John O’Donohue writes, “what is nearest to the heart is often farthest from the word.”
That’s why I didn’t write yesterday ( but, still, 30 days out of 31 in December is a good run.) My heart was topped off and I couldn’t think straight. I still can’t. I mean, I know that I need to hold the happiness of having us all here very close and not let it go, and I know for sure that all of us together so much under one roof is not sustainable– this chaos, the meals and the mess and the lack of real schedules– are we eating again? Dishes. So many dishes– cannot last another day (okay, maybe two?) much less a lifetime. All five of our children have homes and families of their own to take care of and the Juneau kids needed to return to theirs. (JJ has been here for three weeks.) As Chip says, someone has to get to work around here– The exit is staggered, which helps. There are two daughters and their families here always (thank God) and our son has two more weeks before heading home to Australia.
I don’t want to be sad, but I am, and I’m really happy too that we did it. That everyone was here. I am full. (And it’s not just the cookies.) That’s love, right? I explained all of this to Trixie as we shared a good cry in the privacy of our morning walk and she agreed. The nice thing about Golden Retrievers is that they are always agreeable.
The Juneau kids departed on the Friday evening ferry after one more quick meal for Henry to top him off.
I wasn’t the only parent or grandparent saying holiday goodbyes. The line at the ticket counter was sort of festive. One friend was heading to Costa Rica, one to his grandmother’s 90th birthday party in Seattle, another to work at the mine. When he asked where I was going, I said I was staying home, and he said “I wish I was.” The Aussies hiked and sledded into the cabin with some of the Haines cousins for the weekend, the other cousins had a birthday celebration with their Haines in-laws, and suddenly Chip and I were home alone for the night.
This morning in my email there was a call for hospice volunteers for an elder “actively dying.”
Actively living until we actively die–
That is something to ponder, isn’t it?
I think about it everytime I see Papa Bob’s empty chair. I don’t intentionally place it near us, but it’s been there. What does that mean? That what is nearest to my heart is farthest from words?
I know, I am way to close to this story to wrestle any sense into such big thoughts right now, but there is something in leading an active life that is more than swimming laps or taking a brisk snowshoe up to Lily Lake. That something has everything to do with paying attention to the love (big and small) and happiness (flashy and flickering) that is right in front of you– now. I tried to watch my grandchildren like a movie. Here is something else: as a hospice volunteer I have been taught, and experiance has proven, that the last sense to leave us is hearing.
On the last night of all of us, the dishes were done, the babies were sleeping, Chip had just gone upstairs, and the sisters and I were sipping wine by the fire, another sister (and her husband) showed up in her pajamas announcing that it was time to play Busto. They grabbed the brother from the little house next door and I said goodnight, leaving the kids to their dice game, and to be them without us. I fell asleep in the arms of their father to the sounds of their laughter.
That was the best.
