The Finality of Her, Again.

By in Personal, Relationships Tags: ,

 

The Finality of Her, Again. The June gloom gray sky today tells all.

We parted two years ago today. We sat around her bed, her children and grandchildren. We cried, then laughed. We reminisced. On the bed lay fresh-picked rose petals scattered around.

She really loved roses, Mom. She loved them unlike anyone else. She’d always stop and smell them while walking, even in a hurry. And she would always get mad if you didn’t stop and smell them with her — not angry, more like “mad,” if you know what I mean. She believed stopping to smell the roses was a remedy for being too busy, too occupied with matters of less importance.

To Mom, few things mattered more than beauty: sights, sound, smell, taste.

The sky was gray on that morning of May 29, 2001. For over an hour, her inhales and exhales became weaker and weaker. You could see her frail chest with just a thin layer of skin. Up then down, then up then down. And you knew the last one was imminent. We watched and talked and laughed and cried with a sort of suspense in the back of our minds, knowing these were the final moments.

Then her last exhale. There was peace, unlike the day of that stroke.

The reality of a last breath, the finality of it all. By all I refer to life. As I said during her eulogy, she no longer is, she was. The finality of her. The end. You read about these kinds of things — death — but when it’s your mother and when she’s the love of your life.

And when it’s over, it’s over. Not her soul, if you believe in souls. But the other part, the physical part.

The sky is gray today as it was when I grabbed her hand, squeezed it slightly, and took one final look at the saintly woman who was my mother. Then turned my back on her and walked away to tell Dad.

You would think I’d be “over it” by now, but I’m not. Not one bit. Some of you know the feeling too well.

Something about the color gray, and the dim light — there is light for sure — that perfectly captures my internal feelings now.

Light, but muted and lacking.

Bree sent me this today, and it made me cry a bit. Something about when your children mature and start caring for you. The feeling I find surreal.

And I smiled because no way Mom had room in her house for another photo of her children.

Happy and Painful Mother’s Day

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Mom passed away almost two years ago. And I’m unsure how I feel without her on my second Mother’s Day. I tetter between grief and gratefulness. Grief because I still think I can’t believe she’s gone.

From time to time, I feel alone on this earth without her.

Of course, I’m also grateful. She did love me deeply. She encouraged me. She adored my children. She saw goodness in me that I sure didn’t see.

I do think of those not as blessed as me — those who never knew their mother or those whose mothers didn’t have the tools to love them properly. I also think of women who wanted to be mothers but could not.

It’s weird how days that are supposed to bring happiness to everyone can also be painful to many. I wrote about my hell after my stroke HERE.

If there were a way, Mom would not tell me not to be sad today. Take Luna for a walk. Enjoy this beautiful day. And, of course, smell the roses in the backyard.

You Left LA to be Here?

By in Parenting, Personal, Religion, Teenagers Tags: , ,

 

“You mean you left LA to be here? In Española? Why in the heck would you do that? There’s nothing out here. It sucks.”

She is about 10 feet away. Black shiny wavy long hair. Maroon sweater and a blue backpack to her left on her desk.

I zero in. Stare into her eyes without even a fluttering of my eyelids.

“Because I want to be here with you.”

I jerk my gaze and look at José, then James then Sylvia as I say, “And for you, and for you, and for you,” pointing with my right index finger in unison with “you.”

Do you know that look – almost like a blush, but nothing romantic? The this-is-so-hopeful-I-almost-don’t-believe-it look?

I was one of them as a teenager. And in my twenties. And into my thirties. You feel alone. You think you’re not one of them. You feel nobody important cares about you.

A boy at the corner of the horseshoe table raises his hand. “So, Paul, you were a horrible student in high school. You didn’t have the best family life, and education wasn’t stressed when you were our age. And you made it.”

“What do you expect we do better?”

Total silence in the class. They await my answer. I relish their attention. What I say will matter.

“You’re in bed. It’s pitch dark. You’re thirsty. You get up. You must search with your hands for the light switch. You all know what I mean?”

Nodding.

“You find the switch. You flip it. You now see. Your vision changes. You’ve all been there?”

More nods.

“That will happen to some of you. You will somehow see that nobody can f-ing determine your future. You will become almost enraged, obsessed, almost demonized. Because it’s your life — you will own it and not let anyone else own it.”

Silence. Fourteen fixed gazes.

On the wall is the mission statement of the school. I point to it. I read this part.

“Look at that. You believe it? You? A globally competitive citizen?”

Stares.

“I do, and I thank each of you for being so respectful and paying attention.”

As founder of the Child Rights Foundation, I am here, we are here, for them. Because children matter. And they are always innocent.

 

We will turn around this threatened community

By in Personal, Teenagers Tags: , ,

 

We will turn around this threatened community.

Here’s why.

Just now. I’m lecturing. The kids are interacting. A man walks in, and he looks official.

I used “shit” a few times in the previous classes. He opens a laptop and sits on a chair beside my desk. I think I might be in trouble. But that’s my normal hypervigilance. I read the intro to Catcher, including the swear words figuring it’s okay because they’re in the book.

I conclude my 15-minute lecture. One kid thanks me for teaching them and “getting us to think” The class claps. I put my right hand on my heart as a way of thanks.

I sit at the desk next to the man. He says he’s the special ed teacher and comes in for students needing help. I tell the students, “You have free help here, guys, take advantage of it.”

We get to talking. I tell my story about why I’m in Espanola. That I care.

“Weren’t you at The Rock church yesterday?”

Yesterday I visited the famous El Santuario de Chimayó — the world reknown site with the holy dirt. On the drive back to Abiquiu had to pass thorugh Espanola. Saw a bunch of cars parked on the main street. Wondered what was going on. And wondered what a chruch in this city would be like. Walked in for attended the remainder of the service.

We talk about their work in this troubled place. I share about my work in nonprofit, why I’m teaching here, that I want to help if I can. He says he’s on the nonprofit board discussed in the LA Times piece, Can this town save itself from fentanyl addiction? The race to turn around a threatened community.

He says they are the first homeless shelter (ever) in Espanola. “How could this city of known for its crime and drug use have no homeless shelter until now?

He says he was the former County Commissioner of Rio Arriba.

He wants to introduce me to the shelter director.

He wants me to meet with the church pastor, which has a program for addicts, a shelter, a pantry, etc.

He sat just two feet from me. I didn’t have to go to him. He came to me.

We will turn around this threatened community.

Home is a Small Place, a Dot on the Globe, Especially the More You Travel.

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Home is a small place, a dot on the globe, especially the more you travel. Let me explain.

I’m in Northern New Mexico for a while. In a remote oasis, 50 acres with streams and ponds and trees, tucked between a number of snowcapped mountains, one being the renowned Cerro Pedernal. It’s rural out here. But there are some gems given the beauty of this kind of rural topography. The great late artist Georgia O’Keeffe, perhaps the most influential female artist of the past century, left her home in New York to retire here. Retire in the sense of allowing the raw and rugged landscape to shape her art, shape her mind, shape her soul. New York City is big, the biggest city in the world some say. Northern New Mexico? A different kind of expanse, and appeal. Arthur Newton Pack — a wealthy American naturalist and writer living during the early 20th century founded the American Nature Association and the periodical Nature Magazine. He understood, and called this area “the best place in the world.”

I’m from Southern California, just south of Los Angeles. Orange County. Born and raised. “Home” has so much to offer, the least not being its beautiful beaches, Los Angeles up the freeway, and Holywood. Until I moved to London, where I lived for a few years. That new home in England was large also, in a different kind of way. Cape Town South Africa has a largeness about it, Tokyo in many ways, too.

I had previously thought there was nothing like Orange County — actually, that it was the best place in the country to live. But the more we travel the more we come to realize that home can be nice and all, but the world is a very big place, and home, wherever it is, is always a dot on a map. And we always tend to think our thing is the best thing.

 

 

I took this shot during yesterday’s drive with my Leica q2. No filters or anything here. I pulled my old Land Rover Discovery II to the side of a very long and very remote two-lane highway. I actually left the car running for some reason. Climbed through a barbed wire fence. And took a dozen or so shots in that kind of silence — the kind where only the wind is heard and you feel really alone and small.

New Mexico in my mind is one of the most underrated states in the country.

Home is a small place, a dot on the globe, especially the more you travel.

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