Transitions

60: (February 2019)

A beloved neighbor died last week. I met her shortly after we moved into our little town of Temple, almost 27 years ago. My toddler and I had heard the baaing of sheep out the window as we were eating our lunch. Unaccustomed to the sound since we had just moved from downtown Boston, we meandered down the road after lunch to find its source.

We came to an old farmhouse a few houses down the road from us, with a big barn out back. Kittie, a friendly 12-year-old, spotted us and came down the driveway to invite us into the barn. As we entered the seemingly cavernous building, we were delighted to see the sheep we had heard from our kitchen window. There were lots of them, and they were being tended by Kittie’s mother, Donna.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t swept the floor!” Donna apologized. Being a newcomer to the barn scene, it hadn’t occurred to me that a barn floor required regular sweeping. It looked pretty tidy to me, as far as my expectations for barn floors went. Donna graciously showed us the sheep, patiently explaining the care and feeding of them to my enraptured daughter.

That was the way Donna was. She loved farm animals, and she always had time and a smile for people. Kittie became our babysitter for quite a number of years, and our families’ lives intertwined, as families do in a small town: bumping into each other at the post office, the Harvest Festival where we would buy wool from Donna’s sheep, or the Christmas town craft fair. Donna never failed to ask me how the girls were, long after they had grown up and moved away.

She was an icon of Temple, a symbol of what is best in a small, rural town. Donna was the embodiment of all the ordinary day-to-day kindnesses and generosities that add up to something very special.

I will play the piano at her funeral tomorrow at the town church. She will be greatly missed.

40: (February 1999)

My mother is a wild-woman. It was not always so. In fact, just last night I spoke with her on the telephone and she related a story about her high school days. She recounted how she never ventured from her desk to the cafeteria during lunchtime for fear that the nuns in charge would yell at her for something. She only recently learned at a reunion that while she sat at her desk with a sandwich, others in her class were dancing to the Lindy just down the hall.

That my mother was shy growing up is not noteworthy; many people are shy. What is surprising is that despite the extent of her shyness, she was able to transform herself into the wild-woman she is today. I say wild-woman because she does unusual things that take nerve and a lot of spunk. After widowhood, at an age when many think of retiring, and some feel painfully stripped of purpose, my mother became a nightclub cabaret singer. Then she decided she would like to act in movies, worked in dozens as an extra, and was able to earn a Screen Actors Guild union card, which is not an easy feat. It is only a matter of time before she will get her first speaking role. On top of that, she went to school to become a real estate agent (in her spare time!).

When other people her age might begin to obsess over physical ailments, my mother pushes her body to the limit by closing clubs or doing nighttime shoots on the streets of New York City. She never thinks of herself as old; she simply refuses to ever consider that age might be a barrier to anything. Her body apparently listens well to her and responds with astonishing energy and good health. Sequined gowns, mini-skirts, and countless high-heeled shoes dominate her many closets. She changes her eye color when she changes her contact lenses. She is vividly herself, vividly alive.

Maybe we are all born with a seed, a blueprint of the flower or tree that is possible for us to become. My mother’s seed must have stored lots of strength and a bit of courage in order to burst forth into the neon flower she is today. May we all bloom with such vigor.

60-40:

Some people live lives close to the earth, like Donna did. She came alive in her garden or tending her sheep. My mother, on the other hand, still adores fashion, glamor, and nightlife, although at her age, it has become hard for her to do some of the things she did years ago.

Everyone has their own unique interests, their own unique passions. Fortunate are those who have figured out how to fully embody whatever it is that makes them jump out of bed in the morning, eager to live another day.

Each day truly is a spectacular gift. They may not all feel spectacular, but we get to unwrap that day, investigate and explore it, and decide what to do with it. No matter what, we can choose to be caring, generous, and kind. And that’s a life well lived.