6 Weeks and 70 Years

Six years into the beginning of the last century, a baby boy was born to a delicate little lady with bright blue eyes and a Captain of the sea. The baby boy grew into a strong man who commanded the ocean himself, and navigated the deep waters that became his life. He loved three woman, and lost the first two before the the third one lost him. Two boys came along, and later, two girls, and we all belonged to him, because he was our Dad.

He told us stories about the first time he saw an electric lightbulb ("Don't look at it son, you will go blind"), and about building a radio out of a 5 cent crystal and an empty container of Quaker Oats. He went to war and sank a Japenese submarine, ran from an angry tribal chief on Papua, New Guinea, was the first to navigate the waters of the China Straits, at night, with nothing but a map from the 1800's. He loved Gunsmoke and always had a garden, he fed the birds and shot squirrels and told great stories and loved us all, each differently, each in a way that only belonged to he and each of us.

I heard a song today called "Closing Time" and part of the lyrics tell us

Closing time
Time for you to go out
To the places you will be from.

Closing time
So finish your whiskey or beer.
Closing time
You don't have to go home
But you can't stay here.

It was closing time in our family, and it closed slowly more than 30 years ago as one by one we went off to the places we are now from. Through the decades we came together in bits and pieces when someone died or another married, but always because of something and not because of us. Some of us raised families and some of us changed families and most of us have found our way and are enjoying the content of our own lives, and as for me, I am struggling a bit, and searching to find something I haven't yet found, but I am looking and I am getting closer, especially after

Last week.

Brother John, the second of the four, was the brilliant creator of a week like none of us has never known. We arrived in Orlando two by two and four by four, and when all were counted there were nearly 30 of us. One of us was 6 weeks old and the oldest almost 70, and in between we were were 2, and 4, and 5, and 7, and in our 20's, 30's 50's and 60's. We poured over Dad's papers and photos, pieced together stories, and remembered things that others had forgotten. We decided the life of Roland should really be told, it should be a book or a movie. I was nominated to take the first crack at this but I am not certain I am up to it, and anyway where would I start?

Maybe I should start with Orlando. We drank wine and swam at night and cooked and dined and laughed and laughed. Big cousins tossing little cousins in the pool, talking about Star Wars and princesses. Sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews and great nieces and nephews, meeting for the first time and hugging and smiling. Every day was more fun than the last and every morning the phone would ring and even without caller ID, I knew the person on the other end was someone I loved, some one of my family, and someone I would spend at least part of the day with. And at the end of the day, the family swim in the moonlight brought more stories and songs and conversations about Tom Waitts, faith, and baseball.

And so, we are a family. Most of us have experienced the enormous joy that is a family, but each in his or her own way, with their own kin, but I have not. I have loved them one at a time, but have truly felt for so many years that I really didn't have a family, and felt sad and envious of something missing from my life.

It is not missing any more.

Last week was the perfection of hope realized and the probability of our arms around each other forever. It was comfort and rest, and common blood realizing the spirit of our family.

We are the Blocksoms, and we have finally

Come home.

you know what daddy would say...

i don't like putting things away. i like getting them out, but i am not very good at the follow-up. loading the dishwasher is fine, unloading is boring. the thrill of christmas decorations being dug out of boxes is so much fun, but the manger scene loses its' magic sometime in march. so to manage that, i find it is best to leave things be, not bring them out, shhhh! stay there.

on mondays for four years, i would pick up mom's groceries and take them into her apartment kitchen and do my best to put things away. it took her a while to wheel and waddle out to the table, she in her crinkly sleepy robe, all out of plans and opinions except for one: "linnie, are you going to close that cupboard? are you done in there? oooo you know what your daddy would say... you are going to hit your head on that door if you don't close it.....oooo you should shut that cupboard door, linnie.

which is why i left it open.

daddy was there when nightmares appeared and he chased away those bad cupboard monsters. he just did, he was brave that way. today i learned that monsters and nightmares show up in more places than dreams, they show up in your waking times, too, just as scary and just as threatening if you dont' happen to be looking. just like a kitchen cupboard door left open while you prepare a grilled cheese sandwich for your mom....raise your head and smack your eye on the corner of that faux wooden door...yes, just like that. bad dreams show up in broad daylight and slam you good, only because you raised your head at the wrong moment. you should have been looking but you were not, and now you have a black eye whether you deserve it or not.

my head is aching and so are my eyes and so is the rest of me.

hey daddy, will you close that cupboard door for me, please, so i can sleep?

ok fine, i'll do it myself.

but only if you promise to chase all my monsters.

really?! deal. sweet dreams.

this is why we live here

oh the things we find when all the windows are open for the first time in 7 months. the dirty snow finally gave up and disappeared into the march mud just like the wicked witch of the west. hey there is my other garden clog! that dirty wet candle reminds me of a warm night long ago and i hear us laughing and smell the fire. oh and a broken and trampled string of lights, but weren't those pretty on the fence last Christmas?

in minnesota we live for this. we know that the shortest season of our growing up and old is only a few months long, and when the first day dawns we go a little crazy. we see how big the kids up and down the street have grown, we raise our faces to the sun and think about what to grill and where are our shorts? it's 55 degrees ladies! time for a pedicure.

dear today, thank you so much for being the most perfect day, even though it is one hour short. i am so loving the way you look today.

great job, linda

dear heart

a friend suggested i might enjoy a website she found, because of the whimsical writing. the website is thxthxthx.com and it is filled with tiny thank you notes that a woman writes to somethign she is thankful for every day. today she thanked a yellow highlighter for keeping her focused in her reading and she also commented on the pretty color. once she thanked her pounding headache for reminding her that whiskey before bed is not such a good idea. and once she thanked london for being easier to fly into than paris.

gratefulness was trendy a few years ago, wasn't it? books like simple abundance encouraged us to keep a "gratefulness journal" and add to it every day. oprah swore to us that it would improve the quality of our lives. it would give us a way to call attention to the good fortune we have through friends and loved ones and good food fresh air and clean water. and i used to do that, either in writing or before falling asleep, and the gratefulness experts are right, it does focus one's perspective for the better.

and yet i really think Leah, in thxthxthx is on to something much smaller and much bigger and grander. she points out the little things that play a role in her day, things that tease her or test her or help her or hate her, and she finds something that each thing or experience pointed out to her or taught her or reminded her of.

here i sit in bed on a fragrant march saturday, waiting for my heart to settle down after a long, long time of it being steady and dependable. i can't blame it for feeling confused because i have done a great job lately of confusing myself.

and so my thank you note today is this

dear heart, thanks for reminding me that letting things get to me the way i have is not moving me towards anyone i hope to someday be, and i must work on that. so you just go ahead and flip around a little longer and that is ok with me.

you are terrific! xox, linda

silence is blue

why do they say silence is golden? day 2 of my retreat and i am finding silence to be much more than golden. silence is blue like the lake and the astonishing peaceful sky above it. silence is crackly maple logs popping in the fireplace, tiptoe-y like the little drips of coffee making their way into the pot, silence is a smile from a stranger, a hot cup of soup, a long night's rest.

yesterday at the lemon wolf restaurant in beaver bay, i sipped my soup wine and watched three old best lady friends celebrating something or nothing over lunch. "she'll have a chardonnay and i'll have a cabernet and she'll have coffee cause she is driving - haw haw haw!" she instructed the waitress to put the wine on one bill, the food on another, and the dessert on a third, as that is how they decided to split things up.

they had on pretty pantsuits and bright lipstick and they talked about wi fi and someone's neice in colorado and how if anyone calls you up and you don't know them and they ask for your credit card information, why that is a scam and you better run!

it feels so good to be quiet and observe, take notes in my brain and just rest rest and rest.

today's adventure includes a long walk at gooseberry falls, a hot bath, long nap, and more observations

about silence.

dreaming north

i wonder where the words have gone, i think i know but i still miss them, and i am spending some time up north trying to get them back. they used to tumble around like puppies and eventually straighten themselves into pretty patterns of thought, and sometimes they even meant something.

snuggled in bed on a gorgeous morning, smelling coffee and looking out on lake superior, wondering if the quiet i am finding here will stir something up and bring me back to earth, or to home, or at least to some place normal and familiar so that i can get on with things. there has been no getting on of late, only getting by, getting sad, getting tired.

today i am going to try again for the millionth time to ice skate - a simple thing but something i am bad at, and have always wanted to be able to do. i took lessons once (what a disaster), but i have never been able to relax enough to glide. sometimes i can scoot a little, but no gliding. so many things i want to do but i don't believe i can so i give up and put my head down and forget about it.

i think all of that is about to change, and very soon, and i think it will start with a nice skate.

or a broken hip,

we'll see.

think inside the box

it's a business term, "think outside the box". we all know what it means - be open to new ideas, be fearless, creative, daring. it is a metaphor i understand, and try to honor, but i am weary of it.

a ride across the river today made me think of a big box, a great big box that always came down from the attic or up from the basement soon after thanksgiving. and when it was dragged dusty into the living room, the christmas season had arrived. everything necessary for a festive season was inside - lights and ornaments, garland and bubble lights, the sparkly green rotating tree that spun on a tall needle with the help of a 25 watt green bulb. there was a creche and some stockings, and tinsel and old fashioned reflectors.

my sister and i loved that box and everything it in it. at the end of the season when it came time for a new year, we would pack christmas back in there, carefully very carefully. sometimes we would write a note to ourselves and leave it on top, so that when the box was opened the following year we would find a piece of paper wishing merry christmas to us, with love, from us.

that particular box was one to think inside of, not outside. the box held tradition and memories and always hope, all disguised in purples and greens and reds. it smelled like dried pine and ancient cardboard and it reminded us that no matter what else was happening christmas would come and it would go and it would come again. the box held hope, old surprises ever new,

and promise.

i feel short on those things just now, short on hope, and short on promises. short on patience, short on sleep, short on energy, fascination and perserverence.

and so as i remember that box, i am also reminded that thinking inside could be just the tonic i need.

remember that no matter how the world is spinning out of control, sometimes crashing like a an agry wave on a frozen shore, that there is always hope and always promise, all tucked in and waiting for whenever the time comes that i am ready to receive them again.

so a wish and a hope

for happy new year,

and several of them.