Morning musings

While I was waiting for my breakfast to cook, I decided to look outside through an open door to check on the weather. The hiss, patter, and splash of heavy rain greeted my ears as the fresh smell of the washed air hit my nose. I had to think back several moves - before Britain, before Michigan, to the last time I lived in Oklahoma - to the time when I lived where I could hear the the drumming of a storm inside my house. It reminded me of the times as a girl when I would sit on the rock porch my mother built, reading a book, listening to the rain hit the roof, and enjoying the smell.

The summer rain is different here in Oklahoma than in Utah, where I grew up. Today’s rain falls in sheets driven by (for us) a small wind of thirty miles an hour or so. We also get hot rain. The temperature seems warmer than the thermometer states, and there’s the feel of stepping into a shower.

In my childhood, the rain cooled the summer’s day, bringing a lovely change. I remember the slate grey of the wet asphalt, the pearl grey of the clouds, separated by the dark pine green of the mountains, punctuated by the colorful houses. I would sit for hours, gathering energy from the weather, reading Where the Red Fern Grows, The Lord of the Rings, Little Women, All Creatures Great and Small, or whatever homework I might have.

A bright flash of light pulled me out of my nostalgia.

One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five…

The rumble of thunder shook my skin, setting off a nearby car alarm. I smiled. Silly car owner. The lightening was about a mile away.

I watched two cars in the apartment parking lot drive off, the tires creating a wave of water, splashing as it hit the pavement. Leaning against the door frame, I gathered energy from the storm, just watching. Taking a moment to just be.

Then the microwave beeped, the toaster popped, and I considered mutiny for a moment. But I have tasks that demand my attention, so I turned back into the house, let the door shut, and went to gather my breakfast.

While mending some hems for young missionaries, I happened to notice the pink plastic thimble on my right middle finger. For whatever reason, it caused me to actually look at my hand for the first time in a long while.

Generally, I’ve always liked my hands. Though not traditionally long and beautiful, I’ve often thought they were somewhat attractive, at times, even graceful. The tiny movements of the wrists and fingers while tatting; the larger emotive sweeps, beats, and tension of conducting a choir; the quick fluttering of fingers while typing or playing viola; or signing along to favorite songs, because ASL is such a lyrical language, though I am nowhere near fluent. Nothing is more expressive on the theatrical stage than thoughtfully placed hands.

The touch of my hands has been called gentle when I helped with an injury, loving by friends and family, helpful when dealing with pain, and soothing for heartaches.

Over the years I’ve used them to fire arrows, wield swords, or rapiers, though none very well. They’ve been blackened with ashes over cooking fires, turned blue, yellow, red, or orange with dyes, been stained with plants, garden dirt, sap, sawdust, and any number of other substances. Callouses from my instrument, years of spindle spinning, thousands upon thousands of pricks of pins and needles over the many years of textile work, along with a myriad of other tasks come and go. But they’ve also been soft and lovely with long, carefully manicured, painted nails that were grown for long weeks for special occasions.

Today they look…old. Or at least they are starting to. I suppose that is only fair, after a half a century of use.

They also tell a story, if examined closely. Let’s start with the right hand.

The thimble is to protect my longest finger while I work on pants for teenage missionaries. They asked for some hemming, so I stopped and did it.

The fingernail on my ring finger is cut close. For some unknown reason, stress affects that nail, making it brittle. The evidence of a migraine from over a month ago that lasted more than a week is still growing out.

A small burn on the back of the hand is from the hot iron used to make masks a few days ago. My daughter asked for some more for her coworkers.

My left hand is covered with small scratches that resemble paper cuts. They are from the rotary cutter I’m using to make squares for a postage stamp quilt from scraps as I relax in the evening, to keep busy as I help my husband work out details for his role playing game, or when I just can’t quite bring myself to do anything else. Some of the scraps are from friends, and some are from projects decades old that I have been keeping just for this.

Other scratches are curved and slightly deeper from tending to my sick pet. Little Judy, a black and white rat, does not like her medicine.

The reddened patch on my forefinger is from diabetic testing.

Most of the nails are too long at the moment to play my viola, which I haven’t for years. It makes me feel guilty sometimes. But they are a good length for picking up needles, working on the Cross Stitch of Doom (which I hope to complete sometime within the decade), and manipulate thread.

The rope burns on the back of the hand are nearly healed, finally. I helped make a net for a trebuchet for a medieval society a few months back.

And then there is my wedding ring, the most notable thing on my left hand. It is a simple affair – two millimeters wide, made of white gold with no adornment. We chose it because it was a harmonious mix of two metals in an eternal round. I’ve worn it for so long, it is part of my anatomy. No one else can remove it but me. (My children tried.) When moved from its place, the groove left on my finger is so deep, people comment that it still looks like I’m still wearing my ring. I often fiddle with it, but seldom take it off.

As I examined my hands, for a moment I mourned, wishing for the return of the time of their young skin and pretty nails. But then, I realized I would rather have hands told a story of a woman that worked, that tried things, that learned. A woman that lived.

Essay - topic suggested by a friend during a conversation

I just want to go home.

We’ve all had that moment, I think. The almost overwhelming need to be somewhere else; a place of safety and warmth, both physical and emotional. Tears well up in the eyes, the heart hurts, and you would do anything – anything - to be back home. I wished that Scotty could beam me there, or that the Doctor would show up in his TARDIS, or perhaps some fairy godmother I didn’t know I had would finally find me and whisk me away to that special place called home.

Back in the day, when my little family consisted of my husband, my baby daughter, and myself, we were stationed at Lackland AFB in Texas. We spent the day in the small room of assigned temporary housing, because we could not look for a more permanent place just then. While my daughter napped, my husband watched over her while I went for a walk to acclimatize myself to the new environment. I grew up in the cooler mountains of Utah, so the hot Texas plains took some adjustment. The sunset was dusty golds and yellows, and it was only then that I remembered it was Christmas Day. Homesickness washed over me.

The thing is…I didn’t wish for Christmas. We celebrated with family before we left, and my childhood memories of that holiday aren’t idyllic. The Texas heat meant no snow, and I saw no decorations to remind me of the holiday. I realized events do not trigger homesickness for me.

I couldn’t imagine I missed the house I grew up in with my five siblings, all still living at home at the time. A host of teenagers, a busy woodworking shop hip-deep in pine shavings, and all the clutter and bustle of a household of creative people – all musicians and artisans, writers and thinkers - meant a household of people that seldom held still. Newly married, I wanted to create a new life for my new family, not hold on to my past. (I do miss the rock porch my mom built. Reading on the porch swing smelling the rain and watching the mountains was so restful. It’s still there. If it ever gets excavated, they will find a rusted Tonka truck, busted strap-on skates, and any number of early ‘70’s toys. And rocks. Lots and lots of rocks.)

So, I thought about what I might be homesick for, if not the house I grew up in, and decided it must be the mountains. I missed the cool, dusky smell of the pines, the whispering susurration of golden quaking aspens in the fall, the smell of the crumbly, damp earth that never completely dries under their shade, on the western face of Mount Timpanogos. I wanted to enjoy the long sunrises and lingering twilights after sunsets, the reflected colors of both on the mountains when the sun was not above the ridges. To hear the morning song of birds, the evening chirps of crickets and frogs, watch the stars slowly light up the sky as the heavens deepened from azure to royal to midnight blue.

To cure the desperate longing of my soul I needed to walk the mile-long trail up to the cave of Mount Timpanogos, listen to the guide tell the tale of the Indian maiden losing her love, laying down on the mountain that now bears her outline, and see the stalactite that is her frozen heart still pining for her lost one. To listen to a symphony play Night on Bald Mountain in the open-air amphitheater on the hillside on a crisp fall evening as the sun goes down, go tubing down the slopes of Mutual Dell, sit next to a crackling campfire in the arms of my husband.

That must be home.

The years marched on. Our family grew and the military moved us from place to place. I visited my mountains several times. Eventually we moved back into the area. Our children started school. My husband went through several lifesaving surgeries that left him disabled.

The mountains did not rest my soul as they once had. The children needed watching and teaching. Don’t throw rocks at your brother. Put that stick down. Don’t eat those berries: they might be poisonous. Stay on the trail. Look at the hawk! Do you see the deer?  Don’t get to close to the fire. No, you can’t have another marshmallow. You ate them all. Come here and wash that chocolate off your face.

I worried over my husband as we learned the new requirements and limitations of his body. I had to drive instead of watching for wildlife as we drove the familiar roads because he no longer could. If we left the windows down to enjoy the smell of the trees, the wind hurt his skin. I needed to consider bathroom breaks, whether we packed enough food, first aid supplies, dry socks… In short, others required my attention.

I still got homesick, but the mountains did not fill the void.

Fast forward a few more years. The children grew up and eventually moved out. I went back to school, got some undergraduate degrees, worked on a Master’s degree, then was accepted to a doctoral program in Britain. The visas took longer than expected. When we opened the package, we discovered that I could go, but my husband would not be coming with me.

For the first time in my life, I lived by myself. It was a different country, a different culture, and a new way of life. I knew no one, had nowhere to live, and only a reservation at a bed and breakfast when I landed at the Manchester Airport in early December after staying awake for nearly two days. A wonderful gentleman with a delightful cockney accent greeted me as I stepped outside with, “Need a cab, luv? You look exhausted.” He called me a taxi which took me to my B&B.

England, for me, was a great adventure. It appealed to the historian in me, adding dimension to the stories and tales I read all my life as I walked through the Shambles in York, touched the cool stones that were the remains of Roman walls, watched the sheep graze while climbing around crumbling, abandoned abbeys, and inhaled the smokey fog of Bonfire Night. The romantic in me got to see the Christmas markets and lights on winter nights that started at 3:30 pm, smell nearly year-round rotating flower displays, watch the fuzzy neon lights of the Curry Mile through the dripping condensation of the 42 night bus coming home from a lonely train trip to London, feel the clack of the rails as the Welsh countryside slid by the windows after my husband’s visa was denied yet again.

I loved my little flat just off the Curry Mile. I met wonderful people. The research was engaging. I got to travel to places and see things I never imagined I could. But when I slowed down, or paused to think, there would be a gaping hole. My husband of twenty-five years was not there to share it with me. I wanted to talk to him about the exhibits in the British Museum as I walked through; get his opinion about the architecture around me; discuss story ideas, historical details, and nuance that being in a place brings, and all the other amazing things that having my intellectual and creative equal and partner right next to me afforded. We resided in the same room for much of our married life, so I often turned to tell him something to find…no one.

If home is where the heart is, to be home, I needed to be with him.

Three and a half years later I came home. We found a nice apartment tucked in a quiet corner close to all the things we need. But we were out of sync. Before I left, he finished my sentences as I finished his. It took time to relearn how to live together again. The time apart cost him dearly, though he never complained. His health deteriorated as his disability progressed. He did not want to ask for the things he needed in case it disturbed my work, and I was overly protective, jumping instantly if he asked.

I was home, but it wasn’t the safe, protected space I longed for.

The occasional wave of homesickness washed over me as we learned to live together again, and I watched him deal with his pain. If being with this man who loved me with a depth and breadth that brought me to tears didn’t fill that hole, what would? I already learned that a place or house was not the answer. So, in quiet moments, I pondered.

I discovered what I was truly homesick for was a time. A time in my life when I felt safe. All the burdens I carried could be lifted off my shoulders by being held, loving whispers in the dark, the calm of a beautiful sunset, playing tag with friends on the cool grass, watching the stars on a summer’s evening, listening to the falling snow cover everything in a peaceful white. That golden moment when I was about ten or eleven – old enough to take care of myself, but not yet entirely responsible for anyone or anything else. That point in my life when parents were trusted to take care of everything, right before the preteen realization that they were fallible people that shatters the childhood worldview. That seemingly long, too short moment, of young love, while in the arms of the man I had chosen, the depth of our feelings for each other gave the knowledge that no matter what the future held, we were strong enough and everything would be all right because we would always be this loved, safe, and cared for. When joy was simple and happiness uncomplicated. I so desperately need to go back to those moments, sometimes.

But it’s a struggle. I’ve lived. More than a half-century of love, laughter, pain, and trials stamped on my mind, heart, and spirit no longer allow for simple, straightforward emotions. I still watch the sunset, enjoying the colors as they fade through each other and into the dark. But I remember that I am also grateful for the technology that allowed me to keep my sight for the last four decades. I watch my husband sleep, thinking of the moments when he still touches my face, holds my hand, wraps his functioning arm around me – those times are more precious than my newlywed self could possibly imagine. I know how much it costs him in pain to express his love with small intimacies most take for granted. I watch my grandchildren giggle, run, grow, struggle, fuss, and learn, and I remember being their age. I miss the simplicity and excitement of the newness of each new day of childhood, but I worry for them. Dangers lurk ahead, and though I will warn them, I know sometimes all I will be able to do is listen as they cry and pick up the pieces of what they thought they knew.

Still…

As much as I yearn simpler times, I would not trade what I know, who I am now, or what I might yet become for the world. There is a depth of understanding, of compassion, of joy, that can only be experienced because of sorrow, pain, and anguish. I just have to remember that sometimes.