Goodbye Song

My father died last week.  Our relationship was complex, as was his story.  I knew him very little, yet I feel like I understood him well.  His own experience--as an immigrant, as someone from a distant place--surely plays a role in my own passion for the world.  I wrote this poem for him.

********************



When I hear that you are gone, a waterfall of memories and feelings flood the room. 

I see myself at four, standing barefoot in the kitchen

and bravely trying the curried rice you make,

while you laugh and offer milk to cool my throat.

I see us one warm Easter day, me turning dizzy-around in my floating yellow dress. 

I see us peering into the garden that fascinates me—

it seems to be carved from the center of your house, and it dances with the sky.

And later…I see you grumbling about the naughty kids

who cut holes in your hammock, so that when you laid down

to listen to birdsong and watch the sunset, you fell right through. 

I listen to you talk with my husband about those common things

you both treasure in your distant countries.  The easy slowness.  The endless dirt roads.

The rains that fall so hard they threaten to collapse the painted tin roofs,

and are so loud that people close enough to hold hands cannot hear one another speak.

 

 

I wonder what you were like as a boy, when everything in your life was just beginning. 

I close my eyes and see you with an eager smile and bright eyes that take in everything. 

I imagine you climbing gnarled trees and racing alongside your giggling friends. 

I see you proudly bundling wood in your arms to make the cooking fire,

and flinging yourself headlong into the wide, brown river.

 

I think of your first years as a doctor, so far from your country when the map shapeshifts in a fury of fire and rage, when the home you have always known becomes another place.  How scared you must have felt, and how confused about what would come next.  I think of the years since, when you have worked so hard to build out of the unknown a life filled with work and relationships and love.

 

How strange it is that just last week, my tiny neighbor

Arik taught me to say “goodbye Dad” in Bengali. 

Saying this made us both laugh.  The words bounced along just like Arik does. 

How could I know I would need to say them so soon?  “Bangli Tata, Baba.” 

I would rather not say this goodbye.  And I wish I could say it after years of knowing you better. 

 

When I was a child and someone died,

the grown-ups would say “well, he’s at peace now”

 in such a doleful tone that peace held no appeal for me.

But after years of learning my own way in the world,

I think of the good in this good-bye and it feels true. 

I imagine goodness opening for you now

in the world of spirit, like a magnificent flower. 

I imagine you there, bright-eyed, with your own father,

with my mother, with the patients you have worried over and fought for.

 

In the river beyond this world, I wish for you lazy hours along its bank, vibrant birdsong,

a woven blue hammock tied between palms, a fishing pole at your side,

and a smile on your face.  I wish you fullness and grace and every kind of flowering. 

May the good in this goodbye fill you like the sun and flow over onto the rest of us,

so that even when it’s raining, we will think of you and see rainbows.

Fish Jumping At Dusk

Hello, Dear One.  How good it is that you are reading these words.  Yes, with much ballyhoo and glee I launched this blog a few moons ago—only to write nary a word for months on end….

But I am here now.  And you are here, too.

Let us grab a cup of end-of-summer lemonade and celebrate.

 

I planned this blog with the stories of others in mind. But I realize that sometimes I also need to write about the ways I meet the world.  Today strange travel joys have been on my mind.  I delight in journeys that dunk me headfirst into the unexpected.  I might not exactly feel dance-a-jig-jubilant in the very moment the unexpected is happening, but the unexpected is what I’m still thinking about years later.

 

I spent my childhood summers in Cadillac, Michigan. The lakes everyone came to visit were nice and all, but what I really loved were the rusted fire escapes awkwardly hugging the backs of Main Street’s polite shops. I liked the geometry of their sharp lines, and their rusting paint was my favorite color of sunset. An old empty house along the highway also drew me toward it. Its frayed ivory curtains melted into the half-opened windows. My brave Aunt Esther and I would edge our way toward it. We hollered at one another over the sound of semis careening down the roadway, scaring ourselves with stories of what must have happened there.

Once I was riding a bus in Ljubljana, Slovenia, intending to spend the night in a hostel outside of town.  The ride was taking forever, I spoke no Slovene, and I had never been in this country before.  Although I had assumed that the driver’s jovial smile and gestures meant he would indeed tell me when to disembark to reach the hostel, after an hour of driving, I was beginning to have my doubts.  Only one other person remained on the bus, and it was starting to rain.  Finally, the driver spoke loudly and grabbed my arm, saying “Next bus” in English.  I found myself following the other passenger off the bus, bewildered.  Then the bus driver got back in the bus and drove away.  I tried in vain to ask people on the street how close the hostel was and whether I could walk.  Another bus drove up, only to leave off two passengers and zoom away before I could climb on.  This happened twice more until finally, damp and dreary, I began to cry.  And that’s when I met Anita.  The first thing she told me was that the buses had not stopped for me because their destination, spelled out in large letters I couldn’t read, was “garage”.  She was a student who loved to practice English.  Did I want to get some coffee and meet her mother? Did I want to eat some potica and learn something about life in Slovenia?  I did.  Eventually I made it to the hostel, but first I enjoyed being lost.

 

A few weeks ago, my friend Deanne and I met in Skaneateles, New York, which was supposed to be a five hour drive. As I was about to print a google map, something in me rebelled and reached for the tattered road atlas instead. I wanted a weekend of spontaneity and unexpected sights, without computers and technology and busy-ness.  So I eyed what looked to be my route, and stopped at a few coffee shops and diners to double-check.  I channeled my inner eight-year-old and pretended I was searching for lost treasure.  It was interesting to guess whether the people I asked for directions would be surprised or pleased or annoyed that I didn’t have directions in hand; whether they would be certain or vague about the route I could follow next.  I arrived in Skaneateles a little later than I had planned.  But I was excited that I had found my way on my own terms, and I felt like the next thing that happened was going to make me smile.

Once at dusk in Cahuita, Costa Rica, two friends and I stood waist-deep in the warm ocean, looking at the mangrove trees that lined the shore, and breathing in the calmness of the air.  The sky was the color of ripe papaya as it edged toward darkness.  Suddenly fish were flying through the air as though they were Olympic gymnasts.  The performance went on for a long while, and we were the only people to witness it.  When the fish finally sank into the water, we grinned at one another and asked if what we had seen was real.

 

You could say the fish were just hungry or I over-reacted to a late bus or I wasted my time reading maps.  But I’d rather say my experiences were wild bits of magic, and the world and I fed them to one another.

Bright Blossoming Woman



 

For the past few years a small flowing sculpture has been blooming on my walls.  Intensely colored, rooted in the earth, and unfurling a vibrant blue butterfly, she makes me smile.  This “Woman Transforming” reminds me to delight in where I am, and to remember that where I am going would not be possible without where I have been. 

The artist who created my sculpture, Ana Ovares Ugalde, is a woman who leaves the world more beautiful each day.  A native of Costa Rica, she is an artist specializing in sculpture and mosaics, a massage therapist, and the owner of a natural foods store. Here are some of her thoughts on art and life (translated from Spanish)….



Tell us about your art, Ana.  What do you hope it brings to the world, and to the people who see it and own it? When I create my art I do it thinking of the person who will treasure it, even if I don’t know that person yet.  I create it with love, and with a particular person in mind. 

When did you begin making art?  How did your family and the people around you view it?  My family remembers me looking for clay in the creeks where I grew up.  Art has always been part of my existence.

What would you tell people who long to create but are scared to do so or feel like they're not good at it?  I’d tell them to make art.  They will never know what they are capable of until they take the opportunity to try.  I’d tell them that art is magical, and it has the power to heal.

You are also a massage therapist and a Johrei practioner.  Tell us about your experience of offering these healing practices, and how they are connected to your art.  Everything is one.  Energy is in art; art also heals.  My experience has been very rich.  Over the years I have gained the wisdom to receive my own gifts.  Doing so has made me more sensitive to the energies around us.  [The work I do] has helped me to see my daughters as my teachers, to see my husband in new ways—and all of this has made me a better person; has made me more aware of what we are in a spiritual sense

You have a powerful connection with your intuition.  One of my favorite stories is how you saw a photo of a man when you were twelve years old and knew he would one day be your husband.  Tell us about the role intuition can play in all of our lives.  Intuition is the thing that wakes us up.  It plays such an important role in our lives.  As parents, I think we have a responsibility to encourage our children to recognize their own intuition.  For me, my intuition is life.

What else would you like people to know?  That I touch happiness every day, and that doing this is easy.  It’s a question of appreciating each moment as it occurs.

To learn more about Ana and her work, see Ana Maria Ovares Ugalde on Facebook or visit her website in progress.

Bienvenidos Tervetuloa Welcome….

to “Spin the World Stories,” my heart-felt, humming, people-connecting birthday gift to myself! 

May it be a gift for you as well.

Through this blog we’ll explore the idea that each of us has within us the power to shine our unique, magical light on the world--despite challenge, despite fear, despite people in our lives who might not believe that light exists.  Each of us can positively transform the world around us by using the gifts, perspective, and intuition that are distinctly ours.  Together we’ll learn from people around the world who are doing just that. 

My vision is to eventually share a multitude of stories from each country in the world.  Some may be stories that we can act on by donating time and talent, money, or goods to support a cause.  Others may be things we’ll want to discuss and share with those around us or with virtual networks.  And still others may be quiet catalysts for creating recognition within us or for lighting a fire in our own hearts.

Coming soon:  our first story will feature a small group of Haitian educators who are creating a sanctuary for orphaned and abandoned children.

Notice beauty around you, visit “Spin the World Stories” often, and keep shining your light!!

Abrazos,

Deidra