We’re hurting, exhausted to the soles of our feet because she’s grieving. We’re not hurting because it’s our experience. It’s her lonely path to walk. We stand by useless, offering words, our hands, our hearts. But it’s hopeless.
But she’s grieving outloud. She’s gut wrenching, heart rending, soul tearing, screaming, sobbing at the sky, to the dirt and to those who are listening.
There’s no words to describe the sounds coming from her mouth. There’s no words that can describe her tear soaked face, the horrible sorrow in her eyes. This drags us down to the depths of her indescribable sorrow.
She wants us to know. She wants to unburden, crying out. But she can’t, though she tries, it’s just too painful. We can’t save her from this agony.
The present is too much to bear. The loss too profound. She wants to tell us her beautiful, terrible memories to comfort herself but the stories only bring with it, heartache… sorrow is too gentle of a word. This is worse than anything.
I light candles for her. But nothing I do will help. I answer her back. I tell her that I hold her in my heart. I tell her that I care and that I’m crying, too. But what good are my words. They fall leaden, heavy around her and blanket the ground… of no help at all.
This sorrow she will carry forever. She is changed and every breath will hurt for a long, long time. All of the plans that were laid are splintered, crushed. And anger walks with sorrow. She can’t help but to ask, “why”?
She beats the air with her fists. She strikes out at strangers, friends, family. She says, “don’t talk to me. I have nothing to say”, when our hearts are swollen with unspoken words. It’s all we have to offer. We have to step back, hurting for her, silently begging her, “be brave”, as the abyss of grief threatens.
But this is a loss beyond words.
PS~ I can still hear Grandma saying, “We shouldn’t have to bury our children”. But bury them, we do.
My recorders, an alto and a soprano. Constant companions for 50 years.
I finally have to let the next thing go. I reluctantly give up my recorders as I wonder what will be next. This is the last of my music making. I know without doubt that this is not the final loss.
My life was not governed by my right arm until the last decade. In fact, I never thought of it. It’s just been my right arm. I’ve made do. And no one noticed it.
As a young girl, there were games. There was volley ball, softball and soccer. Bicycle riding, scooters, pogo sticks. Swimming all summer at Pier Park. Mom enrolled me in tap dancing at two. And ballet classes thereafter until high school was over. I played the clarinet and bass clarinet in the band and the orchestra. Then there was spinning and weaving, and teaching aerobics. Riding mountain bikes and camping and hiking in the wilderness. Caring first for babies and then active children. There was laundry and cooking, cleaning, gardening…
Then what happened? When did the losses start happening? When did I notice it? What went first? I don’t remember it was so gradual.
I remember thinking in my 20s what it would be like to raise both hands over my head, but there was nothing lost. It was just a thought.
I wanted to be twirled around by my boyfriend while dancing, most of which is by the right arm. But I couldn’t, so he accommodated without me asking or explaining. We danced at home, at clubs and at house parties. But there was nothing lost.
At aerobic classes, I had to explain to my students to do with both arms, what I was doing with only one. But nothing was lost.
Kristi helped me fasten the back garters on my nylons every school day. But there was nothing lost.
I fell a lot on my bicycle when the handlebars jerked out of my hand and I couldn’t catch myself, so I was bruised and I’d bleed and now I have scars to prove it. But nothing was lost.
Sure, I dreamed of being a dancer or a musician but there was so much more that I wanted to be and do that I never bemoaned my fate. Nothing was lost.
Then what happened? When did it start? I really don’t remember. When did I realize that I was losing? What was the first thing I lost?
I think I first noticed that my arm was no longer serving me at full capacity, when as an archivist, I was struggling to place or retrieve 50 lbs. boxes overhead in storage. As this became more troublesome, I was dropping boxes, while standing on a ladder, pulling them with my left hand onto my chest. I would balance them there while descending the ladder and walking in a back bend to the nearest table where I carefully slid it to safety.
However, I knew that this just wouldn’t do. Fortunately, there was never a disaster. There easily could have been. I could have been injured and I could have destroyed or damaged materials. The collection was comprised of priceless museum artifacts, photographs that included dueguerrotypes, glass lantern slides, and every other type of photographic variants, priceless diaries, 150 years of research documents, books, etc. I’d been caring for these precious items for nearly 16 years, creating the first organized archive at my institution. My pride was hurt. I’d never had to accomodate for my arm before.
Again, fortunately, I had volunteers, students and an archival assistant to pull materials for researchers, to shift boxes, to help retrieve collections from departments, schools and individuals. My assistants began to do all of the heavy work that had always been my job. Yes, of course, I had writing to do, research, acquisitions, teaching and training, creating exhibits, committee work and all of the administration duties, management of the archives and workers, but the heavy lifting was over.
My wonderful left arm had been doing double duty all of my life. But now, my shoulder was failing to do everything I had always expected of it. My thumb, my dear poor thumb, had been pulling files, picking up large and small books and everything else throughout my life. Eventually, arthritis has developed in all but my ring finger, while my right hand is as soft and unused and unharmed as a babies.
This degradation was so gradual that I failed to see its progression for years… or did I ignore it, not wanting to admit that my right arm was responsible for the unwanted changes occurring in my life.
I still want to ride bikes, weave and spin, carry in firewood, rake the autumn leaves, carry in groceries two bags at a time, wrap both arms around someone and play my recorders. But I have to acquiesce. If I don’t accept the incapacity of my right arm, I will only do further damage to my left arm and without it, I won’t be able to make my bed, brush my teeth, or do any other kind of self care including eating. Without my precious left arm, I would not have had the adventurous life I have lived. I accept now that there is loss. There has been loss, I just didn’t see it.
I give great credit to my parents who never said, “No, you can’t do that”. I played right along side the neighbor kids. Mom, numerous times had to put my right arm back in the socket, until a bone fusion permanently held it in place. She carried me to the doctor with a broken arm. They bought me a softball mit, a tricycle and a later a bicycle. They sent me off to the pool on my bike to swim all day. I climbed trees and raced up and down sand dunes and mountain trails. When I was in a full torso and arm cast after surgery, they agreed to let me ride on the back of a motorcycle with my boyfriend to go to the races. Because of them, I never told myself that I couldn’t do something. Because of them, my life now is full of joy, contentment and unbelievable memories.
Sure, I couldn’t be a dancer or a musician, but I could dance and play music. And I could and did thousands of other things. So, though I have lost and am losing my ability to do lots of things, I can still do lots of other things.
You might say that I was lucky since there are people who have suffered greater loss than me. I’m painfully aware of that and I know just how lucky I have been. But this is my story. This is my life and I have lived every moment of it. I now take better care of my left arm and I hope it will serve me as faithfully as it always has until the end of my days. However, it deserves a rest, and I’m fine with that.
Postscript: Once while walking down the avenue in Santa Monica, a stranger came up to me and while looking into my eyes said that my right arm would lead me to the light.
We have been in lockdown. We have been quarantined since mid-March 2020. We are expected to wear masks when in public places. Stores and restaurants and bars were shutdown, many to never open again. Businesses have closed. There is massive unemployment. People are infected with Covid-19 and some are dying.
And worse yet, we have a toxic president pushing for a fascist regime. He is up for reelection in November and his campaign is deeply rooted in white supremacy. He is hell bent on destroying not only America but the world. I’m terrorized.
I could write a list of what is wrong but it would be too long for the post I want to write. I will say only that we need real change. We need a universal awakening to stop the engrained systemic racism resulting in police brutality and injustice and inequality in every aspect of life.
We are destroying our home. We have raped and pillaged our only source of life. This just might be the end of us. And yet we persist in this destruction. My heart is sick.
And yet, the earth will heal after our self-inflicted demise, there is no doubt. When we no longer strip the forests, pollute the air, soil and water; when we are no longer here to burn down our home, the earth will recover. I should be hopeful.
While I wake every morning to face yet another day, to sort through what new tragedy has taken place, what new atrocities await us… how much money we spend on war machines to annihilate innocent people, to count how many children are in cages, how many refugees are in transit, and are hungry and homeless, how many US citizens are homeless and hungry, and not to mention the working poor, I become more cynical and without hope. I can hardly take it.
And yet, I am one of the lucky ones. I have shelter, food, clothing family and friends, but that brings no solace. Solace will only come with real and lasting change. History teaches us that only hatred and greed are the only constants in this world.
You will argue with me, I know that. I have heard all the arguments. There is nothing new that you can come up with. NOTHING!. You will say, “but look at all the beauty that surrounds you: nature, music, all of the arts, people who are good, people who are protesting and working towards a better world.” I know. But that doesn’t make change. It never has and I doubt that it ever will. I feel desperate.
But my initial intention for this post is to celebrate our mother, our great mother, who would provide for us everything we need if we weren’t so full of hate and greed. We do not understand her.
Two people have mentioned the changing of the season though we are not quite half way through summer. Do we somehow, intuitively feel the change, see it in the shadows, and see the end of life of earth’s flowering? Fruit and vegetables and all that carry seeds are ready to burst and fall upon the ground.
I have resisted and complained when folks start talking about the season’s ending when we’re fully engulfed in the present season. But I am beginning to understand and to embrace it. I think this follows my lack of recognition of changes in my own body.
I was never really conscious of my own, very intimate, monthly cycles of ovulation and the impending expulsion of my eggs in a flood of fluid and blood. I never experienced PMS symptoms or cramps with my menstrual cycle. I never knew when those changes were about to take place or were taking place until there was obvious evidence. And when the cessation of that cycle came, I wasn’t conscious of the internal changes taking place. I didn’t equate the changes of my emotions and psychology together with the changes in my body. The symptoms of menopause were slight and short-lived.
I am not saying that I didn’t sense the changes as one season was ending or another beginning but I was fully present: summer was summer, winter was winter, etc. Don’t talk to me about spring when it is still winter.
I am just beginning to understand how others more overtly acknowledge and accept mother earth’s cycles, her seasons and how that pertains to my own lack of consciousness of my own cycles… her barreness, her fertility, her impregnation and fullness of pregnancy and then her birthing. And of course there is the building up to each cycle, so I should have been able to put these together. I could be more joyful at the slow turning of the seasons and to welcome other’s acknowledgement that they sense the preparation of the mother to the changes.
Though the universe, the planets and the stars, tell us that the solstice and the equinox turns on this date or that date, we are in the fullness of earth’s cycles everyday and even in the smallest of increments.
How to tie the world’s demise to the earth’s resilience? Well, as chilling March turned into April, winter awoke from slumber and sprang forth in exuberance. Trees grew leaves and flowers. Sprouts burst out of the cold soil. Color was everywhere. Even in April’s cold rains, life emerged, undaunted by the turmoil produced by humans.
If I could wish for anything, it would be peace and justice and a consciousness that this earth is our mother, the very source of life, and that everything is dependent on our loving care.
So friends, let’s talk about the changing seasons. Let’s talk about how “a change is gonna come”. Let’s talk about it. Just maybe it will.
I stood trembling in front of the double doors in the living room, shaking not from cold but for reasons I could not understand.
I was dripping with water that had been generously sweetened with honey and had been poured over my head. I really did not want to hear anything more but I knew that I had to keep my ears and eyes open even though right then, I had them firmly shut.
Oshun was standing on the other side of the room and I knew she was not through with with me yet. At any rate, I was assuming it was she.
The singing continued and so did the beat of the drums. The room was dark except for the evening light that shone through the trees and in through the open doors. The light of the candles added little to dispel the dimness.
Ramiro was speaking but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His head fell back as he laughed and when he opened his eyes to look at me it was as though I had never seen him before.
He stood up from where he had been sitting, petitioning the deities, barefoot and shirtless in a pair of khaki shorts. He stood very close to me as he pulled his pants up high around his waist, lifted his head and looked down his nose at me.
“Do you know who I am?” He appeared very feminine as he began to move around the room, sashaying and swaying his hips sensuously and moving his shoulders very coquettishly. He held his head high, pushing his chest out, then he asked again, “Do you know who I am? I said yes, thinking I was standing in the presence of Oshun.
“Who told you to light candles to Chango? I did not tell you to. He does not like putas and you are very puta. I am his and he is mine.” He collapsed on the floor with his legs wide apart and demanded loudly “Please, bring me water and honey.”
I brought him water in a glass and the plastic bear containing honey that I used for tea. He dismissed them with disgust, waving his arms arrogantly and laughed loudly saying, “No, I want water, water, lots of water…
Make it sweet and set it here in front of me.” At this I found the biggest container I could find and filled it to the brim, emptying all of the honey into the water.
As I set it on the floor, he first bathed himself starting with his head, splashing it on his body and taking large mouthfuls of it and spraying it into the four corners of the house and then out both of the doors.
Then finally, he came over to me and washed me roughly with the sweet water from head to foot, splashing it all over. He sprayed it from his mouth in my face and all over my body, washing my arms and my breasts and stomach. He turned me around as he washed my buttocks and my legs and feet. “I will cleanse you”, she said. “You have not been living clean. You say that you love your man, but you are very puta. Why? answer me”, she demanded.
I began to cry and said, “Only to take away my loneliness.” With his hands on his hips, he sashayed over to the farthest corner of the room.
As he walked, his movements, though feminine were somewhat stiff. He lurched, nearly knocking over the table and lamp. As I reached out to grab the table he whirled around and snapped, magically as though he had eyes in the back of his head, “Do not touch me. You are an angel but you are dark. I can hardly see you. Stand over there.”
I moved to the farthest corner, next to the double doors. “You need to buy new clothes. Do not wear black anymore. Come here.” I walked over to him and he clamped his hand over my ears, pounding them with his open palms. She said, “I’m going to cleanse you.”
As he spoke words that I couldn’t understand, he rubbed my body, my arms, my legs in forceful downwards movements. He then told me to sit on the floor.
“There’s a woman that you hate. Yes? No? She has the man that you love. So you know who I am? Yes or no? Papijim, he is mine. I have taken him from you. You do not have what he needs. He does not want to dance with you. I have taken him from you. He does not want sex with you, papijim. I have what he needs”, she says, pulling his pants up and he begins to sway his hips sensually. He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes and turned his head from side to side mockingly. “You have committed many errors and now, papijim, he is mine. You do not know how to live. You do not know how to enjoy life.”
He was snorting and scoffing. She was so sure of herself as she so cruelly mocked me. She laughed out loud and I knew she was right. I was alone. I was broken. Chastised.
Several minutes later, another orisha arrived. He looked as though he saw another person in the room. He dropped his pants and grabbed his genitals. “You have preferred this. You must change.
“Buy girasoles (sunflowers). Buy white flowers that have no pink or yellow. Put the petals in a bucket of clear water. Wash your hands and arms in the water as you crush the petals in your fingers. When you are done, throw the water out the door of your house.” He left me reeling.
Before he left, he sprayed rum into the four corners of the house and around the doors to keep evil away. He moved my image of Eleggua to face the front door to guard against whatever might wish to pass to do me harm.
Postscript:
This is just a small example of what I witnessed while I lived with the Cubans. I learned so much about the way they think and about the way they view sickness and ways that they heal. Because they were refugees and lived in a city where items that they needed to perform certain rituals were not readily available, I saw a great deal of adaptation, accommodation and ingenuity. This lack did not affect how they lived any more than the slaves were disabled because they arrived in the new world without the necessary paraphernalia to carry on.
I will not go into descriptions of the orishas (gods), in this instance, Oshun and Chango, or what this experience was all about. I will let it stand but I will tell you more as these stories emerge on this blog.
I lived with Ramiro, a santero (priest in Santeria), for three years and was immersed in his religion. Later, I studied Cuban folklore and spirituality with other priests in both Santeria and Palo and at UCLA.
This story took place when we were no longer together but still very close.
This is one story of many that I will share with you.
It wasn’t until I saw myself as the tree, clinging to the side of the cliff, hanging over a raging sea, that I was finally – finally able to see myself as beautiful.
I saw the tree, twisted and contorted by storms blowing in from a turbulent ocean. Rain, pounding the sandy soil, washing away its only source of life… or so I thought.
Dark days turn repeatedly into black nights of threatening clouds and stormy chaos, determined to wash the tree off the precipice and into the icy and crashing waters, year after year.
The tree, contorted and twisted by harsh weather, would otherwise stand tall and straight if not continually buffeted. It’s branches symmetrical in form and covered with graceful needles.
But the tree, perhaps not beautiful in the eyes of some, had grown strong. Its roots exposed to the chilling elements, had dug ever deeper into the earth, into the rock, drawing its sustenance from what seemed impossible. Its branches nearly naked, stripped of all but tufts of stubborn needles.
The tree had learned not to resist where it had been sown. Instead, it welcomed the pelting sand and the stinging rain and the bleaching rays of the sun when they came. I saw it as beautiful.
The tree gave in to nature’s artist’s hands and in so doing did not die but thrives.
I finally retired in October 2014. My sister, Kristi, had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.
Kristi’sMine
We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.
Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.
I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.
I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.
When she was only 3 years old, and I was only 5, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.
I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.
eyeamdust 