Explosion of Green

 I flew back from California May 24 and drove with Jim to my 45th college reunion two days later. Never has the Mass Pike seemed so verdant, so lushly green. Mile after mile the hills were packed with tall deciduous trees in every direction. In Main Line Philadelphia stately maples and ancient copper beeches graced the countryside.

California was lovely. I’ve never visited in May and didn’t expect so many roses in gardens and wild flowers along the highways. Northern California, Oregon, and Washington presented majestic evergreens. But for sheer volume of delicious, deciduous green in rolling hills, nothing matches the East Coast.

I returned home just in time to enjoy a glorious season of rhododendrons. I’ve made a study of them over the years. They always bloom in the same color order. Right now, the earliest color, a light purple, can be seen all over our town.

What did we expect?

 Maggie and I are on a two-week Sisters' West Coast Road Trip. I flew into LAX and the next day, after a tour of John’s amazing Orange-County garden, we headed north. We planned to drive the Pacific Coast Highway, California Route 1, north through Big Sur to Monterey, but it is impassable due to mudslides. So we toured the Hearst Castle instead. Driving the southern portion of the PCH that is open, we walked along a boardwalk and watched female elephant seals lie on the beach. They looked quite lazy, but out in the deep ocean they dive 2000 feet in search of food.

Yesterday as we drove from Berkeley to Crater Lake, I continued my love affair with Mt. Shasta. I first saw it with our kids, in 1995, when Maggie helped me drive from southern California to Seattle. We camped near Mt. Shasta and I was smitten. Why had I never heard of it?

This time around we stopped in Weed, California (prominent citizen Abner Weed settled the area around 1900). We took a few pictures and then headed north on US 97. As Maggie drove I watched my beloved mountain, and we stopped a few times for a picture from yet another angle. At the Mount Shasta Scenic Viewpoint we saw the mountain in its full glory. A informational sign included John Muir’s initial reaction to Mt. Shasta in 1874:

When I first caught sight of it over the braided folds of the Sacramento Valley, I was fifty miles away and afoot, alone and weary. Yet all my blood turned to wine and I have not been weary since.

In the evening we made our way west on Route 62 and entered Crater Lake National Park. Neither of us were able to use our new Golden Eagle passes: the entrance booth was unmanned. Many small piles of brush were smoldering along the roadside: a prescribed burn. The buildings of Rim Village were barely visible among the 20-foot snowbanks. The lodge was the end of the plowed road. Rim Drive, which encircles the lake, was completely snowbound.

What did we expect? A pleasant and scenic drive around the caldera. A few hikes in the woods.

What did we get?  A lot of snow on the ground. Hikes on the asphalt between the lodge and Rim Village. What did we not expect? An afternoon of snowshoeing and time sitting on the veranda watching the lake mirror the surrounding caldera. A friendly grey bird.

Spring is approaching

Last week I  found myself watching the Connecticut coast roll by from the window of an Amtrak train on my way to visit my oldest brother in Bethesda, Maryland, just outside Washington, D.C.

When I was nine, we moved from a little town nestled on the banks of the Susquehanna in central Pennsylvania to New Jersey. (Watch it! I’m very proud of my New Jersey roots.) In high school I often took the Northeast Regional train from Newark’s Penn Station to D.C.’s Union Station to visit said brother. I love trains.

This trip brought back fond memories from high school and later trips to Philly’s 30th Street station during college over 45 years ago.

Seven years ago, I took a night train out of Salt Lake City over the Sierra Nevada to Sacramento, California, and then a northbound train up the Oregon Coast to Seattle. After riding all night I spent each day soaking up the natural beauty through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the observation car.

In my brother’s house I stumbled into another memory. Nine years ago, from March until May, I lived in their guestroom and spent all my days at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. (One of my sons created an acronym: WRENMIMIC) Our Army medic son, David, had AML (leukemia) and flew from Korea, where he was stationed, to Bethesda. After two months at WRENMIMIC he was transferred to MGH and lived with us during his treatments. Fifteen months later he died peacefully in our home.

Jim and I drove down to meet David at Dulles Airport on March 26, 2014. Spring had definitely begun and the daffodils and greening lawns were a bright spot in a dark time. Every day those green patches of grass expanded and shrubs blossomed.

One afternoon when David didn't need me, I took the Metro subway to the National Mall. I walked to the Washington Monument, then to the Jefferson Memorial, and around the Tidal Basin. A cherry blossom canopy floated above me. I was walking among pink clouds and it was glorious.

When our kids were young, we spent many an April vacation driving to Bethesda. The contrast, especially from Manchester, New Hampshire, where we lived for seven years, was striking. In April New Hampshire had barely emerged from winter. All the tree branches and limbs were still bare. In Connecticut the yellow of forsythias dotted the landscape.

Flowering shrubs and trees appeared in New Jersey. Bethesda was in full bloom.

A week later we backtracked, and Spring reversed herself until we were back in the land of bare limbs. But Spring was coming: we’d seen it approaching from the South.

My trip back to Boston last Saturday started out slowly, literally. Through my own fault (I forgottten my brand-new cherry-blossom umbrella behind and couldn’t bear to leave it behind) I arrived at the Amtrak gate one minute past closing. Happily a Northeast Regional was due to leave only 25 minutes later. Even though I had missed my train through my own fault, Amtrak graciously exchanged my ticket.

I’m back to bare limbs from cherry blossoms floating above the lawns. But Spring is coming. I’ve seen her approach.

Two Hymns

 I’m on a Fredrik Backman kick. I was listening to Us Against You, the second book of the Beartown trilogy. A husband and wife lost an infant son years before. The father remarks that the feeling never goes away, but somehow you just keep living. It gave me a twinge of guilt: am I enjoying my life too much, leaving grief in the past?

I let the query pass.

In sacrament meeting the following Sunday, it was announced: we would sing “O Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown of Piercing Thorn” to the tune of “If You Could Hie to Kolob.”

I rarely can choose a favorite: my favorite fruit is either the one in front of me or the one I’ve  not had for the longest: blueberry, peach, rhubarb, cranberry, cherry, the list goes on and on. Food, movies, books are much the same. I love things passionately but can’t elevate one above all others.

However, I realized as I heard this announcement that these were my two absolute favorite LDS hymns. The haunting harmonies pierce my soul.

Realizing that I knew the harmonies of Kolob by heart, I turned to “O Savior” and started to sing. Within two words tears were forming in my eyes. After another line I couldn’t see the page for tears. I tried to mouth the words, but couldn't manage. I dropped the hymnbook into my lap, bowed my head, and wept. Sorrow overwhelmed me. As I sat in the front pew, trying not to sob out loud, I wished there were an angel to put her arm around my shoulder. I literally thought that, strange as it sounds even to me now. A few moments later I felt an arm around my shoulders. I couldn’t trust myself to look up. I struggled to contain the sobs and a gentle voice whispered, “It’s okay to cry.” I wasn't alone.

As the hymn ended and I regained my composure, I glanced at my human angel, it was Sarah, our Relief Society president. When I told Jim the story (as on most Sundays, he attended church at another building that day to serve in his calling), I asked him to guess who the angel was. He guessed immediately, which surprised me. She sits right behind you, he explained, and she’s the Relief Society president.

I felt so loved. God can work through other people.

So what caused the intense grief attack? It was easy to explain. When David was living at home, dying at home, I went through a phase where I would play my CD of Ralph Vaughan Williams' 5 Variants of Dives and Lazarus. (It’s the same tune as “Kolob”). I memorized the hymn lyrics, then played the piece over and over as I washed dishes (this was five years before our automatic dishwasher), tears streaming down my face. Over and over. I’ve sung “Kolob” in church several times since David’s death, and never had this reaction. But the novelty of swapping lyrics and tunes exposed a raw nerve I’d forgotten I had.

I don’t regret the incident. I want to feel. I’m grateful to understand that I’m not heartless and I don’t need to feel guilty. What would David want me to do? Miss him, yes, but also live life to the fullest. Enjoy the experiences of mortal life that he is missing.

"O Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown of Thorns"

"If You Could Hie to Kolob" (Malea Lunt)

hunh! Gentri already did it!

Groundhog Day!

 I rarely can pick a favorite. Maybe it has to do with having six children: mothers aren’t allowed to have favorites. I do love fruit. But which fruit is favorite? I never can’t decide between half a dozen.

Same with movies. But in my all-time top five is Groundhog Day. I literally have three copies: a regular DVD, the 20th anniversary edition, and a Blu-ray version. I watch it at least once a year, on February 2nd, and usually more often. I have actually watched it at least two dozen times. Stop the action at any moment and I can tell you the next several lines of dialogue.

One of my four sons emailed me that Groundhog Day is playing in theaters on February 2 this year. Guess where I’ll be tomorrow?

Have I mentioned I love this movie? I once gave a Relief Society lesson about it. (Relief Society is my church’s women’s organization. We meet together on Sundays for spiritual lessons.) For me, the movie is profound and deep. The director, Harold Ramis, once stated that people of disparate spiritual traditions have told him that the movie is in tune with their values and traditions.

It's a story of redemption. Like many cliched terms, redemption is used so often because it expresses something deeply human. Many of us crave redemption: from mistakes we’ve made, from mistakes others have made that have harmed us, and from pain caused by this very imperfect world.

Phil Connors finds himself thrust against his will into a hero’s journey. He’s finds himself waking up day after day in the same little town of Punxsutawney, living through February 2nd over and over and over again. (The screenplay deliberately obscures how long Phil spent in February 2nd. Estimates have ranged from 10 months to 33 years.). His journey inspires me every time.

If you love the movie, watch:

Harold Ramis on the Metaphor of Ground Hog Day [sic]

Britt-Marie Was Here

I've listened to Fredrik Backman's novel Britt-Marie Was Here three times. I love Britt-Marie.

I listen to a lot of reading material: novels, non-fiction, scriptures, and religious works. It helps get me out the door for long walks, do weight-training, and sweep and scrub my kitchen floor.

When I was a schoolgirl, I invariably answered the question grown-ups often asked children, What do you like to do, with a one-word answer: read. Reading opened up worlds to me.

 

When reading became difficult, a few decades ago, it was a deep wound to my self-image. I was a reader, that was near the core of my identity. Yet my depression, and medication, took that away.

 

After several years of resignation, I finally took my son Matt’s advice and tried audiobooks. It opened up the world again. I still have trouble retaining what I hear, but at least I can comprehend and enjoy it at the time.

 

I belong to a women’s book group and in November 2021 Brit-Marie was on offer. A book about a socially-incompetent old woman, a ‘nagbag’ who starts coaching a children’s soccer team? I took a pass. But it was late fall of 2021 and the group was going to meet in person. Introvert though I am, I was starved for social contact. So, four days before the meeting I changed my mind, got the audiobook, and was smitten.

Backman has a marvelous talent (I’ve now listened to A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, Britt-Marie Was Here, And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer, Beartown, Us Against You, The Deal of a Lifetime, Things My Son Needs to Know About the World, and Anxious People. The Winners is on my Libby hold shelf). He draws complex and sympathetic characters and helps readers fall in love with unlikely candidates. He’s an astute chronicler of human nature with all its nobility and foibles.

Many of us may be like Britt-Marie, more complex and layered than can be detected from the outside. Britt-Marie is so much more than her nagbag exterior. She has a history no one fully knows and appreciates and capacity even she is unaware of. I believe that’s part of being human.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the most famous American poet of the mid-nineteenth century, observed, “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not, and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

I whole-heartedly recommend Britt-Marie and every other Fredrik Backman book. If you do read it, or already have, leave us a comment. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Holiday

 We had a wonderful Christmas Eve. All our five living children were home that day and evening, along with our four grandkids. We had vegan chili for supper and opened presents. Our grandson, Andrew, led us in singing “The Sounds of Silence,” which he had just performed with his fifth-grade choir at school.

I decided to take Christmas week off, just take a full holiday. It was wonderful, including yesterday when, for the New Year’s Day (observed),  Sam and Savannah, Eliza and Link, came for a supper of Alexander's Pizza and a game of Five Crowns. I don’t even remember who gave the game to me, many years ago, but I’d never talked anyone into playing it before this holiday.

But today dawned, drizzling and grey, and yet again I didn’t have enough time to do all the things I hoped.

I realize, yet again, that it has been a story of my life: always fantasizing about doing more than humanly (or at least Mary-ly) possible. A few months ago, I sat in an Adirondack chair, gazing at my fall garden. I realized that sincere gratitude is a huge piece in the quest to find calm and peace. I trust that the serenity gained from deep gratitude will help me as I let go of the false idea that I can do everything.

This is a perennial topic between Jim and me. Jim has been self-employed since 1986. I've been a homemaker since 1981. You'd think we'd have figured it out by now, but we haven't. "Whereever you go; there you are." We realize we are bad bosses to ourselves. If an employer treated his staff the way we treat ourselves: constantly setting up unattainable goals and expectations, the employees would quit and the business would fail.

I don't have any answers. But it's a new year. I'll get up tomorrow and try again.