Peach Trilogy, Part II

One year, maybe 2013, in August, as we were nearing the end of the summer's peaches, a man who called himself a spiritual teacher stayed at our house for three days. I offered our home as a favor for a friend. And also out of curiosity. I don't remember the name of this man who stayed with us and gladly accepted all we offered (and more). I will call him Joe, even though he was from Iran and was probably not named Joe.

For the most part, it was not a fascinating visit. Conversations were about this man's tall dreams of bringing westerners into alignment with the way to peace, according to some great Iranian man, long dead and never well-known - if known at all - in these parts. Joe seemed to have little interest in anything other than this project. It was a good project, and it takes a lot of commitment to bring dreams into fruition. I get that. And I enjoyed hearing Joe's plans for at least a day and a half.

Wanting to be generous and hospitable (but, obviously not thinking this through), I told Joe to help himself to any food he may need during the day. I was home working in my office, and Joe would spend time on his phone in the guest room making connections for his upcoming stops across the U.S. I never saw him take me up on my offer of food, other than the meals I fixed or the one we treated him to at Ali Baba's, our favorite Middle Eastern restaurant.

The day Joe left and I once again felt free to move about my home without being informed of further stories about this appointment and that contact, I opened the refrigerator to grab one of the few peaches I knew were in the lower bin. There was nothing there. He had cleaned us out of peaches. 

How could anyone take the last peach without making an announcement? Without saying, "This is the last peach. Does anyone want half? Hello! I know that peaches are holy and sacred, and we must honor the end of peach season — the time of year when it's okay to die because we are in fuzzy-fruited bliss — so does anyone want some before I indulge?"

There were no more peaches that year. The season had ended. Joe ate the last peach (and a few almost-last peaches) with no fanfare. It would be eleven months before Colorado's western slope juiciness would arrive once again. 

I went outside under the cloud-dotted sky and grieved.

(But I'm okay now. Sadness and peaches — they come, they go.)  

(Plus, this is what the lower bin of our fridge looks like now. Heh heh...)

Peach Trilogy, Part I

Every summer,

I agree with myself

(so I must be correct):

If death must come

(and I think that is a fact),

let it come after I've eaten

the season's perfect peach.

Walking in Sunshine

Today I realized that there is no difference between walking deserted dirt roads under huge, silent skies and walking the dirt paths at the nearby park where the buzz of traffic fills the air. Spacious ahhhh/awe is all there is, and we can focus on the contents that appear to come and go within it, or we can meld with its vastness, which is always here, now, forever and ever. Neither is right or wrong, or good or bad. It's all offered generously. 

Fly Free!

I returned yesterday from a two-week retreat in southern Colorado. A little after noon on the day before I left for retreat, and about a half hour after a yellow butterfly zigzagged leisurely in front of me and my friend, I received a text. "Mom passed away this morning. Thanks for visiting her yesterday." A couple of days later, while alone in my little cabin, another text: "The funeral will be on Friday at 11:00 a.m."

On the day of the funeral, I would be a little over halfway through my two weeks of retreat, and four hours away from the church where Betty would be remembered. It didn't seem rational that I would interrupt this precious time by going to Denver. And it made no sense that I would never see Betty or her family again.

I decided to go. I had no transportation of my own, but many kindnesses got me to Denver a couple of hours before the funeral, then back to my cabin that evening.

Goodbye, Betty. Thank you. I love you.


Thank you.
As is the custom for these types of things,
the Episcopal priest in his white robe
stood before us telling stories of Betty,
butterflies throughout her home,
her final words the last time he saw her alive —
Thank you,
which, according to Meister Eckhart —
and he may have been correct —
is the one prayer,
if one is all you have.

It was true
about the butterflies,
and thank you were always her last words,
even for the aides who needed her
to stand longer than her weakened body
would allow.

My one prayer today:
Thank You
for butterflies,
for the huge yellow one meandering by
minutes before I got the call
(I won't make meaning - even
a coincidence gladdens the heart),
for the privilege of knowing You,
in Your beauttiful disguise of
healing mother, teacher, and friend.
Thank You
Thank You
My heart is shattered.
Thank You

Hands

When I was young, I was fascinated by my grandma's hands. They were signs of Old, boney, with veins and arteries like green and purple worms crawling all over them. I never held one. I never held my grandma's hand. Oh, that hurts. Surely I did as a toddler while learning to walk. But I have no memory of ever touching her in any way. When I stood next to Grandma, asking if it was okay to have a cookie, I would study her hand as it rested on the wooden arm of the chair. I could have picked it up, petted it, told her that I loved her. I didn't do that. We didn't do that. 

Grandma's hands kept the pantry jar filled with cookies for us grandkids, probably a million of them baked over her lifetime. (I didn't like it when they had raisins.) Grandma's hands farmed the land, took care of sick people, raised seven boys, wired together anything that had fallen apart, and made mulberry pies, picking the berries from her trees and rolling out beautifully designed crusts.

My hands are becoming Grandma's. They have purple worms, and cracks— like the desert, parched for rain — create a random pattern. I could be embarrassed. I wonder if Grandma was.

My hands have given thousands of massages. They raised a girl and a boy. They garden and type. They've had a much easier life than grandma's hands. Still, that doesn't stop them from aging and reminding me of hers. And I realize that, now, now I can hold her hand.

Butterflies and Angels

A follow-up on Betty of the Butteflies from March, 2015...

Butterflies and Angels

July, 2016

The room is large, a sunny sitting room. Two high-backed, upholstered chairs flank a low, round table cluttered with framed family photos and a smattering of mail. A single bed nudges up against the far corner. That's where I find Betty. Three months from turning ninety-nine, and so small now, I wouldn't know she was under the blankets if it weren't for her sleeping face and white clouds of hair resting on stacked pillows.

Every time I visit her, she has melted just a little more.

"Hi Betty. It's Carol."

Eyes open just a bit.

"Hi Dear."

Eyes close.

"I love you, Betty."

"I love you, too, Carol."

I pull up a chair next to her and find myself holding her hand, watching her breathe.

I ask if I should leave so she can rest. She says No.

I have lots of time to be here. So quiet. Only the breathing, closed eyes, silken skin draped over bone, and I love you.

So what is it that I love? Memories of our times past? Maybe recollections of wise words and her gentle being, like a nurturing mother. It could be the way she has loved all things butterfly, and the gifts she brought me at birthdays and Christmas—mostly angels who now protect every corner of my massage room. Blue ceramic cherubs, angels made of feathers, Willow Tree angels of Peace and Healing.

Beside her bed, a wedding photo, taken about a year ago, has Betty in the center, the place of honor, between her grandson (the groom) and his bride dressed in white. Betty's son and daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren stand on either side. It seems so right, this placing of pure love, disguised as a white-haired woman named Betty, at the heart of one's new marriage.

I turn again to the small figure in the bed. A deepening inward stillness seems to be preparing her for the next flight.

For me, it's a time to begin to learn what Betty has lived—that love loves, and it doesn't need a reason.

Carol Barrow

July, 2016