Four people I love deeply have died in the last twelve years so who am I to write about love with roots? I’m more introvert than extrovert so why am I blogging about love of all things? Hanging out in nature saved my life. So did people sharing their stories of surviving the death of loved ones. I’m hoping to pay it forward here.
My Editorial Board
I’m so tempted to list my dead loved ones as ‘angels’ but all four of them are laughing their wings off. Mike, my husband of twenty-five years, the Presbyterian church elder whose favorite word was ‘fuck,’ is laughing with his mouth open. Robert, my dad, who pulled practical jokes on neighbors, is chuckling his little French Canadian hee-hee-hee. David, winsome retired Army pilot and lover (after Mike died, of course), is smiling sideways at me, shaking his head. Frances, my mom, life-long teacher and librarian, story weaver, has her hands on her hips. Her mouth is pursed sideways trying to keep her dimples under control, and she’s rolling her eyes.
You see what I’m dealing with here. Getting maudlin just isn’t tolerated, but I do cry and scream and kick my heels once in a while, anyway. Throwing temper tantrums, writing in my journals and tramping around in the woods are how I work through the hard bits. I’ll share some of that here, too, if I can get the stuff past my editorial board (listed above). I do have a living editorial board, including Celin, my daughter—who calls me on negativity especially, and my local writing group who call me on a lot of stuff. My son, Joe, also edits from the warm soil of California.
I play with gratitude lists for things with roots and what nurtures them. My definition of “roots” includes the basis for plant life and the basis for love, for my life. I use the alphabet and my definition and make a list. I began this as a sleep aid—gratitude does calm the two-a.m. shoulda-shits brain. Now I use it as a writing prompt, too. My alive loved ones probably know I love them, but I’m not great at showing it. They are woven into my lists, too.
If I’ve learned anything from my editorial board, it’s that tomorrow isn’t a given. I’m hopeful that a weekly deadline will help me remember to notice, nurture, and celebrate Love with Roots. You’re welcome to plop down in the duff with me. Hm, this analogy is a stretch. I’m writing from northern Minnesota in January. We’re sitting in a snowbank, four feet above the duff. Our imaginations will keep us warm, though, and the roots are there—whether we can see them or not.
Scrambled Eggs: A Love with Roots list
A is for Ailish, my granddaughter, turning one tomorrow. An easy ‘root’ to celebrate. I’m her Grandma Daycare so we see a lot of each other. Gazing into Ailish’s eyes—blue with a greeny-gold ring around the black aperture—startled, I find her soul smiling into mine. There she is. Sunny-natured Being. But at twelve-months, she screams and fights when she is suddenly scooped off her feet toddling without fear toward the red-hot woodstove, or the edge of the stairs, and her future. My mind is expanded with new information: the four-month-old female fetus contains all the eggs she will ever have—the eggs of her potential children--while she is still within her mother’s womb. So, when I was pregnant with my daughter, Celin, she carried the egg that is now Ailish. My mom, pregnant with me, carried Egg Celin. My mom’s mother, Maida, died while Mom was pregnant with me. My mom, Frances, died a few hours after Celin and Sean brought newborn Ailish home. But now I know, life to life to life to life, blending, hoping, living, and nurturing: we are a bunch of scrambled eggs.
Eggs—human roots, might have to be revisited under E. I have so many other A roots to celebrate--air and aspen among them. Future essays—see you next week.
