Spring View


I’m getting to know the #South.
I know her curves in #spring
with her #orchestra of #color.
She introduces #white to begin
with bouquets of popcorn on the Bradford trees
They echo in rows
down streets and alleys
in mid March.
Daffodils chime in providing a consistent tune, humming sweetly
Bright yellow describing her mood
Spring sings softly at first

The band ups the tempo
#Dogwood blooms blanket
the treeline
Tucked into canopies like bundles of babies, skin so soft and velvety

Soon the #azaleas will burst thorough
In bright patterns of pink,
reds, and pastel hues
their tiny antenna will peek through buoyant, crisp buds
April will sing tenure. Loud
Songs will shift, taking turns
Synchronizing patterns we barely notice
Until we sneeze and see yellow dust everywhere
#Spring training has begun

Spring's View

Spring’s View


"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." - Marcel Proust

“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” – Marcel Proust

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." - Washington Irving

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” – Washington Irving

The photo above is the fireplace mantle in my bedroom. The elbow in the orange plaid belongs to my husband. The cards on the mantle are some of the bereavement cards I received after my mother passed away.  I finally (very reluctantly) took down the Christmas lights that were strung across the mantle. I had a hard time letting go of Christmas this year. My mother passed away on Christmas Eve. In some strange way, keeping the lights up somehow made her not dead. But she is.

I knew I had to remove the Christmas lights from the mantles in both my bedroom and our parlor. The parlor is where we eat. It is the center of our 1880 Victorian home. Oak wood floors, curry yellow walls, my husband’s grandfather’s table that has seen generations of family meals, the cherry wood buffet with a pinkish marble counter top flanks the room on the southeast wall. My mother and I bought this buffet together at an antique flea market in Cheyenne called The Avenues. I loved that flea market. I used to go there with my mom all the time. She had a booth there. Betty (my mom) knew how to barter proper. She knew her antiques. I remember marveling at her when she would flip over a china dish or tea saucer and know exactly, right then and there, its value and worth. She would cross reference names and brands in her antique books.

I eyed the beautiful buffet, sliding my palm across the cool marble counter top. My mom smiled at me, aware of my interest. Immediately, without saying a word to her, she said, “Offer them $100 less, that you will pay cash, and that you will pick it up today.”  The buffet was marked down. Betty followed with, “It’s marked down. The vendor wants to unload it.”

Shyly, I went to the counter where the owner of the flea market was sorting tickets — placing vendors’ sales tickets into piles. “Hi Betty,” she said to my mother. They launched into a short conversation about what my mom had sold that week in her booth, doling out names of antiques and flea market treasures like a diner waitress does to a well-known menu.

“$400 cash and I will pick it up,” I said awkwardly. Betty stood next to me, quiet.

My beautiful redheaded mama I adore and love

My beautiful redheaded mama I adore and love

“Let me call the vendor. What is the vendor number on the ticket?” the antique shop owner said. My mom jumped in with a name, as she knew all the flea market vendors at the Avenues. The Avenues was located on a curving turn that arched to a left, right across from the Cheyenne airport. I had taken this curvy turn hundreds of times, as it also is a turn that takes you to Cheyenne Frontier Days Park.

“The owner of the shop verified Betty’s hypothesis — Betty’s gut instinct. Yep, the vendor wanted to unload it. I just got a deal, I thought to myself. How I love a deal. That is one of the charms and alluring pulls of flea market antique shopping. Bartering is where you earn your flea market stripes. I had just earned my first. Don’t get me wrong, I was a garage sale barter champion. Heck, I would barter for a shoelace if I could. It just came natural.

I felt the rush of the bargain. We arranged a time to come pick it up with my husband. He had the truck. He had the muscles.

My mom had a confidence to her that was unmistakable.  Most people felt very comfortable in her presence, unless you crossed her. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” she always said. Although she always gave people the benefit of the doubt. Her heart was large. Her laugh was larger. I miss it. I long for it. I wish I had her laugh recorded.

These lovely artifacts (antique books, trinkets, letters, objects) punctuated her life. They were just things when she was alive. Now that she is gone, they are maps of who she was. It is interesting what we take for granted when we have our loved ones live in the flesh and blood. When they are gone, physical objects sometimes act as sieves for our love for them., filtering the pain of the loss and acting as windows to transport us to memory — to love.

My mother’s ashes are on the mantle in the parlor. We are still waiting to hear from Arlington Cemetery on her funeral arrangements  The mantle in the parlor was flanked by two Santas my mother had given me and that were present at childhood Christmases.  Colored Christmas lights resembling brightly colored sugary balls — twisted, twined, and wrapped in fake garland — snaked along the mantle between the Santas and my mother’s urn. Well actually, the garland and lights rested over her walnut box urn since I was afraid if I put the garland behind the urn box, that somehow it would make the box fall to the floor.

I plugged in the lights every night after her death, sometimes leaving them on all day, well past traditional Christmas light season. It was my ritual. I would plug them in first thing in the morning and say my prayers and send my love to her. Sometimes I would weep at the mantle, longing for my mother’s words, embrace, smile, laugh. I talked to her sitting at our parlor table. I wept at the parlor table. At night, before I went to bed, I would unplug the lights and kiss the wooden box of ashes. I took down the lights last weekend and forced myself to take down the Santas that flanked both sides.

My February Memorial Mantle

My February Memorial Mantle

For some reason I can’t really explain, I knew it was time to take down the Christmas lights and Santas and embrace a new flower that is emerging from this loss. I am not saying I am hurting less, but the pain is less acute and more obtuse — surrounding me with its wide angle, enveloping me in sadness. A bud is emerging and flower petals are wrapped tight around the bud. Creating a cleaning space for my grief will provide the necessary sunshine to get the reluctant bud to open. The process of grief is not linear. I hopscotch back and forth between anger, denial, acceptance. I do realize my mother is somehow (beyond my understanding as a human on earth) with me, within me, and above me watching me grow and blossom.

I just will never be able to explain it nor completely understand it.

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Azalea blossom in my front yard.

“Grief is the price we pay for love.” – Queen Elizabeth II

Photo Source: Mother Nature Network Angel Wings

Photo Source: Mother Nature Network
Angel Wings

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Mantle in my bedroom after clearing off Christmas lights.

“Grief changes shape, but it never ends.” – Keanu Reeves

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My husband carved the wooden heart as a gift. The angel came with a sympathy card from a childhood friend who knew my mom as a child. My mom was the Girl Scout troop leader. This friend remembered how my mom taught all the Girl Scouts the Girl Scout Promise.

The Girl Scout Promise

On my honor, I will try:
To serve God and my country,
To help people at all times,
And to live by the Girl Scout Law.

The Girl Scout Law

I will do my best to be
honest and fair,
friendly and helpful,
considerate and caring,
courageous and strong, and
responsible for what I say and do,
and to
respect myself and others,
respect authority,
use resources wisely,
make the world a better place, and
be a sister to every Girl Scout.

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Angel Heart

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“There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.” – Edith Wharton
My mother was both the  candle and the mirror.

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The turquoise turtle was my mom’s. It rested in her bathroom on her two tier bronze circular shelf that also held her Buddhas.

“God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.” –  Rudyard Kipling

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Mantle in my bedroom

“A mother is beyond any notion of a beginning. That’s what makes her a mother.” – Meghan O’Rourke

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Monet Mantle. One of the things that made me fall in love with my husband was he had a Monet painting. His sensitivity to both my parents’ death has helped me survive these great storms. My father passed away in 2003. My husband held me as I cried myself to sleep through both loses.

“Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do… but how much love we put in that action.”  – Mother Teresa

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Parlor room mantle.

“Never does one feel oneself so utterly helpless as in trying to speak comfort for great bereavement. I will not try it. Time is the only comforter for the loss of a mother.” –  Jane Welsh Carlyle

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Buddha Mantle. The two Buddhas next to my mom’s ashes were hers. The rose is from my backyard rose vine.

“The way is not in the sky. The way is in the heart.” – Buddha

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You can see a little bit of the buffet in this photo that I bought with my mom at the antique flea market.

“Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.” – Khalil Gibran

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Love Mantle. Healing Mantle. I move through the grief and stop when I can not walk anymore.

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“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” – Washington Irving



“People deal too much with the negative, with what is wrong. Why not try and see positive things, to just touch those things and make them bloom?”
– Nhat Hanh

“If your heart is a volcano, how shall you expect flowers to bloom?”
– Khalil Gibran

“I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and you laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”
– Clarissa Pinkola Estes

“May my soul bloom in love for all existence.” -Rudolf Steiner

I had a difficult day today. I was very sad about my mother. Her death has become very real. It is very real I can not call her. I was sick for the past week with a horrible cold that got progressively worse. I spent the weekend in bed feeling like I had strep throat, bronchitis, and the flu. I rarely get sick, but I could not escape this cold. I got through it and am feeling better.

I feel so vulnerable when I am sick. My mom used to make me hot tea with lemon and sugar. To this day, I still can not make hot tea as perfect as she did. It must have been her secret ingredient: mother’s love. She also made me cinnamon toast with sugar, perfectly buttered. I thought of these two comfort foods this weekend while I was sick in bed, curled into my comforter. I thought of my mom bringing me the hot tea and toast so many times as a child. She always knew how to console me, comfort me — with her words, with her silence, with her smile.

I have to believe that my feelings of sadness and loss will pass or bloom into something better. For now, I am deep in the soil of loss. I go about my daily rituals of mothering my own son, working, and writing, being a wife. But I feel like I am just circling the outside of the world, not completely centered. It gives me comfort to know I am not alone. There are others deep in the soil of grief, of longing for that person they miss the most.

Perhaps my sorrow will bloom into a beautiful flower someday. For now, I tend to my own soil, fertilizing it with tears.