Fall, poetry, Summer, Uncategorized, Writing

Fallen Apples

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

Trees sigh and shed tears of yellow leaves onto the breeze. 

Sad, for the passing of summer.

The leaves having soaked the lemony summer sunshine up

Into their veins, yet in vain

For the sun is not eternal, and none of us are immune from dying. 

Except, perhaps, the thousands year old boulder excavated a hundred years ago, where I sit, holding an apple up to my nose, eyes closed. (You can’t really smell an apple unless your eyes are closed) Cinnamon, clove, citrus and the earthy scent of raw honey. 

Red jewels with shiny skins the apples lie in the golden and green grass like treasures. Prepared for sweetness, I bite the smooth hard skin and it bursts beneath my teeth with a snap and a flood of tartness breaks the spell the scents have put me under. 

Autumn has crept up as usual, to spring in front of us and wave her red-gold-orange-flag to dazzle by day and enchant by night with a crisp diamond studded sky, as if winter is not far behind. 

I can’t stop the seasons.

But I can still take the broken apple to the barn and share it with my friends, the horse, and the donkey, and we can still bathe in the warm honey sunshine. 

See the dust rise up from the hay bales and dance in that last fools gold light of summer. 

Alzheimers disease, Childhood, Fathers Day, grief

Navigating the Grief Laden Alzheimer’s Journey

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

We moved my Dad to memory care this week. So much stuff happened between the decision and the move! Even though my daily life is not affected as much as my mothers, I feel a new type of loss at this stage. I was unprepared for it.

With Alzheimer’s disease, I find, there are layers of loss experienced. There is the slow loss as the person you love loses pieces of who they are, one by one, and you adjust in increments so small they are barely perceptible until one day you realize how much has changed. That is manageable. There is the anticipated loss, you know this disease is terminal, but you manage that grief in a way that allows you to be present for the loved one, the other family members, and your own commitments in life, so you don’t lose the gift of NOW. What I was not prepared for and am talking with God every day about, is the gut punch of putting this beautiful, wonderful person we love into the care and trust of others. Hugging my mom as she sobs the first time she walks through the door of her apartment without her husband of the last 64 years. Going home to my own house, sitting in a chair, knocked breathless by my own pain, my siblings’ pain, Mom’s pain, and wishing I could take it all away, but knowing it must be lived through. Lastly, thinking of the first night in his “apartment” wondering what Dad can think and feel. Is he lonely? Is he scared? This larger than life father of mine who always took charge and took care of us. This now frail yet brave man who understood somehow this choice was for his and his beloved wife’s health and well being, who went without a fuss. Who kissed my mom and said “I’ll see you when I see you.” In his little apartment room, does he see the familiar things we put on the walls, the quilt my Mom made that was on their bed for years, the afghan his own mother knitted 50 years ago draped on his new recliner? Does he find comfort in those things, or does it even register? I can’t even ask him because he won’t understand the question. There are so many layers of grief in this journey. Until we can visit in person, I will continue to pray for, and, as a friend put it, also pray to my father, sending all of the love that I have from my heart to his.

nature

Bearing Witness

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

It has been a tough year for me professionally and personally. In January I lost my job, and 7 months later, am still trying to find steady work. My father is approaching late-stage Alzheimer’s, and is being cared for my 82-year-old mother. I and my siblings spend a lot of time assisting our mother as she navigates a brand-new world; my father was the one in charge for most of the 62 years they have been married.

In April, I suffered a fall and required wrist surgery to repair a bad fracture. This has prevented me from attending my “church” which is on the back of a horse, deep in the words.  The one contract job I found unexpectedly canceled due to the project being delayed. I spend a lot of time wondering what the Universe is trying to tell me. I am trying very hard to listen, but it’s not talking, at least not in any language I can understand.   

In April I took a plunge and applied for a writer’s residency in the Adirondack mountains, slated for two weeks in October. I worked so hard on the submission piece, an essay about my father, pouring my heart and soul into it.  I even consulted with a professional published writer friend for a critique. Today, I received a carefully worded rejection email. The letter said:  “It was a pleasure to read your writing, and this decision is not a reflection on the merit of your work, but rather the fact that we have only six spots available and are therefore unable to accept all of the applicants we’d like. There are many talented writers, such as yourself, who are receiving this same letter.” I read this while sitting in my backyard, observing the bluebird nesting box, anticipating this may be the day the two babies fledge. I have never been lucky enough to witness this great event since installing the box on the pasture fence behind my house 2 years ago.  I stared at my phone for a few minutes. “Well,” I told myself, “You knew you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell for this. It was a big reach for you.”  I put down the binoculars and sobbed into my hands. Eventually I dried my tears and took up the watch again. Mama and Papa bluebird caught sight of me in my chair and flew to the nearest tree branch above my head, giving me a piece of their minds. “Even the bluebirds hate me!” I muttered as I moved my chair further back to give them space. They flew to the fence rail next to the box, chattering even louder. I realized they weren’t directing this at me; they were encouraging the babies to come out of the nest! Back and forth they flew, and through my binoculars I saw a tiny head pop out of the hole in the box. Entranced, I watched the head and half the body of the bird emerge and then the baby burst out of the box and followed his mother, flying amazingly well for the first time ever. He flew high into a maple tree bordering the pasture, and promptly came down to the ground for an awkward landing. I lost sight of him. But I knew his parents would stay with him until he found a low branch to safely perch on. My tears forgotten, I sat back and waited for baby bird number two to emerge. This one was hesitant, at first poking a tentative tiny beak out then back in. Mama bluebird chattered loudly from the fence. Papa bluebird landed on top of the box, and peeked in. Baby bluebird stuck his head out once again. Papa flew toward the pasture, making the beautiful little call used specifically for guiding a baby bird. I held my breath and out he came, flying like a guided missile, clear across to the opposite side of the pasture. Through the binoculars, I could see him drop to the ground under a tree as gracelessly as his sibling had. Papa dove to the grass to continue guiding his fledgling to safety.   It felt like I witnessed a miracle. And boy did those parents have their wings full; one on each side of the pasture! I thought of my twin toddler grandchildren, who run in opposite directions when we babysit them. Smiling, I picked up my binoculars and headed to the house to grab the dog for a walk.

Dog in tow, I stopped to sit on my favorite rock under one of our apple trees in a little wooded area in front of the house. How close I came to missing this great event!  As a bluebird landlord, you check the nest every few days to track the time each egg is laid, then you count the days and observe the babies as they evolve from pink nestlings to fuzzy gray chicks and watch with wonder as feathers grow and change from gray to deep blue and black. One day you open the nest box and see bright shiny black eyes staring back at you. You observe the parents furiously darting in and out of the box delivering juicy bugs, larvae and bright green worms to the hungry brood. You watch with bated breath as they fight off marauding sparrows in fierce dive-bombing battles. You sit for hours waiting, watching and hoping you will witness the fledge. And you will usually miss it. I almost left my chair after reading the disheartening rejection letter. But I stuck with it and was rewarded with the miracle today at 3:15 in the afternoon. It was over in ten minutes.

As I sat on my rock it struck me. Looking skyward, I had to smile. I think I finally heard what the Universe is trying to tell me: Have faith and be persistent. Don’t give up. And above all, find joy wherever and whenever you can.

Uncategorized

Thanksgiving Memories

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

When I open the door to my Thanksgiving memories, there is a woosh of warm air, a rising hum of voices and the sound of machinery.  My mother is using a hand mixer to make mashed potatoes, and above the mechanistic whir of the mixer the beaters make an occasional grinding sound as they hit against the side of her ancient blue Pyrex bowl. A chorus of complaining voices rise and fall from the living room, as the mixer interferes with the television reception.  A slightly plastic burning smell hangs in the air as the mixer motor overheats. Mom wears a red and white striped apron over a cream-colored turtleneck sweater and slacks. Her face is flushed. She looks forever young.

The table leaf has made its annual appearance from the hall closet, courtesy of dad, and the dining table has been turned diagonally to fit in the room. The faux 70’s chandelier is off center now, but it still radiates its jaundiced light through the frosted globes, making the patterned wallpaper look yellowed and old. Mom has spread her white handmade lace tablecloth, the only thing she ever won in her life, one year at the YMCA holiday raffle.

Mom’s crystal relish tray has been emptied. We kids have raided it to attach black olives to each fingertip. It never gets old. Dad walks in with the Nikon, and my sister and I duck into the bathroom to fix our hair and makeup and be camera-ready. One year he lined us up to take a group picture using his new tripod. At the last minute, I egged everyone on to turn their backs on the camera. It was a joke, but he was not amused. “Why?” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, and I felt ashamed.

My brother takes the turkey out of the oven. It is a golden-brown masterpiece. Ever since he started working as a prep cook in a local restaurant, he is entrusted with the carving duties. Dad’s electric knife has been retired, as my brother prefers a regular carving knife. The kitchen cacophony of Thanksgiving has never been the same without it.

Soon we are seated around the off-kilter table, the television is silenced, and we all hold hands as Dad recites his annual Dear Abby Thanksgiving prayer.

Oh, Heavenly Father,

We thank Thee for food and remember the hungry.

We thank Thee for health and remember the sick.

We thank Thee for friends and remember the friendless.

We thank Thee for freedom and remember the enslaved.

May these remembrances stir us to service.

That Thy gifts to us may be used for others.

Amen.

Forks clink against plates, voices murmur, and the feast begins. The room is stuffy, the food is hot, and our hearts are warm with love.

Childhood, Fathers Day, kindness, nostalgia

Reasons Why I Love my Dad #1: He believes in me

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

I was staring out the open window of my 2nd grade classroom at the Annunciation Catholic school. A lilac-scented breeze stole into the classroom as I was thinking of my Mother,after-school snacks and my favorite TV show. Soon the bell would ring, and I’d be free.

Sister Regina Marie was handing back English tests. When my name was called, I walked eagerly up to the desk. English was my favorite subject. I smiled when I saw my grade – 100 percent! Daddy would be proud.

“I do not believe you got 100% on this test without cheating.” Sister held her red grease pen aloft. Horrified, I watched her slash “F” over the test grade. 

My cheeks burned. I would die before I would ever cheat on anything. Desperate, I tried to erase it. But it smeared the grease pen “F” into a huge blob on the paper. Sister saw what I was doing and called me back up. She rewrote the “F” with a flourish and said, “Bring this back tomorrow with your parents’ signature.”

On the walk home, fear roiled my stomach, and something else – a helpless fury that screamed why? I didn’t do anything wrong. Sister says God sees everything. I looked skyward and wondered why He let this happen.

At home, I handed the paper over to my father. 

“Sister says sign this. I have to bring it back tomorrow.” 

He stared at the paper. I wondered; would I be spanked for this?

“You know the answers to these questions.” His piercing eyes held my tearful ones. “Did you cheat?”

“No!”

“I believe you.” 

It was Dad who returned the test paper to Sister, in person, and unsigned. That was the last I heard of it. Maybe God was watching out for me, after all, when He blessed me with such a kind and loving father. 

Dad and I in 2019, Rangeley, ME.
Dad and I in 1962
grief, poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

All Is Not Lost

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

All is Not Lost

What is grief but another form of love?

Without pain, is life truly well lived?

These are the questions I ask myself, crying Why deep in the night.

Well lived means well-loved, means well-worn, and sometimes worn out. Read between the lines of worry and sadness.  It’s ok to be tired sometimes. Rest is respite, not weakness.

What is it that keeps us going, to love again and again, in so many ways? The longer one loves, the deeper the grief of love lost. We are so good at it now, we even have anticipatory grief. The great and wise “They” tells me.  Who knew?

I do know this:  Once loved, we will never be truly lost. You will live in my heart, memory and soul, and  I in yours. We are memories, we are words on a page, to be read and reread, and even when I am lost and grieved, our stories will live on to be told and retold, from the tender lips of our children’s children.