Calling all Angels

Being a thrift store junkie from my teenage years, I would often pass by the vast array of ceramic angels on the shelves. Their wings outstretched, beckoning me to look closer. I would wonder why people collected such things.

Then there are the songs about angels. The one in my recent memory being in one of my favorite movies, “Pay it Forward”
"Calling all angels. Calling all angels. Walk me through this one, don’t leave me alone…”

Angels were always something mysterious to me. I sang in the choir about them in church. I had friends that collected the vestiges of them, believing deeply in their existence. I so wanted to believe in their presence among us. Around us. The angels looking over our shoulders in the library like the movie “City of Angels”, sparing us from harm, reading our thoughts; opening the curtains to the entrance of heaven just enough to let us know there is something beautiful on the other side.

 September 3rd of this year marks seven years my oldest child is gone from me. He was only 31 when he died of an accidental overdose. Found dead with his six-foot three-inch frame curled up on an old couch; my three-year-old grandson finally awake and despondent. Jumping on him, yelling his name, trying desperately to wake him up. Jonathan died holding the only thing that he held precious in this world. His son.

I have survived six other “Angel anniversaries” as some people call them. The days leading up to that day coming up on the calendar become more somber and more reflective. Thoughts of my Jonathan Page and his life; beginning with my eyes opening in the morning light and ending with the flood of tears in the darkness, when the day is done and I can finally take off the mask.

 This year it’s hitting me harder. Like the cracking sound of a heavy hitter echoing through the ballpark. I hold back the painful tears of the missing of my child. I still ask the same questions. The questions with impossible answers. What was it all for? Lord, why would you use me as a vessel for life at 17, only to take him away after such struggle? One of many questions that I can never settle. No words or answers or perceived epiphanies ever bring me comfort.

Last night as darkness fell, I did as I sometimes need to do. I took one of his favorite shirts from the closet and laid down, draping the shirt in such a way that the arm of it was over my shoulder as in an embrace. My body beginning to convulse with the familiar sobs under the red plaid shirt. I hold my breath to try and make it stop. Tears soaking the shirt he once wore, when he was larger than life itself. I failed him. My child. I failed him.

And in that familiar darkness that often ended only with the exhaustion that tears bring, I felt a presence. This time was different. I was visited by something otherworldly. It was a solace I could feel lying beside me and covering me with something tangible. It wasn’t with a glowing or light. It wasn’t accompanied by harp-song or the sound of  trumpets or a chorus. It was quiet and unassuming. And it covered me with comfort. Like wings.

I thought to myself, this must be it. This must be why I sometimes see the vast collections of angels lining the shelves at the Goodwill store. All the talismans that stand in wait for the real thing to arrive. For believers to take them home as reminders of what is yet to come when our bodies give up our spirit.

I hope that was what it was like for Jonathan. I hope an angel came to comfort him and take him home. Back to the embrace of the one most holy.

I believe now.

I believe in angels.

Little Green Dot

I cried myself to sleep last night because I’ll miss Nick Karasch, my sweet friend, my fellow insomniac, who kept me company online in the wee hours between dusk and dawn when no one else was awake. And last night as I lay in bed I felt his presence around me and I heard his voice telling me that I was right about it all. That he’s ok. That I can rest. But in that stillness, at 2:34 in the morning when I awaken, who will accompany me until my eyes grow heavy again with the weight of night? And I say, “Goodnight buddy. Talk again soon.”

Sometimes, I would see the little green dot next to his name and I didn’t reach out. I was just comforted that the dot was there. That Nick was there, somewhere in the same sleeplessness. And that the cancer hadn’t yet claimed him.

Now I see his name above my Facebook chat, but no little green dot next to the icon of his smiling face to let me know he’s there. I write to him anyway. I tell him Fuck cancer. Fuck it! and that I miss him. I tell him please come see me in my dreams.

Yesterday before I left the gathering of the celebration of his life, I touched the top of his shiny blue urn. It was encircled with Peace Lilies and various flowers in white; his name engraved on an ornate tag, like the ones on fancy cut-glass liquor bottles filled with potions like Gin, Rum, Vodka. Nicholas. The whole of him reduced into a container of ashes.

He was a great kid. He stayed positive and hopeful until his eyes closed for the last time and the green dot by the circle of his smiling-faced-icon disappeared. All of our conversations lost forever to cyberspace.

Grief is for us, us ya know? The ones left behind. I know Nick is in a place we can only imagine. The freedom. The release. The bursting forth from the constraints of bodily living. It must be incredible. And almost all of me is happy he’s there. The selfish part of me still wants him back, and the comfort of the little green dot of him too.

Goodnight buddy. Skate on. Goodnight.

The Chopper from Nam

It is not just today that I remember you,
or your stories of getting on "the chopper" for a brief reprieve from the war to come see me right after my birth.
And there were times I wished you would have died there. That would have made a better story than a man who found the bottle more important than me.
There were times I wished you away, and hoped you would be replaced by the kind of father that I always dreamed of.
I got my wish, but then I lost him too.

I think of your stories of Nam. The ones you told me with tears in your eyes, and the ones you said you could never talk about...only then were you a man of few words, except how much you hated rice and what "dinky-dow" meant and how scared you were.

I remember laying my head in your lap. You smelled of grease and cigarettes and liquor. You told me I was daddy's little girl and that I'd always be just that. And I loved you in spite of yourself just the same.

When I think of you now, my heart aches. Because the unfinished business of you and I still keeps the wound a bit raw and open no matter how the years pass. Sometimes my heart aches for your voice and the roughness of your hands holding mine, and one more chance to fix things...but time does have a way of smoothing the creases. Finishing the raw edges and sewing together only the good stuff with the thread of forgiveness. 

I remember you proudly pulling the army green jacket you wore to war, out of the closet to show to me. 

I remember dancing with you to the beach boys.

I remember you keeping the christmas tree up until I got there that first summer.

I remember your rough and awkward embrace.

I remember your laughter.

I remember you.

Dad in his dress uniform, second from the left

Stain (Memorial Day 2012)

my father, circa 1968

Today I remember you.
Or what there was of you.
The same stories you told me
about coming home from Nam
to be there when I was born.
Stories about getting on the 'chopper
and then me falling asleep on your chest.
And excuses for why you disappeared.
I see your photo now and then
the tears come, but just a little.
I choke them back.
The war changed you.
All smiles before,
all drunkenness after.
And I, left behind,
then found again,
then left behind,
then found again.
Years would pass with
no sign of you.
No sign except
my own reflection,
my roundish nose,
my one crookish eye,
my smile.
Today is not the only day
I think about you.
But today I am forced to
bring you out of the old suitcase
of memory
and trace my finger over
the writing on the backs of these photographs
of a young G.I.
The only handwriting of yours that I have ever seen.
The last trace of you
that I have.
The only physical things.
These photographs of a lost boy,
a lost man,
a lost father.
Gone forever from me,
but the stain of your memory
remains there in my own reflection.
My nose is yours,
my crooked left eye,
my cheeky smile;
my broken heart.

J. Valentine

my father, second from left, circa 1968

The Messy Middle

Below is a poem that is currently on SARK's call line. Read by her.  I call it when i need someone to tell me that I really matter. When I need someone to give me a virtual hug. When I need a cheerful voice of affirmation and I can't think of anyone to call that I'd like to burden with more of my life "stuff". SARK doesn't mind. I'm grateful that today her inbox had room for my message of thanks back her. If you'd like to call it, here is the number~ 415-546-3742. Her website is www.PlanetSark.com ,for more inspiration, free printable things, wallpaper, workshops and books.

Benjamin

Life has become so much more full, since we've become full time caretakers of our little grandson...so full of joy and smiles and song and fumbling for what works; full of so many shifts that were sudden and stressful and rewarding and a whole mixture of joy and sadnesses as well. Susan Kennedy calls it "the messy middle", where most of us spend a lot of our time living.
I find myself blaming myself for the way my youngest daughter E. has "turned out" so far,even though I know in my heart that I have been the best mother I could be. Wondering where it was that I went wrong. She is 19 now. Watching her destroy herself again and again when I've spent so many years doing my utmost to build her up and foster her dreams, is so difficult. For me it is akin to watching a terrible car crash coming that I am helpless to prevent. For my husband and I, it is a feeling of fresh grief and loss, mixed with hope and fervent prayer that she will one day find her way. And a feeling of exhaustion from trying to juggle my work, his work, new baby, homekeeping, our relationship and two other boys (ages 7 and 17) that need us too.
I can say that I am proud of E.'s selflessness when it comes to doing what is best for this precious and happy go lucky little fellow. She knows his best place is here with us until she "sorts out her life." I am grateful for that. And so incredibly grateful for this~

And grateful for SARK (Susan Arial Rainbow Kennedy) and her message line, and for introducing me to a now favorite poem that resonates so deeply with me.

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.


Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.


Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.


Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

—Naomi Shihab Nye from Words Under Words: Selected Poems

Blessings to You and Yours,
Jennifer Valentine

Apple Blossoms and Fences

      Kim’s passing has changed me. Last night I dreamed of apple blossomtrees and skipping and running my fingers along a chain fence…I’d forgotten how that felt. I knew she was the reason I was experiencing those things. Winter is here in Michigan, and the landscape is wiry with empty trees and sheets of white. No wonder I dreamed of childhood and springtime…but even then, asleep; I was aware of her presence.

     There is not a moment that is not infused with the knowing that it could have been me in that truck, on that road, on that wintry day. Or any other day for that matter.

Each moment of my life has become more vivid, more detailed, more about love and loving more, and less about the lack of things.

     Now there are times, like any human being, that I loose my way and the frustration of every day life cowers over me. I grumble about this and that, like we all do…then I think of her.

     And I wonder if she knows how she has changed the world in the leaving of it. I wonder if that is ok to say. There are so many questions, as always, that I have learned to accept. Questions that never have answers…like why someone so vibrant and lovely has to die and leave little girls  behind. My sister and I were those little girls once. Left behind by the death of  someone vibrant and loving, and left with the wondering why and the unanswered questions.

     Kim has put the color back into my life. She has infused each day with the intricacies  and wonders of it…she has brought brilliance back into glints of sunshine through the trees and richness in sounds and more joy in the every day moments that get lost in the day. For me, there are a lot less of those lost moments now. I have become more aware of my life and those moments…more absorbed into them…needing very much to braille them into the pages of my memory.

     I wonder if she knows this. I want her to know this. Her passing was not in vain. She lives inside of me, so that I may pass that vibrancy of life and loving on to others…and on, and on, and on.

     It is a strange thing, this grief. It is a muddy composition of sadness that catches me off guard, and an awareness of overwhelming joy and gratitude for the gift of life that I have been given.Each day; a gift.

     Thank you, sweet Kim, for your presence here in this life, so that I may be more present in mine, and in the lives of others. It isn't with selfishness that I say these things. Your passing was not in vain. You are not lost to the world. You are forever a part of it; living on through your children and through those who will hold you in their hearts and minds always.

Generations are touched by the sun of your smile.

Thank You....Thank You.

     The outpouring of generosity for Kimberly and Tim Jacko's family was more than I could have ever imagined. I did not expect that I would have over 1,200 raffle tickets to run my grateful fingers through. I visited Tim the day after the funeral. He asked me to thank you, from the depths of his heart, for your generosity and gracious gifts...he wanted me to tell you that he wanted the money to go toward something meaningful. I admit, I still get choked up, even trying to type the words...but I will, because you should know. He is using some of the money collected to buy Kim's grave stone. It is something that he would not have otherwise been able to purchase for her memory.
     When I went over to visit him and his daughters, it was very emotional for me...it was a bit awkward because I wanted to hold it together for the youngest. I did. But it took all of the composure I had. Kim was all around there...every single wall of their little home was covered with family photographs. She valued family. She valued togetherness and children and laughter. SHE was valuable. Tim said she was in the midst of preparing for the new year with a fresh start. She was rearranging photos, organizing cook books and kitchen cabinets...and I thought of how often I'd done the same, never ever thinking that I may never be able to finish...but all of that has changed for me. I think of her every single day. And I'm sneaky. I quietly let the tears go when no one is around and it is quiet (like right now) and before I drift to sleep at night. They are tears of sadness mingled with tears of overwhelming gratitude for the life I have been given. For the outpouring of donations for her family that I never expected. For the restoration of my own hope in humanity. For divine grace.
     Tim's daughter Shaylee is 14, and Kim's death has been so difficult for her. After leaving the house, I could not get her little face out of my mind. I saw myself  in her, sitting there with the saddest eyes. I was transported back in time, fresh from the funeral of my step-father, who was the absolute world to me...he was every joy to me. I was 14. Just as Shaylee is...and floundering to make sense of something so senseless. It has been almost 30 years since his death, and I still get tears in my eyes and an ache in my heart with the missing of him. Angela (my sweet neighbor and friend) is actually making a birthday cake with Shaylee today, since her birthday is tomorrow.
I am going to put a donation spot on my sidebar here on the blog, for the family. There are still at least two weeks left until the drawing.

I just cannot thank you enough for your selfless gifts for Tim and his family. To everyone who contributed in every way, may your lives be blessed.
UPDATE: I am going to be giving away more than six pairs of vintage assemblage earrings. I received a generous donation from one of my favorite suppliers to make at least six more pair of Kim's favorite green earrings. Many thanks to Scarlett of Valclaws on Ebay for your generous donation of supplies!
I better get busy, eh?

Blessings to You and Yours,
Jennifer Valentine of Sacred Cake

A Heavy Heart

What I am going to tell you is hard to hear. It's sobering. It's sad. It is real.
I met Kim last year through my dear neighbor, Angela. She loved my jewelry, I loved her smile and her enthusiasm and the way she looked at her little girl. I gave her a simple pair of earrings and you'd have thought I just handed her the entire moon...she was like that. She was feisty and bold and funny. She was a mother, a wife, a daughter, and a friend...

She was you. She was me. She was any of us.

Kimberly Jacko and her daughter May 2011

On new years day, she was gone. A snowy road on the way home claimed her life.  A car accident that left her little girl without her mother, and a husband and family and friends drowning in grief. It was the first snow here, and after 8 years of life here, I know all to well, that the first snow always claims lives and injures people. But no one ever thinks....

 



There is a heaviness here, in this little town...almost like everyone has felt their own mortality smack them in the face.

Including mine. My grief is private, and tears spill in the quiet spaces of my evenings when the house is still. When I look at my young son...my tiny grandson...my husband... My head is reeling with constant thoughts of my brief time with Kimberly, what her family must be going through, the grief her husband must feel...the mental list is endless. And dear Angela, my sweet and kind neighbor, she is beside herself with grief...coming to me with sad eyes that I can hardly bear to see from such a joyous soul. They were good friends. And in her grief, Angela is gathering tangible and useful things from family and friends to take to Kim's husband and family to help. Kim was not only a mother to her and her husbands little girl, but step-mom to her husband's older children as well.

Kim and Angela 2010

Kimberly and Tim's Children 2011 (photograph by Angela)

I am asking of you something simple. Look around you. Count your blessings. Take a breath. Thank God for it. Call your friend. Send the unsent letter. Sing in the grocery store (or sing and dance, as I often do.) LOVE your life. Love the questions. Let go. Choose to be happy.

Kim and Tim

Tell your child you that love them. Call them now. Hug your loved ones...your friends. Make amends. Hold you husband. Your wife. Your family, your friends. Really notice the little things.

Live for women like Kim.

I have always believed in a collective good...that togetherness makes us stronger. That we should try to use our gifts for a better world.This is how I want to honor her on this snowy eve,  and use my gifts to do so. It is all that I have to give. Her family needs the help.

I am asking you to please purchase a raffle ticket. All that it will cost you is one dollar. I am raffling off  a gift certificate for FIFTY DOLLARS worth of merchandise in my shop, Sacred Cake on Etsy.
When you win, I will give you a special code to use for your gifts in the shop. You can use it any time on anything you'd like. EACH DOLLAR YOU DONATE EQUALS ONE TICKET. Each ticket you purchase increases your chances to win.

Peridot green necklace by Sacred Cake

ALSO, There will be SIX MORE lucky winners of a pair of simple, pretty peridot (pale green) crystal drop earrings in remembrance of Kimberly.

Kim's last words on Facebook were these~
"HAPPY NEW YEAR! Live well, be healthy and happy and appreciate all of your blessings!"


I am asking you to help me to help her family in their time of need and grief. Receive something special in return. A chance to win something pretty and a chance to make a difference...a chance to be a part of the collective good in the world.
Please spread the word. Click on the "Share this" in green letters under the post between the comments and the post itself. Then you can easily choose to share on facebook, twitter and a multitude of other ways.
Winners will be drawn on January 31st, for a 50.00 gift certificate and six earring winners. Remember that each dollar you donate equals one raffle ticket in the pot.

If Love Could Have Saved You, You Would Have Lived Forever

Dear Cutie Bear Cat,

Did you know Jeremy named you? I would have chosen something less child-like for you...something maybe like Felix or Haskell maybe. But it became so fitting for you...and I ended up calling you cootie or coots anyway. Thank you for for forgiving the silliness of it.
I've been looking at urns and stones with paw prints and corny sayings and markers and necklaces with little vials so that I can wear you on my person if I need to...I don't know how to let go. There is such an empty space here, everywhere you were, sweet little fur baby friend.
I knew from the beginning you were extraordinary..my dear nighttime constant. It was you and it was me in the stillness at 2 a.m. as I created away in our shared circle of light. You in my lap or near my feet. The stillness and darkness of night was warmed by the soft wonder of your eyes. You looked to me for love, which I so freely gave to you with a wide open heart. Isn't that how we are supposed to love? Like you did?

I feel foolish for grieving you so. Are "grownups" supposed to grieve like this? Surely you knew how I loved you...and life around me goes spinning on as always and my heart is breaking for the missing of you. The deep and throbbing missing that won't lighten with the passing of days or even shopping for old jewelry to assemble.
I couldn't save you. I keep asking myself if there was more I could have done...did I do the right thing by calling our sweet small town vet for a home visit that would end your life. I can't handle the finality of it. You fought until the end, dear soul.
Thank you for gathering your last tiny bit of strength to visit me one last night as I settled in to sleep. I knew it would be the last time...dear furry companion, as I warmed you with the quilt that she made for me months ago to comfort me when I thought my body had given out for good. You stayed beside me night and day while I was sick and rising was out of the question. Did I thank you for that?

I've cried in the bathroom so no one would hear. I've cried in the bedroom so the children won't see... I've cried at 3 a.m. under the moon on the back yard bench. And the tears arrive again in the corners of my eyes as I write this. When will the ache of your absence leave me? There is such a huge hole in the shape of you here.
Please know that I loved you and that you were so extraordinary in so many ways. You were more than just a pet. There was more to you...i knew that. You had such a spirit, such wisdom, and you loved me............you loved me.....irreplaceable, gentle, you. I miss you terribly.
Your ashes arrive tomorrow. And how in the world shall I proceed?

Your forever, forever friend,
Jennifer

                               

Yes, I'm Being Followed by a Moon Shadow

Moon Shadow, unknown date

I dreamed of him again last night. Every now and again he visits and I tell him how much I miss him...how much he meant to me...and I hold him tightly as long as I can before he has to go away from me once more. Even after almost 30 years, the tears well up and spill over my cheeks with the intense missing of him...my step-father, Jerry Roberts. He came to us a funny, gentle and playful angel. He made our mother smile and laugh like we'd never seen her do...he made us all feel safe and loved. He made us feel precious and seen and relevant. We mattered. He loved our mother deeply and he loved us girls like his own.

And then he left us. He didn't want to, but for whatever reason, God took him home. He was killed in a car accident in December of 1983.

We watched the joy leave my mother's face and turn into deep sadness. Our little world, our utopia by the lake, under the boughs of Hickory trees laden with moss...was completely shattered. Only a deep chasm of emptiness and grief remained. My sister and my mother and I were forever changed...forever altered by an unimaginable and unbearable grief.

and Here I sit, almost 42 years old....with the same wounded heart of the 14 year old girl he left behind...

I need to tell you this. It is a part of my story, but it is only a part of the reason why I am writing this now. Sitting here vulnerable. Fighting the tears that blur the computer screen as I type.

He comes to me in dreams every now and again...sometimes picking me up in his truck. Sometimes we talk on the phone. Sometimes we meet at the lake; but this time we met at the track and he let me drive the dragster he named "Moon Shadow". Why, after almost 30 years, did I get to drive it?

I think I know.

He knows how I struggle. I feel his presence around me much more so these days...and I hear the sweet phantom sound of his southern voice. When I worry about not being alive for my children....or when i feel the energy drain from my body and I succumb once again to the blue-plate-special-illness of the month. When I am fearful and a little crabby, I remember his playfulness and his smile and his laughter....how i reveled in his attention and generosity; his dark and kind eyes looking back at me...his gentle voice filling my ears. I adored him beyond reason. He was mine, and our everything. He was a wonderful father to me and my young sister. The only one I ever really knew. He loved us deep and wide.We felt it. We knew.

...and so now, I've gotten to drive the car. I had always yearned to. I would dream of it when we'd go to watch him race at the drag strip....he'd let my sister and I sit in Moon Shadow every now and then just to have the thrill of sitting in it...

I know it sounds silly, but I think the dream, well it was a message from him...and in a way, a message to you and that is why I am spilling open here, wider than ever, to bring you the message.

He knew I needed to finally drive the car. To feel the power as I pressed down the gas and the loudness came and the front end came up off the pavement. I felt empowered. I felt alive and joyful. I knew where I needed to go. I knew what I had to do. I instinctively knew how to drive it and I wasn't alone because he was watching and he was proud.

In the dream I was driving the dragster, yet I could also see myself in it at the same time. He was showing me that I could do it...he was showing me what he saw as I drove.

and what a thrill it was to be driving!

But more so, I think his message was this: no matter how limited our time here on this Earth, love is the only thing that matters. It is the only thing we can truly leave behind.

What we leave behind in the hearts and minds of others is all we have. It is all we can truly give.

He gave me all of the generosity, laughter and love to pass it along. Life is so precious. So mysterious. So filled with beauty and despair and resilience and grace and tragedy. I am learning how to love the questions. I'm learning to love with my best possible love. I understand that I will always be a work in progress. I am learning to be more gentle with myself. I'm learning to find more and more humor in it all. And I've finally gotten to drive Moon Shadow. I know I can leave here any time now, knowing I've planted seeds of laughter and generosity and love. This was his message to me.

He gave that to me.
He gave me that, to give to you.

In Loving Memory of
Jerry Stephen Roberts

November 6th 1949 - December 27th 1983

Wishbone Chandelier

I bought this pin this morning.
Wanted to let you know.
It is a wishbone pin, Dad.
I bought  it for myself
because today is your birthday.
Bet you thought I didn't remember.

For so many years
I always meant to call,
but I never knew what to say.

I was 8 and
my first memory of you was how you hung
wishbones on your
chandelier to dry.
And you took one down
and we each held the delicate bone
(always pulling in opposite directions)
and made a secret wish together.
I remember I got the larger piece,
so my wish was supposed to come true.
But it just never did.
And now you are gone from me
forever.
You left without saying
a
single
word.
Left me with nothing.
but this dead birthday phone call

and this damn
wishbone chandelier.

A Letter to my Father

Dear Dad,

I put your picture away today. I had it put away while mom was here out of courtesy, but after she left and I put it out again it just wasn't the same.
After watching her sleep and hearing her soft breath next to me...after watching her delightfully play with the kittens and with Jeremy and make chicken parm and cake stands from candle sticks and old plates;
I realized that she is all I ever needed. I'm relieved that you weren't there to help raise me. She has been my mother and my father almost all of my life. A big job for such a small woman, and I've been an "interesting" child to say the least...she did everything she was capable of doing. Loving me the way she loves.
I have spoken to you more since your death than I have my entire life. Sometimes I think one sided conversations with imaginary answers are best. You apologized and told me how sorry you were that things ended up the way they did. You said you were grateful that my mother was my constant, the one I could always look to. You said you knew it was probably best that you weren't involved in my life after all. And I'm alright with that now. The tears don't come any more. Not for you, but for the missing of her.
I'm letting you go today, though I'm certain this won't be my last letter.
I just wanted to let you know.

Love,
Me

Tears for the Bookbinder's Son, an antique assemblage

It has been quite some time since I've created an assemblage. I have been focusing my energies on creating "functional" artwork and jewelry. I think this is actually the first though, that I have had a specific feeling behind the creating of it...I guess maybe more an emotion...or quite simply; grief.
This piece is about my father, as a way of expressing some of the emotions I've experienced since his death. Looking through old journal pages the other day, I came across pages from a time many years ago, in which I struggled with debilitating depression. I often had days in which I simply needed to list "what was good"...as if seeing it in writing made it somehow more real. It helped to keep more focused on what was important and what was, in fact good. Going over my list, I came upon an entry that stole my breath and made me choke on the sobs that wanted to escape from my throat. Just one line in my short list that day, of what was good:
"Hearing my father's laughter."
I have good days that string together one to another to another, when I think the worst of it is over....and then there are those days when my heart feels as if a heavy stone is tied tightly to it and the tears leak from behind my eyes no matter how I try to stay out of the shadows of grief and focus on the light.

p.s.(I took these shots without a tripod, by the way, thus creating the not so crisp pictures...I have since ordered a little tripod.)

A Trainwreck and Stillness

Inside I feel like a mangled train wreck and I can't remember the last time I bathed since I found out my father is gone forever.... Did I write that out loud just now?
I simply crave beauty and stillness and written words.
In the quiet of the day I glance over to my right as I sit here at the looking glass of the world and I witness such exquisite unfoldings...the portraits my companion creates in the spaces when I am not looking...or when he thinks I am not paying attention...
It is like watching the gentle birth of something so lovely, that I can't find my breath. Something I know is so delicate...so feeling...so amazing....unlike anything I've seen before....

I think they call artists of his (and my) kind "outsiders". Something to do with lack of "formal training"....but Ken...Ken is an "insider" who taught himself to paint more than 40 years ago...he paints the insides...the spirits of those who appear on the canvas...a kind of seance with his brushes and a softness of feeling all his own.

page 35

pale wrists of God
salt the earth in slow motion
accumulating in a
steady gathering of
hours,
minutes,
seconds...
and still
the day seeps sleepily
from under the hem
of my tattered white robe,
oozing thick and
ungatherable,
no matter how frantic
my hands.
And looking up from my chore
I can see no further
than the sloppy street corner
beyond the pane that divides
cold from warm.
Still I brighten
and dry my hands
knowing you are turning
toward home.