Eastern Mockingbird

 Eastern Mockingbird / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68

sold! 

YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, I cheered on the sidelines of a neighborhood bocce game, on Wachapreague's new bocce court, over by the firehouse. 

I have no interest in bocce, but it was Jeannie's birthday, and I like Jeannie, and also most of the Wachapreague women (Wachawomen) who participate in these bocce things. And it was a beautiful October day, with golden sunshine and that particular sweet warmth that seems to come only on the heels of a crisp morning. 

And I knew that my friend Liesl - Our Favorite Austrian - would be there. I had a pleasant time, chatting with Liesl and the girls, and as I walked home, I thought about how instrumental she has been in my healing after Peter's death. 

She was one of the first to come by, in those early, awful days. She came with another neighbor, Anne, and they didn't insist on coming in, just stood on the doorstep and told me how sorry they were, gave me a pretty bag, and went away. In the bag was a sympathy card, a bag of chocolates and a bag of dog treats that instantly became my gang's favorite. 

In time, Liesl began to visit, walking into the house, completely unafraid, even though at that point, the dogs were still wild and undisciplined, and Doc responded to his fear of everything by snarling and snapping at people. 

She offered to help with them, and to my amazement, and out of necessity, I agreed to let her help. 

Early in the winter - and it was this that I remembered yesterday - she invited me and a few others to her house for dinner. 

To back up a little, a thing that happened after Peter's death was that I really couldn't see people. For weeks after he died, I didn't let anybody in the house. I drove to Maryland to do my grocery shopping, so that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. I avoided the post office for so long that the postmistress, a truly kind person, called and asked if I would like her to bring me my mail. I said no, and she volunteered to stay late one day so I could come over after the post office closed, and get my mail, cutting down on the chance of running into anyone. 

I don't understand the mechanisms of my need to see no one. I just knew that I couldn't, and that especially, I couldn't run into people unprepared. 

Little by little, I came out of it, and so, in the winter, I agreed to go to supper at Liesl's. But as the day approached, I realized I couldn't. I could not sit at a table and make conversation with several people I knew only slightly - and, crying, I called her and told her. 

She was as kind as could be, and insisted that I still come - but she would uninvite the others, who all were neighbors, and would understand. And so she did, and so I did. 

I had known Liesl mostly from seeing her walking. She walked pretty much every day, as far as I could tell, sometimes with people, sometimes with people's dogs, sometimes alone - but her walking was a constant. I would admire her, straight and slim, striding - always with very good posture - through town. 

When she asked if I would like to walk with her and the dogs, I said yes, and that, as much as anything, has changed my life, and helped speed and strengthen my recovery. 

We have walked nearly every morning. The dogs have learned some manners, and have started to be socialized. The walks have brought me daily exercise, and fresh air, and have helped me start to be socialized again. They give me a way to start every day. A plan, a task, something regular and manageable. 

They have brought me a friendship, too, which is perhaps the most valuable. Liesl is a good listener, an interesting person, and she makes me laugh. She is an inspiration, too, being helpful to people and animals and asking nothing in return. And she is 80! Often on our walks, I am out of breath and hurrying to catch up, and Our Favorite Austrian is just there, striding along, looking at this or that, laughing at the dogs, enjoying the morning. 

Here is Liesl in the springtime, with Lulu and Koko. We walk three dogs most days, 

and Liesl always takes two. 

***

Grace Note

I Didn't Go to Church Today

I didn't go to church today

I trust the Lord to understand

The surf was swirling blue and white

The children swirling on the sand.

He knows, He knows how brief my stay,

How brief this stay of summer weather,

He knows when I am said and done

We'll have plenty of time together.

- Ogden Nash

Mockingbird on Dogwood

Mockingbird on Dogwood / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 unframed / $68

sold!

IN THE SPRING, WHEN WE LIVED in Portsmouth, VA,  a mockingbird sang outside our window. It was a virtuoso, with more than a dozen songs in its repertoire. 

All well and good - except that this mockingbird insisted on singing at night. And he favored a branch of a tree right outside our bedroom window. For a month or so every year, probably during mating season, he kept us awake, night after night after long, exhausting night, repeating his 13 or 14 or 15 songs again and again, never in the same order, so every time you thought you might be able to fall asleep, he'd start a different pattern, a different path, and draw us in again. 

It was maddening. But the songs were beautiful, exquisite, and made a memory that still makes me smile today. 

***

Gratitude

This morning, I am grateful for the beauty of the huge, nearly full moon, shining so bright in the middle of the night that it made the trees cast shadows on the lawn. Its beauty took my breath away. I'm grateful for anything that stirs me so deeply. 

What makes you grateful today? 

***

For Today

The Mockingbird

All summer

the mockingbird

in his pearl-gray coat

and his white-windowed wings

flies

from the hedge to the top of the pine

and begins to sing, but it's neither

lilting nor lovely,

for he is the thief of other sounds -

whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges

plus all the songs 

of other birds in his neighborhood; 

mimicking and elaborating,

he sings with humor and bravado, 

so I have to wait a long time

for the softer voice of his own life

to come through. He begins

by giving up all the usual flutter

and settling down on the pine's forelock

then looking around

as though to make sure he's alone;

then he slaps each wing against his breast,

where his heart is,

and, copying nothing, begins

easing into it

as though it was not half so easy

as rollicking,

as though his subject now

was his true self,

which of course was as dark and secret

as anyone else's

and it was too hard - 

perhaps you understand - 

to speak or to sing it

to anything or anyone

but the sky. 

- Mary Oliver,  in "A Thousand Mornings"