Liscannor, Ireland

November 12, 2023 by Rose

Liscannor, Ireland: rest, rainbows, and rejuvenation.

Liscannor. A tiny town on the Atlantic coast of Ireland. There’s Lahinch across the horseshoe bay, with white houses pebbled along the hazy kelly hills. I ask a local how to pronounce it.

“To the English, it’s pronounced Lis-CANN-or. To the Irish, it’s Liscannoooor,” she says with a ghostly purse of the lips and a brogue roll of the tongue.

Night.

Travelers, weary from a month on the road, we settle into a cozy beach cottage and light a fire in the black stove. A previous dash to the country store has rewarded us with a crisp wine, and we clink our glasses. As the room warms, we peel off our layers of coats and scarves and finally sweaters, our socked toes curling to the heat as we bask in the embers.

Afternoon.

A strategically placed Irish novella beckons from a bay window—first him, then me, and then we chat about secrets hidden between delicious words.

A tumult hurls rain sideways, loud as breaking glass. The lap blanket gets pulled to the chin with a smile.

A season in a day here, soon the sun gleams and glistens, turning grass the famous emerald, and gray stone to a true gold. And, yes, a rainbow, its full arch so clear that if we each run to a side, we swear we’ll be soaked in its paint.

In the past, the village folk got together and created a park with lovely stone benches. Not facing each other, but each facing the sea. There is no sitting across for such a view—Ireland is for holding hands and silence and stirring of souls.

The Atlantic is a raging, smashing, crushing giant bull, stomping and snorting, tossing the spray straight up with such a mighty blow, that the water is momentarily suspended there, afraid to come down again. And soon, with a season in a day, it whispers and laps and shimmers gently to lovers and sleeping babies over smoothed rocks and boulders, and seabirds can tiptoe on its shores once more.

Morning.

He is now making breakfast—our last before we leave. And I am on a stone bench, pondering, then simply being. The stone is chilly through my jeans. And it’s time to go. The sun filters glowing ribbons down on me, whispering stay. But that’s the beauty of Ireland. You never really leave, once you’ve been here.

Liscannor Ireland — Stone benches for pondering and just being

Zen Radar Rainy Day in France

November 2, 2023 by Rose

Zen Radar Writing in Europe

I have a Zen radar, which finds the cool artsy places to work. As a copy editor and writer, my office is wherever my heart says, “Here.” I search around, laptop in hand, and when I feel that “mother’s hug” I know that’s the place where the magic will happen. I do that at home each morning with my Zen radar on, searching for the “feels.” Hmm. Livingroom on the comfy couch? Sun’s a bit bright. Office with a candle lit? Strong possibility. Backyard swing with the hummingbirds? Mmm. There’s that hug feeling.

On the road in Europe, my Zen radar blips constantly at “the perfect spot” because they’re everywhere. When my hubby and I have a long driving day and I’m working in the car and we’re zipping past castles, seas, mountains, and villages nestled in valleys or clinging like barnacles to the side of a cliff, my radar can sometimes scream HERE! Wait—HERE! No—HERE! HERE! HERE!” These are the moments I respectfully put away the manuscript and sponge in the beauty of our little rock hurling through space. That’s as important as breathing. That’s how the artist finds stories.

Europe in the fall so far has been sweater weather at best. At last, in France, it begins to sprinkle. My hubby Anthony dons a coat and scarf and steps out for a long day of outdoor work. Today, it will be in the mud. Not a problem if you make it an adventure, which Anthony always does.

Too soggy for my computer, my outdoor office is traded for two propped-up pillows and a down-filled duvet in our cozy hotel room.

Ka-Boom!

Thunder punches the clouds, and a deluge floods the streets—and surely my spouse as well, as the mud turns into creeks outside.

And here I am, warm and cozy, sorry for my soggy spouse, happy that my Zen radar is on overload with an artist’s stormy-day atmosphere.

I have a record-breaking day for pages done. I am thrilled, and my soul is full.

Sundown, Anthony tramps in, and we are both starving—we haven’t eaten since our early breakfast.

We drive to the nearby ancient city of Gordes—one of those “clinging to a cliff like a barnacle” towns—and walk the streets. Turns out, this is the day they have closed for the season. On top of that, it’s Monday.

We drive to the next town, and the next. “Y a t’il des restaurants ouverts?” Any restaurants open? Nope. None.

With the wipers swiping buckets in a frenzy, we finally come upon a grocery store. Opening the car door, rain dumps on us as we laugh our way in, soaking. With no access to a stove or microwave, we buy a prosciutto salad, goat cheese-and-fig wrap, and a bottle of rosé.

Back under the duvet, together this time, clinking glasses, we enjoy an astonishingly delicious dinner (that came to 20 euros total.) My Zen radar signals again. After all, I have my sweet man, a perfect impromptu dinner, and France in the rain. Magnifique.

Good Morning, Polignano a Mare…

October 28, 2023 by Rose

Morning over the Adriatic

On a balcony overlooking the Adriatic, dawn fails to wake sleepy tourists; I have the view all to myself. Little sparks of light speak of fishermen, assuring tonight’s dinner will be ‘sea to table.’

A soft voile mist blankets but cannot veil, and mottled silver breaks through steel clouds—morning won’t be held back any longer.

Ten centuries prepared, old town gazes, steadfast, through long black rectangle eyes, from rustic peach stone facings here to whitewashed monuments there. All stand, precarious yet without fear, on a crumbling, stratified rock cliff.

I see the church bell through the arched window of the tower. That will wake the tourists, I think with a teasing grin. This feast for the eyes can’t be wasted on just me.

But then—never wasted when a soul is fed.

Patchwork Muses in Umbria, Italy

November 12, 2023October 22, 2023 by Rose

Patchwork Views and Cobble Strolls

I walk down an ancient cobbled path, to a view of vast rolling hills, like a quilt draped over a pile of sleeping cats. Squares of green tufted candlewick trees, a plain beige patch here, a striped green and brown vineyard there, a golden plowed field with mustard peeking through in vivid yellow.

Descending steep stone steps, I see a grotto with a statue of Mary to the right, and a marble bare-breasted maiden to the left. Viva l’Italia!

The wind is soft as the sky, with its gentle haze muting the colors—just a little. Italy doesn’t do ‘muted’ for long.

I arrived in the dark, delivered to the tip-top via a treacherous drive up, up, up, inches away from the craggy crumbling bluff, the driver confident and nonchalant.

The thing is, that’s how to do it. Perceived danger is a funny thing. Like the light mist, it can be gently dismissed by a calm confidence that all will be well.

A surprise gust of wind catches my attention and hair. Yes? I ask the sky as if it will answer. I often open my ears to the possibilities, the avant-garde, and the muses skipping and floating, invisible and playful.

“You see me?” I ask out loud as my dark tresses flail about. “I see you, too.”

Talking to the wind is not crazy. It is connecting to all that is, not just the plain old atoms and molecules and facts and the concrete.

What is wind, anyway? Molecules, tossed about wildly, carrying the atoms of people and trees and dinosaurs and stars. That’s the real circle of life. Oh, the stories an atom could tell.

A cat, its coat patched in shabby gray, meanders, nonchalant as the driver, and is on her merry way after a rather royal sniff to my offered hand. A queen walking among the common folk in disguise, her cloak didn’t fool me—the flitting tail was a dead giveaway.

Silver-edged clouds glow uncannily, stealing the scenery—they want their moment, too.

Patchwork clouds and patchwork fields and patchwork cats; patchwork atoms and patchwork me. We’re all just pieces of each other, really—we people, animals, earth, sky… cats.

I smile.

I’m no philosopher, but that sits well with me, as I sit, well, in Umbria.

PITCAIRN ISLAND: home of Mutineers, Artists and Superhero Bees!

September 21, 2017 by Rose

I am aboard a small cruise ship, circumnavigating Pitcairn Island. It is only two miles square—a tiny deep green bump smack dab in the middle of the South Pacific. The ocean is angry today, and sprays a breathtaking sapphire blue. The skies are bleak and ominous. The island has no port to accommodate a ship of our size, and so the people of Pitcairn have been invited to come to us.

I hang over the rail and search through the tropical rain until my sundress clings to me like a second skin. I want to catch a first glimpse of these most unusual residents; descendants of the mutineers from the famous ship Bounty, of Captain Bligh fame. Nearly all of the islanders, isolated completely for centuries, have the same two last names—Fletcher and Christian—whose same-named ancestors escaped the gallows of England by marooning themselves and their Polynesian wives on Pitcairn in 1790.

Pitcairn island steams a halo of cloud and fog from the torrent. As we sail closer, I see sheer cliffs, and a cascading waterfall. Twenty-odd houses nestle against a steep hillside, each separated by forest and a steep hike.

At last a long boat comes into view. There are only fifty-four inhabitants on the entire island, and thirty of them—more than half the population—sit precariously yet happily on planks, grateful to have a break from island fever. They bob along towards us in the pouring rain and choppy seas, with the steadfast balance of true islanders. When they finally pull alongside our ship, they leap to the treacherous lurching gangway like mountain goats, these people made of volcano and sea.

Around 11 A.M. the Pitcairn Islanders set up shop in our ship’s spacious lounge, and open for business. This selling of handcrafted wares is their major form of income. I am very surprised at the level of quality of the merchandise. It could have been simplistic, and still worth its weight in gold for the novelty of being created by Pitcairners, but the crafts are unexpectedly, delightfully beautiful. There are gorgeous wood carvings of sea turtles, sharks with their mouths wide open to reveal teeth (beautifully carved out of bone,) sea snakes and dolphins. There are whimsical tees with pictures of the Bounty. For the collectors, there are stamps and postcards to buy, which the Pitcairners promise to send from their local post office (“Please allow three months delivery, as only four ships come per year to collect the mail!”) For a ten dollar fee, passports can be stamped “Pitcairn.”

The thing that catches my eye is a beautiful necklace. If I shut my eyes and imagine a mermaid swimming in the depths of the sea, this is the necklace she would be wearing. It is made of beautiful oblong silver pearls. Not flawless, but that is part of the beauty. In between the pearls are sea shells, black luminescent stones and clusters of tiny silver beads, with the New Zealand Paua shell as a pendant.

It is so beautiful that I take a picture of it, along with the jeweler who proudly poses. She looks quite British. The Pitcairners have varying degrees of English and Polynesian blood, and this woman is lanky and fair-skinned. She informs me that the price of her treasure is $750, which is an incredible bargain. I am not in the market for a necklace, and as I walk away she says cheerfully, “I can go down to $500.”

Oooh! I have to walk away quickly to resist temptation.

The biggest seller is the honey. With the current world bee crisis of diseased bees, and the diminishing bee population, Pitcairn Island honey is very sought after. Completely isolated, the Pitcairn bees are free from disease. Pitcairn honey is said to be the finest, purest honey on earth. Who knows? If the bee crisis gets bad enough, perhaps Pitcairn will be our salvation—after all, we need bees to pollinate our crops. I like the idea of the smallest inhabited island Democracy saving the world. There is something very poetic and noble about that.

I spy an amazing looking man from Pitcairn–starkly unique. He is a large man, with the build of a Pacific Islander—stout and muscular. His coloring is Polynesian, his beard is blond, and attached to his ears, which are pierced from top to bottom, are a cacophony of magnificent trinkets, again what one would find a merman wearing, from bone to pearls to shells to sharks teeth. Around his neck is a chain, thickly laden with more booty. I imagine him living under the ocean, and swimming until his neck and ears encrust with barnacles of briny jewels from the treasure troves of the sea.

He disappears before I can ask for his picture. An hour later, when it’s almost time for the Pitcairn residents to go home, I find him in the ship’s sundry shop, buying two manly armfuls of alcohol. I laugh and say, “There you go; you know what’s important!”

He concurs with a broad smile, and I seize the opportunity to take his picture, shouting, “You are gorgeous!” which results in a priceless picture of him laughing.

From behind a rack I hear a voice, “Hey! What about me?” Out steps a very Polynesian looking man, with dark eyes and hair. He pretends to be terribly indignant that he was left out of the conversation, so I say, “Okay, you’re gorgeous too!” I ask both of them, “Do you write books? I imagine it would be fascinating to read a book about the life of the Pitcairn residents.” The blond one laughs and says, “I don’t have time to write a book!”

To which I reply, very sincerely, “Then perhaps I should come back and interview everyone and write a book myself!”

He smiled and said, “Don’t think it hasn’t been done before!”

I suppose that must be true, but what fun that would be—I’d do it in a heartbeat! And next time, I’m buying that necklace.

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Blackberries and Love

September 5, 2017 by Rose

I grew up in a farming community in Oregon. There were picturesque pastures with cows and sheep, houses nestled in evergreen forests and oak groves, and the occasional tractor meandering down the road. We even had a little red barn on our property.

When it wasn’t raining, we’d bundle up and go for a walk around the loop. That’s what we called our neighborhood—a three-mile circle with a house every few acres or so. We knew most of our neighbors by name in our sparsely populated community, and everyone walked the loop, young and old. It took an hour and it was a great opportunity to chat, drop in on a neighbor if so inclined, and take in the scenery.

September was the best month to walk the loop because it was blackberry season, and the berries grew wild on the side of the road. We’d grab an empty coffee tin and pick them as we passed by the brambles. By the time we looped back again our tins would be filled to the brim, and our moms would make pie or jam. Sometimes we’d drop them on top of ice cream at night or cereal in the morning. Plump, fat blackberries, impossibly sweet, but with that tart kick at the end.

When the brambles had been picked clean by those on foot, we’d ride horses so we could reach the top branches. If the blackberries were still out of reach, we’d stand on the horses’ backs.

Someone would always reach deep within the sharp brambles for the plumpest prizes, pulling out a bloodied arm along with the blackberries. Nobody really minded the “battle scars,” it was just an Oregon rite of passage. “Ah, I see you’ve been picking blackberries!” was a common phrase. The scratches gave it away. That, and our purple-stained lips. Part of the fun of picking blackberries was sampling them fresh off the branches. On a hot day the blackberries were warm and extra sweet.

I moved to California when I was nineteen, many years ago. I don’t get back to Oregon often, especially in September, so blackberries are very nostalgic for me. A few precious times over the years I got to pick those blackberries with my own young children. Now my kids are grown.

Recently it was my birthday and my husband surprised me with a trip to Oregon, via an overnight train. We watched the magnificent solar eclipse on that train, and ended up at a sprawling Bed and Breakfast farmhouse in Carlton.

At first, it was just my husband and me. Soon cars pulled up, and out popped my four kids, with one brand new spouse and one boyfriend! Another car pulled up with my dear childhood friend Ann, and her husband.

Ann had walked the loop many times with me when we were kids. She remembered how much I loved blackberries. It was late August, so the first batch of blackberries were already ripe. It turns out, my kids had picked blackberries, with the girls on the boys’ shoulders so they could reach the good ones on top. They had taken their berries to Ann’s house and they had all made a blackberry cobbler! That night, for my birthday “cake” they presented me with that blackberry cobbler, warm with candles and nostalgia and love. It brought tears to my eyes. They even showed me a sequence of pictures; of them picking the blackberries, then the blackberries in a heaping bowl, then in Ann’s kitchen with flour and sugar and recipes and smiles.

I blew out the candles and took a bite. It tasted like pure joy. It tasted like childhood. I looked around at all the sweet smiling faces, with blackberry stained lips and giggles, and I could see that everyone knew how I felt, because they felt it too. A step back into simpler times, where neighbors were friends and berries grew wild. It wasn’t just a blackberry cobbler. It was magic, and I’ll never forget it.

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Father’s Day Musings

June 10, 2017June 1, 2017 by Rose

As I reflect on Father’s day, I find myself thinking of how I parented my own children. I am a mom actually, not a dad, but as a parent I can say this much—I tried my best. I loved my children with all my soul as most parents do. I didn’t delve into manuals and “How to” books much. I believed motherhood and its lessons would come naturally, organically. Would it have made a difference if I had enrolled in classes, read libraries of information, taken it more seriously as something I could mess up? Perhaps. And I did mess up. Many, many times. I also hit home runs once in a while, where I said or did just the right thing. Sometimes I took advice from wise, experienced family and friends, and sometimes I took another course. Sometimes I couldn’t bear to look and I’d put blinders on. And sometimes I dove headlong into the fire for my children.

As a child I thought my dad was the most magnificent man on earth. I loved him unconditionally—I almost thought he was magic. The pendulum swung far into fairy land and rose-colored glasses. Like Mary Poppins’ measuring tape, the pendulum read, “Practically Perfect in every way!”

As a teen, I noticed every mistake he made, every grumble, every wrong step. Mind you, by then he had five of us! He came up imperfect after all, and at one point I “ran away from home” for a whole night and cried on my friend’s shoulder about my Dad, who “Didn’t care about me at all.” The pendulum swung hard the other way, into the bitter, harsh reality that my dad was not the perfect man I thought he was. The pendulum read, “You’re mean.”

When I had teens of my own, and felt the frustrations of their hormonal chaos, I remembered how I had once judged my dad. I called him and told him how wonderful he was, and how grateful I was for all his patience, grace and love over the years. The pendulum swung back where it belonged, squarely in the middle, reading “Human.”

What a relief to realize that we can in fact try and fail, try and succeed, try and fail, like the tides, and know that it is okay to be human beings. At the end of the day, we give all we have, with the very best of intentions, for the love of our children.

And so I say, to all you “Perfect,” “Mean” and “Just Plain Human” dads, have a wonderful, blessed Father’s Day, and know that you are loved.

Moving Day: Bruised and Smiling in Paradise

October 3, 2016 by Rose

Moving day. Oh joy! I’m covered with bruises from head to toe and I have a mountain of boxes in the back yard. But guess what? I have a back yard! I feel pretty darned moving-boxes blessed. There are humming birds here, by the dozens. I’ve never seen that before! A cricket slipped into the house with one of the boxes–a sign of good luck.

Champions in the form of family came with their laughter, strength and incredible stamina, hauling heavy boxes, furniture and stone. (Yup, stone. My hubby deals in stone!) I was a culprit too, with my cumbersome weighted keyboards, speakers and power amps. I am, after all, a musician! Everyone left black and blue and scraped all over, christening our new haven with their beautiful presence, positive attitudes and eyes glistening with approval. It really is a lovely place. I’m so very grateful for my heroes!

Moving day is a fresh beginning. We worked hard (really, really hard,) decided exactly what we wanted in a home, took our time and found just the right place for our needs today. A spacious office for Anthony, a recording studio for my music, a sun room for my writing space and a meandering back yard filled with trees and blossoms.

This is a home for family, for parties, for tranquil breakfasts outside with musical birds–and for creativity.

The kitchen is small, but that’s a good thing. It gave me an excuse to get my mother’s hutch out of storage and fill it with my favorite dishes and glasses. Now when I open the front door I am greeted with a wave of nostalgia, seeing a piece from my childhood home in Oregon breathing life again. My dad will be thrilled when he sees the hutch—since Mom passed he is so lonely for memories of the life he had with her.

When I write, I always attempt to find a peaceful, pretty place that fills me with serenity. This garden is filled with artists’ nooks and crannies. Right now I am outside looking at the mountain of boxes and the bruises they gave me, and I smile. The boxes are empty, my heart is full, my soul is fed. I think wonderful things are about to happen. I know they are. A cricket told me.

A New Year’s Blessing

April 9, 2016December 31, 2015 by Rose

At the end of every year I grow introspective and read through my journal from the past year. I’ve had bad years and good years. I lost my mother in May, but I would still say I’ve had an excellent year. Perhaps it was my mom’s gift to me, this year. I have learned so much, perhaps the most important lesson being, there is no expiration date on dreams.

As a child, my mom taught me that it was okay to follow my heart and my artist’s path. I never got rich, but I have a treasure trove of “Diamonds.” The technical word is “Intellectual Property,” meaning I wrote a bunch of books, songs, albums, poems… you get the picture. But I like “Diamonds” better. They mean something, these unpublished tunes and stories. They mean “I did it.” Not “I tried and failed.” I have an audience that matters. Me. I can sleep at night knowing I forged ahead and made my dreams come true.

I was responsible—I have always worked as a performer, and have made a decent living. I raised four kids on a musician’s paycheck and they were always housed, clothed and fed. They grew into wonderful, productive adults. And most importantly, they grew up kind. That makes me very proud.

My mom’s disease, Alzheimer’s, taught me the importance of balance. Unconditional love and care-taking doesn’t mean losing one’s self, if means rearranging boundaries and schedules that work for everyone. It means being selfless one moment and selfish another, so that everyone stays cared for and healthy and loved. I wrote more poignantly this past year than I had in ages, because my mother’s struggles opened my heart wider than I thought possible. I loved my mom deeper than I thought I was capable. I learned her songs from an era long gone, I learned how to make her smile and I lived to do just that. It brought me deep joy. I had to snatch at moments to write in my journal, but the passages came from a new level of my soul. I had to write music sporadically, but they were my most honest work.

Ages ago, on my 29th birthday I remember crying, thinking “It’s over! I’ll never get a record deal now that I’m over the hill!”

If I could go back in time and talk to the old (young) me, I’d have a hard time keeping a straight face. But I would be nice and simply say, “Just wait. You will never believe the adventure that’s just around the corner. You will travel the world, your mind will open, and you will know a new level of love. You will truly become an artist. Your metamorphosis will enlighten your children and help them find self-dignity and the right kind of love—-a balanced love.”

The 29 year old me would certainly ask, “But will I make it? As an artist, I mean. Will I find success?”
And I would smile enigmatically and say… “Yes.”
That is the gift my mom left me with—that I truly believe I have achieved success. I am an artist. I embrace that artist and nurture her because she deserves nurturing. I have learned to draw boundaries and make time for creation. I have learned the importance of silence, and the importance of noise. The world needs both. I need both. The introvert in me has learned to make time for life. For it is in life’s interruptions, pain, and boisterous bombastic chaos, that stories and songs unfold.
And the people-pleaser in me has learned to protect the introvert and allow her a quiet corner to put dreams to paper.

I am an artist. And I shall be until I die. And that makes me feel like the luckiest woman on earth.

Songs For Mum

April 9, 2016November 5, 2015 by Rose

As any artist can attest to, there are bound to be dry spells. This can be very disheartening. I find that even when I feel foggy and blah, if I just push through it and put my fingers on a piano or a laptop, my heart is rekindled and something is born; a song, a story, or a fresh “harebrained scheme.” So here I am, pushing through.

There’s a nip in the air and a rustle in the leaves. It’s time for a cozy sweater, a steaming cup of coffee, and writing songs and stories about home and hearth. My home and hearth are different this fall—I no longer have my mother’s sparkling eyes, a happy sigh and a clap of her hands, her “Pinch me, I can’t believe it’s you!” every time I’d come into view.

My mom had Alzheimer’s, but I was truly blessed to have her in my life, throughout it all. She sparkled until the end. Her optimism, even in the midst of a ravaging disease, still leaves me humbled. When her memory faded and then left her completely, she still loved me. The love wasn’t taken. And that was enough. That was so much. There were times when she would look at me with kind, warm eyes, trying to place me. I would kiss her soft velvety cheek and say, “It’s your little girl Rosalyn!” and rock her in my arms. She always hugged me back. I would say, with a fake English accent, “Me Mum…”
And she’d answer with an exaggerated accent, “Me dough-tah!”
Love transcends. It was okay if she didn’t remember my name. The little “Mum and Dough-tah” dialogue was an old memory, and somehow stayed with her.

The last day before she was hospitalized, we celebrated my Dad’s birthday at a park. The sun glistened upon the lake, the sky was a vibrant blue and the emerald grass seemed to glow. Everyone was there—her children, grandchildren, and her beloved husband who sat by her side holding her hand. Throughout the afternoon she watched with delight as her grandchildren blew wand bubbles for her and played. We brought her favorite music; old songs from her childhood. Music is the magic formula for Alzheimer’s, for those who don’t know; it is the last memory to fade. Mom remembered music till the end. She could barely talk, but she could sing.

Music was always a part of Mom. My earliest memories are of Mom washing the dishes and singing. Walking on the beach and singing. Driving and singing. Singing to us, singing to no one, but always, always singing, with her soft gentle English accent and her sweet pretty voice. No wonder I became a musician.

And here she was at a park all these years later, still singing, or nodding her head to the music, or smiling at a familiar tune, perhaps triggering a flash of an old memory. It was, by all accounts, a perfect day. The most alert we’d seen Mom in a long time.

Strangely, fifteen minutes after we left the park, she was rushed to the hospital, and then brought home with hospice care. Her last words were to her youngest daughter Cathy, her precious baby who traveled from Washington to be by her side. Mom was unresponsive, as Cathy said with a broken heart over and over, “You are my beautiful Momma.”

And then, Mom’s eyes opened one last time. Clear eyed and clear minded for a fleeting moment, Mom answered, “You are my beautiful.”

And then she was quiet and still. It was our turn, our loving duty, to sing to her.
We played Joan Baez’ “Diamonds and Rust.” Cathy had to leave the room to cry—that was Mom’s and Cathy’s favorite.

We played “Over the Sea to Skye” and I sang along, as Mom would have done. I remember as a young girl, Mom pushing me on our swing set, singing that song to me. I remember the sunny day, the contentment in my heart, being with my mom like that. I remember Mom saying it was written for “Bonnie Prince Charles” of old, and I visualized “The lad who’s born to be king” sailing in a great ship with sails unfurled, exhilarated.

My daughter Shannon sang songs from movies she used to watch with her dear grandma.

And, in case mom’s spirit had already left her unresponsive body, we played “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog,” so she could dance to it like she used to. It’s strange how you can laugh and grieve at the same time. It is a very cathartic thing to do.

When Mom passed, we held each other and cried. I remember saying, through my tears, “I know she had Alzheimer’s. But it was enough. It was enough for me.” There was a remnant of Mom till the end. In her smile, in her sparkle. In her music. She…was my music.

A month before Mom died, she started fidgeting with her hands. It is a natural progression of the disease. I bought her a little stuffed bear, and I’d place it in her hands so she’d have something to fidget with. Dad asked once, “What’s the name of the bear?”
I didn’t have a name, so Dad said, “How about Comfy?”
We laughed, and Comfy Bear was christened.

After Mom’s funeral we all gathered at my sister Charlotte’s house. She brought out some knickknacks and costume jewelry of Mom’s. Strangely, it was the medical alert bracelet that caught my eye. I lost the old mom years ago. But the “Loopy Mom…” the one I could hold in my arms and rock, the one that said, “Pinch me, is it really you?” just because I walked to the kitchen and back…oh how I miss her.

I took that medical alert bracelet and placed it around Comfy Bear’s neck. It sits right by my bedside, and I ache every time I look at it. It is a good ache.

Now when I look up at the sky, I see mom in the birds, I feel mom in the wind. I feel her love. Perhaps, after a long hard road, she is at last free to sail “Over the Sea to Skye.”