The Dark Has Its Own Light

A Swift Current The Dark Has Its Own Light

Elmer Bischoff– Figure at Window with Boat, 1964

As you come to this last page, there’s a sense of reaching out– for something that you can’t quite reach–that you can’t quite get. When you get to the top, you haven’t got it, but there’s a breathing out,

and accepting

that’s how it is…

It’s anything but a resolution. It’s not a reassurance either. It’s not that everything is going to be alright–nothing is going to be alright.

It’s just about accepting the way things are…

Words by pianist Paul Lewis about
Schubert’s last Sonata
The New York Times
August 2, 2016

Six years

after my mother’s death,

I have found

a certain peace.

It’s anything but a resolution;

it’s not a reassurance either;

and it certainly is not catharsis.

My mother is dead.

Her absence is an indelible part of me–

a space that cannot be filled—

nor should it.

Time does not heal;

I still long

for what cannot be–

but my grief

is tempered by

gratitude;

surprise;

even joy.

Six years

after my mother’s death,

I still shed tears

but I don’t fight them.

They are my silent– even welcome—recognition

of what I’ve lost and

what I live for.

Six years later,

she visits my dreams

with startling clarity–

pushing –prodding–

minding—mothering—

she makes her stand

in the dead of night.

Six years later,

I hear her voice

in my thoughts and

in my words — from

silly asides to

serious exhortations–

I am astonished to realize

she lives on

through me.

Six years later,

I look back;

I move forward;

everything’s going to be alright–

nothing is going to be alright.

As I come to this page,

there’s still a sense of reaching out

for something I can’t quite get;

for someone I will never see.

But there’s a breathing out—

accepting

the way things are.

My mother is dead.

I stare into the void

and

finally see.

The dark has its own light.

 

 

In a dream I meet
my dead friend. He has,
I know, gone long and far,
and yet he is the same
for the dead are changeless.
They grow no older.
It is I who have changed,
grown strange to what I was.
Yet I, the changed one,
ask: “How you been?”
He grins and looks at me.
“I’ve been eating peaches
off some mighty fine trees.”

~~ Wendell Barry

 

 

A Swift Current The Dark Has Its Own Light Corita Kent and Mickey Myers

As seen on a friend’s bookshelf…words by poet Theodore Roethke–print by Corita Kent and Mickey Myers, 1984

When I first read the interview with pianist Paul Lewis, his words stopped me in my tracks. In describing the final page of the slow movement of Schubert’s Sonata in B flat, Lewis helped clarify my then-muddled thoughts about my evolving grief.  Here is the link to the New York Times interview by David Allen: https://nyti.ms/2lDqDvd

A Meeting in A Part– copyright Wendell Barry, 1980 All Rights Reserved

Like Paul Lewis’s words, seeing the Corita Kent/Mickey Myers print at a friend’s home helped me think about loss.  Corita Kent’s artwork is the copyright of the Immaculate Heart Community All Rights Reserved– for more information http://www.coritaartcenter.org

Comfort and Joy

A Swift Current Remember the elderly at Christmas

My friend’s mom and the excitement of Christmas…

 

I have shared this story before. But any doubts about a reprise were erased when I received this card from one of my friends. Her mom picked out the photo and asked her daughter to include it with her greetings.

When I look at the expression in her eyes, my heart just melts.

I remember my mom’s nursing home at Christmas. The atmosphere virtually pulsated with anticipation. Holiday décor covered every available surface. Young schoolchildren sang carols. Unfamiliar visitors wandered the hallways.

The excitement—and tension–were palatable.

My mom’s fellow residents were lucky. The head nurse made sure everyone would receive a gift. Under her watch, no one would be disappointed on Christmas morning.

And so now, as we make our lists–and check them twice–let’s follow in the footsteps of my favorite head nurse. Please remember the elderly men and women in your community…

Here is our story:

Thank You For Remembering Me

A tall thin woman slowly edged her walker into my mother’s room. Her long silver hair was pulled in a braid, revealing bright blue eyes and high chiseled cheekbones

Are you Hallie Swift?

Yes, I’m Hallie…

She reached into her pocket, grasping a shiny gold lipstick tube

I’m Dorothy

She raised her arm high in the air;

giggling as she waved the lipstick back and forth;

her voice light, crisp, melodic

Oh Hallie, I just love my lipstick. Thank you for remembering me! Merry Christmas!

In her monthly newsletter

the head nurse had issued a plea—

she needed

Secret Santas

for residents with no families;

she wanted everyone in the nursing home

to find a present under the tree.

My friends and I discussed our gifts

…chocolates and sweaters and books with large print and stuffed animals and baseball caps and comforters and…

Lipsticks for the ladies!

Lipstick?

Yes, my friend urged

…after all, you never lose your vanity!

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

So we asked friends coming to our Christmas party–

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And with that, a tradition was born.

Year after year

we were showered with

Estee’s gorgeous reds, Chanel’s shimmering corals, Bobbi’s hot pinks;

small rectangular boxes adorned with bright paper and festive ribbons;

our own Christmas cornucopia.

We collected so many lipsticks;

I needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

On Christmas morning

each resident received

a beautiful little package.

A Swift Current Christmas lipstick for the ladies!

Lipstick! Photo by her granddaughter

 

The head nurse was effusive:

my residents are so happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

(her eyes glistened)

Well, girls, what can I say?

you made our Christmas!

But the truth is: they made ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipsticks became a defining moment of our holiday season. One friend told me she and the Bloomingdale’s saleswoman shed tears as they selected colors, then added every powder, polish and perfume sample in the department.

A Swift Current Remember the elderly at Christmas

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964 (the artist is now age 95)

A small rectangular box;

a simple gesture;

the electricity of Christmas morning;

a gift

under the tree–

bright colors;

big smiles;

Dorothy.

Silver braid

melodic laugh

waving her lipstick high in the air

Are You Hallie?

I just love my lipstick!

Thank you for remembering me.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

A Swift Current Christmas Surprise-Lipsticks for the Ladies

Thank you for remembering me! Photo by her granddaughter


I was so moved when a reader in Arkansas took lipsticks last year to her local eldercare facility. She reports the staff was surprised and grateful for her gifts. She plans to do it again this year.

The beautiful women in the photos are the mothers of two of my friends. I deeply appreciate their permission to use these photos, which say more than I ever could.

A Day in the Life

A Swift Current A Day In the Life--the power of the calendar

Beach Heart (a discovery on an otherwise ordinary day)– Photo by Hallie Swift


 

Every holiday– every birthday–

every year;

my mom was giddy with excitement.

In anticipation

I’d send a reminder to

cousins and friends;

her photo with a note:

hugs and kisses welcome here!

Year after year,

flowers and cards and visitors and candy

descended on the nursing home;

just the thought of it

made me giddy too.

 

A Swift Current A Day in the Life--the Power of the Calendar

They Say It’s Your Birthday–Photo by Hallie Swift

 

Now that she’s gone,

holidays and birthdays

stare at me

from the calendar page;

each promising to deliver

its own private havoc.

Standing in a checkout line,

(is it Mother’s Day already?)

I avert my eyes from

the greeting card display

but it’s too late.

I swat away tears

fumble coins

bungle amounts;

the customer behind me

sighs

with New York impatience.

I want to tell her

(this has never happened to you?)

it doesn’t take much to rattle me–

Father’s Day-

Easter baskets-

Valentines-

ENOUGH!

But

I know

I’m not the only one

upended by the innocuous.

(Facebook reminds me)

there’s no such thing as an ordinary day;

it’s always someone’s

birthday—

anniversary—

or even

death day,

for that matter.

And these extraordinary

ordinary dates

reverberate

on the page and

in our minds;

none of us escaping

the silent struggle

no one else can see;

more of us

in mourning

than you would ever know.

Recently

an ordinary,

unremarkable

winter’s day

was

(would have been)

my mother’s 100th birthday.

I proclaim her milestone

on Facebook

–the new village square–

a photo from our cross country drive

only months after my father died;

a widow at the age

I am now.

My mother turns toward the camera

a quintessential tourist pose,

the Grand Canyon behind her;

alone–

strong–

brave–

(or do I detect a rueful shadow in her half smile?)

Happy 100, Mama!

I hit post

and discover instantly

I am not done.

Suddenly galvanized

by the facts of her life,

I continue my exploration;

one by one

photo by photo

hour by hour

I recount the twists and triumphs

of 95 years.

With each addition,

a forgotten woman emerges,

my Mama.

And I realize:

until this day,

her last decade–

the decade of dementia–

had dominated my memories and

belied her life.

I had allowed the confusion, pain and grace of our final years

to become her whole story;

our whole story.

But she was so much more.

As I unbury my dead,

a chorus of cousins and friends

cheers my revelations–

helping me strike back

at a calendar filled with dread.

Dates loom large;

on the 100th anniversary of my mother’s birth

her story challenged my grief;

my sorrow finally tempered by

understanding,

pride,

and yes, even

giddy excitement.

That evening

my husband took me to dinner;

we raised our glasses high in the air

the end of an extraordinary ordinary day

Here’s to you, Mama

what a life—

happy 100!

 

nothing she did
or said

was quite
what she meant

but still her life
could be called a monument

shaped in a slant
of available light

and set to the movement
of possible music

(from “The Grandmother Cycle” by Judith Downing Converse Quarterly, Autumn)
 

 

A Swift Current A Day in the Life The Power of the Calendar

It’s My Birthday Too Yeah– Photo by Hallie Swift

 

They Say It’s Your Birthday, words and music by Lennon & McCartney, All Rights Reserved.

The excerpt from The Grandmother Cycle is from the opening pages of one of my all-time favorite books, The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields, which explores the life of an “ordinary woman”…

Double Take

You say you will love me
If I have to go
You’ll be thinking of me
Somehow I will know…

 

A Swift Current Double Take whenever i see an owl, I see her

Halfway Through the Wood… Photo by Sylvia Ferrell-Jones

A quiet winter Sunday–

a charming photo on Facebook—

an owl peaks out from a tree.

I close my eyes

take in my breath

(Mama!).

I want to thank my friend for

this fleeting moment—

this unexpected gift

but

“my mom LOVED owls”

is all I can muster.

I don’t add

her small collection of ceramic owls

was the first thing you saw

as you walked in the door of our childhood home;

or that my sister and I wore

owl pendants on our lapels

at the funeral.

And now

owls are

everywhere

pillows and wallpaper and tshirts and stickers and notecards and calendars and ornaments and

A Swift Current wherever I go, I see owls

Oh My…Radish Moon creations by Sarah Nicholas Williams

 

And every single time,

I see her–

like a spark,

catching me off guard;

startling–

playful–

elusive.

And it’s not only the owls;

–that would be too easy—

but again and again

just when I least expect it,

–there she is!–

tracing the shadows

just out of reach.

My eyes fall on a solitary figure

a half block away;

her coat–

her gait–

her hair!

I quicken my pace

but just before I call out

she turns her head.

Well, of course-

of course,

I knew that!

(you didn’t really think I’d call out, did you?)

But just for that instant…that flash of an instant…

(thank God I didn’t call out!)

A woman sits next to me in the theater;

she smiles, adjusts her wrap, studies the program

while her perfume takes me to your room

I sit on your bed feel your nervous tension my excitement too as you put on your party dress the babysitter arrives my chicken delight too my face nestled against your cool neck your sparkling earrings my goodnight kiss I promise to be good you look so pretty mama so very pretty please

don’t leave!

I duck into a diner–

a quick bite–

tuna fish salad on wheat toast please and yes, I want the potato chips;

there’s a catch in my throat

but this time I knew you were coming.

I can never order a tuna fish salad sandwich (on wheat toast)

without a catch in my throat

we pile into a booth at DuPars near the Broadway Wilshire or Hody’s at Hollywood & Vine back to school shopping I’m giddy your feet hurt we’re starving! and yes we want the potato chips and maybe even a root beer float…!

And now, mama,

my feet hurt too.

And maybe I understand, if only just a little, what it was like for you.

And how I never told you

all I meant to say.

I stare at the table;

the waitress sets down my plate

you need anything else, hon?

A woman walks down the street;

her perfume

her coat

her hair–

she turns away;

I smile.

Up the block

across the table

in the next seat

an owl peaks out from a tree.

You’ve been gone four years, mama

but you do not fade.

You ease my longing

dampen my sorrow

shelter me.

I still cry, mama

but not as much;

after all

how can I be sad

when you’re

always

just one

step

ahead.

 

A Swift Current  Double Take I see owls everywhere!

Walking Down Lex…Photo by Hallie Swift

 

Opening quote from the song “Things We Said Today” words & music by John Lennon & Paul McCartney Copyright © 1964 Northern Songs All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured

Halfway Through the Wood photo by Sylvia Ferrell-Jones, copyright Sylvia Ferrell-Jones, all rights reserved. Used by permission. I entitled the photo with a not-so-vague reference to Stephen Sondheim’s No One Is Alone from Into the Woods…the song was the impetus for this essay.

Owl pillows and t-shirts are part of a line of products by illustrator Sarah Nicholas Williams, Radish Moon, all rights reserved. Used by permission. To view the magical Radish Moon creations (drawings and dishes and dolls, oh my!) see http://www.radishmoon.com

And to readers who love the artist Vuillard as much I do, rest assured that I looked…but I don’t think he painted owls, or at least I couldn’t find one!

Thank You For Remembering Me!

A tall thin woman slowly edged her walker into my mother’s room. Her long silver hair was pulled in a braid, revealing bright blue eyes and high chiseled cheekbones

Are you Hallie Swift?

Yes, I’m Hallie.

She reached into her pocket, grasping a shiny gold lipstick tube

I’m Dorothy

She raised her arm high in the air;

giggling as she waved the lipstick back and forth;

her voice light, melodic

Oh Hallie, I just love my lipstick. Thank you for remembering me!

Merry Christmas!

In her monthly newsletter,

the head nurse had issued a plea—

she needed

Secret Santas

for residents with no families;

she wanted everyone in the nursing home

to find a present under the tree.

My friends and I discussed our gifts

…chocolates and sweaters and books with large print and stuffed animals and baseball caps and comforters and…

Lipsticks for the ladies!

Lipstick?

Yes, my friend urged

after all, you never lose your vanity!

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

So we asked friends coming to our Christmas party–

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And with that, a tradition was born.

Year after year

we were showered with

Estee’s gorgeous reds, Chanel’s shimmering corals, Bobbi’s hot pinks;

small rectangular boxes adorned with bright paper and festive ribbons;

our own Christmas cornucopia–

we collected so many lipsticks;

I needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

On Christmas morning

each resident received

a beautiful little package–

Santa’s surprise!

A Swift Current Christmas lipstick for the ladies!

Lipstick! Photo by her granddaughter

The head nurse was effusive:

my residents are so happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

Well, girls, what can I say?

you made our Christmas!

And they made ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipsticks became a defining moment of our holiday season. One friend told me she and the Bloomingdale’s saleswoman shed tears as they selected the colors, then added every powder, polish and perfume sample in the department!

A small box;

a simple gesture;

the electricity of Christmas morning;

a gift

under the tree–

bright colors;

big smiles;

Dorothy.

Silver braid

melodic laugh

she waves her lipstick high in the air

Are You Hallie?

Thank you for remembering me.

Merry Christmas!

A Swift Current Christmas Surprise-Lipsticks for the Ladies

Thank you for remembering me! Photo by her granddaughter



A reader in Arkansas has decided to be “Hallie’s Lipstick Girl” (her words) for her local eldercare facility. Thank you for spreading the cheer! And Merry Christmas!

The beautiful woman in the photos is the mother of a friend from grammar school.  Thank you for permission to use these wonderful photos and thank you to my friend’s daughter for taking such gorgeous pictures.

What A Tale My Thoughts Could Tell

A Swift Current What A Tale My Thought Could Tell

Vuillard Young Woman in a Room 1892-1893 The Hermitage, St. Petersburg

When you reach the part

Where the heartaches come

The hero would be me

But heroes often fail

                    ~Gordon Lightfoot

Saturday night

New York City;

jazz on the stereo;

the nursing home on the line:

-she’s agitated the doctor’s coming the meds aren’t working we need you to know her meds stopped working the doctor’s on her way we need you to know-

Sinking into the sofa,

I asked my husband

Why do people live so long?

As the words crossed my lips

I shuttered;

I had spoken the unspeakable

Why?

Years earlier,

my mother had written a living will;

in her own hand

she spelled out what she wanted.

She was unequivocal;

she believed in

quality of life

not quantity of years.

No extraordinary means,

she wrote,

but it had little meaning

when her mind disappeared.

Perhaps

her words could guide us

through end-of-life decisions–

but we never got that far.

Our decisions resided in the land of

of the grey;

how do we care for our demented mother
when we know
she would not want to live like this?

At the beginning,

the head nurse had proclaimed

Dementia patients in skilled nursing

live longer–

they have no worries…everything is done for them…!

Her words–meant to instill confidence–

begin to haunt me;

and I start to see

the nursing home itself as

extraordinary means;

bestowing years

my mother did not want.

During my visits,

people would say

Your mother is so proud of you!

and I’d wince–

I could not escape

the beating drum

the insistent rhythm

the irrefutable fact

I failed you.

Even after her death

I could not let go

(I should have taken you home, mama–

in the beginning,

when we had the chance—

home, mama

like you wanted–

no extraordinary means,

no unwanted years!)

And now

I see my friends

enter the fray;

doing battle

for their elderly parents.

One by one

I watch them struggle

with the same unmerciful choices.

From the sidelines

I see heartache; confusion; doubt.

And I realize

it’s the daughters and sons who try to do it all

who feel like they are doing it all wrong.

Where my friends feel gnawing frustration and guilt,

I see only unselfish grace and goodness.

A friend checks her watch; it’s time to call her dad. He’s lost after the recent death of his wife-his sweetheart. Every evening my friend patiently encourages him as they select his TV programs for the night. With tears in her eyes, she gently cajoles him (You’ll love Bob Newhart, Daddy…) as she lifts him up again and again.

A friend’s father will not let his favorite jacket out of his sight. After much searching, she purchases a similar jacket, slips it into his room and secretly launders his treasured garment. He might not be fully aware of her resourcefulness and ingenuity, but I’m sure he knows her love.

A friend joins me for a quick bite at the end of a long work day; our visit is brief; her 95 year old mother lives with her now, and will be despondent if her daughter doesn’t return home soon.

And this summer, on the 5th of July, a friend tells me she spent the entire previous evening on the phone with her 90 year old mother. Her mom was upset by the sound of fireworks. Mother and daughter talked long into the night.

You spent your entire 4th on the phone?

Well, yes…she needed me…

But you gave up your celebration…

I did…but…you know…

you do what you can do.

You do what you can do.

And with her words,

I let go.

Four years after my mother’s death,

the 5th of July, 2014;

my independence day;

my absolution.

You do what you can do.

The nursing home or

moving her home;

the choices were perilous.

We chose the nursing home.

It was not the right answer.

It was not the wrong answer.

It was our answer.

It gave us

long years.

It gave us

each other.

Your mother is so proud of you.

Yes,

she is.

You do what you can do.

Everybody loses the thing that made them. That’s how it’s supposed to be in nature. The brave stay and watch it happen. They don’t run.

                                                              (Beasts of the Southern Wild )

A Swift Current What A Tale My Thought Could Tell

Madame Vuillard and Annette, 1920, Private Collection

The title and opening lyrics are from the song If You Could Read My Mind by Gordon Lightfoot, copyright 1969 by Early Morning Music (SOCAN), all rights reserved. One of my all-time favorite songs, Lightfoot has stated “it’s about peace through acceptance” (Gordon Lightfoot Songbook copyright 1999 Warner Bros Records Inc. and Rhino Entertainment Company).

The story of the jacket can be found on the WordPress blog Let’s Talk About Family. When I first started writing these essays, I avoided other writing on the topic; however in recent months, as exploration of my mom’s story approaches a conclusion, I have found several probing, poignant blogs by people who share their unfolding experience with dementia. Here is the link for Lori’s writing: http://letstalkaboutfamily.wordpress.com/2014/06/28/lunch-with-dad/

=
Beasts of the Southern Wild is a 2012 Oscar nominated film, screenplay by Lucy Alibar and Benh Zeitlin

Remember The Ladies (Reprise)

A Swift Current Remember the Ladies--Christmas Owl Tree

The Owl Christmas Tree–Just Because–Photo by Hallie Swift

The head nurse was concerned.

She knew many of her residents had outlived family and friends.

She knew

come Christmas morning

many of her residents would not find gifts under the tree.

Determined to end their disappointment,

she issued an appeal:

WE NEED SECRET SANTAS!

Eagerly accepting the assignment,

my friends and I started to plan—

but what do you need at 90?

Chocolates and sweaters and books and stuffed animals and comforters and…

You need lipstick!

Lipstick?

Yes, urged my friend,

after all, you never lose your vanity.

She was inspired.

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

And in our annual Christmas party invitation,

we issued our own appeal.

Instead of a hostess gift,

we included a specific request:

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And a tradition was born.

That year,

and every subsequent year,

we were showered with

gorgeous reds, shimmering corals, hot pinks;

a cornucopia of small rectangular boxes

adorned with festive ribbons and bright paper.

Our friends were enthusiastic–

I even needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

And Christmas morning,

when the nurses presented our beautiful little packages to the residents,

the response

was electric

(you never lose your vanity!).

The head nurse was effusive:

you made my residents happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

Well, you made our Christmas!

And girls—

Estee Lauder; Elizabeth Arden, Chanel…?

My ladies are beside themselves;

you girls are too much!

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

But actually, our friends were too much. They gave us elegant brands in luscious colors, lovingly selected and carefully wrapped. One friend reported that she and the saleswoman chose lipsticks with tears in their eyes—then added every powder, polish and hand cream sample in the department. Even friends who couldn’t attend the party joined the lipstick brigade.

I wish they could have seen the smiles.

A few days after Christmas, a resident approached me; her eyes wide and glistening; her beautiful grey hair pulled back in a long braid.

Are you Hallie?

She reached into her pocket and produced a lipstick.

She giggled as she waved it high in the air;

her voice light, girlish, melodic;

I’m Dorothy.

I just love my lipstick. Thank you!

The pleasure was ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipstick became a defining moment of our holiday season. Some friends even continue the tradition; now taking lipsticks to their local nursing homes.

And recently

a friend told me

she always thinks of my mom

this time of year;

I say a little prayer

for your mom…

remembering the lipsticks of years gone by…

Remember The Ladies.

A Swift Current Vuillard The Earthenware Pot

Merry Christmas from A Swift Current and Vuillard (Le Pot d’Argile 1895)