The alarm buzzed twice and I hurriedly grabbed the phone. 6:00 am had come too quickly and the blackened sky confirmed that not even the sun was ready for the day. The house was still except for the percolating of the coffee maker and the soft, rhythmic breathing of my nephew upstairs.
The comforting aroma of a fresh brew began to waft through the living room enticing me to get moving. As objects before me came into focus I could hear my sister shuffling through the kitchen. This was THE morning. The one we had been waiting for, the one we came here for and, honestly, the one I was somewhat dreading.
Sis and I exchanged our good mornings in hushed voices so as not to wake the others. Then we poured our java and tip-toed to the front door. We headed out onto the large, wooden porch over looking the ocean. The moon was hidden and the sun was still asleep making it hard to tell where the ocean ended and sky began. As far as I could tell the sea and sky were one.
The air was refreshingly cool and the birds and insects had commenced their morning symphony. We sat slurping our coffee and listening to the hypnotic lull of the tide. It was a beautiful morning. It was perfect really.
We had all decided to caravan down to St. George island, a used-to-be-annual summer destination for my parents and one we had frequented as a family. Over the years they had rented several houses on the island and the one my dad chose for this summer event was one they had stayed in before. It's blue wooden siding had faded from years of sun exposure and the nails in the deck were rusty from relentless ocean spray and the taunting of tropical storms and hurricanes. "It's exactly the same," Dad stated matter-of-factly and with a trace of relief as he turned the key and led us into the main living room.
The mauve and perriwinkle floral couches would make their 1980's decorator proud. As would the oversized bamboo dining table with glass tabletop. It would be perfect for gregarious family meals, late night card games and a few Gallianos with my dad. I loved that everything was the same as when my mom had stayed here, except for a few updates of course. Now a DVD player graced the entertainment system and the house was equipped with wi-fi, ubiquitous and necessary for a successful rental today.
My dad showed us exactly where my niece had learned how to crawl. His finger pointed to a spot on the carpet just a few feet away from the sofa. It was hard to believe she was now 7 and an accomplished gymnist. In a way, this place was the start of her motor mania and so we all breathed in the air of nostalgia, memories and the reality that even though some things were exactly the same many things were so very different.
My mom loved the beach. She relished the languor that filled her days of sun-soaking, bathing in salty pools, consuming her latest novel and gazing at her family. She enjoyed moving slowly and I often thought that the turtle could be her sister soul, a fitting choice since the sea turtle is famous for laying eggs on this very stretch of beach. Furthermore, after a bit of research by my sis, we discovered that sea turtles are symbols of mother earth. Their shells represent heaven and their under shell the earth. These beings are nurturers, protectors, patient and steady. All of these descriptors scream Michele. She loved to be in her shell, comfortable, safe and familiar. That is also the world she created and perfected for her family.
So perhaps it is because this beach is the home to a symbol of the primal mother, fertility, wisdom and
strength. Perhaps it is because my mother loved spending time here. And perhaps, most importantly, it is because she specifically stated this was to be the place where we spread her ashes. This indeed seemed like a most fitting and perfect place to bring her one last time and forever.
So we swigged the last of the morning cuppas and I headed in to wake my dad. My dad was not spreading his ashes but he wanted to be with us when we set ours free. We gathered her cremains along with our courage and we shuffled out onto the boardwalk, down the rickety steps and out onto the beach.
I had a few things I wanted to say to mom in private and so I wandered down the beach a bit to have my chat. I won't recount what I said except for a quote I read to her. It is part of a letter written by a 19th century poet, Rainier Marie Rilke. A friend turned me on to his writing in college and these words have always rang with poignancy in my ears.
It is as follows:
Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves...
Do not now seek the answers,
which cannot be given to you because you will not be able to live them.
And the point is, to live everything.
Live the questions now.
Perhaps you will then gradually,
without noticing it,
live along some distant day into the answer.
I vowed to live my questions as best as I could and I hoped that she was finally getting some of her answers.
I walked back over to my sister and dad and we slowly opened our urns. The sun was higher now and the sky was flooded with a gorgeous palette of pastel chalks. It was windy and the surf was frothy beneath our feet. The ashes were in a small bag which opened easily. We sprinkled them over the ebb and flow of the tide and the wind took them briskly in her arms and carried them further than we could imagine.
I was surprised by how thin the ashes appeared and how little of them there seemed to be. Another reminder of how the largeness of a life is not captured in the physical but in the spiritual.
We hugged, we cried, we stood strong and proud and then we began our day.
I love that part of her is in the ocean flowing into other waters and onto other lands. It's not symbolism or figurative language. She literally is Mother. My mother and now mother earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment