Tongue in Cheek

Flower on the Window Sill

Still Life.

The Rose

                   

Many of you have asked how my mother is fairing? Let me tell you a story...

Years ago when I had cancer I took my chemotherapy treatments on the weekends. After the treatment we would go back to our apartment. I would go to bed while French Husband bundled up our children taking them to the park to play.

French Husband made sure I had everything I needed before he left. I looked forward to resting in quiet. Though one day soon after he left I started to feel terribly sick. Dog sick. I thought I would die! I couldn't even make it to the bathroom and was vomiting off the side of my bed. I didn't know what to do- except to pick up the phone on my bed and call my mother in California.

When my mother answered I could barely talk, I told her I needed help, that I was alone, that I was scared. In her quick-thinking-focused-get-the-job-done-self, she knew that telling me to dial 18 (the French 911) wasn't what I needed considering I could barely talk English at that moment let alone French.

She said without blabbering emotion, "Corey roll out of bed...okay are you there? Okay crawl,  come on you can do it, crawl to the front door, throw the phone ahead of you.... Hello? Corey are you there? Okay do it again crawl, throw the phone ahead of you.... Okay, open the front door...come on you can do it...good, good, now crawl to your neighbor's door, and when they answer pass them the phone."

My mother is the rock rose in the family.

You see my mother knows how to cope under pressure, she knows how to get the job done, she has what it takes to do what one has to do... and does it. My mother has been by my father's side everyday for the last two months...and if I didn't stay here in the evenings, she would literally camp alongside of his bed too.

My mother's first name is Tough. Her middle name is Firecracker. Her last name is Faithful.

The Prayer Beads

My father prayed his rosary. As the beads went around his hand I drifted back to a time when I was five years old-

I am in bed with my Ava (grandmother in Portuguese,) she is saying the rosary the steady cadence of her voice mixed with the silence of the night is soothing. I fall asleep.

                                       

Last night my father's eyes were heavy as he said his rosary. It has been a few weeks since he was able to thread the beads between his fingers. His strength regains. His breathing was labored. His chest rose and fell steadily as he prayed. After the last decade of the rosary, the last bead, he slowly tried to make the sign of the cross but fell asleep.

My Aunt Ann (my father's older sister) told me that when my father and her were children, that she would go into his bedroom, climbed into his bed early in the morning, and the two of them would pray side by side. "I wonder who initiated prayer George or I?" She asked me to ask my father if he could remember.

Later when my father woke up I asked him. In his eyes I saw a spark as he recalled the memory... he replied, "The angels."

                                                    

                                                               Angels are you listening?

Standing Under Grace

Praying without words, praying in the middle of the night, praying after witnessing death upon death, praying while holding your hand and hearing you cry out, "Help me." 

Praying through fear-

Praying for an easy off button-

Praying as I wipe your mouth, your eyes, and as we wipe your sore bottom-

Praying I wasn't standing here alone with you. Praying thanksgiving that I am standing here alone with you-

Remaining calm when I see nothing short of terror that is in your eyes. Listening when I want to beg- No, no, no!

In the middle of your suffering I find myself walking even though I want to run and hide. In the darkness I feel the breeze pour through the hospital's window like a soothing hand upon my face. While standing by your bed I hear the oxygen bottle and suddenly it becomes a babbling creek.

Typing as my father sleeps after a rough night I glance over at his bed stuffed with pillows - suddenly it becomes a white fluffy cloud.....and I dream of crawling into it, where I can hold him and whisper, "Fly away, fly away, fly away..."

The Look of Love

He held my gaze as his eyes became hands taking me into another world.

From a bottomless well his love poured softly soaking me. Barely could I hold on!

Have you ever looked into someone's eyes and seen the universe? Where the sun, the moon, and the stars seem like sand under your feet as you catch a glimpse of the other side.

Holding his hand we flew touching a distant shore. How could I doubt heaven after this?

Baby Steps

                     

Yes or No

There are no easy answers especially for someone who sees things in shades of grey.

Those one word answers like- Yes or No- often sound cold or too direct. I prefer the word "maybe" as it is open ended and walks in the middle, actually it skips on both sides of "yes and no." The word "maybe," is very non committed. Often misunderstood and leaves room for imagination.

It also causes problems when a decision needs to be made.

When my children, Chelsea and Sacha were younger we use to play a game that went like this.... I would ask them simple "yes or no" questions like, "Can you drive a car?" or " Do you have brown eyes?" or "Are frogs green?" The object of the game was to respond truthfully without using the words "yes or no."

At the start of the game we would sing, "You can't say "yes" you can't say "no" what are you going to say....I don't know?"

I still don't know.

There doesn't seem to be any easy answers these days...  especially regarding love, life and... well if you are someone like me, just about any question these days.

Do you think I will feel more at ease when life starts ending in periods and not question marks?

The Song that Heals: music from the heart.

Like a gentle grace the sound of someone singing came sipping in from the room next door. What peace it brought. I smiled softly, while tears formed like raindrops splashing on the puddle called myself. Music can be such a healing power can't it?

The man next door (to my father's hospital room,) is dieing. His family pours into his room like a steady stream. As they sing their voices surround him with tenderness. I kept wondering if I am hearing angels?

Ah I tell you their voices sound like loving arms carrying their father to the next part of his journey. A gentle surrendering, shared compassion, a tender farewell, as they carry him to the threshold singing in harmony, “Fear not!”

The songs they are singing heal and caress these wounds and fill the halls with a serenity. A medicine I recommend in strong doses.

Photo: An angel statue from a church next to my home in France.

Note: Threshold Choirs honor the ancient tradition of singing at the bedsides of people who are struggling: some with living, some with dying. The voice, as the original human instrument, is a true and gracious vehicle for compassion and comfort. The choirs provide opportunities for women to share the sacred gifts of their voices at life's thresholds. Thank you Deirdre for sharing this link with me.

Easter Morning

      

                

      

Memories of Pere Lachaise

                                                

Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris captivates the imagination. It takes you to a place deep within. Where stone statues, engraved words, and unlocked iron gates whisper names of people of the past.

It is a place where bouquets of flowers are left behind holding the thoughts of someone who has loved someone. Ah those fragrant petals that eventually dry and fall, soften the pathway for the next one who comes along.

               

A larger than life stone statue stands with her eyes closed recalling memories that will lead her home. 

                                                               

       An angel drops flowers like rain from heaven. In the background tangled tree branches are beginning to bloom, speaking of rebirth. A symbol of life continuing.

                                                             

Layers of time past and present, a broken stained glass window renders a glimpse of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus. Though the images of their faces are no longer apparent a pure light continues to shine through caressing those who walk by.

The feast of light, Holy Saturday- Reminding us that what we hold to be true will lead us, what we love will guide us, that the light will hold it's hand out to us even when we are lost and afraid.

Oh light shine upon my path-

You are not alone child, you are not alone.