The Semi-Empty Nest

Now that my youngest birth child, Alana, has moved out of the house (for the second time) at age twenty, it seems a fitting time to look back at my years as a mother. Oh- I know that “mother” is something that I will be until, in fact, my children themselves die. My own parents still hold court in the castle of my consciousness at age fifty-seven – my father from heaven, my mother from Minnesota. And the elders I’ve cared for still so enshrine their parents, as long as their mind and hearts still work.

No, it’s just that now is that particular time we call “the empty nest.” In my case it’s a semi-empty nest due to my almost 8 year old stepson, Evan, who’s with us half-time. But that’s a different story.

This empty nest is cushioned a bit by the situations of my life. My revived private women’s health practice needs all of the attention of a good mother to help it grow. And my writing projects could fill 48 hours a day. It’s not like in the old days when so many women’s life career was as mother, and that was that.

Yet, be it lowly job or brilliant career, it cannot cuddle up to you and say “I love you Mommy.” And I’m a definite cuddle- hold- hands- and- hug kind of person. Alana and I still sometimes keep the French custom of “bezous” – kissing on each other’s cheeks to greet each other and to say goodbye. It was actually more of a touching of cheeks, with air kisses as sound effect. In Paris it was 3 times-- cheek one, cheek two, and again cheek one--maybe to overcome any possible big city anomie. When I get to be with my twenty-nine year old son I like nothing better than sitting next to him, holding hands or arms draped around each other’s shoulders.
I will sorely miss the feminine presence of my daughter in this masculine household. Alana is much more feminine that I. She went through a years-long phase as a young girl when she would ONLY wear dresses and skirts. I convinced her to wear long pants under them to protect from winter cold.

Alana’s an expert at make- up and now has a career as a hairstylist. She advises me kindly in these matters. It’s fun—just as I chastised her for cutting her hair as a preschooler, she has lectured me against the practice of trimming my own bangs. She’s finally accepted that I won’t blow dry and style my hair. I barely comb it—something my own mother nagged me about to no end. Of course I do press Evan to comb his bed head on the morning I get him to school. It’s my motherly duty.

By Terra Rafael

Rickshaws

Rickshaws

The other night, as I watched the rickshaws pedal their passengers home, I remembered the rickshaws in India. When I came across the border from Pakistan into Amritsar, the city of the Golden temple, the most sacred shrine of the Sikhs, I was in for some unexpected culture shock.

In Pakistan the rickshaws were pulled by the skinniest horses you could ever imagine. In India, they were driven by even skinnier men. I couldn’t bring myself to ride in one for a few days. How could I ask such a puny man to haul me around, even though I was pregnant. I watched in amazement at how much strength they had and, finally, it became natural for me to ride in one. They were so eager to carry me.

After my daughter was born, I was riding in a rickshaw in Pondicherry. My husband was on his bicycle ahead of my mother-in-law and me in our carriage. I had my two month old wrapped in a blanket and was holding her tight. Suddenly, Hugh stopped to avoid crashing into another rickshaw that had halted in front of him. Our driver also stopped suddenly and I felt myself being lifted into the air on a trajectory out of the rickshaw and onto the asphalt street. I knew I had to protect my baby, so I twisted in midair and flipped around so that I would land on my back. As I did so, I held her up to avoid her coming in contact with the ground. It worked and she was unscathed. I only suffered some bruises. I was grateful for my stunt training in the theater that served us well that evening.

Rickshaws became a way of life when I was in town and didn’t have my bicycle. Seeing these vehicles in America seems like an anomaly. What are they doing here? And yet, it is a most marvelous form of transportation. I highly recommend it when one is out and about. With a good driver, it is so much fun.

Prema Rose
8/29/09

I can’t live someone else’s life.
I have to live my own. I might look at how a friend expresses her feelings, tends her family, but if that is not what is natural to my own makeup…I am not being true to myself…and in truth, I won’t be able to measure up if I’m using someone else as a benchmark.
I might wish I was softer, more emotionally gentle in my expression, only focused on family rather than the personal and business goals I have. But that wouldn’t be who I am and where my drive takes me. I don’t want to apologize for who I am, wishing I was someone else. Whose life would I be living if not my own. I’m here to fulfill my soul’s desire for a certain life path. Why would I judge it less than another’s.

Summer Kitchen, 1958

The dishtowel hung on the ponderosa pine tree, which stood guard over our summer kitchen along with the dishpan, the net bags of tin plates, and cutlery. It smelled of pine and coffee and fire baked potatoes. There was a campfire where we cooked gingerbread in hollowed out orange rinds. We washed our dishes over the fire. We ate on the ground for the picnic table… … we ate simple things going to the ranch down the road to get fresh milk. His wife gave us fresh stuff from her garden. We ate tons of candy bars and ding-dongs from the camp store. It was a free sort of summer. Dad had taken a job in the Tetons so Mother packed all seven of us into the old woody station wagon. We drove to Jenny Lake and camped with the moose, the bear, the pine squirrels, and the birds in the trees all summer long. We never once had to sweep the floor.

Jesse

A Tall Feathered Tale

Sometimes things happen when you least expect it and it will totally turn your day around. This was one of those times.

I was driving down a mountain road thinking about the state of affairs, which, if I had any thing to say about them, would be substantially different ~ Way Better, to be more specific. I came around a corner and what I saw before me was too weird to be true.

There was a man on a bicycle, moving rather slowly as he was pedaling up a steep incline. And running beside him was a long legged turkey. I was shocked silly! The turkey looked very tall, the man looked very unhappy and I slowed down for a number of reasons, this was just too good to be true. I rolled down my window and leaned out to get a better look. The poor man was trying to pedal and the bird was viciously pecking at him. I casually asked him if this was his pet turkey. He had a hard time talking but I think he squawked something like, “this damn bird is trying to kill me!”

As I slowed my car beside them, the turkey was loudly vocal and threw out his tail feathers into a wide fan. He was dark brown, wild, and rather trim, apparently from jogging, and appeared to be much more in control than his opponent. The gentleman biker had grey hair under his little helmet, and shiny black bike shorts that fit tightly on his upper thighs leaving the rest of his poor leg exposed. I feel quite confident in assuming that he had no idea when he dressed that day that he would be fending off, or racing against, a rabid running turkey.

Lest you think I am being unfair to the biker, he outweighed the bird by 150 pounds at least, and I will confess, under different circumstances, I would have found them equally attractive specimens. I wanted to yell some encouraging words to the man on the bike but I was struggling with my vocal chords not to laugh out loud. It was tough; I was choking up as I wiped tears from my eyes. As I slowly rolled down the road, the scene in my rear view mirror was so comical I nearly wet my pants. That long legged turkey ran beside the bike in a dead heat. I believe the fellow was trying to throw a kick at the bird without losing momentum. The turkey, never missing a stride, would expand his tail feathers and then pull them back into a neat bundle. I know it is cliché, but seriously, the last thing I heard as I rolled around the next curve was the man cursing and the turkey answered with a long gobble.

* annette

Surprise Messenger

Working on the rock wall has brought a few surprises. My connection with the rocks continues to grow. I sense and listen where one wants to be placed and when it has found its home. There is the learning curve on the ability to move a rock, one that is to big for any sane person to move, sometimes even up a hill, by rolling it day by day, till it arrives at it’s destination, that continues to amaze me. But Sunday a surprise came from an unexpected source. Early in the morning, as I was about to move an enormous rock, a clicking sound emerged from underneath an edge that was floating higher than the rest of the rock. Peering down the next thing I see is a very large beetle walking out from below. He’s still clicking which I interpret to mean: annoyance that he had to move. His dark brown coverings and three and half inch long size, gets my full attention. I’m mesmerized as I watched his gyro-scoping antenna’s explore the air in front of him and find a pathway to a new spot. Slowly he walks straight and surly to a rock about four feet away. I watch every movement and have the thought; “I may never see anything like this in the wild again. I think I’ve seen something like this at the Butterfly Pavilion.” It felt like the time I saw two snakes in the before, during and after sex act. Sheer amazement comes over you and you just know this is a ‘once in a lifetime’ event. The ancientness of its structure reminds me I am peering into a long forgotten, but well preserved, prehistoric past.

I have the thought “Maybe there is a message to this visit.” I continued working for the next couple of hours, checking on his whereabouts every now and then. He seemed to be settling into a spot. I built him a rock house with three rocks leaning against each other so he would be protected, from both me stepping on him, and kitty eating him. Later, as I came to work another shift, (shifts are essential as the weight and numbers of rocks I move challenge my strength) I realize I hadn’t looked up Scarab, which I decided my beetle friend must be.

The most notable words I found were; Sacred, Sun and Ra, along with the imagery of rolling the sun across the sky. This last piece originates from the fact that a Scarab actually does roll dung across the earth to bury it with its larvae so it will have plenty to eat as it hatches. A lot of symbolism, used in ancient Egyptian art and burials, feature this beetle. Somewhere in there is also the mention of resurrection, which would explain the burial connection. It was known for disappearing and reappearing. And my friend did disappear but not until after he spent the whole day under his rock house. I thought he might have come to die. But the next morning he was not to be found. I looked everywhere. A once in a lifetime surprise I surmise. But the thought of him rolling something across the earth couldn’t help but hit me as I have literally spent most of the last several weeks rolling rocks, too big to pick up, across the land. I smiled at the reflection my little messenger imparted. Nothing I could of guessed when seeing him for the first time would have prepared me for that knowledge. I thought I was the only crazy one rolling anything across the land. And here he emerges to teach me I’m in good company. And maybe some other things that are yet to resurrect.

Mary

Prose - Opening

Shell Creek campground, the loviest of areas by the creek, a feeling of wanting to stay here forever, although we only ended up staying one night. It was on to the Great Medicine Wheel the next day. Wildflowers in abundance, beautiful grasses with tall spruces all on one side as our protectors. To another side of our new home the grasses were laid down where deer must have slept the night before. I laid my navel down on the flattened grasses, gathering the gentleness of deer into me as I also felt the support of the Mother. I began the process of letting go of the negative energy in my liver, the only label I was aware of at the time, as I allowed the love of deer and the Mother seep into my soul. Later, my friend, Myrna, creates more healing sounds with the bowls, deepening that opening. Gratefulness surrounds me, washes through me. My great lesson is learning to receive the love and the beauty that is all around me. Grace can be simple, no struggle, just allowing, only being.
Patricia