Mountaintops, Getting Lost ... and Found

People have been talking about mountains a lot the last few days. Yesterday in Sunday School someone referred to MLK's "Mountaintop" speech in which he assured his listeners that he had seen the Promised Land and was less concerned about reaching it than he was to do God's will -- for his eyes had seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord. Cool. Yesterday evening in my book group we talked about the spiritual discipline of wandering -- something that Barbara Brown Taylor refers to as "The Practice of Getting Lost." We also talked about the 40 years of desert wandering of the released captives -- with Moses -- who also saw a glimpse of, but never reached, the Promised Land. One must wonder what took them so long! How lost were they?

Then today my daughter started tagging photos of some mountaintops that we had reached together. She claimed that she was not really homesick; she does, however, want to be home. She has dragged me up a few big hills right here in Virginia -- and in North Carolina. A few years ago, it would have been nothing for me; last year it was painful. This girl is out of shape! But I made it up one of the toughest climbs in central Virginia -- Old Rag. That mountain is popular -- and crowded (reminiscent of Mt. Everest stories). We did experience bottlenecks! and certainly understood that the summit was only half-way. Our goal eluded us as we climbed higher and higher until, at last, we reached the mountaintop. The view of the Shenandoah Valley on the other side was breathtaking -- perhaps not unlike a land of milk and honey. We had already climbed well over 5,000 ft on Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina and stood atop Mt. Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Mississippi at 6,684 ft. Mountaintops.

Back in 2006 our family vacationed on Beech Mountain, NC. The elevation is pretty high up there, too. Our lodge was just about at the top, so there wasn't any "summit'ing" to be done, necessarily, but hiking abounded. We chose a trail and set-out. We happened upon an abandoned golf course project which felt sort of like a ghost town. It was April, so the weather was perfect. We began to wander and enjoy God's creation -- like the spiritual practice. And we did get lost on that mountain. It was fun for a while, but then the sun began to take its trip toward the west and dusk threatened to descend on us. David and I knew that it was going to get cold and that there were plenty of bears on the mountain, so we began to get concerned as we continued to search for signs of the trail. It wasn't as simple as "go down," because our lodge wasn't lower on the mountain -- and it surely would have been possible to find ourselves on the total opposite side of the mountain which had no roads, so no people -- only forest. Of course we did find our path -- working together, playing pioneering games, checking the sun's path and looking for landmarks that we had already observed. We have photos of us trailing behind each other, relieved to be wandering out of our wilderness.

David and I became quite lost on Snowbird Mountain in Utah. We were there for a concert and to celebrate our anniversary. There was an event called "Survivors at the Summit," so we took the tramway up from 8,000 feet or so to over 11,000 ft. Many people had chosen to walk up, but we decided that we would walk down. That wasn't a great choice on a couple levels. One way down was a road. How boring! We weren't going to take the road. We were rugged! We soon discovered that we might not really be enjoying this climb downward. An enormous rock field lay between us and smoother terrain. It was incredibly difficult to navigate those large rocks at such a steep decline -- hard on the knees. You had to watch every single step to be certain that you didn't twist an ankle or even break a leg. Again, we started to play a game -- pretending we were descending the Khumbu Icefall on Mt. Everest. We may have already been lost at that point. At least we knew that down was the right direction and that we were on the correct side of the mountain. It was a really, really long and challenging hike down that mountain, albeit humorously dotted with ski lifts here and there. We finally made it down, but our descent was too slow, ultimately, for David, and our ascent had been too fast. He began to develop pretty serious altitude sickness and we almost didn't make it home.

This altitude sickness was very disappointing to David. He had long been a fan of climbing stories. He had read every single biographical piece of the famous climbs of Mt. Everest and the Seven Summits (the highest peaks on each of the continents). He was even invited to climb Kilimanjaro as part of a cancer survivors' climb. Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa, is over 19,000 ft. He had struggled at 11,000 ft, so this was probably an unlikely venture for him, though he still loved to ponder the possibility -- tossing around various acclimatizing methods that might make it possible. I was secretly relieved that he wouldn't be going. I tend to get a bit fearful about the dangers of mountaintops -- like getting lost at dusk, getting trapped in stone fields -- and the agonizing headache and nausea that accompanies altitude sickness.

I wonder why it's such a big deal to get to the top. Does it really so decisively denote achievement? Success? In David's case, survival? Maybe it's just for the vista -- the view of the Promised Land. You still have to turn around and come back down, though -- back down to your regular old life with the same challenges and joys and busy-ness and pleasures that you left behind when you embarked on your journey. Is it so that we continue to exercise our ability to reach a goal? Is it just for physical fitness or the companionship with each other and with nature? To experience true joy that causes us to "Sing to the Lord a new song, his praise from the end of the earth?" Do we climb to wander with the possibility of getting lost? Taylor suggests that the times in our lives that change us for the better are those "wilderness times." She's not necessarily talking about missing the trail blazes ... but, maybe, more about the Amazing Grace kind of lost.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind but now I see. Clearly, John Newton believed he had strayed off of his path and was wandering in the wrong direction. Sometimes we're just lost because of fear or of circumstances that send us into downward spirals. That's why I like the third verse: Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come; 'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far and Grace will lead me home. Without question, God's grace has brought me out of many wildernesses -- literal mountaintop wildernesses, as well as times of deep sorrow, heartbreak and hopelessness. Sadly, some people remain lost.

Lost River, Natural Bridge, VA

David wrote a song about being lost, of course. I love this gentle song with its twists and turns.

Lost River
Nobody knows where it begins
They cannot find where it ends
But if you're quiet you can hear it rolling by
People come from miles away to hear that water's cry
They call it the lost river as if it doesn't know where to go
Isn't that so typical, a perspective so predictable
We redefine our miracles when they don't fit what we know
Nobody knows where it begins
Though some have searched their whole life long
It's something you can hear, but you may never see
Not unlike the music in this song
They call it the lost river as if it doesn't know where it is
Isn't that so typical, our response to the invisible
The things we cannot find we say are lost
So we disregard the quest and pay the cost
But the river might suggest it is we who are lost
                                                                 ~ David M. Bailey

My daughter has a cool shirt that she got in the Shenandoah National Forest -- It reads: "The mountains are calling and I must go." It is a quote by John Muir, a naturalist and "Father of the National Parks." I think he understood this art of getting lost, getting found ... and all the possibilities along the way.

Bands of Silver

I am still wearing my wedding rings.

It's not so much because of my reluctance to uncleave as it is that I simply still feel married. I remember the day my sister removed her rings. I asked her why she had finally decided to do so because she had continued to wear them for quite a long time. She said that she just didn't feel married anymore. I don't want to speak for her, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't a happy feeling -- but more of a remorseful feeling. She had loved being married -- being half of a couple -- being a partner in parenting -- being cleaved unto her husband. I completely understand.

Thus far, nobody has asked me why I'm still wearing mine or to be so bold as to suggest that I should remove them, though I have had a couple people mention Christian dating sites and offer introductions to single, like-aged men. I shuddered. I had been married for half of my life! I have neither felt a need nor a natural pull to move away from my marriage and move-on. I, too, still feel married. Uncleaving with these rings on my hand just isn't going to happen. Besides, they're tight now and very difficult to remove.

We got engaged the summer between David's sophomore and junior years in college. (That is my daughter's age. I cannot imagine her coming home with this news.) David had a little job in the college cafeteria. He did the dishes, I think. He had managed to save a little -- and did get me an engagement ring. It was a little marquis diamond in a unique setting -- in white gold. I loved it. He certainly spent a month's income on it! I was working down in Baltimore, so we had a long-distance relationship. Long distance phone calls cost a good bit back then. There was no email -- no texting. We wrote long letters to each other -- long love letters. I have every single one of his in a pretty box in my attic. I've never re-read any of them, but will some day soon, I think. What a love affair! The angst of separation -- his resulting love songs -- unbelievable joy when reuniting. I called it "pleasure in misery" and he wrote a whole song about that! It was painful to be apart, but the passion and love sent across the miles through those letters and phone calls was pure pleasure. To be so in love is something everyone should experience at least once in their lifetime. I feel quite bereft in this moment, recalling that measurable happiness.

Between the time we got engaged and our wedding day, there was a good bit of drama. My father suffered a pretty serious stroke. I was actually at home the weekend that it happened, thank God. Between my sister and my grandmother, we managed to get him to a safe place and call the ambulance, against his adamant demands that we not do so. Defying him was really difficult -- but with my cajoling and insistence, my sister made the call. A medical emergency was terrifying to us after losing our mother just a couple years prior. Not even a month later, David and I were in a serious car accident. We were on our way to what would be our home to return a moving truck because I had resigned my job in Baltimore to be closer to my father and family following his stroke -- and had moved my furniture straight to that house. Rain turned to ice and we had a head-on collision, landing both of us in the hospital. Different hospitals! as the accident occurred on a county line. There I was, in the ICU, waking to find my father with tears in his eyes looking down at me and my poor sister completely traumatized by the violence of our injuries. Trauma. So much trauma.

My dad gave us an amazing gift. He had removed his own wedding band -- a heavy, shining, platinum ring -- and given it to me to give to David on our wedding day. Inside the ring were two sets of engraving -- first my mother's to my dad -- and then mine to David.

"The wedding ring, that most famous and instantly recognizable symbol of the (hopefully perpetual) joining of a man and a woman as husband and wife in the institution of marriage, has a long, wide spread and mysterious history. The ring is of course a circle and this was the symbol of eternity for the Egyptians as well as many other ancient cultures. They wore it like we do today, on the third finger of the left hand, because of a belief that the vein of that finger directly traveled from the heart. [In more recent history] gold or silver rings were given on occasions, to show all the bridegroom trusted his betrothed with his valuable property ..."  [excerpts from The History of the Wedding Ring – A Recognizable Symbol of Love, by Matt Jacks]

A perpetual joining ... eternity. You don't just remove that symbol from the finger that is connected directly to your heart lightheartedly, you know?

Throughout the years of our marriage, David gave me many more rings. He must have trusted me with his valuable property. I had a diamond, a ruby (surrounded by little diamonds), a sapphire (my birthstone) an amethyst (his birthstone) and another diamond. (These were set in yellow gold, but hey.) The last ring he gave me was a beautiful puzzle ring -- heavy and made of white gold. He had travelled to Cyprus for his sister's wedding and got us matching rings and matching cross necklaces. I wore that ring with my wedding rings until just a couple months ago when my weight gain sadly prevented my wearing it comfortably any longer. I'm trying to recall where I put that ring ... which reminds me of when I agonized over what I had done with his rings when he last was hospitalized.

I received a sum of money from a stock sale through my father's estate a few years ago. I saved it so that I could use it to convert a couple pairs of gemstone earrings to lever-backs, which I would be much more likely to wear. David had given me amethysts for our wedding to match a beautiful necklace his parents had made for the occasion. He also gifted me with a pair of sapphire earrings. I rarely wore these beautiful stones and it troubled me. I had never gotten around to finding a jeweler to handle this for me until just last year. It occurred to me that I was having the same problem with my rings. A diamond had fallen out of my ruby ring, so I had stopped wearing it. The sapphire ring was tight and I only had one finger that they fit anyway, so had been wearing the amethyst ring. I wanted to wear ALL of them -- so I commissioned a local goldsmith to combine them for me. I received a last gift from two dearly loved men -- a beautiful, lasting ring. Perpetual belovedness.

One day in the summer or fall before David died, we removed his rings. I think it was just before I left to take our daughter to college. I just can't remember. It may have been earlier than that. His hands were puffy from steroids, perhaps? It could have been the day I returned home and knew that we had no choice but to go to the hospital -- when his legs were so swollen from the DVT and he was pretty much unable to stand. I recall placing them on the kitchen island, telling him that I would put them in a safe place. The next time I thought to follow-through, they were gone. I asked him if he had moved them -- put them somewhere "safe," but by that time, he couldn't recall even removing them. I was a little panicked. I don't think I looked for them again until some time after he died. The questioned nagged at me frequently, though. I finally remembered -- amidst the fogginess of widow brain -- to check his little containers for the things contained (his little wooden boxes where he kept his jewelry), but I could not locate them. I was grief-stricken. Months later I was looking for a piece of my own jewelry in a drawer of a jewelry box -- and there, in a little bag -- labeled clearly (in case something were to happen to me ... I can't help but operate this way) were his rings. All that time they were safe and sound in MY jewelry box. I had immediately and responsibly taken care of them -- but had absolutely no recollection of doing so. Score one for the Virgo. Huge sigh of relief. What had been lost was found.

This past August we would have had our 25th anniversary. Twenty-five years is a great milestone in any marriage, especially these days -- and one which we never reached. I remember quite clearly our 9th anniversary. It was a month after his diagnosis and our church family got together and planned a wonderful celebration for us -- a horse and carriage ride through old town Fredericksburg, a fancy-schmancy dinner and a night at an historic inn. There was a good chance that it would have been our last. We had 14 more. The year we moved, some people putting together a "Survivors at the Summit" in Snowbird, Utah really wanted David to come do a concert for them. He told them that the requested performance date was our 15th anniversary and that there was no way he could do it. They paid for me to fly-out with him and gifted us with a delightful anniversary dinner. For our 20th, we had a memorable dinner at the Melting Pot in a little private booth. Ooh aah -- with a split of champagne and a souvenir photo in a silver frame. But 25 wasn't to be. It was a particularly painful day for me. I remember that I worked that day -- and when I returned home, a bouquet of perfect pink roses was awaiting me. (One of those amazing random acts of kindness, worth revisiting.)

Another very difficult day was a couple weeks following that anniversary -- the day I delivered my son to college, 350 miles away. The night before his move-in day, we sat in David's parents' living room, visiting as we always do. I can't remember if it was before or after the "nibblies" (requisite for David's father every evening), but his mother got up and left the room for a few minutes -- then returned and seemed a little emotional or nervous or something. She handed me a box and explained that inside was something that her husband had given her on their 25th anniversary -- spent in Williamsburg, just a hop, skip and a jump from David's and my home for over 20 years. It was a beautiful sterling silver bracelet -- very heavy and perfectly-crafted -- and engraved inside, not unlike David's wedding band, indicating that Silver Anniversary that we had been cheated out of. I was totally captured by their loving act -- passing on their own celebratory love to and for us. I was speechless for a few moments -- then simply overcome with gratitude. A band of silver commemorating the anniversary we "should" have celebrated.

I wear these symbols of perpetual, eternal love every day. I still feel married. I'm not ready to put them away, though when I do, I will label them carefully so that their meaning will never be forgotten -- and put them in a very safe place so that they are never lost. I don't want to lose that kind of love. How to move ahead without abandoning such devotion is my challenge. Until that time, these rings will continue to be a part of me -- a constant reminder of being someone's beloved.

coffee

I don't drink coffee everyday anymore. This is something that might cause David to "roll over in his grave." Sorry. I do use this phrase from time to time. It's less effective when one has been cremated. Oops, sorry again. Way of life here ...

Coffee was nearly as sacred to David as his music. Seriously -- he believed coffee was "of God." (Hey, I guess it is.) He loved it so much he would even drink bad coffee. I won't. In my opinion, life is way too short to drink bad coffee. Good coffee is rather hard to come by, so sometimes I opt for NO coffee. Blasphemy. (In this instance, I'm using the word to mean an irreverent or impious act, attitude, or utterance in regard to something considered inviolable or sacrosanct.) I found myself walking past a Starbucks in the airport yesterday and slowed my steps -- really feeling like it was betraying him. How's that for not uncleaving, huh?

Most people who knew David also knew of his love for coffee. A great percentage of these people also catered to his love of coffee. He put a coffee requirement in his booking kit for gigs. He would receive gift baskets and personal deliveries -- all because of coffee. I can't begin to calculate how much coffee he consumed -- how much coffee he poured down the drain! or how much money he spent on coffee. At one point, I suggested that if we had deposited what he'd spent on coffee over the last 25 years into a big glass jar, that we'd have enough to fund a Mediterranean cruise. Probably two.

We have books about coffee all over the place. Who reads those books, anyway? I guess plenty of folks thought that David would, so they gifted him with those, too. As I was contemplating this blog, I sought a few of them. One has a napkin in it, marking his place. Another has one of his postcards marking the spot where he left-off. I guess that answers my question. He read them. And I'm leaving those "book marks" right where they are -- even if I end up giving the books away. I'm weird that way. I want someone else to contemplate the previous reader. It makes life more interesting.

Why was coffee so important to him? It's important to a lot of people, but he was obsessive about it. When we first started seeing each other, one of our favorite things to do was to walk down the street from the college to Mr. Donut for coffee. It was open 24 hours, so we could go very late and have the place all to ourselves. We would talk and talk and talk. That's how we got to know each other so well so quickly. These are very happy memories. Those were the days when I could sleep no matter how much coffee I drank no matter how late. During the summer before our wedding, we would meet at a truck stop on I-80, halfway between our two locations, and drink lots of coffee -- a cheap way to keep a table for as long as we wanted. When we moved south of DC and started the 5:30 am 40 mile commute, we never left home without the travel mugs. Back then, they were huge things with big handles. Cars didn't have cup holders, so we had to hang onto them. I remember it took about 15 minutes before it was cool enough for me to sip. David could sip right away without burning HIS tongue or lips! How!? Anyway, coffee was important to keep us awake during that awful drive northward -- sometimes just sitting in stand-still traffic trying desperately to cross the Occoquan River. No conversation could be stimulating enough to stay awake for that.

One day, long ago, in Hanover, Germany -- we had gotten off of a train, having spent the night travelling. Remember, we were dirt poor, so the $3 (whatever that was in deutschemarks) miniature cups of non-refillable coffee were like liquid gold and, of course, highly impractical. We spotted something in which we had sworn we would not indulge -- a McDonald's. Brilliant! Just this once! A LARGE cup of American coffee -- just to get us through the day. We shamefully entered, ordered, and excitedly took our first sips. And spit them out. Who knows what the heck they had done, but it was awful -- like they had re-used the grounds, probably more than once. You know the taste. We were duly punished. It did make for a wonderful coffee memory, though -- and a story we told often.

After our daughter arrived and my work schedule changed, he took a job outside of the city. He developed a ritual, of sorts, for his commute: stop at 7-11, get coffee and get cash. Our ATM fees were nuts, but he had to pay for the coffee! Then he started to travel to the west coast. He was ruined for good. Starbucks had entered his life. Never again would he travel without a Starbucks in his hand to board a plane or when exiting through the arrival doors. I really didn't like their coffee back then, but he did. No turning back.

After his diagnosis, he went through an understandable epiphany: Life is short; stay awake. He wrote a song about that, too. Thing is, he meant it. I don't think he ever got a "regular" night's sleep again. He would stay up well into the night -- then crash in the early afternoons, preparing him, again, for a late night. His body clock was so off-kilter that it actually had a negative effect on our marriage and family life -- easily understood. Movie night! Guess what. Dad's asleep and it's only 15 minutes in ... For 14 years his doctors tried to get him to lay-off the caffeine after a certain hour so that he could get some restful, healing sleep. No such luck. He really wasn't interested.

A cute little book on coffee states, "... coffee excites and focuses the brain along with the rest of the body." It goes on to say, "Solitary or sociable, it allows us both to unwind and to recharge. ... Coinciding with the founding of newspapers and the thinking of the Enlightenment, coffee became known as the drink of democracy. British coffeehouses were called 'penny universities' because, for the price of a cup, people could meet and discuss politics and philosophy." Who knew! I think they should add that it can also elicit profound poetry and songwriting -- and that bit about focusing the brain ... you gotta wonder if that's how he beat the beast for so long.

My last memories of David and coffee were at Hospice, of course. While he was in the hospital before he entered the house, he didn't want coffee -- didn't ask for it. That was exceedingly unusual. It was a booming message to me. Once he got settled-in and (relatively) comfortable, he caught-on that he could have anything that he wanted at any time of the day or night. He started requesting coffee. It wasn't strong enough, so I brought Vias to add to the cups. He did drink it most of the time, but not always. After he died, I collected about 50 of those little Via packets from sport coat pockets, his computer case and other luggage. Keeping well-stocked with those ingenius mini instant Starbucks thingies (in cases of coffee emergencies) had become another obsession brought-on by that amazing, stubborn brain of his.

Due to the level of stress in my day-to-day life, my blood pressure began to rise. I had no choice but to decaffeinate. David could not imagine how or why I could do such a thing. It was actually liberating. Three months after he died, my blood pressure plummeted to normal. It was unbelievable to see the numbers and to understand the psychic energy that had been required to get through each day. (In this instance, "psychic" meaning of or pertaining to the human soul or mind.) Not to mention adrenalin and everything else that the human body and mind conjure up to get us through the most difficult situations. Slowly, I began to drink coffee again, but not very much. I am a complete and total coffee snob, that is, if it's not absolutely delicious, I don't drink it. I buy small quantities of beans, grind them and brew half-pots -- and even then, if the beans aren't just right, I won't drink it. I might sweeten it and chill it for iced coffee, but I won't drink it hot. This actually does cause me some trouble, but it's not a crucial element of my day like it was for David, so it's okay! (Sorry, but the church coffee sucks.)

My preferred methodology of coffee consumption is when it brings people together over cups and conversation. "Its aromatic allure can beckon us away from our daily business to a cafe for a quiet sip, a newspaper, and a view of the world." Like those early years sipping over a donut, leaning toward each other over a formica table -- or asking for refills in those heavy restaurant-ware cups and saucers, oblivious to the activity going on around us. A bad cup of java shared on the hard, cold floor of a German train station or from jumbo plastic mugs on a shared commute -- or the peaceful quiet of our back deck, sitting in our Sandy Hook adirondacks -- are all favorite ways to imbibe. I miss THAT coffee drinking. I now do that with my daughter, though sometimes she choses the mud of Arabic coffee over my Columbian brew. Now isn't that ironic.


A Passion for Coffee, by Hattie Ellis

October 2, 2012

My husband died two years ago today. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that ... today. Is it really any different than how I felt about it yesterday or will feel about it tomorrow? Anniversaries, benchmarks, turning points ... they do have meaning to us. Still, aside from more intentional memory recall today, more tears than usual, perhaps, and a deeper mindfulness of the well-being of my children, I am the same.

an·ni·ver·sa·ry [an-uh-vur-suh-ree] noun: 1. the yearly recurrence of the date of a past event; 2. the celebration or commemoration of such a date.

I don't like to use the word "anniversary" for today, but what else would I call it? The "death day?" Nearly Headless Nick, a ghost in Harry Potter, had a Deathday party. I engage in dark humor from time to time -- and could possibly use this term with a few people -- but most people would probably balk. Today is David's Deathday! Let's celebrate? Well, how 'bout we just commemorate ... It's easier to celebrate the person who has died on their BIRTHday, right? (Honestly, you can do whatever you want to remember one whom is your beloved.) I try to celebrate David's life every day. Today I remember him, yes -- but I mostly remember the day that he died -- and the day before he died. I don't want to spend a lot of time remembering that, but it's important that I do from time to time. Like today.

My daughter wrote a long email to me the other day. She had been journaling and contemplating how she has progressed -- adjusted -- worked through her grief -- these last two years. She wrote that a year ago today was more of a "horrifying benchmark." Her benchmark was a reference point by which she could measure or judge her recovery -- and she was surprised and delighted to realize that she COULD measure it -- that she had experienced healing, calming and acceptance on a few levels. I had never thought of a "death day" serving as a benchmark, but it really does. How many Mother's Days passed until I didn't weep? (My mother died on May 11 -- yeh.) Twenty-eight Mother's Days have passed and still, I weep ... but differently than I did 24 years ago (which was more like bawling). My grandmother wept every single year on Christmas Day as we sat around our tree unwrapping love from each other. I remember the day she told me why. I had always figured they were "general" sentimental tears; I had not known her mother had died on December 25. Now I, too, commemorate the death of my great-grandmother each Christmas Day.

turning point: [noun] 1. a point at which a decisive change takes place; critical point; 2. a point at which something changes direction. This blog was a turning point for me. My daughter's email was a turning point for her. My son's haircut was a turning point for him, at least I think so ... Not all turning points are good, of course, but my little family seems to have pivoted of late in more hopeful directions because of time. Turn, Turn, Turn, by King Solomon and Pete Seeger (Ecclesiastes 3), expounds on this concept of time. 1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; 4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

Dancing ... not so much yet. On rare occasion I can be found dancing in my kitchen with my kids when we're playing some loud, fun music after dinner while doing the dishes or something. That used to be a common occurence for me. I think dancing requires a good degree of joyfulness to make it worth the energy. I see glimpses of joy from time to time these days and, so, can be found dancing for a few minutes here and there. Friends of ours have been holding "dance parties." They're actually fund raisers for a really good cause, but I can't imagine going to one. I get this image of myself boogy'ing with a black veil over my face and that pretty much answers the question of whether or not I'm ready for public dancing. Nope. Not yet. Maybe never, if I'm going to be completely honest. A time to dance -- in my own kitchen. Sure! With a purpose under heaven? Who knows.

Laughing ... has marked progress, adjustment, acceptance for me. I discovered myself having so much fun with some formidable church ladies one night a few weeks ago that I stepped away from myself and looked upon us with near awe. Was that ME laughing with so much freedom? Smiling with a natural happiness that I had not known for years? Yes, I believe that WAS me, putting some space between measured reservedness and joy. A turning point for sure.

I found this definition for joy. It stinks!

joy [joi] noun:  1. the emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation; 2. a source or cause of keen pleasure or delight; something or someone greatly valued or appreciated; 3. the expression or display of glad feeling; festive gaiety; 4. a state of happiness or felicity.

There certainly isn't much depth in any of those! I can achieve that with a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting! I was hoping for something a bit more meaningful -- along the lines of a Fruits of the Spirit kind of joy. Hmmm. I found a more satisfying description at www.bible-knowledge.com: Joy: 1.Great delight; gladness of heart; 2.The happy state that results from knowing and serving God; 3.That deep, abiding, inner rejoicing in the Lord; 4.To rejoice, to be glad; 5.Happy, joyful, cheerful, rejoicing, festive.

Yeh, that's more like it. I'm all for happiness, but joy means something different to me. Isaiah 42:10-11 lays it out pretty well. Interestingly, through song :-) Back in college our touring choir sang this antiphonally from the aisles in the chapel -- it was amazing -- it was joyful. David was singing across the aisle. It made me want to dance.

Sing to the Lord a new song,
      his praise from the end of the earth!
Let the sea roar and all that fills it,
     the coastlands and their inhabitants.
Let the desert and its towns lift up their voice,
     the villages that Kedar inhabits;
Let the inhabitants of Sela sing for joy,
     let them shout from the tops of the mountains.

I keep seeting glimpses of potential joy -- the kind that makes you want to shout from the tops of the mountains. It's out there. Little turning points will help me zig-zag my way up there ... in time, when it is time. I'm poised and alert and ready to start. One cupcake at a time ...

I had a wonderful authentic Roman dinner tonight. It made me remember the hours I spent there with you, David -- first as 25 year olds -- then as parents of teens in the throws of chemotherapy. Tonight I had a wonderful meal served by Francesca, who desperately tried to understand pasta a la carretteria, that perfect meal I had in Rome. Instead she brought me a delicious chicken dish. We had a wonderful red wine and I remembered your pouring the balsamic into our glasses -- only to discover that it wasn't our wine! I miss you.

loveSONG

When David and I took up housekeeping, he wasn't doing a lot of songwriting. Instead of playing Thursday night gigs at Gregory's, he was cooking there every night. Though living paycheck to paycheck, we did get a CD player when they first came out and slowly, methodically, began to transfer our cassette collection to CDs. We listened to a lot of Sting and JT -- I introduced him to some edgier stuff like Van Halen and more obscure stuff like Rush. He was still listening to Peter, Paul & Mary -- and liked Supertramp (yuck), Alan Parsons, Jackson Browne and Santana. We blended our musical tastes and it worked! (except for the Supertramp) We both liked Bach and some other Baroque & Classical composers ... Through the years he always brought home new singer-songwriters' recordings for us to explore: David Wilcox, Shawn Colvin, Pierce Pettit -- and I brought Seal and Baby Face (don't knock it 'til you try it). New music was always moving through our home, mostly at high decibel levels. Our babies could sleep through anything.

Even after David returned to his songwriting as a full-time vocation, he always investigated new music. He enjoyed participating in songwriter showcases -- where performing songwriters would share the stage and do a round-robin kind of thing -- each playing one song at a time. He enjoyed playing "Name that Tune" (or band) in the car, exposing the kids to classic rock, folk rock, singer-songwriter and contemporary alternative music. Somewhere along the line, he stopped exploring. He became impatient and intolerant -- critical. It was strange, what was happening to his brain.

Recently I've been playing SongPop on Facebook. I lose miserably to my baby sister -- and to my cousin (young thang). I don't know ANY rap, Today's Hits (unless it's some Indie artist ;-) or Country Music. And how did Guns 'n Roses end up in "90's Alternative?!" I'm even failing miserably in the Love Songs category -- but I do very well in the 80's Collection, Classic Rock and Classic Folk Rock. My reaction times still aren't as fast as those girlies and it's maddening! But the fact that I don't know many of Today's Hits has me a little troubled. I used to always have the radio on and was able to keep up with new stuff. Could it be that today's music just isn't what "yesterday's" music was? To some extent, yes. I mean, I'm not really interested in learning the words to "Baby" by that baby boy what's his face. I do like Mumford & Sons, though. Are they being played on the Today's Hits radio stations? I am, however, impressive with my familiarity with college music. I can identify Florence and the Machine within a few measures of a new song -- Fleet Foxes -- Sufjan -- even Andrew Bird. Ha! I'm quite popular with my peers -- introducing them to new, good music. It's hard to believe that banjos, oboes -- even accordions -- are now acceptable in contemporary music. (It's not your grandpa's blue grass.) I just can't get enough of the new Decemberist's album and I'm not generally crazy about them! They don't show up on SongPop.

But getting back to David. This change in his personality -- his disinterest in other music -- was disturbing. When he was home, the kids were basically not permitted to play music of their chosing in the house or in the car. One who had spent a lot of time and attention keeping up with new artists had become indifferent to and distainful of their music. Even when it was I who asked him to listen to a song by a new singer, he was negative and impatient. It was so strange for him to respond that way; it was very sad for me. When he was not at home I made a point of encouraging the kids to play their stuff in the house -- loudly, if they wanted to -- and in the car so that they would be encouraged to explore rather than discouraged to explore musical genres. Their healthy father would have wanted that. Because music was such a large part of all of our lives, it was a deep loss to us when he turned that corner.

Long before I ever even met David, song was a way of life for me. Both of my parents were musicians. In fact, they, too, met in a choir. Singing around the piano or playing some sort of instrument was a daily activity in our home. My mother was a wonderful pianist. She could sight-read anything! She could play the boogie woogie or Handel's Messiah. We were all singers, so she played and we sang. My dad, too. One year when he wasn't travelling for work so much, he got a banjo and a ukelele and my parents taught us American folk songs to teach us to sing harmony. We always sang in the car: You Are My Sunshine, Red River Valley, Do-Lord -- Daisy On My Toe :-) I sang in choirs and played in bands -- was even the drum major for the marching band. I was a music performance minor student in college and enjoyed the choirs, the orchestra, theory and conducting. Music was always a significant part of my life.

David and I met our college's choirs. After we started seeing each other, I was better introduced to his songs. They were one reason I fell in love with him. His voice was like a drug; his guitar a lure and the words to his lovely melodies were significant. When we married, I figured that the music in our individual lives would be blended. It was, to a certain extent, but not in the way that I dreamed it would. His music was nearly sacred to him; later it became a ministry where he reverently dedicated his gift to God's glory -- believing that he was ordained (marked) and set-apart for that (as many of us are in some way or other). I did record some harmonies on a few of his CD's -- and perform with him a few times, but our life together was not about our music. He generally favored keeping our musical lives relatively separate. What might have been a mighty, binding link was, instead ... simply not. I don't have much uncleaving to do in this area.

One day not quite two years ago I plugged David's iPod into a little set of speakers that I had brought for him. I played a song from his iPod. He gave me a puzzled look and asked me who it was. I said, "That's you, David." He said, "No it isn't." I said, "Yes, it is." He looked at me again as recognition transformed his face. He finally knew that it was his voice and his song. He did not listen much longer, though. He was moving on from that life. He had asked me a few days before that if I thought we had a bright future. I knew that he had a bright future and told him so ... but also added that I didn't think my immediate future was very bright. We had been having one of our "limited" conversations that spotted the last few weeks of his life. He was unable to delve any more deeply than that -- unable to take my hand and form a song on his lips to comfort me.

But like a dear friend so eloquently said at his memorial service, he had already said everything to us through his songs. All of his wisdom, all of his answers to our questions, all of his devotion and affection -- already spoken.

I love the sparkle in your smile. I love the twinkle in your eyes. I love the sound of your hello. It echoes like a lullaby. I love the gentle of your touch. I love the strength of your embrace. I love the tender in your hands. I love the courage in your face. I love the sweetness of your sigh. I love the golden of your hair. I love the freedom of your faith. I love your willingness to dare. I love the puzzle of your laughter. I love the blueprint of your way. I already love you more tomorrow than I love you right here, now today.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
~ David M. Bailey (Feb. 26, 1966 - Oct. 2, 2010)

Of the Water

I love the water. I respect the water. When people talk about God being in nature and talk about the ocean I think, "yeh," but it 's more than the ocean. It's the sheer force and fearfulness of Niagara -- the depth of a clear water lake -- the cold of a northern Pennsylvania watering hole -- and even the shallow depths of a sandbar in the Florida Gulf communing with beloved people.

I'm having a very peace-full time with my sister in Florida. She had an unexpected out-of-town visitor, so I have a few moments of quiet time and have felt a pull to sit and write. I've been very relaxed since my arrival. I've had a wonderful massage! an evening of girl talk with some lovelies, and, today, a few relaxing hours in the shallows off of a boat with some of my favorite people.

I grew up an in-lander. I never visited a beach until I was a good 9 years old or so. It was unbelievably exciting to finally be visiting the beach and quite foreign. Though I do have "memories" of that visit, they aren't necessarily good memories. My stay was marred by the supposed pinch of a crab, causing one of my toes to bleed. I didn't go back into the ocean until I was well into high school -- maybe college. For some reason, David and I did not frequent the beach, either -- well, in terms of "beach going" as you would assume. He grew up along the Mediterranean sea in Beirut, Lebanon. He loved the sea air, the heaviness of humidity and heat -- yet stateside, did not feel any strong pull to our Atlantic shore.

I think we've had our kids to the beach in summertime three or four times. In 20 years. Instead, we frequented the Virgina, Maryland or North Carolina shorelines in the midst of winter. Winter whale-watching cruises, kite flying and bundled-up strolls on the sand became a favorite thing for us. There were no crowds; souvenir shops availed very inexpensive wind chimes -- and you could really sense God in that gray, cold surf pounding the sand just outside the balcony window. We were able to truly escape the busy-ness of our regular day-to-day days and just be a family -- playing board games, watching movies and experiencing silence.

Having been a western Pennsylvanian for many odd years, I had several opportunities to visit Niagara Falls. One time I took the "Maid of the Mist" cruise, which putters right up to the base of the falls. My heart pounded with true fear -- the sheer power of that water pounding at the foot of the plunge seemed to be pulling us straight into its deadliness. I felt a similar anxiety when water-skiing in a New York lake for the first time. The water was so black and cold and deep. Just getting INTO the water in the middle of that lake, so far from the safety of shore, took some coaxing. Once I was in and acclimated, I became comfortable and was able to enjoy the water. The thunder hole at Acadia State Park is an in-your-face expression of supremacy over man and even rock. Water is powerful -- immense.

Water is also cleansing. When I'm in and around water, I always experience a sense of being washed, whether it be from ice-cold creek water, the depth of northern lake waters, or the saltiness of the grand ocean. When I was maybe 10 years old, I remember being summoned from the sidewalk into a circle of youngsters in the parking lot of a little general store in a small New Hampshire town. I'm not sure who was doing the summoning -- from which "church" or "faith," but they were reading from Psalm 51 and giving out mini red Gideon Bibles. I was quite taken by the experience. To this day, I will never forget the words of that Psalm: "Wash me and I shall be as white as snow." Since that day I have sung Psalm 51, spoken it, read it ... and more deeply understood: 10 Create in me a clean heart, O God, And renew a steadfast spirit within me. 11 Do not cast me away from Your presence, And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me. 12 Restore to me the joy of Your salvation, And uphold me by Your generous Spirit. -- but as a fifth grader, those simple words about being washed and made clean as fresh, New England snow resounded in my heart and mind. Baptism. Washing.

David's last recorded songs had a lot of water references. After he died, we decided to release those songs on a CD. As we began to sort-through, listen critically, layer newly-recorded tracks and work on artwork -- the water theme became evident. There was a song about stargazing and a song about perseverence. There was a song about the fragility of life and a song or two about hope -- but almost every song in the collection referred to water -- being washed -- being baptized. Baptism is a sacrament in the Christian faith -- and when we are baptized we are marked by God, if you will -- granted admission into a Covenant with God. Somewhere, somehow, we settled on WaterMarked as a title. It was perfect. Following his diagnosis -- a life-chainging epiphany -- he had his ear pierced as a second, more outward sign of being marked by God and forever being his servant.

One of his later and, in my opinion, most powerful songs is "Until the Rain." It's about the faith of a child. Near the end of this song, he sings of her simple prayer and of a profound act: "She quietly and slowly turned her face toward the sky and said, 'Lord if you are listening, hear my simple cry. If I were a princess, I would offer you my crown, but all I have is this, so please let your rain come down.' She dug into her backpack without making a sound; opened up her red umbrella and then ... and then the rain came down. Well the rain came down! And in case you didn't know it there's a moral to this tale. Everybody everywhere knows what it's like to fail ... seems as though everyone is waiting for God to make it right; God is waiting for us to walk by faith and not by sight. Act like you believe it's so ... watch your faith begin to grow ..."

The rain was Living Water, bringing renewal and grace and healing. That kind of water can physically come from the sky, from a well on the outskirts of Samaria, from a shallow river, from melting snow -- but it is how we receive the gift that makes it holy -- acknowledging its power to make clean what was not. I sometimes wish that I had been strong enough -- courageous enough -- to wash David after he died. Then I remember that I did try to soothe him that night by touching a cool, wet cloth to his feverish face, washing him with love ... But he had already been made clean.

I'm leaving on a jet plane.

... but I do know when I'll be back again. I'm going to visit a sister and her kids, sans one (also in college). I am currently doing laundry -- for the first time since my son left for college -- really!! (Yes, I have that many pairs of undies and yes, he does generate a lot of laundry.) I am a homebody and don't particularly like to travel. I really dislike preparing to travel -- the packing, getting the house ready to leave, setting up care for the dog, making sure that bills are paid, plants are watered, etc. etc. etc. Once I get on-board the plane, I will relax and enjoy my trip. Up until that time, though -- I'm always on the verge of cancelling my plans (not really, but I feel like that). You know how ridiculous that is? I felt this way when my daughter and I were getting ready to go to Paris! Of course, those days were much more complicated. I was leaving a very ill husband with my 16 year old son for a week. There was a lot more burdening my mind and heart than packing for a week of international travel.

Since that trip to Paris, I think I have only flown once -- to a brain tumor conference the winter after David died. I've taken smaller trips by car with shorter stays away from home. I don't like to be away from home.

We live about 6 miles from our little, wonderful airport. When we decided, quite seriously, to move out of northern Virginia, we had to do some recon. David needed an airport that would get him everywhere he needed to go. I was skeptical about this airport. Certainly it had to be too small -- just a little puddle jumper runway with some obscure destinations. I was wrong! Our airport is served by at least four major airlines and does the trick. We do live under one of the flight paths, but it's not awful because there aren't many big jets slamming into our air space. Every time I hear a plane flying overhead, I think it's David coming home.

He flew out and in just about every week. Usually departing on a Thursday or Friday and returning on a Monday or Tuesday. Weekends were not family time in our household. That got really old. When we found ourselves with a family weekend, we sometimes tried to plan something special like a mini road trip -- but often just relished the time together here on our beautiful land in our cozy home. Since David travelled so much, travelling when he didn't have to wasn't his first choice.

I remember when my dad travelled a lot. We hated it. When we lived in New Hampshire and then, again, later when we were in Pennsylvania, my father's employer was not anywhere near where we lived, so he was away a lot. Breezewood became good news, meaning he was half-way home from DC. I don't remember much about his work when I was very young and we were living in New Hampshire but that he jokingly referred to it as our three-year vacation. I'm not sure my mother thought of it that way when she was alone with four kids in a drafty farm house in 20 below zero weather! I was too young to understand what it meant for my mother. Finally there came a time when he simply no longer had to travel. Our family life then became very sweet.

We never made it to that point with David. There was never any light at the end of the tunnel -- no prospect of the travel ceasing so that we could just be a "normal" family. There was never any true permanence on the horizon -- always transience. It's like living tenuously all the time. At least that's how I felt about it ... and I must imagine the kids did, too. The year my daughter was the drum major for the marching band, he didn't see them march even once. The one and only time he was home and could travel to a competition, it got rained-out. That was tragic. He missed so much of their lives. He really did.

David deeply regretted missing so much of our day to day living. Of course he hated to miss big events in his kids' lives; he hated to miss small events, too! But as his disease progressed, he became less cognizant of these voids. His main focus became his survival, which was marked by his ability to travel and to perform. Performing became the most important thing in his life. How do you explain that to a 16 year old and an 18 year old? Sorry, but Dad just isn't himself. He really would care if his brain allowed him to ...

There were lucid moments like the day our daughter left home for college. He managed to gather every sense and wit that he had to talk to her about how proud he was and how many hopes he had for her education and her future. He was up and about and excited the morning we left, making me pledge to give him hourly text updates on our journey northward and to stay in touch, sharing all the details of the process of her shift into adulthood. Texting was a way of life for us -- the moment to moment way that we communicated (even during Sunday School and church services that we were mutually attending, though in different towns or states). I texted and texted and texted that weekend. He never replied. His silence was alarming.

During the month in Hospice, there were moments here and there of clarity for David. One was sitting together booking a flight home for our daughter. He recalled his password and the process and was quite pleased to be bringing her home with his platinum chairman preferred whatever status with the airline. (Thank goodness he walked me through that! I used his last frequent flyer miles to get her home that Christmas and would not have been able to had he not shown me how and given me the password.) Another was the day he called me asking about the latest book I was reading. And one was the night that he emailed me from his cell phone late, late, late. It was probably after a 3:00 am ice cream sundae (you get whatever you want in Hospice -- cheerfully). In his email he asked me for cigarettes and explained that he would work on quitting very soon after he recovered, got out of there, got on an airplane, got back on the stage -- performing again. This was, perhaps, a week before he died. He absolutely refused to acknowledge anything else.

Of course his next journey was to his Creator -- his Savior. One day, sitting on the floor after he had gently fallen (trying to prove to me that he could stand) we had the most meaningful chat that we'd had in many weeks. He basically asked me where my hope was -- not quite accusing me of failing to share his hope -- his belief that he would recover. I told him that I believed that there was a place at the Table, set just for him. Then we got interrupted. That was the closest we ever got to talking about his death. He never spoke to me of his hopes for the kids and me after he died because he never accepted that he was going to die. No closure. No closure.

So, still, every time I pull-up to the arrival doors at our little airport, I see him coming through those doors, pulling his rolling suitcase with a heavy guitar and a bulky computer case over his shoulder -- tall and strong and alive -- and coming home. For some reason I don't have an image of his back, walking away from me through the departure doors. As I walk through those doors tomorrow to make my way out of town, I wonder if I'll feel like I'm walking in his footsteps. His spirit is still there. He was well-known at our little airport. But they don't know me. I'll be all alone in my musing. Alone in my journey.

I think I just figured out why I'm ambivalent regarding travel. It has historically taken those I love away from me! But tomorrow it's taking ME toward those I love. Home isn't just a place -- it's people. Now I'm going to go pack my suitcase.