In the Margins--Words of L. Phillips Thune

Slam

          for "the girls" 
               inspired by LTAB

When I wear black
give me time and space to exist how I need to
for just a little while
until I smile
again
at that funny walk, that funny run,
that funny way of saying:
this is a bad idea
or
this never gets old
or
I do not want leftover
anything—ever.
When I wear black
let me listen to that voice that used fingers to talk
for just a little while…
let me remember my five flowers in zoo moments
or pool moments or ice cream moments or nap moments,
together moments…the seven-leaf clover…the seventh wonder
of the world
of my world.
When I wear black
I will listen to the songs of the sisters
say goodbye.
When I wear black
give me my child back.
When I wear black
don’t think that
I won’t wear yellow again
tomorrow.

Linda Phillips Thune
Mwah

Lunch!

     One of the rewards of transporting my youngest daughter to and from school is catching one of the "pearls and rubies" that her father and I always said fell from our daughters' mouths; of course, that was when they were under the age of seven when those gems were utterings such as, "Mommy, I love you so much--I want to marry you," or "Mommy, I put frosting on the pancakes," or even "Daddy, go faster..." as he rode them around town in their bicycle trailer.  We never took it for granted, the lovely things they said...I love words and talking...and talking.  Everyone's new word was reason for celebration.  Parents celebrated the oldest's first words, which were more like little pieces of laughter, then sisters celebrated each other's words (especially when one sister without hearing learned to say "caramel macchiato), and everyone celebrated the baby's first words--which probably translated to "how many of us are there in this family?"
     Halla, that baby, benefitted greatly from the wisdom of her big sisters, or as she affectionately calls them, Moms #2, 3, 4, and 5.  She floats easily between awesome insight (how did God get here) and extreme silliness (why can't they make ice cream that doesn't melt).  
     Last week, we passed several workmen on a lunch break...sitting together, hard hats, lunch boxes, taking drinks, talking.  Halla said thoughtfully, "I like seeing guys on a break."  I asked her why.  "I don't know--there's just something cool-looking about it."  I talked to her about the meaning of camaraderie--how perhaps it's peaceful, seeing people just being quiet, eating, resting...sort of cozy.  Just like shared moments of agreement and understanding that go beyond words. 

   

     A few months earlier, as the summer heat was settling in for a long stay, we were leaving Halla's school when she spotted three or four little birds splashing in a water puddle right beside the road.  Her sixteen-year-old eyes went soft, becoming two years old again, as she said, "Oh look at those birds...they're so cute--that makes me feel happy."  Just when I thought she might have outgrown all the sweet simplicities of childhood, she surprised me once more, providing hope for the heart after all. (Okay, granted, going into Crate and Barrel makes her feel happy, too.  But it's the thought, right?) 
     Waiting for our turn at the stop sign, I entered that bubble of innocence with her and enjoyed the feel of the water... as much as Halla...as much as those birds.

      

Mwah!

Sanctuary

I can't properly explain why I love visiting El Santuario de Chimayo.  Over the years, I've brought back pictures, scapulars, or bits of the miraculous dirt for my home, for my daughters--small symbols of the preservation of my love for them and for their creator, and leaving behind my prayers for their well-being and peace and safety. Perhaps it is the simplicity of life in Chimayo:  small, quiet, brown, chiles, rosaries, candles, flowers... 

It is not possible to do anything other than slow your thinking, your movement even, as you walk the grounds of the church with its miracle "pocito" -- a small well that legend, or faith, tells us is the site of healing and hope and love. 
     Perhaps I am attracted to that place because it is a spot on earth that, to me, feels holy--that God walks there; Colorado makes me feel that way, especially outside, walking in the mountains under aspen leaves with their familiar, trembling gold light shining on my path.
      Perhaps the attraction is meant to stay a mystery, simply a reminder that I don't need to know, cannot know, many of the reasons for what a heart feels or a mind thinks or a soul believes.  I'm able to bathe in my faith there.  It is always renewed.
      I only know that although most of my daughter's ashes are at rest outside Aspen, Colorado, a few of her blessed remains belonged in Chimayo.  And on a day that was as clear as a mountain October was ever meant to be, her father and I entered the sanctuary and placed a candle, with a small bit of our Annie and a small bit of the blessed dirt from "El Pocito" inside, next to the candlelights of other lost loves, lighting it together, hand in hand, as if we were lighting a wedding candle.  Through tears, we prayed for our loss and for the loss that our other daughters, Annie's sisters, have had to feel, who every day think of her in some way--sometimes sad, sometimes even with anger, but many times with humor and forgiveness, and always with immeasurable love.
     A picture of Annie, blessed by the pastor, now hangs in the sanctuary, alongside so many pictures of soldiers and babies, mothers and fathers and cousins and brothers...and sisters.  Her ashes live beneath the roses outside the chapel wall.  My prayers are answered.
     To Annie and her sisters:  God blessed my life forever the moment I breathed you in.  
      Mom.  Mwah.

 

Miracle Mail

     My friend, S. K. Carew, is the poet I long to be.  She has ways of turning phrases that evoke beautiful images and reflective thoughts.  When I had to tell her the news about losing my daughter, I asked her for a poem.
     On one of my low days a week ago, when it's hard not to remember, not to think, not to burden my friends with need, not to bother my loved ones in the middle of their own business of living and hurting and healing...I received a box; it was so light, like it held only air.
      S.K. sent three things:  a well-chosen card with Maya Angelou's words about great souls that serve everyone all the time, that never die but bring us together again and again.  Inside the card, a sheet of paper with a poem she'd written for Annie--the last lines are:
The glassblower leaves
one breath in each work of art
to finish it.
I believe we are sea shells
with inner noises
rich and mysterious,
and that God,
old miracle worker,
holds us up and listens.
Your sweet soul turns
sad strangers into family,
and, just like that, makes
old friends into new.
You, Annie,
are the miracle.

     The entire poem is a perfect lovely miracle.  And then, I found another small box hidden within the foam pieces.  I unwrapped it slowly to find...a hand-blown glass dragonfly, with irridescent, gold-trimmed blue and green wings and a crystaline body--with the artist's breath inside...she had remembered that I collected dragonflies since Annie's loss.  As I stood there, "Let it Be" started playing on my computer...a song that was performed by special friends at Annie's memorial service.  And for a moment, a breathless, heart-filled moment I felt as if I was in the presence of Annie, of God, of pure Truth.  No sadness. No pain. Joy.
     Thank you, S.K., for giving me more than I can ever thank you for.

Yearbook

A memory dropped into my life yesterday—
a strange mix of school and war,
friendship and love,
confusion and fear,
life and loss;
abandoned by what should have been
an eternal golden thread;
single acts of kindness
from-- in retrospect-- a family created.
Perhaps it is best
not to miss a chance
to tell Memory,
I'm glad you were there.

                                L Phillips Thune

Music Poem No. 1

While listening to a composition by Karly Komando, this is the poem that emerged:

IN THE LIGHTHOUSE

The sea rolls toward me
and leaves me
yearning
and receiving,
here
and gone.

In the lighthouse
of stone
and whitewash
and brass
and prismed glass--
shining rescue--
and quiet hours
I’ll wait
for the joyous swells
signaling the arrival
of wishes in bottles.

        L Phillips Thune