I guess it seems weird to say I enjoyed my fathers funeral – but I did.  Not in a warped sense, but in a positive sense - you’d have to understand the full scope of circumstances.  First of all I and the majority of my family are of a faith that believes in life after death so we believe his spirit, his soul lingers on in whatever resting place there is.  Secondly, he was only a few weeks away from 90, his mental and physical capacities were nearly completely diminished.  And thirdly, to die has been his wish for the last 16 years.   Since my mothers’ death that many years ago, he chose NOT to participate in life (my mother would have been furious with him for wasting so much time – theirs was a classic case of opposites attract).  He wanted neither joy, excitement, expansion or inclusion.   He was miserable – which stuck to everyone in every encounter.  His passing was a relief, a lifting of the weight, frustration and pity we’d come to regard him with.

The services were a loving, respectful remembrance of the man he was before he slipped into negativism.  Since there are 21 years between my oldest sibling and myself, with five more between us two, there were many stories I’d never heard before.  Like water to a rock, time alters and affects people and during the exposure changes them.  The man the oldest siblings knew was very different from the man I knew.   The contrast was extensive, at least from my view point.  It was nice to learn that at one time he was a man I could have appreciated on a different level. 

I’d never been present at a graveside service where military honors were bestowed.  It was touching and impressive.

But the best part of the funeral experience for me, came in being with family I hadn’t seen in many years (and felt isolated from), in some cases as many as ten.   The reconnecting was fun, enlightening and endearing.  And for myself, who has been gone for so long, it was needed.  

But, the best treat of of all?  I got to stay with my son, his wife and my grand daughter.  This visit she is old enough to remember me.  She has officially named me "Her Naagha!"  Translated I'm sure it means; bringer of froggie pads and art supplies, cooperative partner in art creation, gatherer of rocks and sticks, bringer of greatest bubble fun, reader of stories, soft warm person who looks just like me, companion stream walker and rock skipper, conquerer of large green dinosaurs (a story for another post!) and Coolest Grandma Ever!!

Got home late last night, first day back craaaazy busy, tomorrow too!  Will update as soon as I can catch a wee bit of breath, probably this weekend - the trip was WOW!!!

While out and about this morning I passed a tree crew, guys in hard hats and bright orange vests, big truck, cutting, chopping, hacking, mulching, I don’t know what they’re called but I could never be one.  It would be like being on a “Death Squad” for me.  It damn near kills me to prune my own bushes!  I’ll be haunted by the screams of the brutally murdered tree all day now!

Ginger and I had the opportunity for a glorious longer walk this morning also, a chance to get my mind off the poor dead tree.  We hit our usual route toward the bus stop and enjoyed the subtle shifts in atmosphere.  Ginger notices them too.  A lot of the time if I’m out walking alone, people will smile and say Hi, but ALWAYS, when I’m out with Ginger, people smile and say Hi, frequently adding what a cute, beautiful, adorable dog she is.  “Yes, Thank You she is.” 

We rounded a corner of an apartment complex and came upon a landscaper – a happy landscaper.  I like running into unexpected happiness.  Large Latino man, doing a toned down jig to the loud Latino tunes on his IPod - Epa! Epa! Arriba!  Arribba! Wahoo!  Lets Boogie Baby! Cha! Cha! Cha!  He stood and tipped his hat to us, not at all
embarrassed that he’d been caught jigging on the job.  Even Ginger stopped for a look and a smile.  Nice, added some sweet spice to my day.  

When we headed back, we stopped at our favorite resting place – a great shade tree with bulging large exposed roots for me to sit on while she cools in the grass.  Together we watch and listen to the world go by.  We’re near an intersection and a construction site (this was our favorite spot long before they decided to start constructing across the street) so there was plenty to see and hear.  The monotonous  rattle of a generator, the low soft hum of a
lift truck with a worker in its bucket. Men dressed all in white canvas space gear from their hoods down to the booties on their shoes roamed around the generator.   From inside came the random zzzziIIIIIIiinnnnnggggg . . . . ziiiinnnnngggg of a band saw echoing in new and hollow chambers.  A teenager rickety tick, rickety tick, rickety ticked past us on his skateboard. A constant scrape of shovels, the chug a chug clugging of a down-shifting diesel, the fssssttt . . . fffssttttt of the paint sprayer, rising and falling roar of a front loader, the ding, ding, ding of the light rail passing, the beep da beep of the all clear for the cross walk, this was our backdrop.

As I walked, and as I sat, I pondered on the concept of HOME. Pinning down its location has been an on-going process and major pain in the fore front of my brain lately. HOME – just exactly WHERE the hell is it again?  They say Home is where the heart is.  If that’s really true, I’m screwed.  If that’s really true, I can never be settled.  My heart is divided into pieces amongst those I love and hold so dear. The pieces are north and east of me and span an entire continent. Can I only be at Home once every few years when money, time, everyones schedules – moon and stars too?  - align to permit travel?  This is all very unsettling since I very much want to be HOME.  

When I was young, Home was wherever my Mother was.  She was the anchor no matter where I drifted or how we got along.  As long as she WAS - there was Home.  She’s been gone for quite some time now. I’m still drifting.  If Home is still where my mother is, would that be in what I believe to be Heaven now?  Was/is that part of a mother’s job as well – to anchor us There?

I feel at home in the Fall, no matter where I am.  Is Home a season then?  A season of the heart maybe?  If Home is a season, then do I have to settle with only feeling settled once a year?  Not cool.  If Home is a season of the Heart,
when do I get there?  Do you have to be really old before you can feel at Home?

Is home a place? A real logistical place?  You know, THE place where your heart sings and leaps for joy at the sight of color, where it vibrates with life, engages and thrives in the naturally flowing energies around you?  If this is the case, then I’m just a pace or two off the right location.  All these city noises, the car exhaust, the concrete, bells dinging, things beeping – they're suffocating, not for me.  Just out of town, in a lovely two story, my own writing studio, my own potters studio, a kiln, perhaps a barn, my own pumpkin patch, the smell of the free earth, deer in my yard, raccoons and squirrels on my porch, hawks circling, a parade of wild critters (no oppssums, rats, mice or snakes please – wait that WOULD BE HEAVEN!), a year round explosion of life and color, and just a breath away from the ocean, yes, that
would be perfect.  And yet I can’t imagine complete contentment in this place, or any other, without the people I love.  Will I always feel like something is missing?  Aaaarrrgggghhhhh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .!!

And the struggle for something, some final destination, some final HoooRa, HotDamn understanding goes on.
Does anyone else out there have any answers, any wisdom to share??

 

The air is changing.  Not enough to trigger the "Full-On, Fall Is Here, Time To Bake" alarm that goes off every year in my inner core.  But still, there's a change.  The air is losing the heavy weight of summer and there's sparkle, a shimmer that only comes with Fall.  I grow content, letting the rhythmic flow of the natural world flow through me.  Hmmm . . . . . . however, I do not like the flow of winter.  I don't like the shortened days, or the cold or the wet.  I am a child of the other seasons, if I had to choose one, I'd have to say I am a child of Autumn first, then Summer, then Spring and could by-pass winter altogether.  Soon I will be racked with an undeniable need to bake warm, sweet delicious things.  Like homemade bread, sweet rolls, pumpkin cookies, carrot cookies, spice and carrot cake, oatmeal, peach cobblers, apple crisps, homemade applesauce, big puffy pretzels, homemade pizzas, lemon bars, pumpkin bars.  I'll start craving pumpkin pie and hot spiced cider.  I'll crave the smell of crispy leaves on the ground and homemade soups and stews. I love the smells, the feels, the tastes and colors of Fall.  And I like the last magical breath before Fall takes over and moves us along.