Last year I did my year-in-review by pulling the first lines from each month's blog. This year I cannot do that: I didn't blog in November because I was taking the NaNoWriMo challenge (hey, I won!) and I was prepping to leave Cerrillos and Wit's End for the new job in Taos. I was finding my replacement and looking for a home. I didn't blog in December because I was finishing up concerts and packing and planning for holidays. And, basically, the muse was gone for the time being. I was too busy living, and not able to put my energy to contemplation.
Today, however, I am doing some retrospecting. I used the Facebook apps to create a status/photo update and realized afresh how rich my life is with travel, friends, family and the beauty that surrounds us all. After years of focusing on stress, in 2014 I could focus on the small wonders of each day. And each day inspired photographs and haiku. I didn't post all of them, but I could see the change in emotion; as the year got older, I became more serene.
The typical day started slowly: doing the crossword and drinking good coffee while watching clouds float above the mountains and birds perch in tree tops. E would read the NYT and share the headlines or ask questions about them. I have an image from the early months: we are outside, facing west, the sun shining over our shoulders. She reaches for her toast and smiles at me: "This is the life," she says.
I have other images too, mostly from our various journeys and errands. We are in Albuquerque, driving past the yellow cottonwoods in the Rio Grande as she gasps in wonder, "I'm in heaven!" We're going down Goldmine road, watching the cloud shadows on the Cerrillos hills and singing "White Coral Bells" and other old fashioned rounds. "Do you have music in your head?" she asks. We pass the park in Santa Fe where she remembers sitting with both her daughter and her favorite caregiver. We sit at a table outside Echo gelato, the small bright orange and yellow cups filled with our chosen frozen concoction. We take the tiny plastic shovels, carefully spooning small tastes. I share my stracciatella, and she says she'll get that next time. We're walking along the Cerrillos Hills State Park trail towards the overlook: she is mesmerized by the plaque depicting the animals, illustrated by local schoolchildren. She finds the lion outlined in the cliffs across the valley, its mouth open in a yawn. (While I could recognize her cloud images, I never saw that lion.) We're at San Marcos Cafe, watching the peacocks pecking in their enclosure or walking past the windows. She says, "they don't have ducks?" and "soon it'll be time for a fire." She loves the cinnamon rolls, so we share an order of that and an order of Eggs Benedict.
There are so many moments. She hated the electronic keyboard that we had on loan, but I coaxed her into accompanying me for some singing. On our regular walks, we would stop to look at the arroyo: "Do you suppose it will ever fill with water?" The bird seed drew out foxes at dusk, and she pondered about them: "Where do they live?" The flowers made her catch her breath: "Oh I hope E will be able to see them!" E is never far from her mind or her conversation. "When will she be back?"
Then there are the lost moments. I never wrote down the way she would mis-hear me, but we laughed at each piece of delightful confusion. I never found out why she was crying that night in bed, but I held her until it stopped. I never learned Spanish from her, never took her to the Atomic Museum or Los Alamos or Bandelier. She only came to a few of my concerts, and I only went to church with her a few times: those were usually when the respite caregivers were on duty and I was visiting friends in ABQ or rehearsing or playing concerts. And much of each day was spent in separate worlds, she reading Liz Gilbert or the biography of Oppenheimer or a history of New Mexico, me tutoring, writing to friends, editing photos. Those moments are gone now, and I miss them.
But, she is there: laughing, perseverating, forgetting, and loving. I sit by her chair and put my head on her knee, and she strokes my hair. "I'm going to miss you so much," she says, and I reply, "I'm going to miss you too." We make plans for visits, and I know that this is something I need to do, and I hope she will become resigned to the change. However, deep inside, where I am ashamed to acknowledge it, I hope she doesn't like the new caregiver TOO much: I am jealous, even though I'm the deserter, I'm the one moving on. She has taught me so much about aging gracefully, about living fully. We both have experienced loss, but we both know how to recognize and share joy in the midst of that.
I was so lucky to have this time of healing. I don't know how to thank her, and the other Co-op members, and the people in my musical organizations, and my hiking buddies, and friends and lovers, and family. They have made up a huge net that has held me, bobbing up and down after the fall, inches above the water. I lie face down, looking into the depths, and I see they are filled with light and color amidst the sharp coral rocks and tunnels that threatened to trap and drown me. I turn over on my back and look at the clouds that sail by. I don't do anything for a very long time, but gradually, as I bob gently, I close my eyes and surrender to the peace.
And now, I have found my healing, and it's time to climb out of the net and swim to shore.
Thank you, E.
Beautiful!
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