. She is the one I look up to the most, more then my parents. She is a short stout woman with soft skin and blue gray welcoming eyes. I miss her and I’ve played with the notion of moving back home to Murren or to Wengen to live with her until I figured out what I’d do. I’ve spent nearly a third of my life in America and it has become my home but the longings of what is familiar, the longings of my family pulls me there. Yet, Andreas and I made our life here. I can’t make a decision just yet. I vacillate as if being on a tetter totter, making a list of the pros and cons, each being different depending on what mood I’m in. The Pug Lady walked by again. It’s her ritual every morning. I think we pick animals based on our own personality. Wilber is quite reserved, rather eccentric but then he’ll expose his other side – playful, wild and unencumbered. It’s a part of him that is, that wants to be, but is tucked in a corner as if waiting for a broom to whisk him out. Like the other day I arrived home to trails of a powder white substance throughout the house, on the sofa, under the dining room table, by the toilet and especially in the kitchen where it all started. I found Wilber, covered in a layer of the white powder sleeping curled up in the round blue laundry basket. I had made cookies the night before and tucked most of them in the freezer except for two which I had left on a plate on the counter for in the morning. I was not thinking for I usually never leave food out. However, morning called with an upset stomach so they remained forgotten. These cookies had chocolate covered coffee beans in them. Wilber had leapt upon the counter, indulged himself and then apparently went into a caffeine rage. His first and only attack was the flour bag he found. I must not have closed the kitchen cabinet. I suppose he had never felt the rush of pleasure so vigorously. Since I was not here to actually view his path of amusement I could only imagine his travels of freedom. I wasn’t even upset about the impending mess I had to clean up. Wilber was still sleeping, didn’t even hear me when I opened our creaky door. I grabbed the broom, went to the kitchen and was about to start sweeping the small wooden floor. Then I stopped, looked at the white palette before me and sat down. I began to draw and I remembered the story my Grandmother told me. The story about the small black box, a story told from generation to generation. The shortest story I’ve ever heard with the longest story ever imagined. I drew until I used up all the white, the brown floor beneath laying out my masterpiece. I stood there and looked, content and then went on to another room so the masterpiece could linger. After all the other rooms were swept clean I went back to the kitchen and stood over the white musings. I set the broom against the wall and sat down in the middle of my masterpiece and cried. I cried until there was nothing left as if an ocean drained, salt sediments suspended. Crying had begun to be my mate, not in a bad way though. I had not cried for nearly eleven months after Andreas died. I couldn’t, I couldn’t let anyone know the depth of my grief. I couldn’t even let myself know. But one day recently I was walking past a cemetery, its black metal ornate fence a protecting force. It was the first tricklings of Fall, the leaves were just starting to awaken their camouflaged state of oranges, yellows and reds. I saw an old man kneeling. He was bundled in a brown and orange pullover sweater, tweed tan pants and a fleece green scarf. He laid two flowers, one white and one yellow upon a grave. Then he tucked a piece of paper underneath. He knelt quietly and I stared intently through the black iron fence, my face pressed so hard as if wanting to hear his words. He didn’t speak. He didn’t speak at all. He began to cry and at that moment it was as if I was pulled to him. I felt a tear touch my wrist, I felt Andreas next to me, I felt a flood of emotion sweep the curve of my soul. The man stood, turned towards me, saw my frozen gaze, paused and then turned back around as if he were going to take a last look. But instead he knelt down, picked up the yellow flower and started walking towards me. I wanted to run but my feet were heavy, chained to their place. He came to the fence, handed me the yellow flower and cupped his hands around mine. I felt a sensation I’ve never felt before, his aged hands a comfort. He smiled and then turned to walk away. In that brief moment so many words were spoken but yet none were. After that I allowed my grief to speak itself through tears when I felt them coming. It was tears of so many emotions from love, pity, anger, gratitude, and sorrow. And, out of those tears I began to debark the heaviness that I had been carrying since Andreas’ death. So there in the middle of our kitchen I cried without self judgment. When the tears were finished emptying out, I stood up, swept the floor clean and went to say hello to Wilber.
25 Oct 2008
It was a chilly morning, just under 43 degrees. I opened up the front door to take a pulse of the temperature. The dew on the cars was my first observation it was legging weather. The lady who walks her pug every morning was bound in winterwear, her thick wool scarf wrapped securely around her face, barely exposing half opened eyes. Pug dog was outfitted with leggings, not an overcoat as most would have. I had to stare and keep my laughter contained until they were well past my house. Leggings for a dog? This was a first! Not only were they leggings, they were purple polka dots! I think devoted animal lovers can be quite eccentric but have found them to be extremely lovable and generous people. It was clear that I’d be wearing my long legged bike shorts of the bland plain black type, sporty Halo headband and dense Thinoslate winter gloves, that is if I could find them. There wasn’t time to find the winter gloves so I left wearing my fingerless gloves. My fingertips felt the icy cold of the brake handles and the chill of air as I whizzed to work. The faster I rode the quicker my body would warm up, correct? I remember the OMSI film about the Human Body and the red heated sections of the body as the boy rode his bike. I was sure the same patterns of heat would erupt swiftly as I began my ride. Unfortunately, most of my ride was downhill so the desired eruption didn’t occur. In fact, my fingers got so stiff I had trouble stopping at a stop sign and had to make a quick turn which landed me in a pile of Fall leaves. Thank goodness for the leaves but not so good for the owner who had neatly piled them against the curb. The pile was strewn about as I lay face first in the musty mixture of decaying leaves. I felt something moving under my leg and before I could get up I saw the mouse scurry out of the leafy mess and then onto my leg, down to my foot, and then dive back onto the pile and across the road. I screamed and I’m sure the mouse screamed too; afterall, I was alot bigger then he, or maybe she. A young man stopped to help me. I was embarrassed and said I was ok. He was gracious to help me up and then went on his way. I swiped the leaves from my clothes, emptied and readjusted my helmet and was on my way. I was shivering all the way to work; not only my hands but my backside too. It was not until I was dressing out of my bike clothes and into my work clothes did I notice the two holes on the back butt side of my bike leggings. Well, that was another first, a dabble into mooning, a “partial” moon! I chuckled and thought about Andreas. I would call him and share my bike to work story. I called home, the answering machine picked up, Andreas’ voice a welcomed greeting and I began telling him my story. I could never tell anyone the odd things I did as if Andreas were still alive. It was my grief and I didn’t want to share it with anyone else.
24 Oct 2008
Wilber came to “snuzzle” when I arrived home. I think he finally figured out it was me and not a stranger these last few days! Wilber has taken on a trait of Andreas’ and caves when things are a little out of sync. Wilber found his place on my lap, curled into the softness of me. His warmth kept the bite of coming home to a cool house at bay. When I arrived home I made myself a cup of hot orange thyme tea, sat upon the cozy couch and delved into the new issue of Readers Digest. Wilber was content to be close to me quiet in his world. This morning I had a rude awakening to happenings in the belly of night while most of us sleep. As I was opening the living room blinds, the morning light rushing in, I noticed a lump on my neighbor’s driveway. It only took a moment to realize the lump was a body and I quickly assembled myself with shoes and ran out the front door, my heart beating a little faster thinking I had discovered a dead person. The nip of Fall hit my naked neck as I ran towards my discovery. The young girl, maybe nineteen lay curled up on the driveway, her stout bare arms tucked inside her sleeveless shirt. Her skin was cold but not dead cold; I knew what that felt like. I nudged her, she didn’t move. I nudged again and her body shivered. I said a short prayer, glad that she was really alive. Why do we go to the end of the rope when things happen? Why do we sometimes think of dread instead of in between? I could smell the play of night as if walking into a smoked filled bar, loud music playing and couples bumping close to each other having had too many drinks. It nauseated me, the thought of drunken souls careening into an orgy of thoughtless actions, of one night stands with strangers, waking to faces so empty of connection. Is that what the young do? Is that part of their road into adulthood? I had not known that path for it was always Andreas and I. I had no experience in anything except what the two of us had jumped into together. I kept shaking the girl until she woke and looked into my gazing eyes. She stared back so blank of recognition, paused and appeared to want to doze off. I wouldn’t let her though. I wanted to know she was ok. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, give her warmth and let her know she would be ok. I changed too when Andreas died. I wanted to protect everyone or anything from ever feeling less then happy. I couldn’t bear to see pain because I knew how it felt, so void, so empty, so sad. I ran back into the house, grabbed one of Andreas’ sweatshirts (what was I thinking?) for the young girl. She was a large boned girl, her dirty brown dreadlocks ending at the middle of her back. She began to stand up as I approached her and swiftly took the sweatshirt as I reached out. I asked her name. She said, “Jennifer”. She was wobbly. I told her I could take her home. She said, “No thank you”. I asked her where she lived and she said towards Powell St and pointed to the north. I said that’s Division St, Powell St is to the south. She insisted on walking and I stood there watching as she sauntered away, arms folded together, Andreas' sweatshirt birthing a memory. I stood there until she turned at the corner and I could no longer see her or Andrea's sweatshirt. It was 5:45am and I wondered why the paper delivery person had passed by without a notice of her. Wouldn’t someone have noticed, stopped or called 911? I walked back inside the house, my body heated from the anxiousness that had swept over me. I wondered all day about Jennifer, her life, my life, life in general and all the "whys" that greet us so randomly. Now I sit at the end of the day, on my couch with Wilber, life going on, not halting or even pausing just because we may want it to.
22 Oct 2008
Yellowstone National Park
Winter call speaks
Snowy meadow sleeps
Morning greets motion
Lone Coyote ambles
Breaking virgin trail
Hunger approaches
Scents alluring
Hunt commences
Morning greets action
Lone Hunter strides
Follows pawed trail
Plan assembles
Detection pulls
Hunt commences
Coyote meets Hunter
Eyes stare, trigger waivers
Winter terminates
22 Oct 2008
It's been two days and my hair is still frizzy from the double duty invasive hair color chemicals. I bought a jar of Kraft Mayonnaise and conditioned my hair for two hours. Wilber is stressed. He doesn’t understand the hurried state I’m in. Actually, I feel rather normal. Or, maybe it just feels good to be acting differently, outside my routine self. Tomorrow I’ll go to yoga. It releasess tension and I like to be surrounded by earthy people even if no words are spoken. It’s still hard to come home knowing Andreas won’t be here. Sometimes the quiet is too much. I’m not used it. I’ll turn on the radio or the TV just so that the house is filled with noise as if life is bustling all around me. I feel for Andreas’ family, losing two children, twins. Claudia calls often. I think it’s her way of feeling close to Andreas by speaking to me. She comes over and wants to play his guitar, wants to touch what he touched. She holds it close to her, strums the songs they played together. Andreas’ siblings were close. Claudia is the last one alive. Her parents call often and she feels suffocated. They worry about her, worry about losing another child. Andreas’ father was strict especially with Peter who was a little slow. He was of small stature, didn’t start speaking until he was four, he was slower then other kids, but not dumb. His father thought he was though. He yelled at Peter for petty things, called him stupid, said he wouldn’t become anything in life. This was all behind closed doors, afterall, they owned the Bakery and had to keep appearances for the customers. Peter never talked back. He was good at fixing anything. He’d spend hours figuring out how to fix the radio or one time he fixed the backup generator when it went out one cold winter night. His father never praised him and I think Peter worked even harder to be good at things to aim for his fathers praise. Peter and Andreas began rock climbing lessons when they were ten. Peter had a keen knack for rock climbing. His confident hands holding steady and stretching out for the next place to hold onto, his legs short but strong, his calves flexing indulging the ladies to gaze, his agility, his fearlessness of heights and his sheer adventurous spirit made a name for himself within the community. I had no doubt he would become a great climber. Andreas was a step behind him at first and then two steps. Peter was the one who encouraged Andreas to conquer fear when it approached. The two of them were inseparable when it came to rock climbing. It didn’t bother Andreas that Peter was better. It bothered Andreas that their father never saw the soul of Peter.
2008-08-12 @ 04:30:08 am
by Ella
Well, any updates on the hat's ...
2008-08-10 @ 08:30:08 am
by whats in a name
It's nice!
2008-06-30 @ 09:11:36 pm
by Antonia
Nice blog..... and nice writing
2008-06-22 @ 07:57:58 am
by krishan
wow..ur really talented. I love the ...
2008-03-27 @ 11:31:07 pm
by keji90