Lea's recollections remind me of time I spent both with my grandmother and mother toward the ends of their lives, each dying of dementia. My grandmother kept week-to-week calendars that she intricately annotated with notes about the weather, her aching back, the medicine she took, and so on. As her mind faded she annotated less. A month before she died she wrote her last word in her calendar: Clear. I have wondered, what, exactly, was clear? The weather? Her life? Her mind?
A few months before my mother died I sat beside her as she held my hands. She was only intermittently cogent at this point but she looked at me, a few tears coming from her eyes, and said, "Do you know what I am thinking?" "What?" I asked. I waited. And waited. And waited, and never got an answer. The circuit shorted. That's life! And death.
This poignant piece took me back to my dear dad's final days which began with a broken hip, elicited broken memories, and at 98 was his path to joining his beloved in heaven.
You mention that bird and mammal populations are shrinking, changing, or vanishing in your sixty years paddling across the continent from me. I've lived on a strip of waterfront backed by forest near the northwest tip of the continental United States off and on for seventy-four years. This year in particular, I mourn bird and mammal species I no longer see. For many years, when seabirds rested here during migration, it seemed one could walk the mile across the bay on a bridge made of birds. Always a great blue heron perched just above my cabin. Golden and ruby-crowed kinglets, creepers, nuthatches, bushtits, hummingbirds, and chickadees fed in large vocalizing groups all around my cabin and throughout the forest. Now the heron is gone. I hardly see any "thumb birds" as I called the groups. I'm trying to preserve some spots of habitat here, beach and forest, in perpetuity, and keep my hopes up, seemingly at odds with the world, that we can somehow turn some aspects of life around.
I’ve heard these musings on what comes next from people at the end of their lives. The talk of rivers and roads, the self-quest about possible sins which presumably might keep them from heaven and the decision that (this life) ain’t it - even from non-believers who perhaps wish they did believe…
This piece resonated so deeply with me. I bought a book for my mother in law ‘Lost Words’ when her ability to communicate was compromised by dementia. The illustrations spoke eloquently enough to animate her face as she looked through it. You’ve caught and shared the catch of your neighbour’s essence with us. Thank you. We are connected.❤️
“And how untethered do I want my thoughts to be anyhow?” Exactly, this. What a beautiful piece. I love essays that feel a bit like canoeing- gliding along, seeing what we see, but it’s not all tied up in a bow. Great piece.
Lea's recollections remind me of time I spent both with my grandmother and mother toward the ends of their lives, each dying of dementia. My grandmother kept week-to-week calendars that she intricately annotated with notes about the weather, her aching back, the medicine she took, and so on. As her mind faded she annotated less. A month before she died she wrote her last word in her calendar: Clear. I have wondered, what, exactly, was clear? The weather? Her life? Her mind?
A few months before my mother died I sat beside her as she held my hands. She was only intermittently cogent at this point but she looked at me, a few tears coming from her eyes, and said, "Do you know what I am thinking?" "What?" I asked. I waited. And waited. And waited, and never got an answer. The circuit shorted. That's life! And death.
What a beautiful memory shared, thank you.. Made me have flashes of my daughter and I that have yet to come....what a wonderful world!
You are welcome.
This poignant piece took me back to my dear dad's final days which began with a broken hip, elicited broken memories, and at 98 was his path to joining his beloved in heaven.
Breathtaking, poignant writing, the kind that stays with you. Thank you for sharing.
Thank YOU for the kind comment!
You mention that bird and mammal populations are shrinking, changing, or vanishing in your sixty years paddling across the continent from me. I've lived on a strip of waterfront backed by forest near the northwest tip of the continental United States off and on for seventy-four years. This year in particular, I mourn bird and mammal species I no longer see. For many years, when seabirds rested here during migration, it seemed one could walk the mile across the bay on a bridge made of birds. Always a great blue heron perched just above my cabin. Golden and ruby-crowed kinglets, creepers, nuthatches, bushtits, hummingbirds, and chickadees fed in large vocalizing groups all around my cabin and throughout the forest. Now the heron is gone. I hardly see any "thumb birds" as I called the groups. I'm trying to preserve some spots of habitat here, beach and forest, in perpetuity, and keep my hopes up, seemingly at odds with the world, that we can somehow turn some aspects of life around.
I’ve heard these musings on what comes next from people at the end of their lives. The talk of rivers and roads, the self-quest about possible sins which presumably might keep them from heaven and the decision that (this life) ain’t it - even from non-believers who perhaps wish they did believe…
There must be something. What a powerful statement. And you and he were part of that something.
This piece resonated so deeply with me. I bought a book for my mother in law ‘Lost Words’ when her ability to communicate was compromised by dementia. The illustrations spoke eloquently enough to animate her face as she looked through it. You’ve caught and shared the catch of your neighbour’s essence with us. Thank you. We are connected.❤️
Lovely. Thank you for bringing us into your neighbor's home with you.
I’m heading out the door right now to a funeral, and this is especially poignant. Thank you for doing the work that you do.
Thanks for sharing. It was beautifully written and I know that neighbor.
Sad and lovely. A deeply poetic eulogy.
“And how untethered do I want my thoughts to be anyhow?” Exactly, this. What a beautiful piece. I love essays that feel a bit like canoeing- gliding along, seeing what we see, but it’s not all tied up in a bow. Great piece.
Beautifully written. This took me right back to my Grampa’s bedside.
<3
“There must be something.” What a thing to contemplate.
"This ain’t it." What a tagline.
A naturalist, existentialist.