Time shifts

Time shifts between what is and what was and I feel stunned. There are no snapshot-like memories of Katie, just an awareness that when I was here each day, she was here too. An intensity of connection beyond sensory memory draws me back to who we used to be. Now there is a Katie shaped hole in the world.

There's no time for memories as I move from one classroom to another every half hour throughout the morning. Breaking the present into so many pieces, each in a different room with a different teacher and students, seems to have made it easy for the past to reach into the present. Moving through spaces that held the four of us for so many years of togetherness makes some moments feel like the present moment has been pulled back into the past.

Missing

a void so huge that I can't contain it
yearning and loss and always missing, missing
I want to transform it
into something beautiful
so that instead of being painfully consumed,
I will gaze into it and drink deeply
my woundedness becoming a view
I can live beside

Katie's Life

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. ~Kahlil Gibran

A few days after Katie's body was found, I realized that her death was over-shadowing her life, and I hated that. I worried that when people thought of Katie, they would only remember how she died, not how she lived. Newspaper headlines and TV reports used pictures of my child to talk about her death. People that had never met Katie knew about her death, not her life.

I didn't want how Katie died to be more important than how she lived. Katie was so much more than her death, Katie had done so many wonderful things in her 18 and 1/2 years of life.

We struggled and then we picked ourselves up and went back to work and back to school and went on. Katie's death had shattered our lives, but we were still here. We have learned that broken hearts still beat.

For over five years, we have grieved, and it's been hard work. We went on with life as best we could, but there was always an important person missing from the center of our family. We were grieving the loss of our irreplaceable daughter and sister, our Katie.

But just like I didn't want Katie's death to define her life, I've realized that I don't want Katie's death to define my life either. I want Katie's life to shine forth in my life, as my friend Mary said, I get all these years to live for her. I want to live my life as joyfully as I can for Katie, she'd like that.

I love you Katie!

Dear Heart

Oh heart, if one should say to you that the soul perishes like the body, answer that the flower withers, but the seed remains. ~Kahlil Gibran

My fifth grade teacher used to occasionally call me 'Dear Heart'. We were her first class, and she was fresh from college with a degree in English. She would leave the next year to teach and be a missionary in Afghanistan, and I missed her terribly. She was the kind of teacher that would rally her friends to drive us on field trips to San Francisco to ride the red and white fleet around the bay or go to a museum. She took us to the public library once a week because our school didn't have one, and she bought us paperback copies of Tom Sawyer that she based our curriculum around. She did the same with the book The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom, a book that has been indelibly written on my heart ever since. But most of all, she loved us. She kept in touch with me, eventually coming back to the US and marrying.

A year or two after we moved north, she had me come and stay with her one summer for a few weeks when I was 16. Yes, she did send me to a huge conference on how to be a good christian during that time, kind of overwhelming. She had me stay with her best friend Marsha. Maybe it was because Marsha had just broken up with her fiance and my former teacher was worried about her being alone. Marsha was a bit wilder, she treated me like a grown up, not a student. Marsha told me some of my teacher's secrets, things I would never have known about her otherwise.

When I married at 18, my teacher was there with her husband and infant son, and we still have their family photo from that day in our wedding album. A year or two later, I read an article in a church newspaper that was written by her. I don't remember much about it, except the horror that her sister and her niece had been killed tragically. The article was about her grief. This was over 20 years ago. I thought it was wild that some local church had picked up her article and printed it and subsequently junk-mailed it to me. But it did explain why we had lost touch after all those years of staying in contact. She was grieving deeply.

Last year, I told this story to a friend of mine, and I decided to google my former teacher to see if I could find her and get in touch with her. I wanted to tell her that I was a teacher now, that I was following in her footsteps, and that I wanted to learn from her about grief. I googled her name, and the first thing that came up was her grave marker. I screamed, I cried, this was all so fucking unfair. She had died in 1986 when she was 34. I was ten years older than she lived to be...ten years older than my fifth grade teacher.

I hope she was there to greet my Katie and call her Dear Heart...

weeping willow

A year ago last spring I bought a small willow tree and brought it home for my husband to plant in the backyard. We had been surprised to come home one day to see the line of trees along the fence completely removed, stumps and all. Not wanting my sons to come home and see the starkness of the landscape without the willows, I decided to plant some hope. It wasn't really an adequate replacement for what had been there, but it was the best I could do. When the boys came home, they looked at the pathetic thing, and nodded their heads when I said someday it would be big enough to enjoy. I bought a tiny set of brass bells and hung them in the tree.

Last Fall, after the branches were bare, I went out to trim it up so that it would be nice and tall someday. I was saddened to find a huge bug infestation in the upper part of the trunk, and was thinking I'd have to start all over again, planting another and dragging out the process of ever having a satisfying tree to enjoy. I trimmed away as much as I could, but realized the damage had gone to far into the heart of the trunk. I sprayed it and saved a chunk to show a friend that's knowledgeable about such things, and she said it was probably borers, and that I might have to plant a different kind of tree altogether. Shit. I was discouraged, and I did nothing about it.

This spring it branched out and up and my son noticed it in the backyard when he came home. We stood and looked at it through the living room window, and he said it's really getting big. I started explaining about the borers and that the tree needed to be replaced, but I hadn't gotten around to it. He said, so it's damaged, just like us. And I stopped, and looked a the tree with new eyes, at how it was flourishing despite what had happened to it. And right then I decided that's it, the tree stays for now. We need to watch it grow and survive. It may fall down someday, which is okay, since it's planted far enough away from any houses, but for now it's a symbol of going on anyway, with life as it is. The weeping willow is still alive, and so are we.

Fledglings

On the next to last day of school, we had two new birds show up at our viewing platform! The magic school bus/portable ride was not over yet. We were able to identify our new fledglings by the parent robin that flew in to feed them big juicy worms, an awesome sight. They were huge compared to our tiny little goldfinches, and had mottled chests with pieces of downy fluff still sticking out from between their feathers. I had to go and get Cathy, for whom robins are a sign from her brother that died the year before I came to Shasta. We stood and watched them together, happy for one last miracle.

It rained that night, and I came to school afraid of what I might not see, but there they were again, sitting in the paper birches and eating juicy worms that the parent bird was easily plucking from the newly damp soil. All was well.

The teacher that was in our classroom previously had retired from Shasta, but when I saw her at an end of year party, I asked her if she'd heard about the birds outside her classroom window. She said that never happened when she was there, that it had nothing to do with her. And while I was more than willing to share the pleasure with her, I guess it did make me feel a bit special. I wonder how many miracles are all around us just for the noticing. Perhaps grief has just sharpened my senses and made me grateful for the simple beauty all around me.

And the most precious fledglings, my students, flew off for the summer with some special memories buried deeply in their hearts.

What a day, Glorious by MaMuse

Hallelujah by MaMuse

The Oak Tree

This graceful Oak lost a bough from the center of its being. The branches that sprouted from the trunk and roots each traced their own unique path against the sky, together forming a canopy. Now one of them is missing. A limb that grew and reached for the blue sky and danced in the wind under the stars has been torn away. It can't sprout green leaves or sway in the music of the breeze, it's forever gone. This beautiful oak will never be the same, but it will live on for many years, bearing the scar of what was lost.

The absence of Katie's presence in the canopy of our family has wounded us all. But we will live on, embracing her spirit with our memories, under blue skies and starry nights. She is a part of us all now.

Bidwell Park

I go to Bidwell Park several times a week to walk. I usually walk about 5 miles, focusing on the trees and birds and butterflies around me. The trees arch above the road framing a vault of blue sky that I never get tired of looking at. Red shouldered Hawks call and hunt and mate in this woodland, and Acorn Woodpeckers are everywhere. For a time there was an Owl living in a hollow half-way up a sycamore tree that I looked for each time I passed. Once I even saw a Ruby-Crowned Kinglet eating something red (tomato or pepper) that someone had dropped on the ground. Pipevine Swallowtails are everywhere with their black iridescence, and occasionally a Tiger Swallowtail flutters by. Hummingbirds and ducks and deer and squirrels also make their homes in the park.

the songbird

"A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song."
~Maya Angelou

Our 13 year-old dog Cosmo has decided to bark obnoxiously until we give him what he wants. What he wanted when Nola came over was a walk, and Cosmo barked so relentlessly that Nola and I gave in. I walked Baru and Nola walked Cosmo, and while the furry boys sniffed and peed on everything they could, Nola and I checked out the the landscaping in the yards we walked by and the clouds in the evening sky. The temperature was mild, not scalding like last week.

A bird flew over us, singing while it flew, and perched at the top of a small dead tree. We stopped near the barren tree and were treated to an incredible variety of calls and songs. It was a tiny, plump little bird, and it just kept singing. Nola thought it was lonely and looking for another little bird of its kind, but it sure seemed to enjoy giving us a concert. Once it even tilted it's head down as if to bow, letting me see it's dark little cap. It's colors were difficult to distinguish in the evening light, but it seemed pale underneath and grayer above. Then it flew away, and we continued our walk.

Small miracles remind me that life is still good. Small wonders like the little songbird giving us a concert, like the vibrant seashell rose blooming in the yard, or the clouds glowing with the setting sun. I don't know the answers, but I can still hear the song and enjoy the sunset.

I'll Fly Away

The last time I walked the beach, it was early in the morning, and this hymn sprang from my heart to my lips:

some glad morning when this life is over
I'll fly away
to my home on God's celestial shore
I'll fly away

I'll fly away
I'll fly away
when I die hallelujah by and by
I'll fly away

I took off my shoes and climbed the rocks and walked in the wet sand, humming and singing as I went. The waves accompanied me, and I felt embraced by all that was there. Being in the moment is where I find my balance, my center.

My friend Mary speaks of the place where her daughter's spirit flew near a flower market, and it makes me imagine that Katie's spirit flew like a bird from her little body. How does a spirit fly? I'm not sure...it's a mystery. I just know that Katie's spirit wasn't in the shell of her little body when she was found.

It's her spirit I've been searching for, and several times she's come to me in my dreams. After struggling so long with wanting her just the way she was, my loving daughter, I've begun to look for a new kind of relationship with her. One in which I get to live all of my days for her and carry her in my heart. I want her to become part of me and together we'll go on.

Give Sorrow Words

My friend Joanne sent me this quote today:

"Give sorrow words;

the grief that does

not speak whispers

the oe'r fraught heart

and bids it break."

Shakespeare, Macbeth

I replied: I love it Joanne, I think that's why I've searched for words that describe this hell, for the relief that expression brings.

Joanne replied: Me too, Lisa, and relief is so hard to find and then it seems just temporary. It's amazing how we need expression for our heartbreak (I love the expression "bids it break"...because it WILL) yet so few will listen.

The quote is validating and consoling.

May you get what you want on this Mother’s Day

Let’s make a resolution. I’ll drink to that.
Let’s always stay friends.
Friendship is thicker than blood.
That depends . . . on trust.
Depends on true devotion.
Depends on love.
Depends on not denying emotion.
—From the play, Rent

Simple Requests; Simple Dreams;
Wondering What You Can Do?

We asked our mothers what they would like for Mother's Day. As we read through their responses, we quickly discovered similar themes running through each one. Here we share some of them with you. As you read, you, too, will begin to see the common themes that thread them together. Simple requests, simple dreams, and so easy to fulfill by those who love and care.

We would encourage you to share this May 2009 E-Haven Newsletter with others who might not know how to best support a bereaved mother, as well as those mothers who are in a quandary about what they want to do on Mother's Day. Everyone will benefit in some way from these frank and heartfelt sharings.

Here are those responses to the question,
“What would you like for Mother's Day?”

“Mother's Day is the hardest of all of the holidays, and I really don't want to do anything on that day, but I do it because I know how much it means to my own mother and family. So I would like those I am with to say something like, 'I know it's hard for you to be here today, so thanks for coming anyway.' That's all I want.”

“No amount of gifts will ease the difficulty of this day, but special moments with those I love who do not judge or pressure me are the most precious gifts of all.”

“Honestly? I'd like to spend the day in bed, alone. But I won't, because that would be hard for everyone around me.

‟I'm just grateful to those who remember.”

“Take the kids for a couple of hours so I can have some downtime. But then I need them all back!”

“To be with nice people who don't judge, either inwardly or outwardly, even if I do cry a little.”

“I'd like my husband to go with me to the cemetery where our son lies.”

“I have no idea what I want, but I know a lot of what I don’t want.”

“Just let be whatever will be. No 'have-tos' calms my heart.”

“It would be nice if everyone would always remember on these holidays, especially Christmas and Mother's Day, to say her name and talk about her when we are together. That's the best gift you can give me.”

“I would love it if my family gave me something from my daughter that they think she would have given me.”

“We lost our only child, so this day is the hardest of all. I guess I would just like to know that I don't have to do anything if I don't want to—if it's just too hard—and not be judged or pressured by others.”

“I want to have a picnic with the entire family at the grave site. We did that before, and it was nice.”

“To take that day off of the calendar forever.”

“To be happy, but I just can't, no matter how hard I try.”

“You know, what is bothersome to me is that it's been nine years since she died, and everyone is now acting like it was a time back then—that she's gone, life has gone on, and that's that. THAT kills me, because for me she's still my daughter, and Mother's Day is still the hardest day of the year for me. So I'd just like people to bring her forward into our lives and our gatherings as we grow older. In other words, please don't forget her, no matter how much time passes.”

“ . . . but I would love more than anything for people around me to understand that, no, I won't ever be 'over it,' I won't ever be the same again, and that I am doing the very best I can. I'd like their ongoing support no matter how long it goes on—for them to trust me and know that everything I am going through and the way I am being is normal. I guess you could say I would like to know that no one is judging what they think I should be doing at this or that stage when I'm with them.”

“I want to want to celebrate Mother's Day.”

“A spa day that is set up for me with maybe a manicure, pedicure, and massage. Something where I can just let go. Then a nice dinner with my son and husband where we share stories that include my son who died.”

“Another shoulder to cry on who understands why I'm crying on Mother's Day.”

“We lost our only child, so I would like to have lunch or dinner with a group of others who have also lost a child, so we can just 'be' in the moment and not have to worry about how we might be upsetting others.”

“If the weather holds out, I'd like to honor our son by going to the beach and flying a kite as high as we possibly can with everyone holding the string together.”

“I want to get out of town and come home when it's over.”

“To go by myself to the cemetery so I can cry, talk to her, do whatever I need and want to do.”

“Last year, three friends made sure that Mother's Day wasn't forgotten. This year I haven't heard a thing from anyone. I just don't want to be alone.”

“Go to church with my daughters and hear his name in the prayer.”

“To be with people who won't say, 'Don't cry.' Please don't tell me not to cry.”

“I want us to cook everything that she loved most and eat ourselves into oblivion in her honor!”

“A day of utter and total distraction! I don't know where or what that would be, but I want to be thoroughly distracted!”

“Ummmmm. A diamond would be nice. Hee Hee. Seriously, just to be with people who know my son and will talk freely about him.”

“I would like to crawl under the covers and sleep all day.”

“Something really special that represents her. Just something that my family thinks of that honors her, you know? Just so she’s not forgotten and that I am her mother forever is remembered.”

“A long, strenuous bike ride along the mountainous roads always makes me feel better.”

“I miss my family. They are in America. It would be nice to be with them so we could all talk about him and just share stories.”

“Someone who will just do something nice for me this day since I lost my only child and just say to me, 'Okay, I'm picking you up at this time, so just be ready.'”

“My son always wrote something lovely to me on Mother's Day, so to receive something he wrote would be sweet.”

“Her friends calling and just remembering would mean so much. Even emails would be great.”

“Just a warm, heartfelt hug from my surviving kids and my beloved husband.”

“Eggs, bacon, bagels toasted with melted butter, pancakes with hot syrup and melted butter, and lots of orange juice in bed!”

“One of those teddy bears that they make from your child's clothing. I would love that!”

“I don't really care what it is, as long as they feel good about whatever they planned. That means the most to me.”

“It would be so great if the whole family got together and worked in our garden and then rode our bikes to town and had lunch. Along the way, we would leave flowers on her grave and remember.”

“Someone to call and ask me, 'What would you like to do on Mother's Day?'”

“I could never share this with most people, but on Mother's Day it would be so nice if people would simply acknowledge what a difficult day it is, even though I'm there with them and my child is not.”

“They say Mother‟s Day is for celebrating 'your own' mother, not for celebrating someone else's mother. But we lost both of our children, so Mother's and Father's Day is very difficult. What I want is for people to remember those who are alone with no children left on Mother's Day.”

“I just want those with whom I spend the day to say her name!”

“That's an interesting question. What really means the most to me on Mother's Day is helping someone else in need.”

“Please don't ever, ever forget that I am her mother now and until the day I die, especially on Mother's Day.”

“What I want on Mother's Day is for everyone in the world to read our responses so they know that we simply want to be remembered as the mothers that we are and always will be.”

May you get what you want on this Mother’s Day.

a single poppy, a single rose

For over four years I wasn't able to sleep well, with grief and anxiety my constant companions after Katie's death. Now I'm sleeping almost too well, and while I don't miss the hypervigilance and anxiety, I just wish I wasn't so tired all the time. I can seriously sleep the day away now if I don't have to go to work, and after work I've been taking luxurious naps. This is the depression side of grief, and not much is getting accomplished in my life.

It was during this Sunday morning sleeping in time that both of my sons called me to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. Gabe told me about the elderly lady that he was driving to church and about Crissy's Birthday Party the day before. Jason told me that he'd been noticing things while he was walking that he hadn't seen before, like different birds and the stained glass window of a church that was lit up at night. He also told me about his new friend Sarah, and that they like to play frisbee together and go running and have even gone rock climbing at a gym. All seems well with their Chicago world at the moment.

I finally got out of bed and wandered outside to look at this poppy and snap it's picture, as last weekend it just kept raining and the petals on this little wildflower were closed up. Today there was only one bloom, but one is enough. My husband first noticed it blooming over a week ago and showed it to me. I felt it was a connection with Katie, our little wildflower. There are also volunteer lupines in the backyard, but they're going to seed now. Just taking in the beauty of a single flower is inspiring, but this weekend I also noticed the beauty of many women in my life.

On Saturday, Carrie was my hero, driving a 16 foot moving truck from Rancho Cordova to Carmichael to Yuba City to Chico. She made it look easy, and I felt content riding in the cab with her. She's smart and capable and loving, and I'm proud she's my niece. Carrie's also a great hiking partner, and together we've hiked to Phantom Falls on Table Mountain, Bald Rock near Berry Creek, North Mountain in the Sutter Buttes, and Rock Creek in the Feather River Canyon. She has an artistic point of view that shows in her excellent photography, and I can't wait to go on another adventure with her.

My niece Amanda is an awesome mother to her daughter, lovingly attentive to her baby's needs. This is her first Mother's Day, and her first weekend in her new home. She's a young mother, a road I traveled 25 years before her, and I know how difficult it can be. Amanda will be adding a new baby to our family near the end of July, so her kids will be even closer in age than mine were, only 13 months apart! She's planning on going to Butte College so that she can get a better job to support her kids. I can't wait to visit Amanda and Giana in their new home this week!

Then there's my friend Nola, who lets me leap into her pool when life gets me down and I need to let go and be caught by the liquid beauty of water. She listens to my troubles with her heart, and I know that she cares about me and loves me. I brought her coffee and sweets so we could celebrate our motherhood together, and she showed me her new paint sprayer that she's painting her newly remodeled kitchen with. I'm convinced that Nola can do anything she puts her mind to, and soon there will be new wood flooring and cabinets and appliances and it will be gorgeous. Nola is also my park walking buddy, and together we talk out our troubles and worries and enjoy the beautiful trees and birds of Bidwell Park. Her sweet daughter Crystal gave me a long-stemmed red rose for Mother's Day, and I cried all the way home in the car. And I remembered how Katie liked to stop and smell the roses.

Live water heals memories. ~Annie Dillard

I love to lay on the rocks and gaze at the creek or close my eyes and listen to it roar by. There's something cleansing about just being there, even if it's too cold to go swimming. The mist of it soaked me without getting in because I had chosen a spot so close to the thunder of it. The light and the water and the rocks dance together, easing grief and allowing peace to sink roots into my soul.

Heavy by Mary Oliver

Heavy

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it--
books, bricks, grief--
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled--
roses on the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

by Mary Oliver

May Day

I remember making May Day baskets in first or second grade. Little paper baskets of little paper flowers that our teacher explained should be left secretly on someones doorstep. I left mine for Mrs. Stone, an elderly woman that lived alone on the corner across the street.

May Day has changed forever for me since we held Katie's funeral on May first. There is no good day for a funeral, but irrationally I wanted to limit the damage by holding her funeral on Friday, April 30. Someone explained that Saturday would be a more convenient day for people to attend, and I gave in. There really is no good day for a funeral, or good month. Several days later we went and lifted Katie's body one more time for cremation. Just the five of us, one last time, so May would have contained an unchangeable moment anyway.

And every month since then has contained the absence of her presence...her voice, my god what I would give to talk with her one more time, to hear her laugh. Just seeing the word silent on the spine of a book in a store today brought her lifeless shell to my mind. That's not the way I want to remember her. I want to remember her eyes looking back at mine or see her laughing and goofing off with her brothers. I want to watch her dance and hear her clarinet.

Katie told me on the phone that she had some May activities she wanted to do with my kindergarten class. She said her friend Kelly had told her something about a dance with ribbons and a Maypole that she had done in kindergarten, and they thought it would be fun to do with my class. She was coming home in May.

Gabe and Jason

Dear Gabe and Jason,
I love you both. I believe that Katie is a part of us now and that she'll always be with us. We've had a long, hard, five years together, and now it's time to dance and love and celebrate and be happy.
Love,
Mom

remembering Katie on Table Mountain

We spread a blanket in the shade of a huge oak and ate our sandwiches and oranges, then laid back and gazed up at the sky through its beautiful branches, enjoying the play of light upon the leaves. We became aware of birds flitting from branch to branch that had bright yellow bellies, goldfinches again! They were feeding on swarms of insects that seemed to follow the sunlight shifting along the upper branches. It was the perfect place, shady and cool, with a beautiful view and goldfinch entertainment. It was a restful place to come and remember Katie.

Later on we walked along a spring fed brook, admiring all the gorgeous wildflowers along the way. We found at a nice spot to write messages on the balloons and release them. Other people hiking nearby stopped and watched, as if gazing at balloons floating up in the sky was a special experience. I couldn't really feel anything but the beauty of Table Mountain surrounding me, and that was ok. As we were leaving the sun set and we saw two deer in a field nearby. In all that beauty, Nola and Mark and I remembered her.

balloons for Katie from Table Mountain

"What moves through us is a silence, a quiet sadness, a longing for one more day, one more word, one more touch. We may not understand why you left this earth so soon, or why you left before we were ready to say good-bye, but little by little, we will begin to remember not just that you died, but that you lived. And that your life gave us memories too great to forget."

meditations

From a book of Irish poems/meditations:
To Bless the Space Between Us by John O'Donohue

For Grief

When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you gets fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence.

Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.

Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.

Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.

It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until the coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From the gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.

For the Parent on the Death of a Child

No one knows the wonder
Your child awoke in you,
Your heart a perfect cradle
To hold its presence.
Inside and outside became one
As new waves of love
Kept surprising your soul.

Now you sit bereft
Inside a nightmare,
Your eyes numbed
By the sight of a grave
No parent should ever see.

You will wear this absence
Like a secret locket,
Always wondering why
Such a new soul
Was taken home so soon.

Let the silent tears flow
And when your eyes clear
Perhaps you will glimpse
How your eternal child
Has become the unseen angel
Who parents your heart
And persuades the moon
To send new gifts ashore.

sunset after five years

So when I walked out the front door on Tuesday evening, April 21, 2009, I was awed by the pink clouds in the east against the brilliant blue sky. I still remember the first time I saw Maxfield Parish's work, I thought he'd added some imaginary color to his skies. But over the years I've been treated to skies that amaze me with more vivid colors than any I grew up with in the Bay Area. Now when I see such beautiful things, I often think of Katie and feel that she is experiencing them with me. She is a constant presence in our family now, able to be both in Chico and Chicago in our hearts and minds.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004, sometime after 7 pm. I had taught all day then commuted back home and fell onto the bed to relax, when I heard the phone ring in the kitchen. Mark answered it, and came into the bedroom and handed it too me, saying "It's Wellesley and they want to know where Katie is." In that moment, the resposibility for finding my daughter and taking care of her became mine. We drove to the San Francisco airport, and I ran through the terminal to board the plane, flying all night to Boston. A couple on the plane gave me a ride to Wellesley, but within minutes of my arrival, her body was found.

I would never be able to help her or take care of her... or when she got well give her back the responsibility for her own life. So now, five years later, I still hold the burden of that responsibility, and I'm trying to figure out how to put it down. I don't have the answers, I just know I'm weary. And I'm searching for a way to free myself from responsibilities that no longer have any meaning beyond guilt. I can't help her, I can't save her, her life is over, so why am I still carrying this around?

my brown eyed girl

Dear Katie,
It's been five long years since I held you in my arms, but I'm holding you in my heart forever.
Love Always,
Mom

Katie's swan

Five years ago today, my daughter sent me these pictures. We had a joyful, happy conversation. Five days later, she would die. The dissonance is unbearable.

Katie called me on a Wednesday afternoon and said "Mom, there's this big white bird and I don't know what it is! I ran back to my dorm and got my camera and found some batteries for it, and when I got back, it was still there! What is it?"

I laughed and told her I'd have to get off the phone to look at the pictures, as we had a dial up connection. Her email was labeled: big white bird! And the three pictures above were labeled: big bird, duck thing, and goose or swan or something. I called her back and told her it was a swan.

She said "Oh wow, I've never seen a swan before!" I said yes you have, don't you remember the swans in the pond in front of the castle at Disneyland? And she said, "Oh mom, that place is so surreal, I would have never thought those were real birds!"

The email was dated Wednesday, April 14, 2004 at 2:31.

the Y stick at the top of Phantom Falls

The Y stick actually has a happy origin. My niece Carrie picked it up on our hike to Bald Rock and took a picture of it. She said she teased a friend at the beach with a Y shaped stick, following her around and asking "Why? Why?" to everything she said:)

I thought it was a funny story, and suggested that we put the stick in the backpack and snap it's picture at various spots that we hike to. Just like the little gnome that Amelie had her friend travel with and photograph in the movie. I had no plans to send it to anyone, just thought it would be a fun private joke to share, something silly to laugh about. And it will be. But just now I'm pausing for the sorrowful whys, the ones that tear your heart out and shred it.

Why did these baby birds have to die? The ones I had foolishly set my heart on. Not every egg hatches, but these ones did. Why did the wind have to blow so hard so soon after they hatched, making it difficult for the parents to simultaneously feed them and keep them warm? Why couldn't I intervene in just the right way to save them?

Why did my daughter die? Why didn't I know something was wrong with my child? Why didn't God let me know that something was wrong so I could try to help her? Why does anyone's child have to die? Why? Why?

loss touches loss

Today I took my camera to school to watch the birds even though it's Spring Break. I went and looked out the window, and no mama bird on the nest. I waited, and could see the tiny forms of the baby birds, but no movement. After sitting quietly awhile I walked outside and unlocked the gate and went to look closely at the nest. They were cuddled up next to each other and still. I'm so tired of the universe right now.

3 eggs hatched!!!

the first egg hatched!!!!

mama goldfinch shows off her eggs

Waiting and watching, as today is the twelfth day since the clutch of eggs was complete...any moment now, we should have hatchlings! We wrote haiku about our lesser goldfinch experience, and the kids dubbed them 'birdku' in honor of the book Dogku by Andrew Clements. Such fun!

One of the things I forgot to write about last week was how several of the students talked about the 'bird viewing platform' in our classroom being like going to the zoo or the aquarium (after all, the window is glass!). I pointed out to them that the difference was that we were the ones in the cage, not the birds, and they thought that was funny! I suppose it's like having our own magic school bus trip right in our portable...we could be the magic school portable!

I did find out through a little internet research that the reason these birds are called Lesser Goldfinches is that they are the smallest finches, not because they are less beautiful than any other birds!

Lesser Goldfinches: male feeding female on nest!

This afternoon marked 12 days since we first saw the goldfinches and their nest outside our classroom window! The bird books say the incubation period is 12 days, but I don't know if the first egg hatches after 12 days or if it's 12 days from when the clutch is complete. Today I snapped three pictures of the male feeding the female, and they're much clearer than the one I got before!

Last week we watched the female stand up in her nest and move the eggs around with her head several times, and the kids really enjoyed watching her and writing about it and all the feeding behaviors. It's so much fun to have our own viewing platform to observe nesting behavior from!

peeking at the nest

I bought a finch sock full of thistle seed today and hung it in the tree next to the nesting spot. I wondered how long it would take for the goldfinches to find it, and was rewarded by a student letting me know pretty quickly that there was a goldfinch feeding on the sock! It's so nice when things go so well!

Today my baby is flying from the nest in Chico all the way to Chicago to go back to college. He's done a lot of hard work and growing up in the year that he's been home, so it seems right that he should be ready to go on with his life and his education. But I'm sad, I'll be missing him. He's a very loving person, and he's my baby. My nest will be empty, but that's as it should be. Launching is an important part of parenting. And he is planning to come back!

goldfinch sings good morning to me

As I was walking to my classroom this morning, this little male goldfinch was singing so loudly that I looked up and saw him. I had just enough time to stop and dig the camera out of my purse and snap a picture before he flew away. I guess he wanted some attention too, as I've been taking plenty of pictures of his partner and their nest! It was such a quick and lovely opportunity, and now a sweet thing to reflect on.

daddy goldfinch feeding mama goldfinch

It's so hard to teach and catch a picture of this! She starts twittering when he's around, and then the kids at the viewing platform squeal when he swoops down to feed her! At first some of the kids thought they were kissing! I hope to borrow a camera to get some video footage of this!

more miracles

By Friday morning the kids were thrilled that there were four eggs in the nest, and the students at our 'bird viewing platform' would squeal with delight when the male goldfinch would swoop down to the nest and gently feed thistle seeds to the female. Of course, in our classroom the kids keep calling them the mama bird and the daddy bird, it's hard not to! Any parent or teacher that comes in the classroom is treated to a tour of our 'bird viewing platform' and a detailed explanation of all of the bird behavior we've observed so far! The kids love it, and they recruit students at recess to come in for tours too!

Over the weekend it was very windy with a bit of rain, and several staff members worried over the little birds and their nest. One said she was thinking of trying to go hang something to protect it. I was worried about the wild cats that have litters under portables every spring, as the nest is very close to the ground...okay, I'm still worried about that. Several people have said I should put wire around the base of the tree to keep cats out, but it's a delicate balance trying to figure out how not to disturb the nesting birds.

Our Principal put locks on the gates on either end to try to protect the nest, but everyone has a key, and this morning one of the district maintenance guys went back there with a weed whacker and took down all the food source for the birds. I ran out to talk with him, asking him if we could skip the mowing for a month or so, and he said, don't worry, we only do it once a year, and we'll be spraying it tonight. I hope the spray doesn't hurt the birds or the nest, as I had no luck in stopping it. I figure I'll have to go buy some thistle seed and a feeder so that the pair stays well fed since the vegetation is gone.

I wanted to go to school to take more pictures yesterday, but I was afraid of finding a tragedy. I know it's the natural order of things, and lots of eggs and baby birds don't make it, but this is my miracle right now, and I really need it. I was thrilled to find them safe and sound this morning, and the kids were overjoyed when the mama bird returned to her nest after the weed whacker left. Then the daddy bird came and feed her while she kept the eggs warm. I might get to be a goldfinch gramma yet!

goldfinch miracles

So I snuck out to the nest early, before school, and snapped a picture! The kids loved watching the birds eating and keeping the nest warm. We have our own private viewing platform!

goldfinches at my window

I was alone in my classroom at lunch when the grief of missing Katie descended. She came home for the last time at the end of this week for her spring break, five long years ago. This is the time of year my heart reaches for her to come home. These days represent the last times we were together as a family, complete. They were fragmented and unintentional times, lots of kids coming and going, and me going to work. Just normal chaotic family life, no one knew this was it, the end of something special.

My computer wasn't working, so I couldn't write anyone. I called Gabe and Jason to hear their voices and tell them I love them, and that was good. Then over the roar of the OSHA approved air exchanger that runs all day to keep the air in our portable classroom safe (safe from what I don't know) I heard the call of a bird. I went to the window near the road and slid it open to see if I could hear it better, and noticed several Lesser Goldfinches perching on the cyclone fencing just a few feet from the window. They were ruffling their feathers and twittering to each other and eating the flowering tops of the weeds. They continued to fly around and chirp, amazing me with their bright greenish-yellow breasts.

When my students came in from lunch, they were delighted to watch the tiny finches and excited by their flashy yellow bellies. The kids gathered at the window and helped point out the little birds to each other. Suddenly, one child said, there's a nest! When I asked him to describe where, I saw it, low in the crotch of a paper birch tree, and one of the little birds settled into it like it belonged to her. Finally we went on with our day, but after the next recess we spent a few minutes bird watching again. After school, Debbie came over to look out our window too, and decided to go outside and check out the nest. There's an egg in it! A tiny egg! Tomorrow I'm going to try to get some pictures.

Rock Cairn

As we were leaving North Mountain in the Sutter Buttes, Debbie and I impulsively decided to build a rock cairn. She said, didn't you tell me that three rocks mean to stay the course and four rocks mean a change in direction? Let's build one with four. So we veered off the path and quickly picked up rocks, and Debbie wisely said to choose a pointy one for the top. I asked her which direction it should point in, and she said back toward the mountain. And she pointed toward the now hidden mountain as I placed the fourth rock.

It's hard to change direction and face the unknown. Losing our jobs is difficult; losing meaningful work that has carried me forward through grief is painful.

Hiking North Mountain in the Sutter Buttes

I was excited to go on a hike in the Sutter Buttes, a tiny mountain range in the middle of the valley in Northern California. Much of it is privately owned, so a hike must be arranged with a guide. We started off by driving through seven gates that had to be opened at the start of our caravan and closed after it. Cathy told us about a high school class that had named the gates after Dante's seven deadly sins, and funny little stories about some of them.

Our hike was called "In a sacred manner" and was led by a Native American guide. He was fabulous, giving us little talks and contemplative free time as we hiked. We hiked around North Mountain, and the andesite and rhyolite rock formations that topped it were breath-taking.

We serendipitously met some researchers that were trapping ringtail cats. So when they checked their traps and found five, they sent us a message on a radio they loaned to one of the guides. We got to look closely at them and I even got to pet one that was tranquilized to put on a radio collar! Such a wonderful unexpected experience! It made me remember how much I enjoyed field biology.

We hiked to the ridge and looked down over Peace Valley, which has been purchased by the state but has no access. It was incredibly windy on the ridge, and If I went again I would bring a small kite! We also hiked to several different huge grinding rocks, and one of them we had the honor of being asked to join our guide in cleaning debris out of the mortar holes. We also visited Drum rock, and our guide told us the creation story of the Southern Maidu or Nisenan.

The Maidu believed that the Sutter Buttes were the center of the world, and were a sort of prophetic ark. As long as two of each creature lived in the Buttes, that type of creature would live in the world. He told us about when time was eternal and circular, always being renewed. And how there was a special oak tree that had twelve branches that was sacred. But when the railroad came, that tree was in its path and was destroyed, and since then time has been running straight like the rails, and cannot be stopped.

He told us about a raft, a mudman, a turtle and a rope with seven knots. He said that when we are searching for our meaning in life, we should return to this place, Drum Rock, and find our center, our inner compass. It was beautiful beyond words. I wish I could describe it better.

yard bling

dragonfly over field of poppies

blue vortex

So here is the gypsy birdbath! I hope it doesn't scare the birds away! Grouting it was an interesting process. First I had to choose a grout color, then mix it and smear it all over till my birdbath was covered with black grout. Wow, hard to believe something beautiful could ever emerge from all that blackness, sort of a symbolic part of the process I think. Then, when the grout had set up just right, it was time to take a dry rag and begin to carefully rub away the grout covering the ceramic and glass pieces, cleaning away the excess from the beautiful parts. Amazing! Now I could see Katie's little heart carefully held within my healing heart, and the complete circle of eternity surrounding us and holding us safe. Oh yeah, and the little blue bird that helps me bring my happy memories of Katie into the present moment.

my "let it be" tree

in memory of Katie

When I've heard of someone famous taking on important work in memory of his or her child, such as John Edwards running for office in memory of his son, I used to get so frustrated. I don't have Katie's talents and training, I could never study math and work in a physics lab or play a concerto with an orchestra in honor of her memory. Finally I settled on just being the best teacher I could be, something that Katie had fully supported me in. She had volunteered with my kindergartners and my struggling first and second grade readers, so I would strive to be the best teacher I could be for each of my students, for my class as a whole, and my school as a community.

Now I'm losing my teaching position, and it hurts. Teaching is meaningful work for me on a daily basis. But it's also about carefully choosing and buying books for each student in Katie's memory, then watching my students read and smile and share about those books, gaining fluency and a love of reading that will serve them the rest of their lives. So I'm not only losing my job, the work that I love, but I'm also losing the way I keep Katie's memory alive in my life.

Dreaming of Poppies

I had a nice dream this morning that I was planting poppies all around my front yard. Remembering it later in the day made me smile, knowing that somehow I was going to find the time to plant the three packages of poppy seeds that are sitting on the table. We lived in the canyon when the kids were little and I used to plant poppies each year. I have sweet memories of counting poppy blossoms with Katie. It was so much fun to go out each day and check with her to see how many we had. Once we counted to 130 in our little patch of flower bed!

So you're welcome to come by and plant a few with me this week if you're in Chico! And check out the yard bling that I made in mosaic class! Armen said my birdbath looked gypsy! I'm hoping all the red in it will attract hummingbirds to come and play in the water! Lots of rain and not so many birds right now, so waiting for spring.

my birdbath

This is my first mosaic project, and it was a very symbolic process! I have been known to smash a few plates on the patio since Katie's death, and have even gone to thrift stores to buy 5 and 10 cent china because it smashes so satisfyingly. But I've never intentionally smashed things in order to create something, that was a whole new experience. It was serendipitous to find plates for a quarter with colored tulips on them, and the little blue bird was also an amazing find. And I smashed many more dishes on the floor with a hammer than I used! Heavy coffee mugs are only a dime at Sally's (Salvation Army), and smashing them with a hammer is a release.

Chasing a rainbow into upper Bidwell Park

I had planned to go for a short hike yesterday in upper Bidwell Park, but then it started raining, and I felt disappointed. Later in the afternoon I took a drive up there just to be somewhere pretty, even if it was raining. But the sun came out behind me and a rainbow appeared over the foothills as I turned toward the park. Driving up into the canyon, I got closer and closer to the rainbow, until I could see the nearby foothills through the lense of it's colors... and I smiled, a real grin from inside, at the candy-colored trees and grass. As I turned into the Monkey Rock parking lot, the rainbow disappeared. But straight ahead of me a flock of American Goldfinches burst from a tree, their bright yellow breasts making me smile some again in wonder. Driving further in, I saw a tree full of fat, round Robins and flashes of blue jays and the brightly colored heads of Acorn Woodpeckers. A single hawk circled near the south rim, and as I drove out of the park, I was delighted to stop in the road for several flocks of Golden-Crowned Sparrows pecking in the gravel. A good day after all, even without a hike.

Blazing Circle

For the past couple of days when I close my eyes to rest or go to sleep, I see a blazing circle, almost like an eclipse, except there is a piece of it missing, and I find myself willing the ends to touch, for it to be whole. That yearning for completeness takes so much concentration that I become aware of the image, wondering what it is and finally what it means. I can even tell you what part of the circle is missing, a piece of the lower right arc. I have no idea how often my brain does things like this, I just know that I became aware of it. Maybe I just have to learn to love the circle as it is, and to tolerate the tension of wanting it to be whole when it can't.

Valentine's Day Memory

I'm so glad I sent Katie flowers for Valentine's Day in 2004. It wasn't a tradition for me to send her flowers, just a fun impulse to brighten her day. I called a little flower shop near her college called KaBloom, and ordered a mix of different colored tulips and roses to be sent to her dorm. I remember when she called me and told me that her room-mate Christina had excitedly come looking for her to tell her she had flowers at the counter downstairs. When she went down to check she was astonished that there were TWO vases of flowers for her. She called me all worried that I would be charged twice, and I told her don't worry, you're worth it, and laughed!

Besides, I said, I have a good job now and I can afford it! She said something about what if they keep coming? I cracked up and said you mean like the broomstick in the Sorcerer's Apprentice, but instead of buckets of water you'll get vases of flowers? I told her that maybe they made a mistake and sent the order twice, or perhaps because I had ordered roses and tulips, they wouldn't all fit in one one vase.

I reminded her that now that she had vases she could buy flowers for herself whenever she wanted to. The Saturday before Katie died, she and Christina stopped in KaBloom (which Katie just loved the name of!) and Katie bought a bunch of tulips, a deep red I think. Christina laughed at the way Katie kept changing her mind about which bunch of tulips to buy. Christina tried to get me to take the tulips with me after Katie died, but I was so overwhelmed. She tried to press them, but it didn't work out.

I wondered at myself later, what had possessed me, who had never had a florist send flowers to anyone, to send those multi-colored tulips and roses to Katie? Part of it was that I was in my second year of teaching, with a steady salary, and could afford a $50 extravagance like flowers. And certainly I had bought flowers for people before at the grocery store or the farmer's market. But I'm so glad I sent Katie flowers on Valentine's Day. I had no idea it would be her last one. I'm so glad I have this memory.

And when she died, it was like in the Sorcerer's Apprentice; the flowers just kept coming...but she wasn't there to enjoy them.

Boys and Butterflies

Jason and Gabe near McWay Falls

two Monarch Butterflies posing near Pacific Grove

shell

Her death destroyed the cell walls that held me;
that phospholipid bilayer was gone,
anything could travel through me or out.
Vulnerable and skinless, I wanted
to climb into a shell and disappear.

Eventually I realized I'd lost
my center, becoming the emptiness
I'd searched for: dry husk of what was, dead shell
on the earth below, a spiral chamber
of memories holding stardust of her.

The Ocean

Feel the power of the ocean
and draw strength from it.

on a bench near Cook's Chasm, Oregon

The undercurrent is still very strong when the dates of the month align with the days of the week when Katie died. Several phone conversations with her on Sunday the 18th. On Monday the 19th she was last seen alive. On Wednesday the 21st the phone call that she was missing. On Thursday the 22nd her body was found in a stream.

Monarch Butterflies

For three years I've wanted to see thousands of Monarch Butterflies gathered together in one magical place, and now I finally have!! My sons (Jason and Gabe) and I drove to Pacific Grove last Friday, and got out of the car at our motel to see hundreds of Monarchs randomly fluttering and gliding through the air. Many more were hanging in clusters from tree branches with their wings folded up, muted side showing. I walked through the grove, sat on the benches, and sat on the porch just watching them and marveling at them.

Butterflies are transformational symbols, as they go through metamorphosis from caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly. These Monarchs had migrated from as far north as Washington and as far east as the Rocky Mountains all the way to the central coast of California to stay the winter. But they were not the same butterflies that had left last spring, they were the great-grandchildren of the butterflies that left Pacific Grove. It was interesting to wonder how they could find their way back to a place they'd never been before. Also, the generation that makes the great migration is a special because it lives for 8 months. The other 3 generations live only 4 to 6 weeks each.

Maybe I'm the 8 month generation, stuck here for years without Katie. And was Katie the 4 to 6 week generation? Can I begin see her life as complete as it is? Or will I just keep missing her?

Across the path from our porch was a fenced woods where deer came to browse in the morning and evenings. My sons laughed at me for talking to the deer, the older one asking "Mom, do you think they're going to come running over for a scratch like a dog?" No, I don't, but it just felt right to talk to them, they looked like they were listening, and they were beautiful.

Swan Stories

Tundra Swan History Tour

Yuan Xueshun - a Savior of Swans

SIDDHARTHA AND THE SWAN

The Buddha as a swan king

Katie's swan

Katie called me on a Wednesday afternoon and said "Mom, there's this big white bird and I don't know what it is! I ran back to my dorm and got my camera and found some batteries for it, and when I got back, it was still there! What is it?"

I laughed and told her I'd have to get off the phone to look at the pictures, as we had a dial up connection. Her email was labeled: big white bird! And the three pictures above were labeled: big bird, duck thing, and goose or swan or something. I called her back and told her it was a swan.

She said "Oh wow, I've never seen a swan before!" I said yes you have, don't you remember the swans in the pond in front of the castle at Disneyland? And she said, "Oh mom, that place is so surreal, I would have never thought those were real birds!"

The email was dated Wednesday, April 14, 2004 at 2:31.

The Agony of Grief

Grief is a tidal wave that overtakes you, smashes down upon you with unimaginable force, sweeps you up into its darkness, where you tumble and crash against unidentifiable surfaces, only to be thrown out on an unknown beach, bruised, reshaped.

Grief means not being able to read more than two sentences at a time. It is walking into rooms with intention that suddenly vanishes.

Grief is three o'clock in the morning sweats that won't stop. It is dreadful Sundays, Mondays that are no better. It makes you look for a face in the crowd, knowing full well the face we want cannot be found in that crowd.

Grief is utter aloneness that razes the rational mind and makes room for the phantasmagoric. It makes you suddenly get up and leave in the middle of a meeting, without saying a word.

Grief makes what others think of you moot. It shears away the masks of normal life and forces brutal honesty out of your mouth before propriety can stop you. It shoves away friends, scares away so-called friends, and rewrites address books for you.

Grief makes you laugh at people who cry over spilled milk, right to their faces. It tells the world that you are untouchable at the very moment when touch is the only contact that might reach you. It makes lepers out of upstanding citizens.

Grief discriminates against no one. It kills. Maims. And cripples. It is the ashes from which the phoenix rises, and the mettle of rebirth. It returns life to the living dead. It teaches that there is nothing absolutely true or untrue. It assures the living that we know nothing for certain. It humbles. It shrouds. It blackens. It enlightens.

Grief will make a new person out of you, if it doesn't kill you in the making.

— Stephanie Ericsson Companion Through the Darkness: Inner Dialogues on Grief

aftershock

Last Sunday night a huge wave of grief knocked me down and carried me out to sea. Grief with out words that pulled me deep under, churning and visionless. I finally fell asleep, but woke up Monday morning sobbing, took a shower and got ready for work, still crying. I made it through the week, and was very present for my students. And then yesterday I hibernated and couldn't even concentrate enough to read. Something was working its way to the surface, and today I finally named it.

Five years ago, so long ago, so recent, Katie went to work with me during the month of January. Her college was on the semester system, so she was home most of that month, and she chose to commute with me 45 minutes each way to Willows. A really long day. She did all of my results testing and helped another teacher with hers. She made copies of the little phonics readers that went with our reading program and folded and stapled them and wrote each child's name on them, one for every week through the rest of the school year. She read to kids and she listened to kids read. She played her clarinet for them and watched them paint and ate lunch with me.

She spent all morning with my kindergarten class and the afternoon with my reading intervention groups, first and second and third graders. What a gift she was to me. She should have been sleeping in and hanging out with friends and watching movies, but she wanted to spend time with me. One morning she didn't wake up, and I thought it would be good to let her sleep in. She called me while I was driving to school and was so annoyed with me that I hadn't woken her up.

What a gift she gave me, those memories. It was only my second year of teaching, and I think she wanted to see me be successful, to help me be successful. And I miss my beautiful girl so much. She was amazing.