I stumbled across a beautiful poem by HT Wilson on a blog called “Words With No Names.” The poem is called Cancion.

This verse particularly touched me:

Looking straight ahead

she laments

“I don’t know what’s

worth remembering anymore.

I don’t know why I stored

any of these thoughts.”

* * *

It left me thinking -

What was it like when my mother knew she was losing her mind (and also aware that she was powerless to stop it)?

What was it like when it was so difficult to remember to put on the second sock (did it really matter?), but so easy to find herself huddled in a cornfield, singing songs to quiet her little brother, so her drunken father did not find them?

Some might live in the laughter of their youth – but she didn’t play those childhood games.

Could she have done something differently had she known this is where she would be? Would she have?

Could she have taken “possession of her dreams” a “thousand loves away?”

How she regretted decisions that changed our lives!

But did it really matter when the outcome was the same, regardless of the road taken?

Alzheimer’s is the thief of thieves…stealing our minds right from under our noses! (no wonder we couldn’t find them!)

Our minds are our tie to reality …  they are also our tie to unreality. When the mind is gone (and with it, all our memories), what do we have? Who are we then?

And is it not ironic, that if we get dementia or Alzheimer’s or any other form of senility, there is seemingly no escape … and yet the condition itself is an escape?

Is it so bad to live awhile longer in a memory of our choosing?

And if we are still able to reflect, will we say the past was “enough” – or will we say there was “enough” of the past.

Maybe the now is better.

* * *

Thank you, HT Wilson.

Hello everyone -

I have had trouble lately writing about my mother’s struggle with Alzheimer’s and our journey together in dealing with that gut-wrenching disease. It is hard to believe it has been nearly 5 months since her passing. I still think of her every day and in so many ways. I talk with her all the time. I play her music. I ask her to help me with problems. Is this normal? I don’t know. I do know that the garden is often a place of healing for me. Something about feeling the cold earth, something so very basic and so connecting. Pulling weeds with an absurd sense of order and control, I nurture my favored plants with loving attention, envisioning something of beauty in the coming months. My mother used to love to garden, too, and she left many behind – her small way of making the world a more beautiful place. She also loved birds, whether they were shorebirds, the backyard variety, or majestic raptors – but most particularly, she loved the little hummers. She had hummingbird calendars, blown glass hummingbirds hanging by the window, hummingbird magnets on her fridge, painted pictures of hummers on the walls, and of course, hummingbird feeders.

And so last week when Mother Nature must have been laughing as we dug ourselves out from an unexpected snow here in the Pacific Northwest – something we hardly see throughout the winter – I found myself talking to my mother, and we were worried about the little birds in this unexpected cold snap. I have several bird feeders around the yard, and I made sure everyone had plenty of seed. The quail were especially industrious at scratching around and were there morning and night, on schedule. As soon as the winds died down and the clouds parted, I hung up a hummingbird feeder. I wondered if I was too early, but within minutes, they were coming around. One even came right up and buzzed me as I refilled it. I looked at it closely. I could almost feel my mother’s presence in the vibration of its wings, saying, “Thank you for helping me.”

I posted more pictures of the snow, the garden, and sure signs of spring: the hummingbird, a frog, and cherry blossoms, on my Barbolian Fields blog. Hope you enjoy.

Do you get a lot of e-mails from well-meaning friends and relatives who want to enlighten your life with poetry, inspiring photos, motivational speeches, or even just tasteless humor? I admit, there are times I am moved to openly weep, to write my congress person in outrage, or even tempted to dip into my pocketbook. Most of the time, I am just moved to hit delete – but I almost always read them first.

What is curious to me is how these messages take on a life of their own. They circumnavigate the globe faster than a spy satellite. How fast is that, anyway? Pretty fast. They have further to go, because they are really “out there.”

My latest inspirational e-mail was “The Dash” by Linda Ellis.

It hit me at a particular vulnerable time, soon after my mother died, true, but also while I was doing my taxes. I was already worn down by the IRS intense self-imposed torture, more grueling than the “seldom used” water boarding technique. And then I get this welcome distraction:

The Dash Poem, by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own;
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

I am not saying this was bad poetry. Quite the contrary. I liked it. It gave me something to ponder.

So much so, I felt compelled to respond to my friend who dashed off The Dash to me at 11:18 p.m., probably with the warm feeling of sending out positive energy to all her friends on her mailing list. She was retiring inspired; I was still fretting over my taxes. It’s called insomnia with a capital bloodshot Eye. And so I wrote (this is called tax procrastination technique #23):

Late Night Bad Poetry (by blythe)

Ah yes! I, too, am up late
contemplating the meaning of my dash -
Or – more precisely – my cash -
And where it all went
in that fleeting moment of time
called yesteryear
As I try to justify to the IRS
I ponder my taxes…
And I gaze at that little dash
And know it represents not time -
but a minus sign
And I try to explain
It’s not the home, the cars…
How I contemplate what I’d like to change!
As well as the small change
left over
when it’s over
Oh, Uncle Sam
I love you
Remember that
as you write
My eulogy.

The end.

Two most certain and dreadful events: the death of my mother at the end of last November and the due date for tax returns, rapidly approaching. I will have to continue her story after I complete the latter. Thank you for hanging in there with me.

I can better relate to this variation on that line attributed to Ben Franklin and others:

“Death, taxes and childbirth! There’s never any convenient time for any of them.” –Margaret Mitchell, in Gone with the Wind

I added an entry to the LUG Nutz section – it is taken from a newsletter from Michael Bungay Stanier. He has an interesting website, and I have become a fan.