Home to the Sea

There were profound reasons for his attachment to the sea:

he loved it because he needed rest,

needed escape from the demanding complexity of phenomena and life

hidden on the bosom of the simple and the tremendous;

because of a longing deep within him,

a longing for the unarticulated and immeasurable,

for eternity,

for nothingness. 

Thomas Mann

Death in Venice and Other Tales

~~~~~~~~~~

I didn’t know allegiances could be transferred so quickly.

The Atlantic Ocean has long been my emotional home;

from childhood on,

the topography in which I feel most fully myself.

All other bodies of water have paled by comparison.

So I was taken aback last week when the Pacific, 

in Northern CA, 

lured me in.

There was something in the water and surrounding wildness that spoke to me

in ways the manicured beaches of LA never had.

It was,

in all weather,

in all light,

on any given day,

spectacular.

It spoke to my heart -

in whispers and roars -

and helped the fragmented pieces of my soul 

knit together

into a cohesive whole

once more.

It smelled like sadness and memories,

of belonging and worlds beyond.

I felt right at home.

“I really don't know why it is that all of us 

are so committed to the sea, 

except I think it's because 

in addition to the fact that the sea changes 

and the light changes, 

it's because we all came from the sea. 

It's an interesting biological fact 

that all of us have in our veins 

the exact same percentage of salt in our blood 

that exists in the ocean, 

and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, 

in our sweat, 

in our tears. 

We are tied to the ocean.

And when we go back to the sea - 

whether it is to sail or to watch it - 

we are going back from whence we came.



[Remarks at the Dinner for the America's Cup Crews, 

September 14 1962]” 


John F. Kennedy

 How could you not?

Northern CA

I know mamas of adult children will understand...

how fiercely proud you can be when you see your child

identify and claim

his place in the world -

when passion, talent, topography and created tribe

align in harmony

to create

home.

When you look at your child's life

as an in-outsider

and wish it contained

more money, more stability

less hardship and less uncertainty -

and then catch yourself

since your life has contained

- or not -

the very same mix

and there's little you'd change about either your life

or the lessons learned in exchange;

when you catch him in unguarded moments

and see the innate kindness, intelligence, sensibility

and capacity for insight;

qualities you wish you could take credit for

but which truly were his

by birthright

existing alongside the critical impatience you know you instilled

by mistake;

  when you tell him you will love him until the last redwood falls 

 all the while wishing you hadn't been so damned successful

at raising an independent, free spirited, confident man

who found,

and is claiming,

his place

half a country away

from where you live.

 I know mamas of adult children will understand

harboring the fear that

the distance is not coincidence.

Hibernation

 Between work and my new medication,

I have the energy to do this:

But I have plans to see this

 and this

 

 and go here

 with him.

Trouble is that to get there,

I have to navigate multiple flights 

and then tackle this.

Good grief!

I have NO doubt the trip will be worth it,

but it gives this tired homebody

pause ...

Direct to my Pilgrims heart

I can't even begin to tell you how much I needed this.

It appeared, as so many gifts do, completely out of the blue.

A reminder from a friend ...

a reminder of lessons -

hard learned -

that I swore I'd never forget

and have

in the tug and pull 

of every day life.

Camino lessons.

For Those Who Have Far to Travel 

A Blessing for Epiphany 

If you could see

the journey whole,

you might never

undertake it,

might never dare

the first step

that propels you

from the place

you have known

toward the place

you know not. 

Call it

one of the mercies

of the road:

that we see it

only by stages

as it opens

before us,

as it comes into

our keeping,

step by

single step. 

There is nothing

for it

but to go,

and by our going

take the vows

the pilgrim takes:

 to be faithful to

the next step;

to rely on more

than the map;

to heed the signposts

of intuition and dream;

to follow the star

that only you

will recognize; 

to keep an open eye

for the wonders that

attend the path;

to press on

beyond distractions,

beyond fatigue,

beyond what would

tempt you

from the way. 

There are vows

that only you

will know:

the secret promises

for your particular path

and the new ones

you will need to make

when the road

is revealed

by turns

you could not

have foreseen. 

Keep them, break them,

make them again;

each promise becomes

part of the path,

each choice creates

the road

that will take you

to the place

where at last

you will kneel to offer the gift

most needed—

the gift that only you

can give—

before turning to go

home by

another way. 

Jan Richardson
The Painted Prayerbook


For those of us who have indeed travelled far,
we know that while we may
in fact
'come home',
we are never the same
for having made the journey.

New Years Eve prayer

Update

Just in case you were wondering, 

magical thinking is alive and well here in St Louis; 

in fact, MY house would seem to be the epicenter
for the region. 

While I’d accepted, long ago, that there was no magic pill
that would immediately 

render me smarter, wiser, thinner or richer, 

I apparently still harbored the fantasy
that there IS a magic pill somewhere, 

that would restore me to my previous, totally taken for granted,

 pain and fatigue free style of life. 

How do I know I believed that? 

Because I was absolutely crushed during a visit this week to my Rheumatologist 

when we discussed the addition of a ‘biologic’ to help control my RA – 

and he refused to prescribe it. 

A few caveats here before I proceed with my end-of-the-year-litany-of-complaints …

I know there are people in far worse pain, 

with far more serious medical conditions than I. 

My autoimmune disease probably won’t kill me – 

unless death by whining becomes a real thing.

I know I have the totally first world problem of being called out of retirement 

to a job that’s rewarding, making a difference in children’s lives 

and involves working alongside
creative, funny, talented and compassionate people; 

so I’m more tired now when I do it, 

boo hoo, right?

At least I have 2 kinds of health insurance that allows me to see all these specialists 

who can’t figure out what’s going on with me … 

which puts me ahead of, oh I don’t know,
3/4ths of the country’s population. 

I’m not oblivious to my privilege … it’s just my pain sometime obscures it. 

And no amount of Vitamin I
(as pilgrims on the Camino call Ibuprofen)
is making it go away. 

So, it’s no wonder I was looking for a quick fix; 

a shot to give me a shot
at having the life, energy and mobility I had before…

and apparently, that doesn’t exist. 

The oncologist is still not sure what I have – 

but he’s willing to give it more time to develop or declare itself.

He’s not willing to do a bone marrow biopsy at this point, 

thinking it would be premature and not yield enough new information 

to warrant either the expense or distress. 

My Rheumatologist is not willing to prescribe a biologic, 

which would suppress my immune system
even more than the methotrexate I’m currently on, 

and, in his opinion, 

allow whatever is going on to develop full blown and irreversibly 

(most likely leukemia or a lymphoma).

Until I have a bone marrow biopsy to say what IS going in my bone marrow, 

he’s not going to be the one writing a RX which would start me 

sliding down the slippery slope. 

Which leaves me stuck in the middle, 

feeling like crap, 

and, after decades of working with all kinds of doctors,
totally understanding,
where both of them are coming from. 

He WAS willing to try a much milder drug 

(which only blinds 1 in 5,000 people and was developed to treat malaria 

but seems to work on RA as well), 

and I’m 2 days in – with no notable difference – 

but hope springs eternal. 

I keep remembering a scene in a movie
when Jack Nicholson walks through a therapists waiting room,
looks at all the miserable schlubs sitting there 

and loudly says, to no one in particular,

“What if  THIS  is as good as it gets?” 

That single question was enough to make me hate the movie.

I’m not ready to admit that THIS might be as good as I get – 

although conversely,
and superstitiously, 

I do recognize that things can always get worse.

I’m glad the year is coming to a close. 

I need a mind re-set.

Surely there’s a magic pill
or an easy button for that!

Twas the week before Christmas

This is the season of rising in the dark,

and walking to the parking lot after work 

by the glow of street lights.

This is the season of immersion in color, lights and children,

This is the season of returning home, 

turning the thermostat back up (to 68 degrees) 

and declining all opportunities to leave the house again.

This is the season of fuzzy socks, baggy punjammies, down duvets 

and the glow of Christmas lights as I sit reading while the dogs dream.

This is the season of words – 

in the books I read,
the songs I sing 

and the emails and letters I exchange
with beloveds far away.

This is the season of gray, damp days.

This is the season of dump chili, thick soups, simmering stews 

and dark chocolate peanut butter cups from a nearby Trader.

This is the season of moments with friends in crowded, noisy restaurants, 

exchanging secrets and hopes 

for the coming year.

This is the season of mystery,
ancient words
and communion with all the saints.

This is the season of tearful goodbyes and empty places at the table.

This is the season of all-day candles 

and mixed greens.

This is the season of quietness,
pondering, 

waiting, 

long conversations, 

and 

mad dashes.

This is the season to plan late winter and spring adventures 

to see new places and old faces.

This is the season to love the joy of those I love.

This is the season to live slow on the inside, 

leaning into all the sadness and joy.

 This is the season of nesting on the couch 

with Newsroom on continuous loop

 (with episodes of Sister Wives thrown in so I don’t get too comfortable on my high horse), 

hot chamomile tea, 

and reading one last chapter in bed...

before rising again in the dark,
to begin again.

This is my season of gratitude, 

thick and deep,

for all that is, 

for all that has been

and for all that will be.