Within the holy
grief settles around stillness.
Who left? What remains?
This is for another day.
Now there is smoke
and a ravenous sea
barely felt through ends
and seen, if at all, on
a tiny pane, fog
from the earliest voices.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Lighten Up
Lest I give the impression that all of my hours alone were spent in the dulldrums, I want to talk about something I did to our home that would have started an argument when Al was alive. He died in August and the following summer I decided that I'd had enough of the dark wall panelling in our upstairs bathroom. The house is a rustic contemporary with skylights and many windows, and we had fallen in love with all of the light that flooded every room. But he had decided that the wood in the master bath needed refinishing and, against my wishes, had it stained brown. I was bothered by the way it absorbed the light streaming down from the two skylights, but agreed that at least the wood was protected from the shower and bath steam. So I lived with it.
The June after he died, once school was over, I bought a gallon of white pickling formula and tore up a pile of Al's old tee shirts and went to work. He wouldn't have minded my changing the walls; in fact he would probably have liked the results. But the slowness of my process would have driven him crazy. He liked things done quickly and efficiently, and he wasn't exactly a do-it-yourselfer.
All summer and into the fall I lovingly and meditatively rubbed pickling fluid into the wood, plank by plank, and inch by inch. Each board was a revelation, the way the grain stood out from the background and picked up a subtle sheen. I wouldn't have rushed through that job for anything, and it felt like a luxury not to be forced. The physical act of rubbing the wood was a great comfort, bringing me close once again to my late father who used to make craftsman-level changes to our rowhouse in northeast Philadelphia. As the younger of two daughters, I sometimes played "the son," handing him his tools and quietly keeping him company as he worked. That comfortable male compatibility bloomed in me as I reworked the wood in my own home.
And there was something about slowing the work in progress that I enjoyed. I liked seeing how every lightened plank added to the effects in the room. I liked comparing its look in the daytime to that of night. I liked too the anticipation of the next unveiling and knowing I could wait. In fact I liked to wait.
And I liked the tiredness in my arms from pressing the whitening into the wood, following the grain. I liked stopping when that exercise felt like enough. Finally I was taking care of myself and recognizing my own rhythms.
I admit it. There was even a part of me that liked doing something in a way that Al would have hated. He would not have kept his feelings to himself. In the palpable absence of his critical voice--not my favorite of his voices--I felt liberated.
The wall project stayed unfinished from June to November until the upcoming Thanksgiving, which I held at my house, pushed me to lighten the final plank. The result was glorious.
The June after he died, once school was over, I bought a gallon of white pickling formula and tore up a pile of Al's old tee shirts and went to work. He wouldn't have minded my changing the walls; in fact he would probably have liked the results. But the slowness of my process would have driven him crazy. He liked things done quickly and efficiently, and he wasn't exactly a do-it-yourselfer.
All summer and into the fall I lovingly and meditatively rubbed pickling fluid into the wood, plank by plank, and inch by inch. Each board was a revelation, the way the grain stood out from the background and picked up a subtle sheen. I wouldn't have rushed through that job for anything, and it felt like a luxury not to be forced. The physical act of rubbing the wood was a great comfort, bringing me close once again to my late father who used to make craftsman-level changes to our rowhouse in northeast Philadelphia. As the younger of two daughters, I sometimes played "the son," handing him his tools and quietly keeping him company as he worked. That comfortable male compatibility bloomed in me as I reworked the wood in my own home.
And there was something about slowing the work in progress that I enjoyed. I liked seeing how every lightened plank added to the effects in the room. I liked comparing its look in the daytime to that of night. I liked too the anticipation of the next unveiling and knowing I could wait. In fact I liked to wait.
And I liked the tiredness in my arms from pressing the whitening into the wood, following the grain. I liked stopping when that exercise felt like enough. Finally I was taking care of myself and recognizing my own rhythms.
I admit it. There was even a part of me that liked doing something in a way that Al would have hated. He would not have kept his feelings to himself. In the palpable absence of his critical voice--not my favorite of his voices--I felt liberated.
The wall project stayed unfinished from June to November until the upcoming Thanksgiving, which I held at my house, pushed me to lighten the final plank. The result was glorious.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Pictures from the First Year of Widowhood
It's hard to remember my first year after Al died. I lived so much of it by rote. As Emily Dickinson put it, "The feet, mechanical, go round--/Of Ground, or Air, or Ought--/A wooden way/Regardless grown,/A Quartz contentment, like a stone--."
I didn't recognize the shock that enveloped me, but nearly four years since his death I see that it kept me upright and steady, like braces for a falling body. It kept me busy too. I went to work every day and taught my four writing and literature courses. I went out with friends every weekend, obeying the small voice inside that warned against isolation. I signed up for a three-month meal delivery service in an effort to fill in part of the nurturing that Al had offered whole-heartedly as the head cook and take-out planner.
I enlarged my favorite photographs of Al to display in my office, city apartment, and the rooms of my house. Thinking back, I suppose I overdid it, displaying pictures everywhere, but it's just one of the ways that being married to Al changed me. When we first met, I was struck by all of the pictures of family members and friends that he had on his apartment walls. I had been raised to be private, and I took those values to the extreme. Here was a man who went to the other extreme. When I first saw all of his pictures of far-off relatives and friends, both present and past, I was reminded of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story "The Rich Boy" about an unfullfilled man who substitutes photographs for relationships.
I remember doubting whether the guy I was just beginning to know had any more potential than the character in the story. Despite my literary allusions I must admit I carried a sort of Good Housekeeping checklist for potential mates in my head that left no room for my instincts or Al's originality. But I saw things in Al that convinced me to ignore the deeply-ingrained, simplistic warning signs of an unpromising match and kept me moving forward together with him. In fact, if it wasn't too much of an oversimplification, I'd say that over the years he showed me how to let go, and I showed him how to hold on. In his honor I will not attempt to edit that dangling preposition.
And it was in his honor too, that I chose to exhibit photographs of him, of him and me, of him and various nieces and nephews, and of him and Star all over the place. He had put an enlarged photo of the two of us out in the dining room after he had gotten sick, and I remember demuring at the time, but not much. After he died, I nailed it to the wall. It's still there.
One of the photos I enlarged for display was taken on our honeymoon in Hawaii in 1993. It's a close-up of Al that I shot. He took a good picture. He is sitting cross-legged on a hillside. His runner's legs and muscular arms are tanned and shapely. He isn't smiling and he's starting pointedly at the camera. He is wearing a hot pink baseball cap that he never would have chosen for himself. He wore it for me because I loved how it set off his hazel eyes.
Al was 55 when we married, and it was his first marriage. It was my second at 44. I had been decidedly single since I was 29. Even though we had been together for the five previous years, we were both wary at the beginning of our honeymoon and still guarding our illusions of independence. Tying the knot had pushed us into high alert for a few tense days until I realized what was happening and clued him in during a calm moment. We both pretty much settled down after that and enjoyed ourselves. But I loved that picture because it showed him in all of his masculine glory just as he was deciding to compromise his ideals of masculine colors--mostly blues and grays, definitely not hot pink.
I had taken the second picture too, on the deck of the house that we bought in 1998. Al is kneeling on one knee with one arm around Star, our standard, and the other holding a rifle that he used for target practice. I admit that I was as attracted to his marksmanship as I was repelled by the gun. Despite the weapon he gripped with his dominant left hand, his expression had gentled in the five years since we had married. I don't think I've often seen emotion portrayed quite so potently in a photograph, except for some stills taken of actors playing their film roles. I once heard the actor Giancarlo Giannini say after a viewing of Seven Beauties that a good actor knows how to punch out the camera lens, and that statement aptly describes Al's energy, but he wasn't acting. The authenticity of Al's emotions come through in the picture just as it did in his life. People knew if they wanted to hear a blunt and intelligent perception of truth, they could come to Al. And those who didn't want to hear it stayed away, because he didn't hold back.
Al was one of those rare people who had the ability to lend the camera a piece of his spirit. Even today as I write while looking at this photo, his powerful essence comes back to me and quickens my heartbeat. Back in 1998 when I got back the developed shot, I was struck by how much his compelling gaze sent a lifeline beyond the frame and lovingly made me a part of the picture.
In 2007 after he died, I reached for those pictures for the same reasons I ordered a meal delivery service. I needed to keep up the illusion that he was still physically present and seeing to our material needs. Even now, although I'm conscious of the impression all of our pictures must make on guests to my home (I know what I'd think if I visited someone's house and saw what amounts to a shrine in the public rooms), I haven't changed any of them yet. I like keeping the tension going between his extroversion and my private ways. The tension keeps him alive to me as much as the pictures themselves do. It reminds me of how, over our years together, we had surrendered our individual ways for something far more wonderful, even as I begin to wean myself from him.
I didn't recognize the shock that enveloped me, but nearly four years since his death I see that it kept me upright and steady, like braces for a falling body. It kept me busy too. I went to work every day and taught my four writing and literature courses. I went out with friends every weekend, obeying the small voice inside that warned against isolation. I signed up for a three-month meal delivery service in an effort to fill in part of the nurturing that Al had offered whole-heartedly as the head cook and take-out planner.
I enlarged my favorite photographs of Al to display in my office, city apartment, and the rooms of my house. Thinking back, I suppose I overdid it, displaying pictures everywhere, but it's just one of the ways that being married to Al changed me. When we first met, I was struck by all of the pictures of family members and friends that he had on his apartment walls. I had been raised to be private, and I took those values to the extreme. Here was a man who went to the other extreme. When I first saw all of his pictures of far-off relatives and friends, both present and past, I was reminded of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story "The Rich Boy" about an unfullfilled man who substitutes photographs for relationships.
I remember doubting whether the guy I was just beginning to know had any more potential than the character in the story. Despite my literary allusions I must admit I carried a sort of Good Housekeeping checklist for potential mates in my head that left no room for my instincts or Al's originality. But I saw things in Al that convinced me to ignore the deeply-ingrained, simplistic warning signs of an unpromising match and kept me moving forward together with him. In fact, if it wasn't too much of an oversimplification, I'd say that over the years he showed me how to let go, and I showed him how to hold on. In his honor I will not attempt to edit that dangling preposition.
And it was in his honor too, that I chose to exhibit photographs of him, of him and me, of him and various nieces and nephews, and of him and Star all over the place. He had put an enlarged photo of the two of us out in the dining room after he had gotten sick, and I remember demuring at the time, but not much. After he died, I nailed it to the wall. It's still there.
One of the photos I enlarged for display was taken on our honeymoon in Hawaii in 1993. It's a close-up of Al that I shot. He took a good picture. He is sitting cross-legged on a hillside. His runner's legs and muscular arms are tanned and shapely. He isn't smiling and he's starting pointedly at the camera. He is wearing a hot pink baseball cap that he never would have chosen for himself. He wore it for me because I loved how it set off his hazel eyes.
Al was 55 when we married, and it was his first marriage. It was my second at 44. I had been decidedly single since I was 29. Even though we had been together for the five previous years, we were both wary at the beginning of our honeymoon and still guarding our illusions of independence. Tying the knot had pushed us into high alert for a few tense days until I realized what was happening and clued him in during a calm moment. We both pretty much settled down after that and enjoyed ourselves. But I loved that picture because it showed him in all of his masculine glory just as he was deciding to compromise his ideals of masculine colors--mostly blues and grays, definitely not hot pink.
I had taken the second picture too, on the deck of the house that we bought in 1998. Al is kneeling on one knee with one arm around Star, our standard, and the other holding a rifle that he used for target practice. I admit that I was as attracted to his marksmanship as I was repelled by the gun. Despite the weapon he gripped with his dominant left hand, his expression had gentled in the five years since we had married. I don't think I've often seen emotion portrayed quite so potently in a photograph, except for some stills taken of actors playing their film roles. I once heard the actor Giancarlo Giannini say after a viewing of Seven Beauties that a good actor knows how to punch out the camera lens, and that statement aptly describes Al's energy, but he wasn't acting. The authenticity of Al's emotions come through in the picture just as it did in his life. People knew if they wanted to hear a blunt and intelligent perception of truth, they could come to Al. And those who didn't want to hear it stayed away, because he didn't hold back.
Al was one of those rare people who had the ability to lend the camera a piece of his spirit. Even today as I write while looking at this photo, his powerful essence comes back to me and quickens my heartbeat. Back in 1998 when I got back the developed shot, I was struck by how much his compelling gaze sent a lifeline beyond the frame and lovingly made me a part of the picture.
In 2007 after he died, I reached for those pictures for the same reasons I ordered a meal delivery service. I needed to keep up the illusion that he was still physically present and seeing to our material needs. Even now, although I'm conscious of the impression all of our pictures must make on guests to my home (I know what I'd think if I visited someone's house and saw what amounts to a shrine in the public rooms), I haven't changed any of them yet. I like keeping the tension going between his extroversion and my private ways. The tension keeps him alive to me as much as the pictures themselves do. It reminds me of how, over our years together, we had surrendered our individual ways for something far more wonderful, even as I begin to wean myself from him.
Monday, March 7, 2011
An Ice Storm
In the northeast part of the United States, we'll remember the winter of 2011 as a harsh one to have endured. It's March and after a mild, rainy week, I was awakened by a crash outside the house. Things are always creaking and crashing in the mountains, so I didn't get up right away to explore. Instead I stayed under the covers and stared at the icy branches of the birches just outside my picture window. The temperature had dropped to the teens and frozen the rain into an overnight ice storm. It was a gray morning, but those intricate cross-hatched branches were catching light from somewhere beyond the clouds. I contemplated getting my camera to try to capture their beauty, but I've known for a long time that I can either be with a riveting presence or photograph it; I can't have both. As I get older more and more I choose being with the thing, taking it in and sending back...what?...wonder, I suppose.
The tree closest to my bedroom was bent nearly double with the weight of the ice. It's an old tree, old for a birch, its trunk much wider than my arm span. Birches aren't supposed to live too long, but the ones surrounding my house look to be somewhat venerable. They looked old when Al and I moved in a dozen years ago, and despite their fragility, they've held their ground until now. But this harsh winter the ground is covered with broken limbs and trunks. I've lost many trees already and was looking forward to the year's thaw. I'd been hoping that the past few mild days marked the beginning of the change, but change doesn't usually happen in so predictable a linear pattern.
When I went downstairs to make coffee I saw that on the other side of the house, our biggest birch tree had fallen. That was the crash I'd heard. I could barely look at it, my thoughts flipping from mourning its beauty to methods of disposal to relief that it had fallen away from the house and along the edge of the woods. But it was to sadness and loss that my thoughts returned most. I guess I carried some belief in me that since it had made it to old age, it would take on the strength and longevity of the mighty oak. Certainly it was an unexamined belief, buried deep beneath my conscious, rational thoughts, some form of magical thinking.
I brought my coffee back upstairs to drink in bed, all the while looking out at the tree that still stood outside my bedroom window. Bent as it was, it was holding, and the weather report had forecasted a mid-afternoon thaw. I willed that tree to survive until the sun came and released its limbs from their crystal shackles, allowing it to stretch once more towards the sky. I stayed in bed longer than I should have, sending out my good wishes and cheers, pushing away the thought that some inner rot that I couldn't see might get the better of it, wondering if that was what had done in our oldest, strongest birch.
The tree closest to my bedroom was bent nearly double with the weight of the ice. It's an old tree, old for a birch, its trunk much wider than my arm span. Birches aren't supposed to live too long, but the ones surrounding my house look to be somewhat venerable. They looked old when Al and I moved in a dozen years ago, and despite their fragility, they've held their ground until now. But this harsh winter the ground is covered with broken limbs and trunks. I've lost many trees already and was looking forward to the year's thaw. I'd been hoping that the past few mild days marked the beginning of the change, but change doesn't usually happen in so predictable a linear pattern.
When I went downstairs to make coffee I saw that on the other side of the house, our biggest birch tree had fallen. That was the crash I'd heard. I could barely look at it, my thoughts flipping from mourning its beauty to methods of disposal to relief that it had fallen away from the house and along the edge of the woods. But it was to sadness and loss that my thoughts returned most. I guess I carried some belief in me that since it had made it to old age, it would take on the strength and longevity of the mighty oak. Certainly it was an unexamined belief, buried deep beneath my conscious, rational thoughts, some form of magical thinking.
I brought my coffee back upstairs to drink in bed, all the while looking out at the tree that still stood outside my bedroom window. Bent as it was, it was holding, and the weather report had forecasted a mid-afternoon thaw. I willed that tree to survive until the sun came and released its limbs from their crystal shackles, allowing it to stretch once more towards the sky. I stayed in bed longer than I should have, sending out my good wishes and cheers, pushing away the thought that some inner rot that I couldn't see might get the better of it, wondering if that was what had done in our oldest, strongest birch.
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