Shrove Tuesday, Mardi Gras, Donut Day, Fat Tuesday, Whatever . . .

I grew up Catholic, which meant during Lent, we'd give up something that we loved. As a kid, I gave up candy, and all after-school visits to the corner store became off-limits. I'm pretty sure I never once stuck to this commitment during all those years of pseudo-sacrifice, but my intentions were honorable.

As an adult, I've come to the conclusion that it's more productive and spiritually cleansing if we actually do something, rather than abstain. So continue to eat chocolate and don't deny yourself an occasional glass of wine. In place of those restriction, practice patience when you think you have none left. Offer to carry an older person's groceries to her car. No swearing when traffic backs up at the rotary. Donate to a charitable organization. Instead of creating absence, make the love.

But for now, it's still the day before Lent, and I encourage you to indulge yourself one more time before we start fresh tomorrow on Ash Wednesday. In our town, we don't have a proper bakery, but the bagel bakery makes donuts, too. And they aren't bad, not at all. Happy Donut Day!

Road Trips

Art & Pat with Niece, Julia

My sister and I visited our 80-something-year-old parents this past weekend. We like to call these visits “sissy road trips.”  Barring my sister’s occasional motion sickness, these trips are fun. We make stops at Starbucks and laugh our way across the southern tier of New York State into Pennsylvania where my parents live. We bring an amazing dinner to share with mom and dad. It’s the same every time – chicken cutlets, homemade baked beans made by my husband, and potato casserole. My sister usually bakes a wonderful dessert. They eat this meal with gusto, and we join in at their small dining table in their cozy, little apartment.  Conversation flows. Occasionally, we must help my dad keep up with the conversation because his memory isn’t what it used to be.

It’s six hours one-way to get to my parents’ home. They live in a mostly rural area in a depressed little town.  I can’t even refer to it as a village like we do here in Vermont.  The drive and visit take approximately thirty-two hours total - it's a marathon.  My parents cannot accommodate us overnight, so we stay at a local bed and breakfast called Marigold Manor, a gorgeous Victorian a block away from my parents’ place.  

I wish we could see them more often, but somehow we manage not to do that. Twice a year seems to be the norm. Four other siblings who visit in between, spread out the cheer; and we all keep in touch by phone. I don’t consider visiting my parents a duty, nor is it a bore. I basically adore my mom and dad. But they chose to move away when they retired twenty years ago. And for all this time, they lived as they pleased. He groomed their acres of field on his riding mower. She tended a garden and fed the birds at their small home until they couldn’t maintain it any longer.

They’ve gotten through a few health crises. They experienced a weird accident when their car went off a rainy road and into a ditch. My mother prayed their way out of it and a passer-by called a tow truck. They were not hurt. I found out about the accident a couple of months later. Older parents can be secretive.  My parents always said they didn’t want to be a burden. I think they think they’re protecting us. In some ways, I guess that’s true, not that we asked to be let off the hook, and we all realize that the situation could change for them at any minute – that they’d have to move into a nursing home or perhaps back to New Jersey where my brothers and other sister live.

They don’t live under our noses so we aren’t saturated with the constant awareness of their decline. We can go off to work each day, hang out with friends, live our lives; and our parents become vague icons, people we visit and remember, but don’t interact with daily the way we did when we were children and young adults. We don’t know that the doctor ordered more tests. We don’t know when one of their friends dies.  We don’t know mom has painful arthritis.  It’s how my parents want it. I liken it to a forced separation. I wonder if they think that when the time comes and they are gone, we won’t feel the void so much. But my parents are wonderful people in many ways.  They would never be a burden, and about not feeling that void? I’m pretty sure they’re wrong about that.

Today Is Her Birthday - Marie

As a child, I would steal away to her room alone, crossing the threshold into cool silence as if entering a shrine scented with lavender. Circumambulating from altar to altar . . . nightstand, cedar chest, dresser . . . I observed objects she deemed sacred – family photos, heirloom silver hairbrush and mirror, rosary, statue of Mary. This was my godmother’s sanctuary. I knew her as my aunt, too, but who and what she was could be defined many ways. Old maid, creative baker, benefactor, caregiver, holy woman.  This room bore her imprint, a space sanctioned for retreat and prayer.

She loved all shades of purple. The walls of her room were painted just the right hue, woodwork a stark white contrast. I’d lie across her white chenille bedspread, tiny pom-poms sewn on top, which pock-marked my bare legs if I stayed too long. As I gazed out her window, gauzy curtains seemed a veil between her inside life and the world. The view of her garden evoked memory – a green canvass hammock still secured between sheltering oak trees where she once sang Row Row Row Your Boat and rocked me until I fell asleep.

Northern People

It’s February 2. The groundhog emerges from his earthly cave offering the forecast that either spring will come early indicated by his eagerness to remain outside; or he’ll scurry back to his winter dreams for another six weeks. The groundhog is a totem symbolizing the ability to open fully to our dreams and embrace the great unconsciousness without fear or harm, which to me, is one of the major themes of winter – time for rest and introspection.  February 2 is also the Celtic feast of Imbolc, a cross-quarter holy day signifying the onset of spring. This day celebrates the Celtic goddess, Brigid, in the name of fertility and purification, at a time when spring rose into the hearts of those who endured many long nights. So at a moment when we acknowledge going inward, we do a turnabout, resilient and in time with the cycles of the earth.

Although I love my Vermont winters, soon the time will come when I will feel the same as those ancient people. Whether the weather remains cold and no matter what the calendar says, our nature dictates we move out of the darkness, that great unconsciousness, and into the light.