a memorial to heat

this might get a bit long...but that's the way i write. (;

***

years ago on may 29th, my grandfather passed away; my dad's dad. they called him the red oak. when we built our house in northern minnesota, not long after he passed, my mother bought dad a red oak tree for the yard. we planted it the year after we planted about 125 trees that mom got from the forest service for WAY cheap. most of those trees didn't make it, and for a while, we didn't think the oak would make it either. but it did. in their new house in central minnesota they've got another red oak, which is behaving the same way--expected to die, but hanging on and flourishing.

i remember a lot about my grandfather, and i always foray into the world in a way that only can be shaped by him--with quiet. my grandpa was a listener. he was a a kind, humble man, with an endless sense of humor. he was bald, like my dad. sometimes now, as dad gets more and more white beareded, he reminds me so completely of my grandpa that i wonder what parts were actually my grandmother. (;

grandpa died of colon and skin cancer, out in arizona. my dad had been out the week before. my uncle, dad's oldest brother, was there with my grandma. bob said that for a few days grandpa hung on, for whatever reason there was, propped up by morphine for the pain. he passed on after they had last rites, but in time to hold the hands of my grandma and uncle and let go as they prayed beside him.

it's been 16 years since then. the day that i spoke to him, knowing that i'd never hug him again, i walked up the dirt road on which our house had been built, searching for agates. i usually found the small clear red agates, the size of my pinky nail. that day, however, i found an agate the size of my fist--the size of a heart.

***

so last year i call home on the 29th. my mom says she's taking my dad out, to celebrate.

confused, i ask, "celebrate?"

"yes," mom says. "celebrate."

i cautiously ask, "what are you celebrating?"

mom says, "the day your dad came home from vietnam."

i laugh and say, "wow...i didn't know that. i was wondering why you'd be celebrating, when all i knew was that grandpa passed on the 29th."

we both giggle about this. was it bad of us? nah.

that's another reason i thank my lucky stars on memorial day. dad's back, across the water. he sobered up, he met mom, he wanted to be a dad. he's cut from the same fabric as my grandfather--would give you the shirt off his back. when i see him with his brothers, though, i see the difference that facing a war creates in you, the dichotomy of loving life and knowing that you have taken life, as well. on my uncles' faces, i do not see the same lines, the same knowledge.

thank you, dad. thank you ever so much--for coming back, and for being you.

***

last year at this time my uncle jed, my dad's younger brother, had the stroke of all strokes. at this time last year, we didn't think he'd make it much longer at all. dad and my uncle tim flew out to california, where jed was recovering in hospital. they wept, they laughed, they hoped.

and this year, jed is still alive. jed's one of those people who just perserveres: despite all that the world throws at him, pelts him with, smothers him under, he keeps going. he can't walk, and he can only push himself backwards in his wheelchair with one foot, but he keeps going.

his motto is little by slow. sometimes when life is moving too quickly, and i don't feel i can keep pace, i repeat this mantra in my mind until i remember that any pace is a good pace, as long as you keep going.

***

last year on last thursday, there was a different kind of hope and pain that flushed my life. i came home mid-day, after receiving some strange emails from dan, to find him having what the therapist called a "psychotic break."

kind of like the earthquake overseas, and just as damaging, on a humanely individual level.

that day i went to work feeling good about my self. as a girl you have days where you are happy to be girly, happy to match your clothes and have hair in place. that day i remember exactly what i was wearing: capri jeans with pink flip flops, a red shirt and a pink baseball cap, and little flower earrings with pink petals and a red center. my hair was in a pony tail. i felt put together, and despite the fact that home was difficult, i felt good.

it was like a punch in the gut, when i got home and realized how far gone dan was.

and now, a year from then, i realize not only how far dan has come, but how far i have come, and for that matter, how far we have come.

the dam broke, last year. it had some far-reaching affects, between friends and family. but in the end, no matter how difficult it was at the time, it turned out for the best, in ways i could never imagine.

***

up north in the mississippi headwaters park, lake itasca state park, there is a stand of trees on the drive in called preacher's grove. they're norway pines--towering far, far above my head. the branches look like green clouds, pressed high up into the blue, and the ground beneath the trees is orange and crunchy with their needles. you can imagine how it smells--fir trees and lake water.

settlers came to this grove and prayed--hence the name. at some point, before or after the prayers, a fire ran through. the trees are marked now, big black holes at their bases, their shiny bark marred. they were burned so badly that they should have withered and died--but they didn't.

in the past year and past years, i've stood in the fire around this day. this memorial day is no longer just a memorial for the men in my life--my father, my grandpa, my uncle, my dan.

it's a memorial to me and for me--it's a memory that is painful, but that reminds me that i can withstand.

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...

today looks like it's going to be lovely out--blue sky streaked with light white clouds, green grass, trees leaning and blurring in the wind. i'm the first one up this morning--at least, human wise. the cats have been up since well before me, awaiting my descent to the kitchen, and breakfast for them. upstairs i can hear dan moving around. it was nice to wake up to the sounds of birds trilling outside, and since it's the weekend, the hum of traffic was barely audible, if at all.

i don't know what's planned for today. yesterday was a fly-by-your-pants day. i got up early and drove around to some garage sales, found nothing of interest, and came home. collected dan and we went to wal-mart for a towel bar. it was so blase and mundane that it barely requires typing.

watched "hoodwinked" and "the family stone." the first was good but could have been a bit tighter; the second was surprisingly a crying movie--good but the balance between tears and laughter wasn't too even, and i would have called it a drama before a comedy.

and now today arrives, sunny and lovely, and i feel this pressing need to DO something--accomplish a task, walk in the woods, hit the farmer's market in st paul, just enjoy the weather. it's so rare to have good weather in minnesota springtime, as it's been raining for weeks. i'm sure this will lead to blistering heat for summer, and stock up the ponds and lakes for mosquitos. yuck.

at any rate, that's the normality of this saturday morning here in minnesota. lounging in pajamas, typing about the normalcy of the a.m., and planning for a good bit of nothing.

today, thus far, is a beautiful day.

underwhere

yesterday we were supposed to do laundry. today, too. however work (where i am now, just logging off my computer) has been intruding on everyday functions for the last week and a half now.

it's been busy--too busy to think. last week on thursday i stood looking at all my pill bottles, wondering if i had just taken my meds...but no, it was yesterday night.

so today, after work, i need to go forage at wal-mart for underwear.

clothing seems extraneous lately. in fact, most of life seems extraneous.

saturday we went and saw the bodyworlds exhibit at the science museum--very, very humbling. the intricacy of the human body is mirrored only in the intricacy of nature. our tendons stretched between bone are twigs, our veins and arteries the root systems of a tiny new plant.

bodies on display seemed at first glance to be something shocking. but by the end of the show, when we were about to leave, i didn't want to go. i wanted to linger, sit down and just look. really, really look.

there was no smell; i've been in a morgue before, at a university, and there's this fabulous odor pervading everything--death and latex and embalming fluid. this smelled vaguely like tupperware.

not to downplay things. this was a serious exhibit, and you could tell that a lot of people were affected. it's one thing in minnesota to hunt and fish, to gut your stag or clean out a trout. it's another thing to be faced with the mortality of the human form, grotesque and lovely.

somewhere in this empty building, someone is yelling and shouting and pounding on a wall; probably bored in the finishing area. it gives me the same feeling in my chest--light and afraid--that remained after we left the museum on saturday.

last week i worked 58 hours. so far this week, after two days, i'm at 22.75. i'm tired. i'm sick of being in this gray cube, four walls and an uncomfortable desk. so why do i linger?

because i'm feeling vaguely overwhelmed, watching my fingers skim over keyboard as i type.

i need to go and purchase a layer of clothing. under this layer of pink skin, under the layers of flesh and fat and muscle, those tendons flex and swing. i cannot see them; they're under so many layers of body that they're hidden.

buying clothing, when you're already clothed in so many layers, seems plain old silly.

then again, i just can't bring myself to go commando. (;

measure for measure

We learn more by looking for the answer to a question and not finding it than we do from learning the answer itself. -- Lloyd Alexander

there's two tools that are invaluable to me in my tool box: my level and my tape measure.

the level i like just because i like the little bubble in the water; i'm not sure i've ever used it to actually make sure a shelf was even or anything useful. the last time i looked in the toolbox, it wasn't there--gone missing, i suppose, amid moves and such.

i think i have three tape measures, though. one is small enough to fit in my purse. i like seeing how big things are, the scale of them. it's something that can be plotted and figured. i don't know why this is; i'm a fairly unorganized person.

but i do take an inordinate deal of pleasure in measuring things.

perhaps it's because so many things are immeasurable--emotions, feelings, thoughts. there is no weight, there is no yardage. even time is mutable, bent by sunlight and memory.

how much sorrow can i take? how much joy? how much laughter is enough? there is no rule, no way to take stock. can i inventory my stacks of wrongs and rights, my bins filled with shame, file upon file of happiness?

i don't know. i'm not sure there's a balance--i've lost my level. is anyone's life even keeled and safe?

this weekend my great uncle, paul, and great aunt, vernie, are celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary. that is a measure of time--you can chart the course of their years together. you can see the lines on their face that resulted from discovering that they were not able to have children, from vernie going blind. at my grandmother's wake last year, paul stood sniffling, looking so much like my grandpa that i wanted to weep for another reason than knowing that grandma was gone. "i'm the last one," he said. "the last of my generation."

i can't take the measurement of that sorrow, of the loneliness. at the same time, when you see paul look at vernie, you view measureless love, shared memory that is beyond my comprehension.

this last year has been filled with things that i cannot measure, and things that i can. i can take my tape measure into the garage and measure my work in progress, the cedar chest covered in old white paint, and i can go upstairs and measure my new made curtains--6 yards of slate blue fabric.

i cannot take my tape measure and chart my emotions, or the journey on which i started last may.

part of me clings to the hope that like a map on yahoo! dot com i will be able to see in pink highlighter the path i have taken, and how long it has taken me to arrive. "you've gone 23 miles, and it took you seventy minutes."

i can tell you that three hundred and sixty five days have passed--this i can measure--but i cannot explain in any quantitive fashion the measure of what the last year has meant to me. so much has gone on.

the celtic wheel of the year turned on may first, with beltane. in ancient times, druids drove cattle between the flames of two bonfires, to bless them for the coming year.

often i feel that i have been driven between many fires. my skin is puckered and scarred, and every year i start down my path again, blessed to have what i do have, and to know what i know, and still wounded by the flame. i think of how cool the air feels, when you step out of a hot shower--and how both the heat and the cold are wonderful, in their own way.

can i measure what i have learned from this last year? have i shed skin in losing serena's friendship, in losing my naivete about trust? can i measure how much it means to me that my relationship with dan is so much cleaner, so much more honest? can i measure what it is in me that has grown, amidst the death? in the scheme of things, this was a year--filled with all the things a year is filled with: the sum of life.

i think of the sixty-five years paul and vernie have been together--how much they have withstood. all year long i have looked for a reason for what happened a year ago, have wanted there to be something definable about what has gone on since then, and what it means to me.

perhaps it is as simple as those two balefires, and the heat of them singing my skin--am i blessed, just to have stood the test? and are the scars i carry the reminder to me, of how blessed i have been?

i can't tell you, not because it's a secret, but because in the end, the knowledge--good, bad, indifferent--that i've gained over just three hundred and sixty five days is entirely without measure.