October 03, 2006

Small Moments Of Silence

Art Captures Life Mural on the wall of the Brigham Young Banquet Hall, Polynesian Cultual Center Laie Oahu Hawaii

I remember seeing this mural as Woody and I were enjoying a really fine meal at the Polynesian Cultural Center. I was contemplating a new life far away from the culture of the islands, and it frightened me. Hawaii was all that I had ever wanted, a dream that grew in my heart like a seed grows in the earth. The tree that sprung from that seed was not unlike Jonahs gourd. It was pretty, it gave some shade and comfort, but was only tempororary. It would die, as all living things are bound to do at one time or another.

I promised myself in that opulent feasting hall that I would not forget. That I would take a small moment once in a while to remember the good things, the sound of the rain rolling in off the ocean, how it felt to hold Makoa for the first time as a tiny kitten, a welcome gift to my new home that has followed me to a newer home and a new life. To remember the sound of my own voice praising God in song in the empty shell of what would become the home of Azure Seas Jewelry, and the views of Mauna Kea gleaming in the sun swathed in clouds like a robe of majesty. The smell of plumeria,ginger and evergreens, that was the new smell of "Christmas"... The pride of saying to people..."yes this is my home... my island"...to remeber the language of Hawaii, the fragments that helped define a culture that I came to love and that the "life of the land is perpetuated in righteousnes"... Hawaii's state Motto now my own...

I need to apply this to my memories of my Mother and yes, also to memories of my life beyond Woody and the time we have shared together. One thing I have noticed in this past year and a half that Mom and I could no longer communicate, was a disconnect between me and the lifetime of memories I have, that I have no one to share them with,or that shares them with me... Its a form of being a orphan that I hadnt considered before this...Sadly, Woody feels at times, like others of my extended family, that I sugar coat what was a difficult and painful family life, discounting the fact that mentally ill people are often witty, warm and filled with creativity, and that my father was a gifted story teller with a reservoir of stories to pass on... filled with charecters like my Great Grandmother, Georgianna Beachfield-Smyth, Roberts,Lewis (or Lewiston, Im not sure ),Holland, Thrice married twice widowed in the Old Country she came to this country with the three small offspring of Cmd. RJ Roberts, Royal Navy, because she yearned for the stage and adventure. In America She was hired as a Ziegfield girl and shortly after, met and married stagehand and stevadore, John Holland, 20 years her junior, and they had a happy life in San Francisco. Mr. Holland was good to his step grandson, even when his beloved "Songbird" was dead and gone, and my father loved him dearly... and I have vauge memories of him sitting me on his bony lap when I was but three and his gruff voice making me laugh, as he called me his "little sparrow"....Dad told stories of his childhood in Marin County, his 18 months of life on the road when he ran away at 14 and lived in Salt Lake City as John Ramerez, using his mothers name. WWII Naval Service at 17, Two broken marriages and his carrer in Aerospace. He lived two lifetimes in 42 years and spent the next 23 telling us about it all. I dont want to forget any of that...

In the silence I can hear their voices...

My mother at the piano of an evening,we would sing she and I hymns mostly, we often had no TV, and read books for pastime, and there was homework...My father would listen to Mom or type letters, or term papers for us or students at our church... my father's typewriter...a manual that was well loved and used heartily (While in the Navy,he held the All Services Pacific Championship title as the fastest typist in the fleet from 1945-47 167 wpm... he wasnt that fast years later but he facinated me as I am a plodding typist) as he typed single spaced letters to friends and family. I still have a few of those "epistles" carefully kept.

Or after a long days work Mom would sit at the sewing machine, she made most of her clothes up untill she went into the nursing home. The only stab of pain regarding her posessions came when I realized that her clothing went to the Veterns Thrift store, a worthy cause and one we supported, but the thought ran through my head...Will they know that the suits and blouses so artfully made, were the product of skill and a real love of the craft? Likely not, But for the missing tags you wouldnt know these garments were home made, as she was very particular about the finishing of a garment...

When Woody and I went visiting in my old neighborhood, by meeting some of the people in my past, Woody heard some of the people of my past discuss old times and I think that was a good thing. It gives a bit of a frame to my story...

I am at a place where I am starting to really feel the loss of my Mom. Every day I try to live and feel as much as I can and if I can I listen for that small moment of silence where the past comes to life...