10 Years Ago

Sacred Petal by Prachuap Chaikham-udom seen on Novica -05

Ten years ago. During the worry over Y2K; I was at my mother's funeral in New Hampshire.  Then spending the evening with Baha'is bringing the New Year..the new century.  Has it really been 10 years since I have talked to my mother..seen her face..??  It has been an amazing decade in my life begun with my mother's passing into the next world..Heaven, the Abha' Kingdom. A hard start, but a fruitful time.  I miss her...  I'm going to post what I said on Facebook on December 28th. (the date of her passing):

"Honoring my mother in my thoughts today. Ten years ago today she crossed over. She was the sweetest, most loving, and most determined soul. She had a wonderful smile that was truly radiant. And she was a very devoted mother to me; and wife to my father. She put others before herself. She was a dedicated Baha'i. And a strong woman. She had patience and transcendence. I wish her joy and peace in the next world....in Heaven, the Abha' Kingdom..


Wishing you----a joyful next year and decade...  Welcome 2010.

Camping

My parents next to our HILO trailer

My parents first introduced me to camping when I was one year old.

I do not remember the tent camping stage of that part of my childhood, but I do remember our old Starcraft pop up trailer. I had my own bunk and I couldn't touch the canvas if it was raining or I'd get wet. I loved my little corner of the trailer. We also had a screen house we would set up that would help to keep out the mosquitoes and rain- so we could have our meals in relative comfort. I loved the outdoor cooking, the smell of the meat on the grill, helping my mother shuck (sp) the corn..the campfire popcorn, marshmellows, sometimes strawberries and cream. I loved being outside in nature, the peace, the time to relax and read a book by a lake or river. I loved the nature walks and ampatheater shows/talks, and the new places we were able to explore. Hiking with my dad. Cooking with my mom. Occasionally, we would go camping with my father's parents. I remember exchanging stories with my grandmother as I helped her walk to the bathroom. (she was not very steady on her feet) I remember singing to her "who's afraid of the big bad wolf" (She was very patient and never seemed to mind) Sometimes I'd lie down beside her when she had to put eye medecine and wait for it to work into her eyes and we'd share stories again-episodes of the Waltons or Little House on the Prairie. I remember her telling me that she liked the earlier Walton episodes better before they started drinking. I remember clipping some of blond hair into her hair thinking it would make her gray/white hair change back into younger hair and this would make her reverse in age.

Each camping trip was an unique experience. Each was special in its own way and each had its challenges too. When I was about ten, we sold the Starcraft and my parents bought a HILO trailer that would raise with a hydraulic system. As I entered my independent teen stage; I opted to be in my tent and I loved my "own space". I loved listening to the sound of the rain pattering on the canvas as I read or wrote poems or thoughts into my diary. Ahhhh..the endless hours I could spend in my own thoughts back then... (is that child calling to me NOW?)-

my tent on the right

Even after graduating from high school, during college I'd go camping a little by myself. My parents worried, I know when I was on my own..It wasn't quite as fun alone...

One of the first traditions I wished to preserve after getting married was to go camping every summer. We have done that (almost). We tent camp. (I prefer using a tent.) My husband and I camped across the country back in 2002. Then when our son was 3 1/2 months old, we went camping for 8 nights in Florence, Oregon. (a tricky experience because it was cold and we had to lug our food and equipement in a wheelbarrow every mealtime) Our daughter had her first camping experience when she was one. This year we went to the Redwoods for a week and a half. My father was able to join us which felt really special as I owe this important aspect of my life currently to him and my grandfather.

Camping with young children (as parent) isn't the same as when I was a child/teen...It is MUCH more work and less relaxing, but still, it always feels worth the effort as I see my children gain from the experience. Each year, they seem to learn something about nature or become stronger more mature/wise. My son especially is very much at home "outside". My daughter also toughened up quite a bit this summer as we did a lot of "kid hikes" It is good to get away from the TV, the computer, the landline phone..the housecleaning, the toys, the the the... and simplify life a bit..

My father, myself, and my 2 children

My father told me the story of how he started camping. It was my grandfather's idea after reading a magazine. I think my father was about 14-15 when they first went...so that would have been the early 1950's.

They found an old tent that my great-grandfather had collected when he was working as a janitor. The rest of the equipment they made themselves.. I think it was very cold/hard sleeping on the bare ground/

I guess that parks were just being built as a way to boost the economy-getting families to sight-see, to travel, spend money, etc..

In any case, it has become our family tradition; and I hope it continues for more generations to come.. I hope we preserve enough of our parks that my great-grandchildren can also experience the awe and spiritual relationship to our world.

my husband and children (drawing/writing in their journals).

Poem I wrote while in my tent and listening to a storm outside:

The Test of Life (8/21/89) 16 years old.

The violent storm raged

Gales of wind whipped the ocean

as lashes struck each wave

A war between land

that wanted to be constant

and forces that made change

The clouds covered the earth

with black malicious eyes

and loud striking commands

So much hate, yet the earth's world is a mirror

of the spiritual trials we follow

The cruel attacking

The merciless striking of lightening

leaving a shock of pain

To look at the clouds

No realization of the malice

that could break you

because you cannot really see

Until it hits you

you can ignore the clouds

fight the wind

but you cannot obstruct the lightening

all their lives

people fight the wind

and deal with lightening

as it strikes close by

If they fight hard enough

they will survive the storm

to be rewarded with a definition

stronger than the hurt

The sunny day seems so much brighter

And the person

so much more whole, confident,

and less wary of survival

If this can be gained

how could those hateful clouds

be seen as so hateful

when they give us a gift

nothing else could giveenjoying nature (me at 14 yrs.)

A little blurb on the history of camping:http://www.talkcamping.co.uk/guides/history_of_camping.html

Age 12 (1987) Second to last visit with Grandma

Ok. I did say that this would be a time capsule "eighties" And in my vision of this blog; I imagine a going back and forth between the past and the present time including excerpts from old journals. I took a look at 1987...Yikes. I was a dork. Well, not really a dork, but it is embarassing how much I talked about "crushes" and the such at that stage in my life. I was 12. But here at the end of that diary is a significant memory I have.

So, here goes: (keep in mind that this is in the words of a 12 year old...many spelling (sic) and such errors and probably typos in copying.) and forgive my immature 12 year old perspectives..

Saturday, April 25, 1987 age: 12

I just finished the paper route with dad. He didn't have to work today. So we didn't have to get up at four. I'm not tired at all even if I wen tto bed at eleven and got up at five. Yesterday the most amazing thing happened to me. We went to go visit Grandma at the hospital, because she had a severe shock almost a stroke leaving her right side paralyzed. This happened Monday just after we had spent the weekend with Grandpa for Easter. Grandpa told us Grandma wouldn't even recordnize (sic) us. She couldn't talk or anything. Excpet somehow deep inside me I couldn't realize that. When mom and I went into her room (which last time we were visiting her I was about eleven and wasn't allowed to see her, because of my age) The first look at her I thought she was dead, I was so scaired(sic). I waslked over to her and she was sleeping. I tried to wake her, but I coudlnt' tell if she was awake or asleep. I tried to talk to her, but she gave no signs of recordnition (sic). I read her a healing prayer(my favorite the one I read when I burned my foot). still no recordnitions I told her over and over how much I love her still no resonse that was when I remembered all the times I told her that and she would kiss me and later on when she went to the convelenscent (sic) home she would squeeze my hand, but she just lay there unrecorditionalble. I started to cry. I have never eally felt this way before, except when I couldn't find Panoochie, (our cat) or when I aw that dead cat. When I cried over Mr. Wyman it wasn't my true feelings or when I cried of Grandma Kennedy it really wasn't real, but this time it was true tears not tears that I thought I should shed.

Then mom came over and said a prayer for her. I then kept talking to her and telling her about camping all the fun we had. When I told her stories about the tv series, Waltons, and Little House on the Prairie. The n the nurse came in and I asked if I could hold her hand, I no longer felt like crying. I tried to hold her hand, but she shook it and didn't want any part of it. She probably thought I was a nurse. So I just put my hand over hers and kept talking ot her. I put my head on her sholder and closed my eyes for a while. I wanted to show her my love and that it was me. that was when she turned her head and looked at me. She moved her hand and I held onto it. She sqeezed my hand! and looked at me directly in the eyes. I knew she had responded to me. I told her about the movie Rags to Rickes and I cold tell she liked that. Itold her again that I love her. The time was running out though, we had been with her for most of the time and had to give dad and grandpa a chance to see her. I told her we had to go and I kissed her on the lips and she kissed me back! That gave dad and granpa only 20 minutes to see her. while we waited in the waiting room I saw people talking to a deaf person in sign language. I wen tover and talked to that person with my hands too using letters. When dad and grandpa came back they said granma was very conscous(sic) and even reached for granpas (sic) hand. I have never felt this good in my life.

My Mom

My mother's name was Cindy and she passed away when I was 26 from a heart attack. She was 55. It was sudden and took us all by surprise. I never thought I'd lose my mother at this stage in my life, before I was married and had my children. She would have been an incredible grandmother. She was certainly one incredibly devoted and loving mother. I was an only child, so of course, I became a focal point of my parents attentions and hopes. more than I wanted to be; however, now I miss my mother tremendously.

I miss what I know she would do.. Talk about her grandchildren endlessly. Share and brag about their pictures. Send them gifts and save things just for them. I feel like my children are missing out on that-the kind of devotion and love that she she was overflowing with.

I do believe; however, that she is with us in ways that I can't even imagine...like a guradian angel..part of the mysterious Concourse on High.. Perhaps life would not be so good right now without her "protection"..I feel like she is helping protects us. perhaps.. And her influences..perhaps she whispers in our ears the guidance we need in those rough moments..Perhaps she soothes my children in their sleep.

One example of her love was that she read to me every night. I can't say enough how important it is to read to our children. Reading was something I looked forward to every evening. It comforted me..it was and expression her love, her time spent with me and because of that I have loved books, reading, learning..and because I loved books, I found a way to survive/and sometimes thrive in school.. And now, I read to my children every night..

I would like to write more about her in this blog..about her influence upon me..and about how that impacts my own "motherhood".."womanhood"

This is a poem I wrote about her a few years ago:



Squishy Love: Raw Memory
In my memory of
My Mother:
11/26/06

Body

Warmly soft voluptuous
Folds and handles
Sweat and rash
Womanly musk

Jagged cropped to quick fingernails
Striped stained shirt damp from dishes
Short straight black hair wet
Slow wobbled walk
Unhurried speech
A treasure map of side trips

Her eyes fiercely loving
Searched and squinted
Trying to understand
Straining to see


Soul

Her smiles like her name full of light
A complete unguarded eruption of joy
Gleamed in her eyes.
Her laugh robust, unchecked and unpretentious

An ox of will
A mission she holds fast
Generations of her mothers within her cells
Drive her onward

Strong, she ascended her damaged brain
Her mind remembered
Despite corporeal commands to forget
Her heart would later fail her
But never her will
Forever her will and her love
Perhaps she hugs me still
In the whisperings inside my soul


Lioness of love
Fierce and protective
In the layers of reign I’d feel overwhelmed
She’d see where I would try to hide
Under my bed or within myself
My childhood basked in it
My adolescence rejected it
…..My adulthood misses it….


Memories

Faithfully every night beside my bed,
She read stories
We journeyed together with
Imagined and real characters
A rabbit gentleman and
A spunky pioneer girl
Her low rich womanly voice
Stumbling over words
Soothed me
Into a safe, comforted slumber

Night fears were greeted with patience
She rocked me back into her womb, my refuge.
Her body like a luxuriant fleshy pillow heated my own
In the cold dark house
We snuggled in the company of the gentle ticking of the mantel clock
The humming refrigerator
The crunching wooden joints
As our weight strained the chair

On the couch, the three of us
Our Tradition of Laurence Welk and Waltons
Buttered popcorn and salty tears
Her touched heart would unveil
I fondly remember,
In the shake of the couch
A silent cry, like her unquiet laugh
Unmasked by her all familiar tremor




Her heart open and moved
The child inside
Footprints of who she has always been
Petals opening briefly
Revealing her sentimental heart

Walks, the two of us
Colored lights sparkling over
Snowy cold New Hampshire dusk
The smell of the cold metallic
Snow crunching and melting in my mouth
Memories of the
Quaint New England stores
The white gazebo and fountain
The steepled church -
The Queen of the traffic circle



What lives on…

Now I hold my own children
Against my milk filled breasts and spongy middle

I regret that they do not know her
I ache that I can no longer be a child in her arms
I mourn for my father’s loneliness and
I feel cheated of a mother’s comfort
When I most want a grandmother for my children.

But, in my touch I know it is like hers
And because of her, I can love my babies fiercely
I read to them as she read to me
And walk with them as she walked with me.

I even think that perhaps
Through my touch, they will know her
Squishy love
Someday, in the ethereal
The place where we all eventually
Mesh in a forever embrace