Snakeskin Journey

“I’m at the age when attending a funeral is also an opportunity to catch up with old friends who I haven’t seen in awhile.”  I glanced at the friend who said this yesterday afternoon, while formulating a reply.  Then I thought, “Hey, you’re MY age!”  What a strange thought, and yet my experience had just confirmed it in an odd sort of way.

Earlier, standing in the church gripping the pew in front of me and keeping a motherly eye on my grown daughter sitting up front with the family (she was Gail’s only godchild), my mask of sadness was occasionally broken with involuntarily raised eyebrows.  (”Well, my goodness, there’s so-and-so.  Amazing!”)  At the end I balked, as I’m want to do, at the post-funeral conversations and slipped away to sift through my emotions.

These thoughts drifted through my mind and heart as I drove:  I am glad the day came and it is over.  She was a terrific, strong, loving woman.  Her family has no idea how hard the next phase of living without her will be.  I love them and am surprised and sorry about the distance we’ve allowed over the years.  I’m grateful to Valerie for pulling Megan close and keeping her there.  Megan, you did well.  What a wonder to have all three of my children there to say goodbye…aren’t they beautiful.  And on and on until finally my heart settled on the nugget of the day.

Represented at that gathering were strands of people making up the intricate web of life—Gail’s life—some broken and battered, others strong and functional, but each one drawn along their strand to meet for one last goodbye to someone who mattered in their life.  My own raised eyebrows were testimony to the complexity of the web of Gail’s weaving.  As I drove I smiled, knowing Gail would have enjoyed immensely the evidence of her handiwork.

Walked outside to the swing, my cup and book in hand early yesterday morning.  Instantly there was an explosion of activity.  Partridge Panic!  ”Eeek”, screamed all the tiny voices.  One baby raced up the wide steps leading to my porch only to quickly realize the mistake and go scooting off toward the rest of the gang following mother under the fence.  ”Eeek!  Eeek!”  I laughed out loud, wished for my camera and gave thanks that Lauries’s cat was inside her house.  What a great way to start a day.  Partridge Panic!

She pulled on her apron saying:  ”She washed it.  She washed my apron!”  My reply?  ”You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”  Now this is a conversation between good friends.  No casual observer could glean meaning from these three short sentences, but it was how our jam making began.  I tied my apron around my waist  and awaited instructions.  She’s in charge—the master jam maker.  I’m the incredibly willing side-kick, the one who feels so grateful to participate these past few years.  Not everyone would be willing to split the precious jam at the end of the day, though what we actually split is much more than jars of jam.

At the end of our long, sticky day we’ve split laughter and stories and gossip.  We’ve done our little dance of differences:  she measures with utmost precision, I sometimes forget the utmost importance of this step.  She stirs and ladles, I chop and keep endless rounds of bowls and spoons and pans and countertops washed.  She peers over the top of her glasses, I peer through the lens of my camera.  She revels in the gifts she’s created, I revel in the colors we’ve captured.

Tired.  We’re both tired as we load up her truck with the last jars and the canning equipment.  I walk inside, screen door slamming a final time behind me, and smile at the beauty of the orange and red jars cooling on the counter.

Gail is gone.  Five minutes after they turned off the respirator she was gone, pinned to this world only by artificial means for her last few days.  While talking to her best friend this morning, hugging and crying, our thoughts turned to stories.

Gail was a big woman in every way.  She was tall, she had a large personality which could fill a room, and she had a huge bosom.  Not surprisingly, the stories came around to that big bosom for it not only held great love but it often was the center of attention.  Her friend recalled picking peaches with Gail on a blisteringly hot day in Yakima.  Coming around the end of a row, she was hit by the vision of a shirtless Gail, picking peaches in her enormous brassiere making the best of the heat but startling her fellow pickers.  Yep, that was Gail.  I remembered her hugging a mutual male friend—much shorter than she—and his face being enveloped between Gail’s breasts so that he was gasping for air when she released him.  Yep, that was Gail too.  And of course my daughter, Gail’s goddaughter, being held by those ample arms and resting in her bosom.

It felt good to laugh for a moment as neither one of us could be at peace just yet about Gail’s untimely passing.  But I could certainly hope that with her pain erased she was at rest, cradled in the bosom of her Lord.

Resiliency is said to be a defining characteristic of healthy people, factoring hugely in terms of successful aging.  We’ve all come across the person who seems to be doing well despite horrendous challenges and we’ve all suffered with the person being crushed by the events of life.  We’ve read stories of survival and triumph and wondered what made the difference for that person, what was it that allowed them to shine when others went dim?

Resiliency seems to be a key and what an elusive key it can be.  How do you learn it?  How can you teach it?  Can you cultivate it or is it in your nature?  Is it nuture?

A friend and I were discussing this subject without actually naming it.  We were talking about a mutual friend who seems to be stuck.  Boxed in to a mindset that keeps him from productively moving forward.  He is a person of immense wisdom and has much to offer, but it’s as if his life has rusted with no oil to be had.  One thing lacking sounds so trivial but just may be essential: humor.  The ability to see the humor in the punches life throws (after a time of reflection and digestion, of course) seems to enable one to be resilent.  Black humor, by the way, does nicely during black times I attest.  Humor represents a switch in perspective and that is exactly what resilient people are good at—changing perspective.  The fourth time the car breaks or the third time a friend fails you (three strikes and you’re out!) you are going to need some humor in reserve to change the picture.  Yes, you might also need a different car or another friend, but while you are working around to those things, it surely helps to have a resilient mindset and to laugh out loud.

Remember the post referring to this?  Proof.