Clean white houses with light flooding in, how I wish I had your spare, simple, brilliant space.
Rarified air of the Virgin Mary permeates this house-- My friend and her recently deceased house mate were sister nuns for a time -- a long time ago -- and, becoming so disenchanted with the institutional church, discharged their veils and turned to teaching.
I gave some comfort massage through Hospice to one, and we had a quick rapport, as I identified with the disenchantment, and she put her trust in me. I didn't get to see her through the full allotment of visits, but on impulse the second (and last time) her I took a bouquet of Cedar, Sage and Lavender. She wasn't lucid, or was sleeping deeply. I left it on her chest.
Now I'm in their house, which is a clear shrine to the Virgin. I see photos. D____ driving, with a straw cowboy hat on. D____ grinning down her nose at the camera with a gravid mischief. And there is artwork. Paintings, and some, with her signature.
Her room is beautiful and undisturbed, like a chapel of rest. Her workbench in the garage has a banjo on it. Overhead, a warning sign -- My Shop My Rules. I quicken to that! Here is a woman fully engaged with life and owner of her self.
These two women love bells and chimes, which are everywhere responding to wind and time. Also, they love order and space. I remember that one takes vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty; Shed of all but the most meaningful icons, there is room for clarity, for expansion.
D____ died last year some time. I remember her clearly, which is not true of all my Hospice contacts. She had a spirit with weight behind it. It impressed me with a communion. Now I see she was also an artist with a deep soul, and a craftsman who knew her bench.
D____ and L____ had two little dogs. One has recently died; and now it is just one woman and one little dog. They've each lost their companions. Here is a profound sadness.
Selah..
Linda is off with Leslie to San Francisco, and coming home tomorrow late. Leslie is a pure beam of light shining through crystal eyes and red hair. No better traveling pilgrim than Leslie! Fragile but almost indomitable, she sparkles like a brook. One bathes in the humor and fine grit of another deep soul.
We are admonished in scripture to take suffering with a measure of good will, for chance and time happen to all. And most of what we bear is common to all people. Yes, unless you die very young, you will taste bereavement. The sun of that former life sets, and we enter a season of darkness.
The common advice these days is "don't do anything for a year," to forestall rash behavior. Well, it seems to take a year to ford the river of details following the death of a family member anyway. Somewhere during that year, however, the little pleasures begin to re-assert themselves. Patterns of light and shadow on the rug. The holy chiming of the quarters and the sonorous tolling of the hours. The birds busy in the bushes. Horse running in the field.
The magnificent sweep of sky. The great theater of the clouds, all the veils, streaks, piles of cumulonimbus like majestic water schooners; shades of blue and shale against softest, clearest white. Rainbows. Shafts of sunlight streaming through to the land like the very angels from the forehead of God. How shall we encompass this? God is still talking to us, and we can't help gasping.
