happy when my mind is free, when I hear the old, old stories gritty. Pedestrian, if you will. When I see harsh sun reflect off the Sea, taste dust, and move weary feet. Finally, resting on a cushion in the home of old friends, straining to hear his words to her. I want to embrace her expectant interest, her loving gaze.

“Are you saying,” she asks, “it’s not about taking over? I always thought…”

And he smiles. “We have a small role to play,” he says. “Like the tiniest seed in your garden. Insignificant. At least, that’s how it will appear. But think of those who came before you. Was David always on the throne?”

She shakes her head, eyes bright. “He was the youngest. No one considered him worthy of anointing…Then he was hunted.”

He nods.

“Oh,” she says. Her fingers twist her robe’s hem. “I see.”

“Waiting,” he says. “You will wait a long time. On the run. Misunderstood. But you’ll always have what’s here and now. No one can take it from you.”

***

Here is where others land:

whole selves embrace the morning, wriggling one might guess, if one hadn’t any reference. But the stylized movements are cryptically ethnic, patterns of bowing, prostration, hand to head, to belly, one shoulder, the other. The painted, haloed visage on the stand is kissed by some with weary faces, with lines from suffered years, in which the eyes are tender.

Their minds release care through words like well-worn beads. The chanting tone, the repetition. Glorification believed. Holy God. Holy mighty. Yet woven with echoes of long centuries hunted; waiting: “Lord have mercy.”

They recall his teaching, the stories are tradition. Mystical the elements they grasp. They rise above the gritty world, the prisons and beatings and tearing of the lions’ jaws.

***

I tell Victoria it was good for me to visit St. John’s again, to visualize meanings in the liturgy. And love. My, but there are ancient seeds of love beneath this ground.

“Oh, I’m calm,” she said. “I’ve helped him practice so often, I know this will be wonderful.”

She indeed looked composed, while I sat like a loaded arrow, my fingers twisting in my lap. Fortunately, Tim had found his seat on the other side of James, our son. When Tim is beside me and lights go down, he tends to tickle my knee. Shrieking and launching five feet in the air wouldn’t be the way I hoped to support Dad at his concert.

The room looked nearly full.

Mom said, “In all these years, I don’t think your dad or I ever spoke in a church this large.”

I swallowed and continued aiming for composure. The lights dimmed. Someone up front introduced the spring concert of the Gleemen, a local all-male singing group Dad joined some months ago. For several seasons Tim’s dad urged my dad to be part of their choir, and finally Dad agreed to try it. Watching all the men file onto the stage, I couldn’t decide if I should thank or scold my father-in-law.

Now Dad was up there, in his black tuxedo in the back row. There was Tim’s dad, smiling, across the risers. I was glad Tim’s dad had brought this about, though no one had foreseen that my father would end up trying out for the solo now scheduled at the concert’s end.

How would I survive through all the tunes on the program until then?

Strangely, a week before I had managed fine at the production my son was in of Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors. A little tense beforehand, I had waited for the show’s beginning in confidence that seeing James on stage expressing his art would relax me. At every one of his plays I have reacted the same way. This one last week proved no exception. The players took frenetic inspiration from the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup.

(Photos courtesy of Jessamyn VandenElzen. Click on them to “embiggen.”)

They were masterful. I had fun.

But this night watching Dad on stage, I wasn’t doing so well. Even while the concert opened with upbeat numbers from America’s past, and even while appreciating the informative introductions to each song, my nerves continued skittering the same way James’s troupe had acted out their characters.

What was my problem? Why did I feel like I held Dad up with my stomach muscles? He’s doing great, I told myself. But, my brain responded, what if he slips stepping down for his solo? What if his voice cracks? What if the sound guy messes up and the choir drowns him out?

Clearly, I could have used some form of psychological counseling. Someone to tell me how these extreme feelings might stem from growing up a preacher’s kid, watching Dad “perform” behind the pulpit every Sunday for critical congregants. Maybe that was the problem.

I knew, however, that Mom beside me was a preacher’s daughter, too. She was okay with this. Of course, her dad answered the ministerial call later in life. Grandpa wasn’t even assigned a usual, preaching pastorate until he neared retirement. And then, well, duh, Dad is her husband. She’s been a preacher’s wife all these years. She found her methods of separating from him. She dealt with these things as an adult.

But I’m still a child when I see Dad on stage. The kid in me worries. Maybe, a psychologist might counsel, I took on too much those years ago, imagining I needed to alleviate stress for my parents in their chosen religious service. Now I need to find ways to separate more: me from them, past from present, church from art.

The moment came, finally, for the last concert number. The presenter explained how this song, Ol’ Man River, became an expression of hardship not just for African Americans, but for all of us living life that can be tragic and confusing. Circumstances can be like a river, continually rolling along, not seeming to care. But life keeps happening.

I thought about Dad, growing up poor. He’s had experiences I can’t understand. He is a good singer, as each church he served learned, but moreso Dad is an individual with depth because of what he has been through. He was the perfect choice for this solo about the ol’ man river.

And then, Dad sang it. On and on the arrangement flowed, the choir behind him. Dad belted out the rich notes, from low to high, over and over. The lyrics were his, for the moment. He knew how to deliver.

My vision obscured by tears, I watched and listened in awe. At the end, I turned to Mom. Applause resounded. “Look behind us,” I whispered. “People are standing.”

On the way out, I listened to strangers saying the last song gave them chills. I told a few people, “That’s my daddy.”

I don’t know why, but to say so felt like something more. As if there had been a slight shift. I’m going to see how it goes from here. While I turn into whatever I will be these golden years, maybe a more healthy daughterhood will begin. It might just keep rolling along.

We sat in the dentist’s waiting room. Actually, it was an endodontist’s waiting room. The three of us were at ease, Mom and Dad having nearly made it through a week filled with medical appointments while maintaining their senses of humor and grace.

Mom made sure the receptionist understood that though I was interviewing Dad, we could release him the moment the endodontist required him. She tends to let people know I’m a writer any way she can.

I said to Dad, “You’re right. This makes it sound like you called Richard a day later, when really it might have been months. I’ve written it this way to make things flow better, but I can change it.”

“It’s fine,” he said, “since I don’t even remember how soon I made the call.”

“That reminds me,” Mom said, “we watched an interview of the real people from The Blind Side.”

“Yeah, the way it really happened, the young guy loved football all his life.” Dad and Mom went on discussing the based-on-a-true-story film we all saw recently, comparing their new knowledge with Hollywood’s version. I agreed with them that this time the movie-makers seemed to have gotten the important things right. Doesn’t always happen, of course.

I asked a question or two more before the endodontic assistant called Dad back. A little while later, the assistant ushered Mom and me into the small space where Dad’s exam was taking place. “I want you and Deanna here, Carol,” Dad said. To the endodontist he went on, “I’ll never remember everything you tell me, and they’ll grill me with a thousand questions.” The doctor said he had no problem with our presence.

I learned more than I hope I’ll ever need to know about root canals, specifically the history of this procedure since 1965, when Dad first underwent one in Oklahoma. Forty-five years later, it needs to be redone. After hearing the dental specialist’s evaluation, Mom and I felt we could trust him with Dad’s mouth.

I guess this sort of faith is essential to maintaining connected lives. These explanations of “how it happened” or “how it will happen” are, I suppose, unavoidably cobbled together to some extent. Fictionalized, if only slightly. Smooth communication from brain to mouth to a hearer’s mind requires editing. Rather amazingly, we can take in information and construct our individual views, and in most cases what’s lost in translation doesn’t cause a problem. The nature of truth is it’s malleable to a degree.

Yet something inside me tends to listen and watch for that off bit. You know it, or your instincts alert you, or something. When the tone of story becomes too convenient. I made sure to ask the endodontist if what he meant about the crown on Dad’s tooth was it might break when he redoes the root canal, no matter how secure he thinks it looks today. The doctor admitted he won’t know for sure about the crown until he does the procedure.

If someone asks me sometime — assuming my essay about Dad and Richard Brautigan gets published — whether or not Dad really phoned Richard as immediately as my story makes it sound, I’ll need to tell them I don’t know, don’t even think so. But I’m basing the story on truth, on what happened in a broad sense, and there’s enough factual meaning in there to be worth chewing on.

You trust me, right?

Just comment or email me tonight, and you’ll be in a drawing. I decided, since my first commenter last post guessed who tomorrow’s guest blogger will be, that I’ll pick a random winner. There are two with chances right now–pretty good odds–but anyone else feel free.

I’m fiddling around, even though my instrument is the flute. Fun futzing is what I’m up to. We got a Mac yesterday. Not that I stayed up till midnight playing with it or anything…

Yesterday was a day of fullness. Daughter came over, computer arrived, daughter filed her taxes using new computer, friends came in the evening, son’s friend moved into daughter’s old room (living here for a month or so to get ready for his next step in life). In the midst of everything, I tried to catch up on laundry and the few other things my son hadn’t done for me while I was sick. Then there was the bathtub drain, which, well, wasn’t.

It’s fun to hear men taking on a project like a stuck drain. Wanting to muscle out the clog with hangars, tools, plungers. My back felt very rested while I listened to them from the other room. I kind of knew how it would turn out, when one said, “Now it’s filling up more.” After a while the other said, “The clog must have moved farther down the pipe.” I expected then to be part of the project, since I knew where the Liquid Plumber was.

Anyway, clogs and old computers are pretty much cleared away around here now. Not much left to do except wait for tomorrow’s interesting words in the blogosphere and go to church to play my fiddle, er, flute.

Emily’s Last Day

On the trip to Emily’s house, Neil rode beside his brother Ben, who drove. Passing Harrisburg, Neil reached into his ear and pulled out what looked like a small wad of Playdough. He tapped the minuscule antenna. “I got hearing aids.”

“Good for you, Neil. About time.”

Neil grinned. “When you and I go out to the lake in April, I’ll notice the birds. If a trout splashes, I’ll hear it.”

“I’ll have to get a better reel,” Ben said.

Neil settled comfortably into his seat, glad to talk fishing. He decided if Emily had been with them she’d likely have commented, “Enjoy the day, boys. No long faces.”

At last they parked in front of her house. Their other sisters and their nieces hugged them at the door. Beyond everyone, Emily lay in a hospital bed, her eyes closed. She lay on her back, the family nose aimed at the ceiling. The cancer had ravaged her frame, and the blankets tucked to her chin couldn’t soften her emaciated form.

“Emily,” Neil said. “You snore like I do.”

She closed her mouth.

“Hey, she heard me!”

The women nodded. “She’s aware of us.”

They went to the kitchen for food. There were orange wedges, triangle sandwiches, and paper plates. Then they sat in the living room, balancing the plates on their laps, surrounded by Emily’s knick-knacks and paintings. The orange tasted sour.

Emily had never married. She had worked all her life, and her coworkers stopped by to pay respects. With his new hearing aids, Neil listened to soft conversations humming. Finally people began to drift away in the late afternoon. His sisters, who’d been caring for Emily for weeks, looked weary. A hospice nurse would be in later to stay the night.

Neil lingered at Emily’s bedside, wishing she’d open her eyes.

“Let’s sing a hymn,” Ben said. The family grasped hands and almost encircled the bed. Neil didn’t know all the words to Amazing Grace, but he listened intently to the haunting song. In the silence afterward, he bent to hug Emily’s wasted shoulders.

“I’ll never forget,” he whispered, “how you saved me from Billy Hanson when he had me down that day in second grade.”

Neil kissed Emily’s cheek and her face twitched. “I couldn’t beat anyone,” he said. “So you did. I saw his bloody nose. Good punch.”

Emily’s breathing shifted slightly. He knew she’d heard him.

“Thanks, Sis. I love you.” Neil kissed his sister again and let go of her hand.

A few minutes later, the brothers said their goodbyes and stepped into the evening air, where Neil stood on the porch for a moment, listening. He could hear sparrows singing hymns in the trees.

I’m struck by the beauty in Orthodox rituals – from decorous clothing to music to incense. They’re at once simple and opulent. The people regularly practice fasting, as in abstaining from meat, dairy products, olive oil, and alcohol. Right now, during Great Lent, the fast holds fast for around fifty days. And to this cloud of witnessing faithful I have lent my husband.

You might reconsider inviting us out for pizza until after Easter.

Many Protestants decide on something to give up for Lent. The reasons appear to range from wanting to achieve holiness to a remembrance of the sorrow Jesus’ disciples felt after he died. (One of the better articles I’ve read, here on Wikipedia, contrasts and compares several Lenten observances.)

I like what my daughter told me, about the purpose of the fast being preparation for the feast, for the joy to come. In such a sense I tend to look at life, because, you know, life is hard and then we die. But if one has a view of the hardness bearing eternal purpose, well, then, it might just all be worth it.

The only thing I’ve given up for Lent is shoes. I’m trying out barefoot jogging on my treadmill. Apart from blackening my soles, I’m thinking this might be okay. Better than what Asics has bestowed. I need to strengthen muscles in new ways, but first thing I lengthened my stride. Not the same texture as when striking smooth sand at the beach, but I liked it. I remember wanting to run like this while dreamily staring at fields we drove past on vacation.

For me, perhaps, the motivation has ever been freedom. Let’s give up the shackles that have bound our thinking. Let’s dance across the dunes, wind in our hair.

But I did first need to see myself stepping so intentionally onto a path that destroyed me and those around me. I hadn’t believed I could really be bad. Until I saw it, those years ago, I couldn’t mourn. And mourning was good.

It still comes to me in organic ways. When I need it, I guess. Before the feast and joyful exercise, the darker actions of blessed loss and good grief.

Tim asked if I would come with him to the Theophany service at St. John’s Tuesday morning (7:00 a.m.). I looked at loss – of writing time, of a weekly Bible study at a friend’s home where deer graze outside the windows. I told Tim I didn’t have the energy to stand for hours reciting liturgies with hunger pestering my tummy.

But I revised my answer, recognizing he wanted to take a vacation day and spend it, not only with our Orthodox daughter but also with his ever unorthodox wife. As I’ve mentioned here recently, each Sunday Tim attends two very different church services, giving to God and family in his energetic fashion. He is my draw – my happy thought – in a season when the two of us pull together more gracefully, perhaps, than in many before.

Yesterday as gloom turned to late morning gray we stood under the dome at St. John’s. Candles glimmered against the icons’ reds and golds. Our daughter’s voice chanted harmony in the choir, and when she went solo, I marveled at the quality she’s developing. Their story of this celebration gave me substance to ponder.

According to tradition (whether handed down from an apostle or supposed by an early Christian, I don’t know), the day Jesus was baptized in the Jordan, the river stopped flowing. This would have made the New Testament Messiah’s baptism mirror the event from the Torah of the Israelites crossing the Jordan on dry ground into the promised land. This consecrated the Jordan’s waters, the Orthodox believe.

And so yesterday we participated in a ceremony where the priest blessed a lot of water, some of which people then carried a few blocks away to our River Willamette. And the river was blessed with great blessings. And some people jumped in it, consecrating themselves.

I enjoyed the day. I see nothing wrong with blessing a river – and by inference the people living around it – with prayers for salvation from God. As the priest remarked yesterday, Orthodoxy calls people to plunge into a life of faith in God. To give all, withholding nothing. With this I’m in complete agreement.

The apostles called for nothing less. I think they were describing an event which happens inside me – a blessing of the waters of my mind. A total interest in and intense following after the “one thing necessary” Jesus spoke about to his friends. I see my daughter doing this joyfully, outwardly and from within.

She and Tim both refrained from a river swim yesterday, as of course did I. Watching with them on the shore, I asked from the heart of my inner life for more willingness to be part of outer actions like these.

Brindy had lived a good life, a really swell batch of days spanning nearly 18 years. This day she suffered. My mom had told me (from her experience with our 17-year-old doggy from my childhood), “When it’s time, you’ll know.” She was right. I called the vet’s office. They kindly scheduled an appointment for 4:30, the last slot of the day.

As I return today to blogging, I conveniently look back not only on my dog’s life but another year of living, and I’m very thankful for it all.

This past year I lost bets with myself. Starting in ’07 (the year this picture of Brindy was taken), I’d said I would do certain things with writing and life. You know, goal type stuff. But I knew and was reminded anew that reality is as reality does. And in the losses and failures arrive gains sometimes most amazing. Gifts.

Last Monday, Mom went with me and Brindy to the vet’s office. The two of us talked while waiting in the exam room for the first shot to take affect, the anesthesia that lets the animal drift into sleep. I stroked Brindy’s fur and felt her trembles lessen, her muscles finally relax. She’d fought for so long. I called her little iron dog, because she’d survived things in younger years like slug-bait poisoning. And she’d been my running buddy. Always ready to accompany, to protect.

The vet returned to give Brindy her second injection, the one that would end her suffering. But my dog was already gone.

I didn’t cry. I’d done that. Likely I will again. I was grateful for her easy passing, and so was Mom. We hugged each other. We hugged the vet.

Eighteen years ago I wasn’t expecting to raise a small canine. For me, one would have to be Beagle size or larger; I was done with little dogs. But my grandma, Edna, had been given a teeny puppy, and she recognized the first day that she couldn’t keep her. As Grandma Edna’s caregiver, I agreed. At first sight my little children loved the doggy. And I admit I was smitten fast. We were too much for Tim, he gave in quickly to our pleas, our promises.

Tim, though not a dog person, was kind to Brindy. She became his companion at the woodpile. I caught glimpses of them playing, chasing one another back and forth over the grass in late spring. Tim would grin as Brindy raced, a dark streak on the lawn. She flipped her curled tail, her tongue lolled; she was gaining.

Morning brought the swift breaths of exercise, then a daughter’s cheerful hug and bright eyes. She arrived just as a husband finished step-ladder moves and motions, hanging bulbs of color – red and green and white and blue – the house in its dress for later, the work done before clouds opened wide.

Under steady downpours a drive – to grandmother’s house without horses or sleighs. In the door to aromas expected, yet as always welcome: the bird, the stuffing, rolls, beans, potatoes. Full plates, the tapping of sterling on china.

New friends met familiar family, and in the glow of growing fullness, stories began to flow.

This is the best part: a tale of horses galloping, another with trout, the time I remember first discovering I could upset Dad – when I was four and released all the minnows he’d bought for bait into the shimmering stream.

This is new: the lines on faces, the heads of hair nearly white, the deep, matured voices of grown children. But the laughter rings, a familiar song.

Dishes and utensils clattered in the sink. Down were taken the tables. Tired smiles and stares and it was time to drive home and see them off and wish them well. I wish to gather the moments like fallen leaves.

Press them close in a book of days, with chapters the night hours, glowing like headlights on the way through the pouring rain.

My cousin Lydia’s wedding last weekend, officiated by my dad, was dubbed “traditional untraditional.”

Then there’s this little guy, whom you may have wondered about in an earlier picture. GORT (“Goes On Road Trips,” also a reference to The Day the Earth Stood Still), who actually lives in Seattle, was roped into cheering for the Oregon Ducks last Saturday as they pummeled the Huskies. No wonder poor Gort looks confused.