The end is near, and I am not happy. I leave Saturday.
Being at the Banff Center has been the experience of a lifetime and I want to stay forever.
Of course I miss my family.
My handsome husband Doug and fine son Fionn. My fat whippet, Patch. (Yes, a fat whippet is an oxymoron). My red point Siamese, Krash. (“Is that a baby crying in the background?” I am often asked while on the phone and Krash is vying for attention. “Nope. Just my bratty Siamese,” I reply.)
And I miss my mother. My dear sweet mother. She will be 88 soon and I fret about how much time we have left together. When she is gone, will I regret the time I could have spent with her, but didn’t?
Time is precious. We must be judicious about how we share it. There’s nothing wrong with guarding some for ourselves, even if only a scrap here and there.
I have spent most of my time here working on an anthology of stories, poems and essays for Fionn. Working title: The Book of Fionn. Weaving bits and pieces from the past and present.
A tapestry, I called it. Maybe collage is better. Perhaps a shield, or even an amulet.
No matter.
It is his book. But it is my book, too. When I am gone, he will have a piece of me to keep forever. He won’t wonder who I was or what I thought. He will know how much he is loved. He will not be wracked with contradictions stabbing at his soul from a childhood over-shadowed by someone else’s secrets, fear and pain.
The pain of my father, and of Ireland, is centuries old. The British were not kind to the Irish. No denial is possible.
But that was then and this is now. And still my father’s past—and that of Ireland—haunts me. Why?
I am drifting in a boat in the woods. The boat is cradled. I need cradling. The boat is not rocking, but I am being rocked. Slowly, slowly. Soft, quiet little sways, gently, gently, back and forth. Rocked to love. Rocked to forgiveness. Rocked to a safe sleep.
The warriors, however, thankfully continue their picket.
There is no escape from the past.
Just a fragile peace to be made with it.
Being at the Banff Center has been the experience of a lifetime and I want to stay forever.
Of course I miss my family.
My handsome husband Doug and fine son Fionn. My fat whippet, Patch. (Yes, a fat whippet is an oxymoron). My red point Siamese, Krash. (“Is that a baby crying in the background?” I am often asked while on the phone and Krash is vying for attention. “Nope. Just my bratty Siamese,” I reply.)
And I miss my mother. My dear sweet mother. She will be 88 soon and I fret about how much time we have left together. When she is gone, will I regret the time I could have spent with her, but didn’t?
Time is precious. We must be judicious about how we share it. There’s nothing wrong with guarding some for ourselves, even if only a scrap here and there.
I have spent most of my time here working on an anthology of stories, poems and essays for Fionn. Working title: The Book of Fionn. Weaving bits and pieces from the past and present.
A tapestry, I called it. Maybe collage is better. Perhaps a shield, or even an amulet.
No matter.
It is his book. But it is my book, too. When I am gone, he will have a piece of me to keep forever. He won’t wonder who I was or what I thought. He will know how much he is loved. He will not be wracked with contradictions stabbing at his soul from a childhood over-shadowed by someone else’s secrets, fear and pain.
The pain of my father, and of Ireland, is centuries old. The British were not kind to the Irish. No denial is possible.
But that was then and this is now. And still my father’s past—and that of Ireland—haunts me. Why?
I am drifting in a boat in the woods. The boat is cradled. I need cradling. The boat is not rocking, but I am being rocked. Slowly, slowly. Soft, quiet little sways, gently, gently, back and forth. Rocked to love. Rocked to forgiveness. Rocked to a safe sleep.
The warriors, however, thankfully continue their picket.
There is no escape from the past.
Just a fragile peace to be made with it.