experiences

Threads

Grandma used to pick up threads. And hairpins.  And safety pins.  She fastened the safety pins down the front of her cardigan near the button holes.  There were buttons on her sweater, Aunt Jule would make sure of that. I think she picked up bits of thread and pins because she was raised to be thrifty, to save, to never waste.  Grandma seemed so very old to me.  The big blue veins that sat on the back of her hands were covered by thin loose skin, her wedding rings held on more by her bony knuckle than by any plumpness of her fingers.  There was thread wrapped around the rings to keep them safe below her knuckle.  In their steel grey hair these sisters used hairpins, not bobby pins.  In old family pictures  I saw they once had thick plentiful hair, like I had.  Now there scalps were visible and those wide wire hairpins had so little to hold on to that they fell, into the carpet, on to the linoleum, and stayed behind when they arose from a chair. And so they had to be picked up. When I was with them, I could feel my youth--- strong, vibrant, smooth skin, fresh faced youth. 'Bursting with life' would not have been an exaggeration from these days.   I could move freely, run and jump and play all day, ride my bike with no hands, just steering with my will and the strength of my body.  I'd get up to such a speed and then glide, the air rushing through my thick hair, the breeze on my smooth skin, the muscles in my legs strong after the exertion. Sometimes Grandma would sit next to me and take my hand in hers, my hand covered in smooth pink skin, and she would just rub the back of it.  She would hold my young hand and look at our two hands together and sigh, sometimes a tear in her eye as she patted my arm.  "So nice and round you are."

Not so many years ago, I was brushing my own mother's hair, this grandmother's daughter.  My mother had more than abundant hair--- so thick and dark all my growing up years, now silver with a lovely sheen.  She kept more hair than her own mother did, but when I brushed it, I saw the patches, her scalp exposed just in places.  She grew into a similar old age to her mother, forgetful, confused, softer.  Not as formidable as the mother of my youth, but still herself.  And, as with my grandmother, I think this condition, this senility, Alzheimer's, opened a door on her life that might have stayed closed otherwise.  As with her mother, she spoke of the past, her childhood, her youth, the events of yesterday much fresher than what she just had for lunch or the names of her family who sat at the table with her.  This doorway, the defenses crumbled, brought its own gifts along with the heartache.  She would speak of things from years before, looking to find people long dead, but not to her.  They were just there, waiting for her.  And so she had to find them.

Now I am a grandmother.  My daughter has a child, a little boy.  To hold his plump little hand, his round toes, rub his soft soft cheek against my own is more than a delight.  It is a renewal of life, and yes, of course, a reminder.  Now I am the grandmother.  The one with the stories of long ago, that seem not so long ago for me--- no, long ago was for my grandmother, but of course that is ancient history to my grandson.  My youth will be the 'good old days', my daughter's youth just parts of stories we will tell.  And we will show him pictures and tell him about his Mommy when she was a little girl and his uncles will give him piggy back rides and tell him things I didnt know about his mother, things only brothers would know.  His grandfather and I will tell him stories of growing up in New York-  in that far away place he will  see on TV in any number of cop  and lawyer shows.

I have spent my life collecting stories, listening for the history and characters of grandparents and aunts and uncles I never would meet otherwise.  I have collected these treasures by asking questions, studying photographs, listening at Christmas and Thanksgiving when the older people would join us.  I suppose I am something like my Grandmother, picking up threads so as not to waste the legacy of all those we come from.

"Terrifying suddeness" *

I received an email from a good friend.  His wife has recently been diagnosed with cancer----he described the news as hitting them with "terrifying suddeness". We all have our own gut reaction memories that rise up in companionship when this level of fear hits someone close to us.  What seems like out of the blue, life's going along at its regular, often boring routine, we are pulled out of ordinary into fear--- into re-arranging everything we might have once considered normal to a new normal.  This new normal has us living on the edge, nerves frayed, battle armor on, swords drawn, ready, we hope, to cope with whatever the next moment might hand to us. The price of love, of course, is the pain it will demand when the day comes for us to lose our beloved.  But long before that day comes there are the little fears, the little deaths and close calls that prepare us, tenderizing our hearts and bodies, whatever is at the core of us, for that loss. The fear of losing someone so dear to us that we cannot define ourselves without him or her is as basic as the fear of falling.  When we invest so much of ourselves in our beloved--- and we have to if we are to have the immeasurable joys of love--- we know, on a cellular level, just how dangerous this much love is.

We love because we must.  We love because we know that the joys and rewards of love outweigh the agony of not loving.  We are created to love; we seek love in its various forms because we are not fully alive without love.

When that love-- that person who means so much to us we cannot measure the cost--- is threatened--we stand on the edge of darkness praying with all our might for reprieve, for the divine favor of more time, more words, more chances to share, to laugh, to cry with our beloved.  We pray without words, trusting to the Creator of life that our agony, our presence, our pain, is prayer enough.

Throughout time artists and writers have depicted death as an entity, the Grim Reaper, the black spectre carrying a scythe and cloaked in darkness; the personification of what a broken and lonely heart is.

But--- but-- we are the heirs of warriors who will not easily sacrifice our beloved to the darkness of the enemy.  With all our heart and will and tears we fight, we pray, we bargain, we turn our lives inside out and expose ourselves to death ourselves to save our loved ones, begging, humble, broken down to our most basic selves.  It is in these moments that we know the glory of our humanity and our inheritance of the great love for which we are created.

* expression taken from fellow writer Bill Marvel