Mary Oliver and A Pink Sky

This morning when I walked to the end of our hallway I could see the sun just coming up. I saw out of the window at the top of the stairs that the lake was purple, tinted by a fuchsia-pink sky. I hurried down stairs to get to the living room window and see it more fully, but by the time I got there, the pink had disappeared, like a secret shared and then quietly put away.

My morning poem today was Varanasi by Mary Oliver. Mary Oliver is one of my favorite poets. Somehow she always leaves the door open for me to enter her images and feel a little bit of what she might have been feeling when she experienced the moment she wrote about. 

In Varanasi, Oliver describes a woman bathing in the Ganges River in India. The description is simple, everyday, but Mary Oliver, in her way, brings the image into full view with layers of emotion. When I read Mary Oliver I don’t really understand how the poem is affecting me in the moment. It is only after I complete the poem that I am aware of the felt-sense in my body, a churning combination of excitement, melancholy and gratitude for being invited into the space Mary Oliver created. 

The last line of Varanasi is “Pray God I remember this.” As I sat quietly this morning reading Oliver’s words, I thought about the pink sky that I’d see for just a blip this morning, how it had come and gone so fast that all I had was my memory of it. I wondered how long this memory would last.

I thought about why Mary Oliver felt the need to pray to God that she’d remember what she witnessed; why she had to take that extra step in her mind to intentionally hold the majesty of what she witnessed. 

I let my mind take me through my own memories, allowing myself to settle on the ones that showed up first, and strongest. I thought about the moment I saw my daughter after she was born, how it felt to meet her outside of my body for the very first time, how my heart swelled and then almost exploded; how that moment of meeting her was the only moment in time in all the history of the world.

I thought about the time flying home from New Orleans with my partner, tired and sweaty from a long weekend, feeling so in love that nothing mattered — not my grubby clothes or clammy skin, not my middle seat or the fact that I’d get very little sleep before a long day of work the next day.

I thought about the time I laughed so hard that water came out of my nose. I was with new friends in India. We barely knew each other. A giggle sparked another and another until the four of us were swallowed up by breathless laughter, laughing like I don’t remember laughing since middle school. 

Each of those memories I called to mind this morning brought me back to moments in my life where I felt truly present, completely embodied with the experience. Each of the memories has been locked into my psyche because with each experience, I felt utter clarity — in my body, my mind, my spirit — that I was only in that moment, nothing before and nothing after. 

Maybe this is what “presence” is — being so completely in a moment that the moment stays, or at least it can be called back after many years. Maybe “presence” means having the consciousness, as Mary Oliver did, to note the profound, heart-moving moments in our lives. 

I return to the last lines of Varanasi:

I can’t say much more, except that it all happened 
in silence and peaceful simplicity, and something that felt 
like the bliss of a certainty and a life lived 
in accordance with that certainty. 
I must remember this, I thought, as we fly back 
to America. 
Pray God I remember this.

I wonder, as I get older and my memory softens, what images and experiences will fade and which ones will stay. I wonder if Mary Oliver wrote that poem right after seeing the woman bathing in the Ganges or if it was days or months or years after. 

As I sit here, just a few hours after seeing the pink sky, I can remember the pink sky, but more than the colors and textures, I remember the feeling of delight in my body, of excitement at seeing the pink sky and the purple lake.

I think about getting older and losing my memory, like my mother-in-law whose memory is quickly fading, how she can’t remember details like she used to. I wonder if, in the absence of the details, she remembers the feelings, the sense in her body. I hope so. 

I know I have other memories, mental recordings sealed into my neural pathways; I know I’m creating more every day. I think about those three memories that are as clear as if they happened yesterday, how I have been able to keep them because I was wholly in them. It’s a reminder to myself, like Mary Oliver gave herself in Varanasi, to note those moments when they come, so they stay with me as I go. 

Conflicts from Different Angles

I listen to a lot of podcasts. I prefer science or psychology podcasts and non-fiction self-help books based in brain science. For some reason, I can digest complex emotional or scientific concepts in listening format when I am walking much more easily than when I am sitting still, reading from a book. 

The other day I heard someone talking about conflict. The person being interviewed (and I honestly can’t remember if the speaker was male or female or what I was listening to), talked about the concept of conflict of hope versus conflict of despair. I’ve googled the terms “conflict of hope” and “conflict of despair” to try to track down who this enlightened person was but I cannot find any reference. So, in full disclosure, all of what I share today is from memory, extrapolation, and my own interpretation of the concepts.

The speaker talked about the importance of conflict in moving things forward, but explained that there are different ways to approach conflict — from a place of despair or a place of hope. Right away I identified myself as someone who approaches conflict from a place of despair. “Desperare” in Latin means “to be without hope.” When I am in conflict I am often desperate; desperate to make sure my side is heard, my point is made, and my position is known. 

Starting from a despairing place puts a tenor of negativity on any ensuing conversation. Instead of opening up the arena for thoughts and ideas to move back and forth, it creates a desperate situation. Instead of a big green open field, the background of a conflict of despair is like a frightened family batting down the hatches for a hurricane — plywood goes up, sandbags go down, just hide in the corner and wait for it to pass. 

Conflict of hope, on the other hand, starts with a belief in possibility — for change, for connection, for resolution. Rooted in hope, it invites opportunities for truly listening, believing that both sides of the story have value and both parties should be heard. There’s still a conflict but the energy that sets the stage comes with a promise of a collaborative endpoint, an outcome that meets somewhere in the middle, honoring both sides of the story.

This is a new concept for me. I grew up in a dog-eat-dog family and learned the my-way-or-the-highway approach to conflict early in my life. As an adult, especially in intimate relationships, I’ve struggled to embody the concept of hopeful conflict. 

When I heard the comparison of conflict of hope versus conflict of despair something clicked for me. It made sense. I could see myself in my memory, image after image, preparing to discuss a conflict, setting up in my crouched stance, boxing gloves on, cornered and desperate, ready to fight. 

And I could see how I have rarely felt like a winner at the end of a conflict rooted in despair. Even if I “win” I feel bad, like I’ve survived a tornado and have a lot of clean up to do. Instead of feeling resolved, I feel ashamed, unsure of myself. Because conflicts of despair lead to such despair, I’ve avoided having conflicts at all, instead adapting indirect, dysfunctional methods for getting my needs met. And of course that hasn’t worked so well either.

You only know what you know until you know something different. My partner has been telling me for years that she hates having conflict with me because I get so jacked up. She’s right. It’s how I knew how to have conflicts. I didn’t understand that there was a different way. The truth is, conflict of despair sucks. It’s a fast train to feeling like shit — on all sides.

I’m dipping my toes into having conflicts from a place of hope. I’ve had a few and I can feel the difference. Without the desperation of winning the conflict, there are infinite possibilities for resolution. It’s a creative endeavor filled with possibilities. I wish I could remember who shared this wonderful concept with me so I could learn more and tell them thank you. But for now, this loose interpretation is all I’ve got. I hope it helps you as much as it has helped me.  

Sisterly Ice Melt

 

As I walked along the wintery shores of Lake Michigan with my two sisters I felt the 150 years of connection bonding us to each other. The frozen lake is ominous and beautiful. In some places the white of the ice is so white that it looks silver. The subtle movement of the ice on the lake, rhythmic and peaceful, is like god breathing deep below the surface.

Watching the floating ice blocks in the lake I thought of us, once frozen together into a single chunk, three girls together, moving through the water. When we were young, so close in age, each managing the chaos of our childhoods, we wove ourselves into each other, not even knowing it was happening. As we’ve grown older we’ve stepped in and out of closeness over the years, the times of separation always feeling wrong, uncomfortable, almost unbearable.

It’s different now. We are three women in our fifties, each living in a different city in a different state. As I walked with my sisters, carefully watching our steps to prevent falls for our aging bodies, our eyes leaking tears from the cold, the skin on our cheeks tightening with the wind, I noticed a shift. 

We are not often all together, just the three of us. Today, as we walked, our sisterhood felt more spacious, more open. It was like the molecules of the solidly frozen block that contained us all for so many years had warmed a little bit, enough for cracks to form and become separate floats of ice.

For so many years, for so many reasons, we were united for survival. We each understood each other in ways that only we could. As we walked that day, side by side, I felt a deep contentment, a familiar comfort in being with both of my sisters in our home town, bundled up like when we were kids. 

At the same time I felt like an observer. The space between us was clear. We are each our own person, different from each other, living our distinct lives all over the country. We all have children of our own now and jobs, and partners and communities. There is much about each of our lives unknown to the others. We are floating in different directions, yet fundamentally part of the same block of ice, further away from each other, but always close. 

As I buckled in for the four-hour flight back to the west coast I thought about my sisters. We’ve spent so much time in our lives afraid of separating. We created drama and conflict to keep the energy alive when it was waning. I’ve spent years in therapy talking about my relationship with my sisters. I think about both of them every single day.

My therapist says that when images accompany a feeling, it is a sign that there is a depth of knowing, a deeper awareness or understanding. The separated ice blocks tell the story that I feel. I am calm and comforted as I imagine my sisters and I, each as one part of a bigger piece of ice, floating close together, but independent of each other. 

Our unified ice block was necessary in the past. We needed it when we were young. We needed to show our allegiance and support to each other against the world. But we don’t need it any more. We’re all okay. The space between us now is a good thing. With a little bit of space we can see each other more clearly. As we float on the surface of the water, our differences can come into focus, each of our distinct shapes, contours, and textures become visible. After so many years, we can truly see each other. 

Lamplight

I have an old lamp in my living room that belonged to my grandparents. It’s got an oblong rust-orange glass base and a big wide fabric shade with two light bulbs, each with their own pull string. The 1970s style blown glass lamp lived in my Nana and Papa’s living room on their fourteenth floor apartment on the north side of Chicago.

The lamp has followed me through moves in three different homes of my own. Now it lives in my living room. Every morning I come down the stairs and duck into the living room to pull the string under the shade of that lamp to light up the living room. Then I go into the kitchen to make my coffee. Once my coffee is brewed, I pour a cup and go back into the living room where I open a poem book, choose a poem, and read one before I meditate.

The big orange pull string light sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. The switch is sensitive, often triggered by someone walking by or plopping down on the couch. It will turn off or on, seemingly at will. I’m always happy when that happens, like I’m getting some kind of sign from my Nana — a playful hello or I’m thinking about you.

A few months ago my younger brother texted me to ask me about my Nana. My brother is fourteen years younger than me and he has very few memories of my grandparents. For him, he and my brother were just annoyances to Nana. For me, she was my greatest fan and my staunchest ally. When I shared my own memories of Nana with my brother it was as if we were remembering two completely different people. 

In one form of meditation I practice we are invited to bring into our consciousness a memory of a person, a time, or a place where we feel loved, comforted, and accepted exactly as we are. Almost always I imagine myself — age 8, 9, 10, 20, 23 — getting off of the elevator to Nana standing at her front door, arms spread wide, waiting in position to wrap me into a giant hug.

It’s a feeling that’s seared into my memory and reinforced over years of recalling that same memory. I believe that we hold certain crystal clear memories — memories filled with more detail and specificity than others — because we learned something important from that experience. It is memorable. It matters. 

I have other crystal clear memories as well, memories that aren’t so beautiful. Those memories also taught me something about the world and my place in it. But for those memories, I need healing, cleansing, therapy.

My memory of Nana, arms outstretched, hugging the air even before I get there to fill the space in front of her, is a nourishing memory. It feeds my soul and fills my heart. I know my brother’s memory of Nana is the more common one. Many people in my extended family missed out on the Nana that I knew. For whatever reason she did not give them what she gave me. 

I remember when Nana was dying. She was 82 and had liver cancer. I was living across the country from her, a young professional in my late twenties. I took a week off of work and went back to stay with my Nana and Papa to help take care of her. 

By that time Nana was spending a lot of time in bed. I spent my days with her. Lounging on Papa’s side of their big king-sized mattress at the back of their apartment. Nana had a cassette recorder by the bed and she’d put in one of her classical tapes, close her eyes and hum along. Nana would point to her chest of drawers across from the bed and instruct me to pull out a tray of jewelry or scarves.

She gave me her wedding ring, a one-inch simple gold band that stretches from the bottom of my second knuckle all the way to the first. I wear it to every fancy party, graduation, wedding or other important celebration. She also gifted me several of the big chunky necklaces that she used to wear. I still have them hanging in my bedroom, jewelry I never wear, but seeing them still reminds me of her.

This morning I had an emotional hangover. I had a hellish day at work yesterday, filled with a thousand moments of wanting to throw in the towel. As I walked to my meditation cushion I knew today would be a day of clean up, recovery and hard future planning. My morning meditation ritual would be more important today than usual.

And it was. Just as I finished my morning poem, the lamp went off. I felt a spark of joy right away. This was a sign from Nana and perfect timing for the start of my meditation. I closed my eyes I went to that memory —  the warm, comforting, supported hug place that Nana gave me. 

As I sat, eyes closed in the dark, breathing her memory into my body, I felt okay. I felt supported and loved. Everything would be okay. Today would be hard but I would get through it. When I got up to go to the kitchen I walked by the orange glass lamp and it turned on again. Thank you Nana, I love you too.