Algebra has never been my strong point but I woke up this
morning with this equation playing over and over in my head:
We minus One still equals We
(W-1)=W
It made me smile, not only to think of my high school
Algebra teacher’s claim that we will in fact use algebra at some point in our
lives after graduation but I smile at this new concept that I am not merely an “I” but
still a “we”.
The “alone” part of being a widow is the biggest hurdle to
peace. The over powering feeling that even in a crowd of people “I am ALONE” or
“I’m Single” or “I’m a widow” and having to ask for “A table for one please” are
identifying lables that are foreign and uncomfortable and I am lonely. But with this new equation in my
mind, perhaps I can reach the milestone on this journey through widowhood where
memories and reminders of Dale bring me joy. Am I slowly shifting away from the intense
pain of loss?
But then as I think about it….this “being alone” thing…Dale
has been with me (both seen and unseen) for most of my life, well since I was
about 3 years old….
We lived in a home that had been built by my
great-grandfather. A stately edifice
surrounded by acres and acres of fertile farmland. And this wonderful, grand old place had a
turret way up on the second floor that in the eyes of two little girls standing
way below, it looked to be the locked tower of a castle. We would clasp our
hands to our chests and call out beseechingly, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let down your long hair!” But she never did.
One day there (and as I say, I was about 3) I was swinging
swinging swinging on the squeaky swing set in the yard. It seemed I could fly so high…way back and
then sweeping up seeing the ground; then the long lawn; the house; the top of
the house; the top of the trees and then the clouds and then the blue blue sky
and then back again. Over and over again
until all of a sudden I put my feet down and ground to a halt as in my mind I
saw a young man, he looked to be a handsome prince, I liked him and I knew
right then that he was going to be my husband and best friend.
So I have been a “we” since that day! Just because I can’t see Dale now doesn’t
mean that he won't be a big presence during my remaining earth life. And, like I waited all those years for him to
take my hand and lead me into a new life, I will wait for him to come back and
take my hand and lead me into a new life again.
And just like I had things to do in the years before we met the first
time, I have many things I need to do in the years before I meet him
again. It gives me such strength to know
that he will be just a thought away during any given moment of these remaining
years.
As I type, my mind wanders to others who have been unseen but
by my side all of these years…
It was also at this tender age of 3 in that big old
farmhouse that two books took a prominent role in my development and psyche
when they entered my life. They are also the first two books I remember. The first book was easily accessible to me at
all times; it was called “The Little Red
Hen”. Her adage had become my motto
but never so importantly as now: ”Then I’ll do it myself!” said the Little Red Hen…and she did!
The next
book was an oversized volume the color and texture of rich creamy linen inscribed
in golden letters announcing what awaited as I carefully opened the cover and
entered into – “The Great Paintings of the World” - The color
illustrations were printed on clay-coated paper and glued onto the pages at the
top border. This book was high on a shelf in the living
room and I had to ask Mother or Dad for it which I did, often. I would retreat to a cozy corner, sit down and
lean against the built-in bookshelf where I nestled the book (nearly half my
size) onto my knees and explored the world of wonders within. The 10 year old Christ child holding a candle
so luminous as to show the redness as it radiated through his fingers; the Mona
Lisa who smiled at me; the old man with the oversized warty nose holding his
granddaughter on his lap whose loving eyes spoke of unconditional love. How was it possible that someone could draw
this way? I was fascinated, I was moved,
and I was educated.
Throughout
my life I felt these paintings whisper to me from beyond the doors of the great
museums of the world; The Metropolitan in New York City, The National Gallery
of Art in Washington, D.C., the Galleria degli
Uffizi and the Bargello in Florence, The Louvre in Paris,
the Musée d’Orsay in Paris,
The Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel in Rome, the British Museum and the Tate
Gallery in London, The Art Institute Museum of Chicago, The de Young and Legion
of Honor Museums in San Francisco, the Isabella Stewart
Gardener Museum
and The Museum of Fine Arts of Boston, the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto
Canada, Thorvaldsens Museum
and Frederiksborg Castle in Copenhagen and the Honolulu Museum of Art on
the island of Oahu, to name
a few.…..I have
visited each Museum - actually I should say more appropriately that I have explored each Museum, every nook and
cranny for days on end and each time as I turned a corner and encountered one
of my “Great Paintings of the World” in the original form, in the
original size, in the original vibrant and rich brushstrokes, mounted in ornate
golden frames the same color as the inscription on my big book; I felt
undeniably at ease, and took pleasure in a visit with an old friend.
I studied
Art History in college and learned of the lives and works of these great
artists. This ultimately led Dale to
send me to La Academia delle Belle Arti in Florence Italy and subsequently the
Loire Valley in France, Scottsdale, AZ and Seattle, WA for my education in
sculpting. I visited the Uffizi so often to study the incredible sculptures on
display there that one day a couple approached me. “Do you speak English?” they asked
frantically. “Almost exclusively” I replied.
They had come to Florence with a tour from their cruise ship. The
majority had chosen to see The David at the Academia but they wanted to see
Boticelli’s Birth of Venus at the museum. It was time to rejoin their tour
group to take the bus back to the ship and they were hopelessly lost in the
museum. “Could I help them!!” It delighted me that not only could I lead
them through the maze of greatness to the distant exit doors (labled Uscita which meant
nothing to them) but also
quickly point out some highlights as we scurried along - like the only painting
from the Renaissance by a woman artist (Artemisia Gentileschi) considered worthy enough to hang
in the gallery.
Following
the discovery of “The Little Red Hen “in my childhood, I came to love the
magical writings of Hans Christian Andersen, Denmark’s favorite son. The Little Match Girl was my favorite,
followed by the Little Tin Soldier, The Ugly Duckling and on down the list. Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen is one of the
world’s oldest and most respected theme parks.
I remember reading in my grandfather’s missionary journal that he and
his companion visited there one day nearly 100 years before me. And since I found myself with 2 months in
Denmark one summer (Another gift from Dale) and since Tivoli Gardens was
located just down the street and across the Rådhuspladsen
(Town Hall Square) from my hotel, I decided to check it out one summer
evening. Since it doesn’t get dark until
after 11 pm, I entered the gates at 9. I
strolled through the lovely gardens and shopped in the unique boutiques; I ate
salmon served on Danish blue china and sipped fresh lemonade from a crystal
goblet at a small round table in an outdoor café, naturally the table was
spread with a white linen cloth and had a large, fully opened pink rose in a
cobalt blue vase. I read that the electrical parade would begin after dark so
after dinner I followed the crowd to what appeared to be a good spot and
waited. Suddenly fireworks popped and
music filled the air and the parade began meandering down the walkways and
through the crowd. Giant puppet-like
figures lit from within weaved and bobbed and I suddenly realized that they
were all characters out of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories. All of my
childhood friends in an incredible production.
I couldn’t hold back the tears from the joy of youthful memories. In the
jostling of the crowd I was bumped and looked down at the little lady standing
next to me, about my age (50 something) she was Asian and her cheeks were also
covered in happy tears. She looked at me and said something in Japanese, I
looked at her and said something in American and she took my hand and squeezed
it and for a moment we were just two little girls in our own corners of the
world - wide eyed and entranced by the words of a Danish author. We were jostled again by the filtering crowd
and she was gone but I was in awe of the power and far reaching effects of the
written word.
A few weeks
later on the Island of Fyn, in the city of Odense, the birthplace of H.C.
Andersen, I lingered in the garden at the museum built in his honor. Actors put on a theatrical production with song
and dance on the outdoor stage and then filtered through the crowd made up
mostly of families with their little blonde children eager to meet their
favorite characters. The Little Match
Girl walked up to me and said “Hej”(pronounced Hi!). I took her photo as if she were a long lost
friend. Throughout the city of Odense,
you come upon statues of H.C.’s heroes and heroines. The river that ambles
gently through the town has boats shaped like lovely white swans for families
to spend lazy Sunday afternoons laughing and splashing as they drift along.
What a brilliant writer he was to touch so many people.
I shook my head when I thought of me
sitting in my 7th grade English classroom in California pondering
the assignment of writing our life story. I penciled a genealogical fact-based
essay of my life so far and feeling satisfied, dropped it on the teacher’s desk
as I walked out the classroom door. The next day, my paper was passed back to
me with “D” BORING” written in large red letters across the
top half of the manuscript. And in that
very moment I determined I would learn from my author heroes who never, ever
bored me with their words.
In Paris, several
years ago, Dale and I walked from our pied-à-terre to the Place des Vosges to a corner building known as the Hôtel de Rohan Guéménée, the
apartment of Victor Hugo. Just to be in the home of the man who penned The Hunchback of Notre Dame and our
favorite novel of all time, Les Miserable
was an experience of great significance.
As was the day we were allowed to stroll through the Paris Opera House conjuring
up each detail of Gaston
Leroux's book The Phantom
of the Opera.
I realize now that these writers and
artists have accompanied me; inspired me and upheld me throughout my life even
though I haven’t been able to actually see them, as long as I think of them, I’m
never really alone and that helps me to understand that with Dale: We minus one still = We
and I’m not lonesome. As long as I take joy in our memories and prepare to be
with him again one day the warm comfort of him is just a thought away. And as long as I keep those memories alive, I'm never really alone.
So from now on when I go to a restaurant and
the hostess asks “How many?” and I say “One” well, it’s ok, it's not a sad label. Alone
doesn’t have to mean lonely.
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To be continued...
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