Watering Phoebes 

Tina Lee

A few years ago,  we had a hot spell. 

And I did this, and wrote this: 

Stood in the hot sun at noon today 

watering the phoebe babies,

and rinsing the outside canoe-bottom. 

Yeah, no, Phoebes are not a flowering plant. 

Phoebes are an insect-eating bird. A flycatcher.

 Each year they build a nest under my deck 

and each year I try to get them to build 

on the nice flat, sheltered board 

carefully placed for them. 

But no. 

Last year they built on top of the coiled garden hose. 

This year, the nest is inside the canoe, 

below (above?) a thwart,

 right up against the canoe's sunny-side. 

Such a hot day today, so sunny, so hot.

I checked on the nestlings. They were panting.

Birds don't pant. 

So I turned on the hose and played cold water 

over the hull of the canoe, 

cooling the canoe and the surrounding air 

while not wetting the underside

 where the babies considered the advice of the parent 

who stood nearby calling out instructions. 

Warm work, but somebody's gotta do it. 

 Who shall we say we are
While we are still waiting?

The glue has not dried 

on this experiment.

Though it may appear otherwise,

we have not failed

yet. 

Not completely.

yet. 

What Happens When We Die?

When my husband was dying he asked 
"What happens after I die? Is there a heaven?
Will I see my mother there?" 

I said "No, of course not. There is no heaven. 
Dying is peacefully moving into nothingness.
You will never see your mother again." 

He closed his eyes and sighed and said:

 "Oh! Good! That's a relief!"
I knew this was the answer he wanted to hear. 

What surprised me is that 

he trusted my words implicitly. 

That he believed I would know. 

Ice and Seagulls in Rockport Harbor

Sitting at my closet desk for the first time in a while, my eye is drawn to a small pale blue post-it note fastened by magnet to a metal strip on the wall behind the computer screen. It is a note from Terry, from years ago - long enough ago that the post-it has lost its stickum. The note was sent with a book by Mary Karr. It took three tries and at least five years before the book could be checked off the to-read list. Terry seemed to think the book had some relevance to our childhood, and somehow I could not, can not, see the relevance. It is astounding how two people can live through the same time, in the same place, and come away with such different views on the experience. I no longer think my memories are the correct version. Nor, however, do I subscribe to Terry's version of events. There is much to be said for simply allowing that my memories were smoothed and mellowed by distance and Terry's maybe sharpened, enhanced (like Google photos, perhaps overly saturated) by continued proximity to whatever had caused her pain. What we did learn, though, was that each of us had skills needed by the other, and there are days now that I want to call her up and fret, complain, vent to a kindly ear. She was so good at making and keeping friends. It is a skill that still evades me. And so I find myself again caregiving and caught between my needs and the needs of the person who faces daily pain, the spectre of death hanging over.

I love you. 

That's all I have to say today. 

I just needed to say it - to let it out into the universe: "I love You." 

It is not important who you are. The love is for you, not because you are special,
but because you are not special. Because you exist.

To love can be exquisite need,  joy,  despair. 

I lost another friend today to cancer. 

But it could have been any cause; death is death regardless. 
All living things die. 
The sadness is in ourselves. 

Mid-summer Maine finally warms up

Today is hot hot hot for Maine. By 8am the outdoor temperature on the east (shaded) side of the house was already 10 degrees warmer than indoors. Of course we do not have air conditioning; our climate rarely requires that amount of cooling. By opening all windows at night, then shutting the house up tight at sun-up, closing windows and shades, hanging extra white sheets in the windowed exterior doors, we trap the night's cool air inside. Coming in from the warm massage shop, the house feels refreshing and cool. 85 degrees was not uncomfortable for doing massage with the fan on, and my client had no complaint. Raven Maven was my sister's self-chosen moniker and I wonder about writing here: what to write, how to keep her memory a part of this blog. After all, I have other blogs for my own stories. The thing that has brought me back today is the discovery of a comment made in November 2010 - a response to an update on Terry's continuing decline and a little about the family situation: Rose's emotional distress, Sas and Alina's upheaval and grief, Ron's stepping up to become the primary caregiver in the absence of Terry's family. I had not seen the comment at the time of its posting. Probably was too busy with so much and just didn't look. Even now I rarely look at my blogs. And what do I miss? The commenter, Althea Hakari, had been a friend of a childhood friend who had found the blog through a facebook post on the mutual friend's wall. She did not know me. She did not know Terry. She had a blog about her own journey with cancer, "Buddha and the big C" which she invited me to read. And so, over two years late, I click her link, find her blog and read a post by a friend explaining that Althea died in September 2012. For almost two years I had the opportunity to reply but had not yet met her, had not seen her post. There is a lovely life-affirming poem on her page, so here is a link. I recommend taking some time to go and read and take it in. http://buddhaandthebigc.blogspot.com/