Sybilla has encouraged me to take day trips from the Casa to various destinations with intriguing names: Owl Island, Duwamish Bay, Gypsy Camp, The House of Serpents at Blind Springs, Isle of Ancestors….
I am here for adventure, to explore who I am. Each destination has charm for me, who knows but I will find what I am looking for in one of these places. Today Lucia and I rode our donkeys along the Duwamish River, which is the River I followed from the Cave to the Casa, to the Duwamish Bay. It took most of the day to get here. We circumvented the village of Duwamish, heading south along the coast. We spent the day beachcombing and tidepooling.
Beachcombing had it’s practical purposes, we collected garbage to dispose of in the village tomorrow and we gathered drift wood for our fire tonight. We are camping on the shore this night. My little Jenny bears a basket of food, Lucia’s donkey bears a tent and bedding.
Our wanderings along the sea had their magical purpose as well. Each little tidepool is a miniature world inhabited by amazing creatures. There are flowery anemones, wee little octopi disappearing in a clouds of ink black, limpets, small fish, mollusks clinging to rocks. At tide line are long nests of sea weeds cradling driftwood, dead sea creatures, broken shells. Lucia and I poked through these, sharing treasures as they came. We returned the treasures to the sand, understanding we cannot touch a flower without troubling a star, a poem by Madeleine L’Engle from her book by that name.
All things by immortal power
Near or far,
Hiddenly
To each other linked are,
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling a star.
Thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling a star.
One treasure I did keep, one which will not disturb the stars adversely, I trust. I found a bottle, tightly capped, its lid sealed with something thick and black, something the salt sea has not corroded. When I shake it there is a dry rustle and a clinking rattle. Something is in the bottle, and I am eager to open it.
Easier said than done. Sweet Lucia would have gladly set up the tent and cooked our simple dinner, but I am not so selfish as that. The suspense will not kill me. It took only minutes to pitch our gaily colored tent, unroll our bedrolls, fluff up our pillows. We grilled our bread, cheese, tomatoes and onions over a small drift wood fire. The kitchen packed us wonderful lunches to keep us going, complete with a well seasoned pan, and bottles of something called raspberry cordial.
After eating I warmed the lid of the bottle carefully over the coals. The sticky something melted some, dropping into the fire with a smell like tar. I tried scraping the tar away with sticks, but became sticky myself with the loathsome stuff. I needed to rub my fingers raw in the sand to remove it. Angel Lucia pulled a lotion from her pack and my wounds were soothed.
We sit listening to the surf, watching stars, toasting our toes before the embers of our little fire. And I write.
Words from Psalms seemed to say themselves, not as I memorized as a child from the King James Bible, but the echo of my own cry -
“‘When I consider the heavens, the work of Your hand, the moon and the stars, which you created; I wonder, ‘What is humanity, that thou art mindful of us? and Who am I, that thou should care for me?’”
Stars are remote, their unfathomable distances hide their violent burning hearts. A thousand years or more for their light to reach my eyes! From here they are pinpoints of light, when in reality they are as enormous as galaxies. I am as lost in the roiling of their heat as I am among their spangled numbers.
Yet I have title to a star; a very little one, invisible except with a telescope, though probably a million times larger than our solar system, just so far away. It was a gift given by my husband’s oldest niece in loving memory of our son.
He would be seven years old now, had he been allowed life. We were told he was stillborn, we believed what we were told. Holding him in my arms eased their ache, I had longed to hold him for so long! Holding him just a little while was both enough and never enough. How I long for just one moment more of holding him to my breast! But just another moment would not be enough, only a lifetime is enough.
My son is as far from me as his star, as close as the comforting picture of him playing on it. He is on the other side of eternity’s curtain, a curtain fragile as an amniotic sac, strong as time, beyond a universe of stars. He is an ache in my heart. He is a dream child looking at me with ancient eyes, promising me that everything I believe is true. I will hold him again someday and it will not hurt to let him go. He will meet me at that star.
Healing has been a raw journey. I cried for more than a year. Until a good doctor gave me pills. Pills didn’t deaden the pain, but somehow I was better able to hold the pain. I could breathe, cradle my grief rather than being borne along by it. Pain had been carrying me along, a wisp in a raging torrent. A leaf on the wings of storm. Now I carried my pain, gently, tenderly, as I walked deliberately through life again.
I can look at the gifts my child’s life left in mine, and treasure each. I understand I will say good-bye to everyone I love. I have learned Eternity is forever; that I live on the Death side of Eternity, my child lives on the Living side.
Tears flow down my face. Why am I crying so now? What loss am I mourning? Lucia sits by me, her arm around my shoulders, gently rocking. How gracious God is to give me her tender embrace. I cry and cry.
I am mourning my marriage.
