A breath and a prayer

I was raised Catholic back in the 50's.  Prayer, as I saw it, was a type of desperate pleading to a judgmental higher power, because we were all unworthy and powerless.  It stopped making sense to me many years ago, as I started to question who I was and what God really meant in my world.

Over the years I went on a quest by attending other churches, studying different types of spirituality and even spent time with some wonderful Native American friends attending their ceremonies.  I think their belief that we are all one and that everything is connected made the most sense to me.  I still have a sacred Golden Eagle feather given to me by them, a healing stone acquired at a Sundance Ceremony and some sage that I occasionally pray with when I am moved to do so.

As I went through my day, I felt that this evening would be a good time to bring out my special feather, stone and sage.  I will light the sage and bless myself and the universe with it's scented smoke.  As it wafts out into the into the evening sky over the lake, I will send my prayers and love along with it,  knowing that they will come to rest as gentle as a butterfly in the hearts of the intended.

But I discovered today that there is another way to pray that requires no artifacts or effort.  It is as simple as breathing and perhaps the most profound.  At a gentle yoga class, as we were being quietly directed to focus on our breath, I found myself thinking of those that I wanted to send blessings to....... and suddenly I felt my breath become their breath.  Then my breath became one breath with everyone else that was sending love and light to them.  We were one breath and one prayer.  Connected.  It was a powerful moment.

As the class ended we sat with our legs crossed and our hands folded to our hearts.  The final words were, "May you be happy.  May you be healthy.  May you be peaceful.  Namaste."  It was the perfect prayer and it was as simple as breathing.

Thoughts on love from my swing

I have had a deep and singular love for one small place on this big planet all of my life.  No matter where I have gone over the years, I eventually felt an undeniable call to return to my sacred life-giving lake.

I have a special place to sit where my mind immediately grows calm.  I am no longer thinking as my senses completely tune in to my surroundings.  My tree swing hangs from a big maple tree a few feet from the water's edge.  Part of the ritual involves having my bare feet connect to the earth in the grass beneath me.  It is believed by some that the earth has healing properties that are conducted through your bare feet.  I know that this place heals me everyday.

The unique smell of my lake wafting on a summer wind always engulfs me in a wave of emotion akin to love. The sound of it's waves lapping on the shore is surely the sweetest music I shall ever hear, and the countless sunsets I have witnessed from my swing never lose their magic.

Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night to sit in my swing beneath a dome of brilliant stars.  It is so calm that I can hear the owls calling to each other in the woods across the water and the frogs singing far down in the marsh.  This is my church and my God, and I am one with all of it.

Perhaps this lake is the love of my life.

Paddle board yoga next to the veggie patch

My tiny cottage is crawling with young construction guys and in a huge mess.  They are mostly in my bedroom, tearing it apart and putting it back together.   I am definitely not complaining, mind you!  But I had to use my imagination to figure out how I was going to fit a yoga routine into my day.

Since I am on a fitness kick, I left the mayhem to ride my bike around the lake early this morning.  The 6 mile trip was glorious and I came back ready to do yoga.  Then I realized that the only place I could possibly do that was on the living room floor......right where they were trudging back and forth to haul boards and stuff up the bedroom stairs.  Have I mentioned before that my dear little cottage is rather small?

I sighed, gave up my idea of yoga and went out to water my new little raised veggie garden bed.  I love my sweet patch of lettuce, radishes, onions and tomatoes.   I also have some totes of peas and cucumbers on the steps going down next to the cottage.  The cottages on this stretch of the lake are very close together, each having 50 feet of sandy frontage.  Most of the owners are rarely here which pleases my reclusive self a lot!

Peas and Cukes!

We have two new stand up paddle boards in our tiny lakeside yard, courtesy of my son-in-law.  I tried one over the weekend and enjoyed it immensely.  I actually looked online this morning for paddle board yoga classes and found some on a nearby lake in July.  I can see myself falling off the board often and making a complete fool of myself, but it still sounds like lots of fun.

Anyway, as I was watering the garden,  I looked over at the boards and realized that I could do paddle board yoga right here in my yard.....and I might not even fall off.  So, Baxter and I had a heavenly half hour yoga session accompanied by the sounds of birds and waves lapping on the shore, right next to my sweet little garden.  I did some Downward Facing Dog, while Baxter chose his version of the Sphinx Pose with his favorite stuffed squirrel. It was a stellar experience!

                                             Then I picked some radishes for lunch.   Life is good!

A giant lily pad, frozen custard and time travel

Summer started out with a bang here at Golden Lake, due to an unusually warm and sunny Memorial Day weekend.  My son-in-law, who is a big kid at heart, delivered a truckload of beach toys to entertain the kids this summer and we're not exactly talking buckets and beach balls!  Our tiny lakeside yard now has 4 kayaks, 2 stand up paddle boards and a giant Lily Pad which is definitely the biggest hit so far.  It's a huge floating foam pad for kids to jump up and down on, leap off of and climb back on.......over and over, until exhaustion, hypothermia or both takes over.

The Lily Pad

The day was topped off with pizza at the picnic table.  The girls and their parents headed on home, but my son and his two boys wanted us to take a trip to a local drive-in for sundaes with them before they headed back.  I pass this popular spot often but haven't stopped in years.  I certainly wasn't prepared for the groovy trip back to the 60's!

The Kiltie has been around forever.   It's somewhat murky origins are estimated to be in the late 1940's having supposedly been started by a man of Scottish origins.  Hence the name, The Kiltie and the short plaid skirts.  I vaguely remember a few trips there with my parents when I was a child and they took me along on weekend drives out to lake country, but my clearest memories of hanging out there are during the summer I was 15 years old.  I had met a  boy who was a couple of years older than me, and my protective parents actually let me date him that summer of 1963.  Besides being really cute, his family lived on a big lake 30 miles from Milwaukee, and he was a competitive water skier.  He also had his own car which spelled FREEDOM to me. 

He frequently picked me up to spend the day at the lake water skiing.  Often our date included a stop at The Kiltie before driving the half hour back to Milwaukee to take me home.  Sometimes he let me drive his car on the back country roads, but I recall being a rather slow learner as I narrowly avoided the ditches and careened along the winding roads.  I think I did  all right when it came to the parking and kissing segment of our dates, because he seemed somewhat more interested in that activity.

Anyway.....back to the present.  We drove into the parking lot of The Kiltie and the cars were lined up 2 deep at almost every spot.....and they just kept on coming.  We had to park on the outskirts of the lot and walk up to the window to place our order.  If you are lucky enough to get a parking spot in the front row, a cute and cheerful car hop in a very short plaid skirt will come and take your order.

Luckily, I had grabbed my camera at the last minute and decided to take some photos.  As I wandered around, I realized that since my date with the cute water skier.....absolutely nothing had changed at the Kiltie.  Except for the newer cars, it's as if the place is frozen in time.  So along with some incredibly good frozen custard, I got a little trip in a time machine.  

Former husband with our two grandsons and our oldest son.

As for the cute water skier......he only lasted through my 15^th summer.  The next summer I got my driver's license and a little white mustang to go along with it.  I had my own ticket to freedom and suddenly he didn't seem quite so interesting.  Besides, I discovered he wasn't the best kisser anyway.

Mom's Hugs from Beyond

It's the year 2000 and I have run away from my life and everything I hold dear.  My marriage of 31 years is over, the family hardware business has crumbled after 97 years of operation, and my only brother has taken his life.  Nothing makes sense to me anymore.  My three sons and one daughter are all grown and on their own, and I am unable to financially keep my hundred year old cottage on the lake I love so much.  My father has been gone for 15 years having passed away at the age of 65.  He has left me to deal with my mom who has become more and more demanding over time.  She has continued the pattern of moving from place to place that started years before he died, thinking a new home would give her something to think about other than the depression that has haunted her most of her life.  She seems finally settled at the age of 80 in a posh retirement community nearby and oddly enough has become less self absorbed.  She spends her days making friends there and comforting those who seem to need some extra loving care.  It's a side of her that I have never seen.  Her health is good and she never leaves her room without being fashionably dressed, a habit that has been of utmost importance to her all of her life. 

My life been completely about raising my children, working at our hardware store, fitting in some time to paint and since my dad died, trying to keep up with moms demands.  I have never learned boundaries.  I realize that I am precariously ready to fall off the edge of sanity when I find myself in the basement of my cottage throwing every piece of stoneware from a large set of dishes against the basement wall.  As I clean up the mess while sobbing uncontrollably, I know that I must make some changes. 

A month later, I have sold my precious cottage and packed up my two dogs and everything I can fit into my red Dodge Dakota to move to the mountains of New Hampshire over 1000 miles away.  It has occurred to me that I have possibly lost my mind, but I don't care.  I have never lived anywhere else or traveled much, and I have no idea why I am doing this, but there is nothing that can stop me at this point.  I have made a halfhearted attempt to invite my mom to come with me, but I know that she won't.  She has never traveled and is completely bewildered by my decision.  Again, I really don't care.  I am tired of everyone and everything.

The next year is an adventure beyond my wildest dreams.  I build a log cabin on the side of a mountain, learn to heat and cook with wood and spend countless hours exploring the forests, climbing mountains and learning a new way of life.  I am in my element and the fog of sadness and desperation has slowly lifted from my soul.  When I speak to my mom on the phone, I feel a slight sadness.  She sounds so far away, but she never berates me for leaving her behind.  I make the trip back to Wisconsin once or twice to visit, but each time I cannot wait to return to my cabin on the mountain.  

I have lived there for a year when I receive a phone call from the retirement community where mom lives.  She has had a massive stroke while making her daily rounds of visiting her friends and I must come immediately.  I quickly pack in a fog, find someone to care for my dogs and hop on the next plane home.  When I reach the hospital, she is in a coma that she will never awaken from.  My four children join me and we maintain a vigil for the next couple of days never leaving her side.  We talk to her, hold her hands and share stories about her.  Even though she was a quirky and unconventional grandmother, my children love her very much.   On August 15, 2001, we are all there with her as she takes her last breath and I feel an unexpected sense of peace and joy for her at that moment.  

There are certain things that will always remind me of my mom. She had a beautiful set of cranberry cut glass goblets that she started collecting as a young woman even before her marriage.  She used to buy one goblet at a time when she could afford it, and bring it home on the streetcar to save for her life as a married woman.  As a child, I remember looking at them in the china cabinet and thinking how awesome they were.  To be allowed to drink from one on a special occasion was almost a sacred experience to me.  My daughter now has them and I travel back in time whenever I see them.  Mom also loved butterflies, so much that many of her lovely things had images of butterflies on them. 

The next couple of days are busy with her funeral and moving her things out of her apartment at the retirement community.  I must get back on the plane and return to New Hampshire because my oldest son and his girlfriend are leaving to drive across the country to my cabin for a long planned vacation with me. 

I arrive back at my cabin a day before they do and the next few days are a flurry of visiting different spots that my son and his girlfriend want to see in the area.  I am exhausted but strangely exhilarated for some reason.  We travel to the coast of Maine for a couple of days, and I bring my camera to take some reference photos for future paintings.  I cannot shake the feeling that my mom is next to me.  Despite my overall dissatisfaction in my relationship with my mom over the years, I do understand that she was the greatest supporter of my art over the years.  She saw my passion for it as a small child and provided me with a constant supply of art materials and encouragement.  I am feeling such an unexplainable rush of creative energy that I am literally buzzing with it.  The photos from that trip become undeniably the best paintings I have ever done up to that point.  

Julie, my son's wife now.  Painted from a photo taken in Maine August, 2001

The last night before my son and his girlfriend were leaving, we went down the mountain from my cabin to a lovely little cafe in Bellows Falls,Vermont.  I don't remember the name of it or know if it's even still there, but it was small and intimate and the food was exquisite.  It had no more than a dozen tables and each small table had a white linen tablecloth and a clear glass goblet with a tea candle in it. I had been there many times and always enjoyed the food and atmosphere.  We were all exhausted from the past week of travels and emotions and had ordered our delicious dinner before I was fully aware of my surroundings.  As I looked up, a rush of goosebumps traveled over me as I speechlessly stared at the center of our table.  A lovely cranberry cut glass goblet with a tea candle flickering inside sat in front of me.  Tears filled my eyes as I looked around the little cafe and saw that every other table had the usual clear glass goblet and tea candle on it.  My mom was never one to give hugs, but I felt the most exquisite hug from inside that I have ever had in that moment.  Mom was letting me know that she loved me and always would.  That feeling was beyond description and I will never forget it. The next year I spent in the mountains would be filled with her presence as I painted like never before in my little cabin hideaway.  I would also go back to the little cafe to eat several times and never see the cranberry cut glass goblet again.

I left the mountains that following summer.  I knew it was time to go back to my family in Wisconsin.  I had accomplished what I set out to do.  I had discovered that I was far stronger than I realized and that I had a purpose beyond what I had ever imagined.  

My mom left me with one more wink from beyond.  I had moved back to Golden Lake and was earning some money by helping to rent out summer cottages owned by a friend.  It was also my job to clean them between renters and do a little decorating to make them more homey.  They had been built many years ago and were rather shabby by that time.  I scoured the local thrift shops for curtains, dishes and furniture to fix them up.  I also hung some of my old paintings in one of them.  

It was a warm summer weekend afternoon in August and I was sitting on my pier enjoying the sun.  I looked up and one of the cottage renters was walking down the road in my direction.  It was a middle aged woman who was there by herself.  She had been renting for many years and my immediate thought was that she had something to complain about since she was obviously looking for me.  I walked across the street and met her in my driveway noticing that she was carrying one of my old paintings from her cottage.  She explained that she really wanted to buy it and I smiled and said she could have it. She insisted that I take $50 and then she explained why she had to have it. The painting was of a little girl reaching out to touch a butterfly.

She told me that her father had loved staying in the little cottage that she was renting and that he had always loved butterflies.  He had died in the past year and when he died a butterfly had somehow gotten into her home and stayed for a day.  It was a beautiful Tiger Swallowtail and she and her daughters had put a dish of sugar water out for it.  The next day it left and she new it was her father telling her that he was fine and sending his love to them.  I loved her story and proceeded to share with her how much my mom had also loved butterflies.  I said that she had also died in the past year and that it was……..as shock and another hug from mom washed over me...............…"A YEAR AGO TODAY!"   I am embarrassed to say that I have never been one to remember dates but mom made sure I wouldn't forget hers. It was August 15th.   You can say it was a coincidence but I will smile and say that I know better.  August 15th was also one of my mom's favorite religious feasts from her catholic upbringing, the feast of the Holy Assumption of the Blessed Virgin for whom she always had a deep devotion.  Another coincidence?  Perhaps. 

My mom and dad are buried next to each other beneath a headstone that has the last 2 lines of her favorite poem etched into it. It was read at both my dad's funeral and hers.  Also etched into the headstone are dozens of butterflies flying up into the sky from a painting I did for her many years ago.

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there.  I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints of snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.  I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

P.S.  One extra line was added to those two final lines on their headstone.  It reads,

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.  I did not die.
I just flew away.

It's my story and I'm stickin to it!

My beautiful mom and me!

When I started writing this past year, I thought that I wanted to talk about my mom and how little she understood me.  I wanted to describe her frequent bouts with depression and her self absorbed, demanding and often judgmental attitude.    For some reason I kept putting it off and months went by without a word being written.   As I frequently sifted through my memories, the ones that kept rising to the surface were those that made me smile.  So dear readers, please forgive me for skipping over the juicy dysfunction, but the fire of my poor misunderstood self seems to have burned out. These are the things that my heart wants to remember most about my beautiful mom.  It's my personal history and after years of wasted precious energy feeling disappointed in my mom's shortcomings, I have chosen to write the story that matters  most to me.  

Mom has been gone a long time.  I held her hand as she slipped from this world 13 years ago.  I know she found peace and happiness at last, because she told me…..soon after she left, but that story will have to wait for another time.  For now I wish to jump into my time machine and visit some special moments with her.  

I should mention first that mom grew up rather poor.  It was her goal to find a handsome prince who would save her and provide her with the kind of life she had always dreamed of, a life filled with beautiful things where she imagined herself to be queen of her domain.  She found her kind prince when she met my dad.  The rest is history.  Did she live happily ever after?  She gave it her best effort, but her personal demons came with her to the beautiful castle and they became more and more demanding of her attention as the years went by.  But I digress, my time machine is waiting. 

I am 6 years old and standing on the pier of our summer cottage.  Mom and dad built much of it themselves.  It looks like a little log cabin nestled in the woods at the edge of Golden Lake. My mom's laughter floats gaily on the summer wind as she glides by in a sailboat owned by the neighbors.  She loves to sail and often goes along with them.  Dressed in her white shorts and captains hat, she seems wild, free and completely in her element as she bravely steps one foot out onto the dagger board when the sailboat heels in the wind.

Mom on a typical Sunday at the cottage.

At my next stop, I am 12 years old and mom has decided that we are all going to learn to downhill ski.  Each winter, we wait in excited anticipation for the first snowflakes to fall. It is the beginning of many winters spent flying down snow covered slopes at every opportunity.  Mom even lets me skip school frequently for impromptu trips up north along with my dad for long weekends. We often drop everything and grab our suitcases at the last minute to drive the 5 hours north in a snowstorm just to experience the fresh fallen snow in the morning.  There is no such thing as too much snow to make it there.  She is almost always the last one down the main run at closing time. After a day of skiing we gather with our friends around a huge fireplace in the lodge, drink hot chocolate and eating fondue.  I have no idea then, how precious and priceless the memories of this time will always remain to me.

Me at 15, stylishly dressed for the slopes!

My time machine has traveled back a few years again. It's a warm and windy spring day.  My mom and I have made a huge kite out of wood and a silky fabric.  I can still see the colorful flowered fabric, and the finished kite is taller than I am.  We carry it to a nearby open field and as the strong wind quickly carries our kite high up into the blue sky, we hang on together to the spinning spool of string.  It swoops around tugging hard on the thick string as we laugh ourselves silly while trying to hold on tight.  But it's far too windy for our big kite and the string breaks and sends it plummeting to earth.  We run giggling to where it has fallen a block away and bring it home, hoping no one has seen us, because I have skipped school again.

I hop back into my time machine and shortly come to rest next to a beautiful shimmering blue swimming pool my parents have installed in our yard.  It is a rare thing to have back in those days and as introverted as I am, I suddenly have more friends than I can count.  We are so excited each spring as my dad turns on the big faucet that fills it up, that we jump in before it is completely full.  The water is extremely cold at first, but we don't care or even notice.  Mom graciously puts up with most of the neighborhood kids in the pool all summer long.  She often serves a delicious lunch at poolside for the gang. Speakers have been attached to the house outdoors so that we can have our favorite music playing while we swim.  My friends and I make up water ballets to the strains of some Hawaiian album.  My mom is always dressed in a fancy sundress or one of her many beautiful bathing suits and is a good sport about jumping in to help an occasional kid that forgets how to swim.  I run wild and free those long hot days at a time when life feels safe and summers are endless.

How I spent my summer vacations!

My time machine has stopped to hover above the expanse of years, and as I gaze out over them I see that despite some barren burnt out patches, much of the landscape is rich and green and filled with life and sweet sounds. My mom loved butterflies, moths and birds and we spent countless hours watching them in our big wooded yard.  I know the names of all of them because of her.  I can also identify all of the bird songs and am surprised in my middle age to discover that everyone else doesn't necessarily know these things. She loved good music and had a large collection of records that she played often on our stereo.  I developed a taste for this music at a very young age and while my friends were listening to the Beatles, I was playing Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett. I still can see my mom teaching my dad how to dance to this music in our living room.

Mom and dad all dressed up for a dance at the country club.

As I gaze out once more at the landscape of her life, I can see that my mom knows that the dearest things to me are art, books and nature.  I am always provided with a bounty of art materials and books along with the encouragement and freedom to paint, read, dream and explore the natural world.  I climb trees, build tree forts, wade in every creek, pond and lake, collect stones and feathers, learn to knit, draw, paint and play the piano.  I ski, skate, swim, fish, sail, and bike. I love dressing like a princess or playing in the dirt.  It has taken me over 60 years to realize that despite her dark secrets and obvious emotional pain, I didn't miss a thing!

As I hover in my time machine I hear her voice whisper, “Please play the piano for me dear.” I sit down to play her favorite songs softly each afternoon.  She is lying down and for some reason my music helps her to relax as nothing else can.  One of her favorite songs is called "Moon Mist" and she wants me to play it over and over again.  I love playing the piano and this becomes our daily ritual.  She seems to be able to drift off to sleep on the couch for a little while as I softly play.  After about an hour, I stop and tiptoe from the room so I don't disturb her. Even as a young child, I sense that it is a struggle for her to be happy.  I will never find out why.

Francis and the Beast Outside my Window

Something startles me awake in the middle of the night.  I am snuggled down deep in my new warm fleece sheets.  I picked the dark blue ones with big white snowflakes on them that reminded me of soft fluffy snowfalls.  There is no picturesque winter wonderland outside my window tonight, but something sinister and that sounds like a living thing howling and clawing at my tiny cottage in the dark.  I reach out my and touch the wall behind my bed and am shocked at how cold it feels.  The temperature has dropped to 20 degrees below zero, and I am grateful for the warmth of my bed and Baxter’s soft body pressed up against my side. I think of how fragile we are and how quickly the uncaring beast outside could freeze us in our tracks if we dared to venture out. 

I burrow deeper into my nest and try to go back to sleep, but the sound of the beast haunts me as I think of all the creatures huddled in its grip. How will the little birds with their tiny beating hearts survive? What will the gentle deer find to eat in the frozen snow covered wasteland?  Who will care for all of the vulnerable creatures in the path of this monster? Will the farmers be kind like Jon and Maria and give warm shelter to their barn cats?

Then like a small candle in the cold dark recesses of my mind, I remember a story I heard as a child, a story of a gentle and holy man who lived long ago and cared for all of the creatures of the forest and birds of the air.  The story tells of how they gathered around him and were not fearful because of his great love and kindness.  St. Francis of Assisi taught that we are all connected to the One Divine Spirit.  He is believed to be the patron saint and protector of the animals.

It’s been many years since I thought of these long ago stories from my Catholic upbringing.  My search for a personal God has taken me in many directions and my spirituality is a private blend of all the things that I have read and experienced since then.  But tonight it feels comforting and right to think of St. Francis and how love conquers fear.  So, I ask his spirit to protect the deer and the birds huddling in the cold, the barn cats and squirrels and all of the creatures struggling to survive this long cold and fearsome night.  I see his gentle face as I drift back to sleep in my warm, safe bed.