December 19, 2006
As I sit on the living room couch watching Andre Rieu's 'Dreaming' CD I find myself arranging the pillows just the way mother liked them, in the center just wide enough so that she could sit between them and rest her arms on them. We sit here and watch the video together and as I take a break to use the washroom the video plays on so that mother can see. I still expect her to appear suddenly and just sit quietly here in her Shambhala. Its incredible how natural that would feel, how much joy it would bring, just a short little visit from wherever she is now. Alas I am firmly rooted in this reality. Just her notes, her writings, her pictures, her voice on tape remains in this physical space. Just fragments of her being to be sure but precious ones.
Today I came across a file that mother kept in a drawer in her bedroom. Its one of the many files she accumulated marked "Privat". Among many wonderful items there was a letter from Gaby, written in 1957, a letter from Helga written in 1968 and a letter from me written in 1974. This house is filled to capacity with memories like that and I feel blessed beyond measure to be able to dwell in them as I transcribe the journal and the tapes. Mother is asleep now, that's what it feels like. The video has finished and is repeating the dreaming theme, gently, over and over again. In case she wakes while I have my shower I will start it up again for her.
While cleaning up the branches and tree crowns that cascaded into the rose garden during the last storm, there was a little bird that kept me company. It was happy that I re-organized things so that it could find some more little pine and spruce nuts for its dinner. I heard Mother's voice reminding me to feed the birds and so the bird feeder has been re-filled and placed back outside. On the way home from town today I noticed a little bird sitting on the road still as can be. Turns out it wasn't a little bird at all but just its 'left over body'. After securely parking the bike out of traffic's way I came back to retrieve the little thing from the cold pavement and place it under a spruce tree well away from the road that proved its fatal destiny.
Its not just the pictures and videos that reconnect me with Oma. There remains that golden thread of love we talked about so often. As I write and remember, I AM blessed to be so aware of her spirit.
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