Tag: Love

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.

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.

Childhood, Ukraine, Uncategorized

For Mary Yurdyga Juskow: Remembering My Ukrainian Grandmother

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

My paternal great-grandparents , Elik and Anna Yurdyga, emigrated to the US in 1910, from Ukraine. They were farmers in the old country, and they continued with that tradition, raising their own food on a farm in Upstate New York. My father has fond memories of time spent in the care of his grandparents as a very young boy. His grandmother spoiled him by sharing his grandfather’s precious preserved cherries with him, over his grandfather’s light-hearted protests. Once they had a rooster that attacked my father, and that bird promptly wound up on the Sunday dinner table. From listening to the stories, I gather they were very tough, but loving people who raised 8 children who all “made good” as my grandmother would say. One was an artist, one was a NY City career woman, two fought heroically for this country, some stayed in the Finger Lakes region, and some migrated to California. All of them contributed to the prosperity, values and success of this country. My grandmother, Mary Yurdyga, was the one I knew and loved best. She was a single parent before it was common, a hard-working waitress who raised three children, bought her own home with the tips she earned and saved, and supported herself and her children by taking in boarders. One of them became my grandfather, John Juskow. Mary Yurdyga Juskow is the reason why I most identify with my Polish-Ukrainian heritage. She enriched our lives with her wonderful Ukrainian cooking, and her green thumb, no doubt inherited from her parents. Oh the sweet babka, the tart kapusta, and golden brown pierogis fried in onions! Her flower gardens were legendary. She taught me to knit, how to grow marigolds, and once took me to Christmas Eve mass at St. Peter and Paul Ukrainian Catholic Church . I remember my white gloved hand in hers, the acrid scent of incense burning inside pots swung back and forth by the priest, who spoke and sang in the primal mysterious language of the old country. Grandma had distinctive features: She could look right into your soul with those piercing, deep brown eyes, magnified by thick glasses. She had a small, pert nose and a beautiful smile, paired with a sharp tongue and a core made of steel. She had a way of making me feel seen. Her house was the museum of my childhood; I spent hours admiring an oil painting made by her artist brother, of a gray horse standing in a field overlooking a valley. (I was obsessed from birth with horses) and a cast iron horse figurine purchased by her first husband, that sat nobly on a high shelf in her pristine parlor. When I was 11 years old, she gave them both to me and I still have them today.

In those days, people did not speak of the past, and so, I have no inkling of the hardships that drove them to America. If one reads the history of the Ukraine, the nature of the hardships can easily be imagined. And of course, today we can just turn on the news to see firsthand what these tough, brave people of mine are enduring.

My Ukrainian roots are aching. Every day I pray for the people who are suffering, yet fighting so hard. I have always been fascinated and proud of my Polish-Ukrainian heritage, and that old pride within is rekindled when I see that blue and yellow flag flying, and when I see people standing in solidarity with that tough, beautiful nation.

Grandma, wherever you are, I hope you see – we all made good, thanks to you. Today in honor of your memory, I am going to whip up some golumpkis for Sunday dinner, and continue praying for peace in Ukraine. Sharing a photo of my great-grandfather on his farm, holding my dad.

Elik Yurdyga, circa 1942, holding my father on the farm
Uncategorized

Admire Your Work

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

My knitting friend, Becky, likes to say “You should stop often to admire your work.” Which is to say every once in a while it’s a good idea to look over your knitting to find mistakes while they are easy to fix. It’s a lot easier to rip out a few stitches than to tear out many precious inches of work to fix the glaring hole of a dropped stitch that you (or anyone else for that matter) cannot unsee. I say this from the perspective of a person who just had to tear out an entire I-cord edging on the left front of a sweater vest because it did not match the other side, due to the fact I somehow knit it inside out. As I pulled stitches and exercised my patience muscles, which reside primarily in my jaw and fists, a thought took hold: this could be a great metaphor for life. What if I took time every so often to examine the tapestry of daily life, to “admire” my “work”, to stop what I am doing and look for any mistakes I have made? To use the time to make little fixes before they become so far gone as to become regrets along the way? I have a bag of unfinished knitting projects when as a beginner, I ignored mistakes, got frustrated and gave up. I keep them to look back on the journey and remind myself how far I have come. Life is like that. I think most of us can take out our bag of regrets from time to time, usually around 3AM, the time I find most conducive to self flagellation. I’m thinking maybe my friend Becky’s advice would be best followed during the day, once a week or so, and at best I could recognize a mistake or misstep early enough to correct it – with an apology, or a kindness, or at worst, some personal effort to not make the same mistake in the future. A life well lived is like a complicated afghan knitted with love and given to a person you care for beyond words. It will have one or two mistakes, and maybe you will be the only one who can see them. Then one day you see that person on a zoom screen, wrapped in the warmth of your gift, like the hug you cannot give in person,and your heart will sing with joy and gratefulness that you overlooked the little mistakes, and persevered to fix the bigger ones and finish the work.