Spring

Last week I learned that Lois Earnshaw unexpectedly died on April 19. She stumbled and struck her head, but didn't seem seriously hurt. However, she gradually lost consciousness, was taken to the hospital, and died. She was 89 years old, but in good health, so it is quite a shock.

I first met Lois when we moved to New Hampshire; I was 28 years old. She had children about our age. She was talented and articulate and self-confident. A role model.

What is life for? To help each other through, for sure. To find worthwhile things to do. And we’re meant to enjoy our life, to appreciate the people and the beauty around us.

Four days ago, as I was driving into Lexington Center, I saw a hedge of brilliant purple azalea and then a tree with cascading white blossoms. A few days later, I passed under a row of flowering trees and remembered walking among the pink clouds of cherry blossoms in Washington the first spring that David was sick and in the hospital. It's a magical memory from a dark time. Since Patriots' Day, all around us, tree branches are tinged with many shades of delicate green. The trees haven't leafed out, but the promise is there. We don’t have the profusion of blooms southern cities like Washington, D.C. have, but the contrast between the winter bareness and the flowering shrubs and budding trees delights the heart.

Making the bed

I missed my blog deadline last week. The third Monday in April is a state holiday in Massachusetts and Maine, to commemorate the Battles of Lexington and Concord. Three-tenths of a mile from our house is the Lexington Battlegreen, where His Majesty’s troops meet the local militia of Lexington. Each year the battle is re-enacted. We open our acre yard for friends, and friends of friends, and anyone who has the least connection to us, for parking. One year we parked 60 cars, and no cars were blocked. This year the forecasted rain lowered our attendance: we parked only 30 cars and hosted about 100 people for breakfast.

Yesterday I walked into our guestroom and had a magical experience. The bed was so neatly made I thought I had stepped into a five-star hotel. The cotton comforter was as smooth as satin. Jim’s cousin was our guest Friday night. He’s a former Air Force pilot and it shows. I was touched by the care he took in the simple act of making the bed.

As I sit here writing, a “Christmas” cactus that decided to bloom for Easter gracefully bends towards my laptop screen. The blossoms are an improbably rich pink. The purple hyacinth I picked this morning perfume the kitchen.

Indecision

Before David got leukemia, I had a habit of driving down to the New Jersey/New York area regularly. I would make a loop, staying in the Bronx with Peter, Xiomara, and Andrew, then driving to New Jersey to be with my parents. On my way back home, I’d stop by and see my brother, Mike in his residential facility. With David’s illness, those trips stopped. Sometime after his death, I resumed the trips. Mom and Dad had both died, so the loop changed: I’d visit Mike in New Jersey, feed him supper, drive to Manhattan to have supper with R’el, then onto the Bronx to spend a few days with Peter, Xiomara, and the kids.

Mike died in January, a week after I had visited him in his New Jersey nursing home and made the loop. In February, R’el and Peter’s family went to Florida for February vacation, so I took the month off. Next week, Jim and I are going to take a two-day trip to the Bronx. My first solo trip since Mike's death will be in May. I’ve been paralyzed about it. It should make things simpler, to drop the trip to New Jersey. But it makes it more complicated emotionally.

Isn’t it an odd thing. Much like my indecision about which support group to attend, or whether to just go home, eight days after Mike's death, the question of how exactly to do these trips, the logistics, the when and where, overwhelm me. I emailed R’el with my dilemma and she cheerfully wrote back, suggesting travel options and offering to look into anything I needed help with. All of which I could have easily researched myself, but which seemed beyond my capacity.

A friend of mine at Compassionate Friends, my bereaved parents’ support group, said she thought she’d been holding it together until she looked at a restaurant menu and realized she couldn’t decide what to order. Yes, it’s exactly like that.

For our monthly family book group, we read and discussed Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. Jim and I also watched the excellent 1993 film, starring Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson. The main character, Stevens, is a butler in a great English country house in the 1920s to 1950s. He is extremely proper and reserved: he values “dignity” above all else, including human relationships. It’s a heartbreaking story. At times of great emotional crisis, all Stevens can express, even to himself, is that he is ‘tired’. That’s how his emotions find expression. For me, indecision is the expression of my grief.

Envy

Last Sunday Jim and I heard Terryl Givens speak at church in Cambridge. He’s a professor of English at the University of Richmond and a prolific writer. Listening to him speak, it's obvious he is also a prodigious reader. Jim took careful notes, which I transcribed two nights ago.

I left the talk feeling the joy of scholarship. I fantasized of reading every author and thinker that he mentioned, of studying New Testament Greek, of understanding philosophy and theology as well as he. It was pure fantasy, which I realized even as I aspired. And I didn’t descend into envy: I consciously chose to celebrate his accomplishments and appreciate the enrichment he gave me through his lifetime of study and thinking. He possesses an extraordinary intellect: I do not. I want very much to respect him for that and be grateful for his generosity in sharing his learning and insights.

Our congregational choir is rehearsing for our Easter program April 21. Tess, our director, is a consummate musician (she plays harp professionally) and has an ambitious program in mind, including a chorale from Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion. Last week I practiced my part and even listened to the whole piece on YouTube. I am not at all familiar with it: my experience has been with orchestral and instrumental works more than choral.

Last Sunday’s rehearsal was painful. There were only about eight of us, including just two altos. Although I had mastered the first page, much of the rest was beyond my grasp and I muddled through. Later in the day, at home, I practiced my part some more. As I thought of the rehearsal, I realized that other singers are much more familiar with the work as a whole and with the chorale specifically. In my new-found mode, I found myself appreciating the musical studies they have made and recognizing that it blesses my world.

 And what is envy? Part of it is embarrassment and inadequacy. It’s a painful awareness of what I don’t have and haven’t accomplished. How much more generous, and pleasant, to be delighted with the gifts of others around me.

As I started this blog post, I realized I've written about this nearly a year ago. I'm swimming!