Feast on the Silence

Friday evening.  I'm on the boat alone -- a rare treat that I am savoring like my last piece of chocolate.

One of the downsides to boat life is that alone time is a rare commodity.  For me, time alone is as essential to my health as food and water.  If I don't have time to myself -- time to think, write, reflect, create -- then I start to lose emotional weight.  I cannot function in the way that I want to be in the world because a part of me is literally starving.  I become cranky, impatient, critical and everything but loving and kind.  It's ugly.  And it feeds on itself.

Saving Starfish

It's been raining hard in Seattle for several days now.  The gusts of wind at night are intense - I'd guess last night's blow to be at times in the 50's (knots per hour, that is).  During the night, while we slept, the boat strained on its lines and the rain beat down hard, waking me up repeatedly.  I was okay with it because a) I knew we were perfectly safe and b) because it is the most delicious feeling in the world to snuggle deeper under the covers, safe and sound, while a storm is raging just inches away from my bed.  The boat is warm and dry and we are completely protected - but we are as close to the weather as we could be and still be unaffected.

Last night, before turning in for the night, I realized that Lovey (my 10 year old dog and the love of my life)  still needed to be walked.  Mind you, on a boat, way out on the end of the dock, this is no small feat - not even close to opening the front door and letting the dog out for a quick pee, shivering on the front porch while waiting.  We chose our slip out at the end of E-dock, intentionally - it's quiet, it's private, and we have easy access to an unobstructed view of the sunset over the Olympics.  But it's about a quarter mile down the dock, a sharp right on the last finger pier and then a hairpin left to the ramp.  Then up the ramp to the parking lot and then a little ways to a place where Lovey can do her business.  So - last night when I realized that I still had this considerable chore before pj's and book time, I groaned, but then suited up and suited Lovey up (yes, she has a raincoat, too) and began the process of helping her off the boat and then starting our snail's pace walk (she's kind of a creaky old thing) down the dock.   The temperature was on the warmer side, the rain had slowed to a fine mist and it was actually pretty in a rainy sort of way.

As I turned right at the end of the dock, heading towards the ramp, I saw two oddly-shaped things on the dock.  At first I thought someone had dropped a couple of banana peels.

But as I got closer, I saw that they were starfish. Both were upside down and therefore unable to move on their own to safety.  The light shining on them illuminated their many little "legs," wriggling, waving, seemingly frantically, but making contact only with the air above them.  I wondered if the extreme low tide had caused them to fall off a pier pole, but then surmised that a seagull had dropped its snack, unable to carry it and fly in the rain. (I have watched a seagull swallow a starfish - hard to believe if you've never seen it.  The starfish ended up lodged in the gull's neck, protruding at odd angles, rendering the gull more of a cartoon character and a comical one at that.)   Lying on the dock, these two creatures could easily become a midnight snack for an otter or a more determined sea gull.

I picked one up and tossed it gently back in the water.  Lovey and I watched it float slowly down to the bottom of the clear night water.  I nudged the other with my foot until it plopped over the side of the dock.  I forgot about the rain for a few moments and looked into the water thinking about the life down below and the starfish finding their way to safety, snuggling under their covers while the storm raged overhead.  It was lovely and something that would never have happened except for my old dog who needed a walk.  We saved a couple of starfish tonight, Lovey and I.

Goodbye and Hello/A New Job Description

This time that is described as "change of life" is so much more than hot flashes and changing bodies.  Our lives are truly changing. My mother-in-law is declining as a result of congestive heart failure.  My father is suffering from Parkinsons.  A friend just died of cancer.  My children are flapping their wings harder and harder and getting ready to leave the nest for good.  It's as though my job description is being rewritten, but no one has shown it to me yet and I'm not sure what to do.  How do I function in a world where I am no longer a daughter?  Where I no longer buy my mother-in-law a Christmas present? Where I am no longer a mother in the way I have been for 22 years?  How will it be in the office without our friend and co-worker?

I met a woman on the beach last week -- both of us walking our dogs on a fresh, sunny fall morning --  and, remarkably for the fact that we were strangers to one another, we had this very conversation.  She lost her husband when she was in her mid-40's, raised their two children and for 30 years carved out a life of her own.  She has lived in France, California and lots of places in between. She teaches yoga to seniors.  She is a landlady of a property she bought recently.  When we met, she was recovering from a broken back, suffered on a bike trip in Italy.   When I told her what was going on in my life, she said, "Wonderful, Irene!" Without minimizing or dismissing what I was experiencing, she said, "Irene, life is changing for you and you are heading in a new direction - -and it is wonderful.  I promise you, it will be okay."

It's hard to see it that way at this moment, but I think she is right.  I am going to make sure that she is.

Janet

Janet, my co-worker and friend, died 3 hours after we left her yesterday.  The overwhelming feeling is relief.  The slow-building grief has not yet surfaced.  But it will - oh yes it will.  I spent the day the day telling people the news - our staff, others around the hospital, administrators, Human Resources.  It was exhausting but real and gave me something to focus on - a way to help.  The conversations were rich, the loss is deep.  It's raw.

Falling in Love with the Sun

One of our staff members at work is dying.  Her cancer was in remission when she was hired 10 years ago.  Last year in early fall, it reared its ugly head again and this time it was tenacious, vicious, aggressive -- and bullied her until it became clear that it would win its evil battle.  Today, a few of us from the office went to visit her - to say goodbye.  This woman with whom we have shared work, staff meetings, lunches, coffee breaks, and plenty of laughter....  this woman with a heart of gold who always had a positive word and a compliment for everyone...  this woman for whom work and co-workers gave her life purpose, second only to her daughter and grandchildren...  this woman who does not want to die....  is dying.  Four of us stood around her bed in her condo, with her daughter nearby, as she gasped for breath, and became alternately agitated and then so quiet that at one point I thought she was gone.  We held her hands and rubbed her legs and arms, and spoke to her.  She knew we were there.  She tried to speak.  But it was unintelligible -- kind of like she was reciting the vowels.  I think she was saying I love you.  We told her we loved her and that we would miss her.  We cried.  We said goodbye.  And when we left we knew we had seen her for the last time.

On the way back to the office, from my vantage point in the back seat of my co-worker's car, I looked at the orange and red leaves starting to fall from the trees.  I watched children playing at recess in a school yard.  I felt the warmth of the sun through the window and everything was vivid and clear and I thought about Janet who would never see the sun again, never feel its warmth, never see the sights I was taking in as we drove.   I looked up at the sky and remembered the way it felt to be in the back seat as a kid when my parents were driving and tried to remember what it felt like to not even know how to drive and to just be lost in my own thoughts, watching the world go past, totally at the mercy of my parents' wishes and schedule.  Not in charge, not in control, no responsibility, just following.  That seems like a long time ago - it was a long time ago.  Then again, how in heaven's name, I wondered, has it come to this?  To be a woman in her early 50's saying goodbye to a dying friend in her early 60's, and feeling like it is just too darn soon.  I fell in love with the sun at that moment which was shining brilliantly on a perfect fall day. 


When we got back to the parking lot at work we hugged each other goodbye, knowing we had just shared a profound moment.  As I jumped into my car, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket.  I reached in, flipped it open and saw a text from my daughter, Julia.  "Mom - do u want 2 meet for sushi at 2?  My treat?"  "U bet!" I texted back immediately.  We sat together in a warm, Japanese restaurant, sun streaming in through the window,  drank green tea, talked about her boyfriend and school and  - you know, stuff - and ate sushi.  She picked up the tab and we walked arm in arm back to our cars.  I fell in love with the sun for the second time that day.

The Laundromat gave me Hope

For a year and a half, I have resided at Shilshole Bay Marina in Seattle.  On a boat.  A sailboat.   Some people, upon hearing what we have done, say "Cool!" or "I've always wanted to do that!"  Others say, "Sooooo...   are you homeschooling your daughter?  Do you have heat?  Do you have running water? Does the boat rock at night?" (No, Yes, Yes, No.)  All legitimate questions.   But, living on a boat is really not as primitive as it may sound.  It is merely an alternative lifestyle and one that we share with about 30 others on our dock.  10% of the boats at this huge marina are "liveaboards."  So it's not as strange as it may seem.