Ode to a Chosen Father

Father extraordinaire

Having suffered the absence of paternal connection due to profession and priorities, I chose wisely & directed distinctly so that my children might know what I recognize here about their father (with the help of the alphabet. X?)

A-accepting, allowing
C-caring, compassionate, considerate, champion, capable
D-deeply devoted
E-embracing, expressive, encourager, EATER
F-feeling, dream fulfiller, fortune hunter
I-inquisitive, insightful
J-Jack of All Trades
M-music lover
N-niece & nephew doter
P-proud, protective, patient, playful
S-sensitive, soulful, strong, skilled
T-tree lover
U-UNCLE, understanding
V-vehicle lover (this one not so important to me)
W-washer player (see above), willing
Y-yearning, yielding

With gratitude for the qualities he shares.
For you Casey, additional alphabets are needed.

(Fathers Day 2018, just ahead of our first empty nest year)

When we knew love…

Another last day of February, and with March comes thoughts of my mother, because shamrocks; but of course, then Valentines Day brings her too. (Aren’t shamrocks made of hearts!)

When Casey fell in love with me, I was as I am now. This is who I am, I said. My heart has been broken. I have already loved deeply and lost tragically. I don’t want marriage. I am afraid of surrender. I am on guard. Always.

That seemed okay for him.

“I’m lucky,” I wrote at the end of our first month together, the very first words I wrote to him in a card.

And then I added: “You’re lucky too.”

Maybe he lacked higher expectations. Maybe I did.

Or maybe what we had in common was our sense of Love as something higher.

We had two boys by the time we came upon this tune. It was winter. It was dark. There was darkness inside and between us.

Her. Voice.

The way she says: Pain. Tears. Heart. Met ours. Even our boys wanted to listen again and again.

The forgetting is the hardest part except that in the forgetting we don’t know what we forgot.

The forgetting makes it hurt less. Helps us surrender into day to day life without the extremes of love, promise, passion, wildness, hurt.

But what about these tears? A piece of good music. A painting. A play. A film. A passage. The light. The silence. A certain smile. Even the air.

There must be, beneath memory, beneath thought, beneath recognition even, a deeper current of being, reminding us of what we once knew.

The moment beckons, but we turn away, anesthetized from what it is to be whole.


Or maybe that’s too high an expectation.

Maybe showing for these moments is what is most true.


I remember that September dawn in the year 2000 when my mother lay breathing in a hospital bed in her livingroom beside the bay window; her heart had already completed its mission, but her body kept on.

“Marriage is kind of like that,” I say to my husband as we pull up to one of our favorite cafe’s. “Even if the bottom falls out, couples keep on going… cleaning the house, taking care of the kids, going to their favorite cafe. You have to eat.”

But I don’t want to be the breath that continues after the heart of our relationship has stopped beating. My wedding vows were intended as a commitment to keep on pumping and to let go when the pumping ceased.

And so far, 33 years into this relationship, the heart is strong.

“I really like Dad,” I say to my youngest as we drive home from town. “I’m just tired of our relationship.”

This is also winter talking and 55 talking and working on the same book for 7 years talking and the empty nest talking; and what I mean by “relationship” is the patterned behaviors that get in the way of real relation.

It turns out that not only does the breath continue for a bit after the heart stops, but the brain goes on even longer. Awareness continues.

I like awareness. Awareness is what gives voice to the experience of dying for those who are resuscitated. I suppose relationships are resuscitated too.

Those lattes were strong.

Fly me to the moon…

Cortes/detail (visipix.com)

When I met my Valentine, I could only wink one eye.

That all changed when we drove across country.

We celebrated our first Valentines Day together in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, 1987.

The waiter of the bistro invited us outside to watch our cork fly toward the full moon…

New Year in the Nest

With the holidays behind us, Casey & I finally caught up with each other to share the New Year intentions we recorded, side by side, in our Bullet Journals on the Epiphany.

The most profound of the prompts for 2019 was to make a wish for the larger community/planet.

His: A new administration.

Mine: The honoring of the life bearer. Women & the earth.

May these two visions, like our romance of 30+ years, intertwine.


Just this.

The sound of Casey chopping mushrooms in the kitchen. Both of us sipping rosé. Moon River streaming through the stereo.

This is where we started.
This is where we left off.
And this is where we find ourselves again…


Orgasms. Are they better shared? And if so, why?

Whenever two or more are gathered…

Certainly, re-creation and pro-creation are holy ground.

God’s recreation of the new day…

Wine. Good food. Laughter. Conversation.

My troubles are halved. My joy doubled…

Is it the same for introverts?

It’s Monday morning, so my attention should be drawn to practical matters, but I’ve been leading three different women’s groups through the second chakra this month so I find myself drawn deeper and deeper into its womb-like center.

How might your life have been different if, deep within you, you carried an image of the Great Mother? And, when things seemed very, very bad, you could imagine that you were sitting in the lap of the Goddess, held tightly… embraced, at last.

These words by Judith Duerk, in her seminal work, Circle of Stones, arrived in my lap as a new mother, seeking the feminine without knowing it, and they return now to remind me to let if flow.

I’ve soaked, I’ve skated, I’ve skied, I’ve played under the covers with the man I first brought home 33 summers ago at the shore.

When that summer ended, I left for the Rockies, a homecoming of sorts, as I had lived there as a kid and had longed to return. Casey came along.

I taught skiing by day and waited tables by night. We made love between jobs.

To say I love you right out loud…

Over a Thanksgiving return to the shore, an elder relative asked, “Are you going to blog about us?”

I paused to consider her concern. Blogging wasn’t on my mind, I assured her.

“If you do want to write something about us one day,” she began, and then she motioned for me to come closer.

As she spoke, I was struck by her tender tone, so in contrast to her natural boisterousness.

What she said could only be spoken by someone who has loved and hated and fought and devoted and drenched 50+ years with the same lover.

Whenever two or more are gathered…

To Risk Love

I watched as a twenty-year old waiter spun a tray on his forefinger beside the coffee station while he chatted with the bartender who blended drinks for the 8-top beside the water.

It was the year 1986, and somehow in that moment, beyond the fine qualities that I’d already appreciated (as a manager and as a woman), my soul recognized in my future husband someone who had the capacity to live outside the box, stretching the limits of happiness and realization and love.

I wasn’t wrong.

But first, my heart would need to be broken by another.

And still, there was no happy ending.

Love is not only an ever-unfolding adventure but an invitation, again and again, to deepen, to risk, to transcend.

Separate, we may have selected different paths.

I would have returned abroad.

He may have stayed put.

7 years after we found Love in a Crab House beside the intercoastal waterway, an every-day tragedy extracted us from the comfort of our familiar.

We arrived in the Green Mountains about the time other souls conspired to arrive here at the center of their soul’s longing.

Healers. Teachers. Counselors. Organizers. Artists. Visionaries. All simultaneously playing out the day-to-day of paying the bills, and repainting the house, raising kids, losing a spouse, divorces, affairs, house raisings, house fires, betrayals, relocations.

25 years later and we have arrived at the beginning again, the nest we built emptied, me restless for a new horizon.

“What we call the beginning is often the end,” said the poet T.S. Eliot, “And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”

Our souls are called to climb, and Casey and I take turns challenging the ascent and alternately insisting, as needed, on the spiraling descent, in the dance of presence and possibility.

Once upon a time (and sometimes still), I feared such a coupling for so many reasons:

1. Infidelity (not just his)
2. Boredom (see #1)
3. Loss of self/power/identity/expression/choice (see #1 & #2)
4. Loss of love

“For a marriage to be vital, divorce must stay on the table.”

I read that line some years back and it’s echoed what’s been true for me, and it’s what enabled me, almost 30 years ago, to say, “Yes,” to Casey’s desire for convention, even while I refused to claim a name other than the one to which I, like Casey, had been born.

We were walking the 2 blocks between his mother’s house and my mother’s house on a busy road 2 blocks from the bay, when he finally understood that what he was asking of me was not only a charming construct but a longstanding form of gender oppression that would, in fact, annihilate me (and everything I had to offer Love.)

By the time our boys came, there was no question.

A weaker man, a man with less capacity, a man who was too afraid to breathe beyond the confines of culture, and thus refused the call to greater love, would not recognize the gift in my refusals.

Some time ago, soon after we built the house and mortgaged it, Casey went two years without his teaching salary. At the center of this crisis, like the loss that brought us to the Green Mountains, we stood at the precipice of realizing something true. But it was not to be.

Casey found a good job locally; one he still holds to this day.

Have you seen the film Revolutionary Road? It explores the tragic cost of stability on “one” woman’s psyche. But it may be that both of us were too afraid, each in our own ways.

“There is no such thing as a faithless person,” writes Marianne Williamson, “We either have faith in the power of love or faith in the power of fear.”

Saying, “Yes,” to our coupling is a daily act of creativity, just as saying, “Yes,” to love (instead of fear) makes you a Creator.

November 6th will reveal our nation’s faith in love.

“Faith is an aspect of consciousness,” says Williamson; and consciousness, say I, isn’t a happy ending, but a day to day invitation to love, to risk, to transcend.

the turning

When your life is suddenly emptied of children, you discover things you once knew, like quiet and simplicity and space, or that you never knew, like the way you and your husband, brought to tears in the kitchen while listening to a story, turn away instead of toward the arms of the person with whom you chose to share a life.

How had we never come upon this before, this mutual turning away? Shouldn’t it have been revealed over the course of thirty-something years, or at least in the decade before children?

I certainly knew that he turned away from me–think of the year my mother died during which I wrote the poem about the wallpaper and my wrist and the color red while the new baby nursed in the crook of my arm, and he went ahead and enrolled in that Masters Program after I’d asked him to wait. `

We have slept apart since the late August afternoon when we took that same baby to college. Most every night for more than a month now (after never before). Mainly because I’ve been sick. And Menopause. And the string of unusually sticky September nights. And the way he sometimes wakes to pee, not once, but twice, the floors creaking, me waking, at 4 or 3 or 2, up for the day no matter how much night remained.

Today was a bad day, a new regimen of treatment making me feel worse to feel better, and the heavy cloud cover with no promise of redemption of sun in the forecast; and when he arrived home late from work, he fixed himself some dinner and brought it to the couch where I had given up trying to write into that year with the wallpaper and was instead watching a documentary about Joan Didion who wrote into just about everything.

Her words brought us to tears from time to time and there it was again!—this turning away—this hiding our grief?—and yet didn’t we cry at the same places, and weren’t our hearts moved in the same way, and isn’t it unbearable to think that one day, he may be slumped in my arms, or I, in his, like her husband (and then daughter), forever. gone.

Little by little, in the empty spaces, we are finding what we once knew. Our two-ness.

It’s sprouting up like spring seedlings, promising something that is almost too painful to receive. This turning toward one another again, like this turning toward self again. In love.

Where we belong

Marriages end. Marriages begin. Love blossoms. Love fades.

“How did we get here from there?” we ask.
Or: “How do we get there from here?”

Some say there is no there. Only here.
Is that true?

Doesn’t every beginning embody its ending?

Don’t love and hate, union and dissolution, copulate?

Maybe our job is not to arrive or transcend but to…
That it is all here.
Beneath us.
Within us.

And to understand that right here is where we decide:

How to coincide.

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