My Dad is peacefully resting in his Hospice bed, pain-free and quiet. He is still when I quietly say, “Hi, Dad.” I am certain of his awareness as I tell him about my husband and daughters and how we all love him. I tell him that we love him so much and that we will be ok whenever he needs to leave. That he will be forever in our hearts. The bubbling of the oxygen seems to say, “Not quite yet.” And so I sit, musing about our lives together. I am absolutely sure that Hospice is the place for my Dad right now. I am grateful for the quiet, gentle caring and being that surrounds him and us as we wait.
As I walked the dogs this morning, I was once again struck by Nature’s majesty and her cycles.
In the Natural world things come from the earth; they grow, and they live, they go back to the earth. And so it goes. Nature makes so much sense.
The funeral urn that Steve made was fired yesterday and is out of the kiln. It is blue, straight and tall, it’s lid a hat, just as Dad wore. Its quiet elegance is a testament to the man I call Dad.
Perfect.
On Friday evening, my sister and I took our Dad to hospice. He had a massive stroke on Fathers’ Day, and was rushed to the hospital. The effects of the stroke are devastating: paralysis, inability to swallow, limited speech, total dependence.
My Dad is a philosopher, a man of words, thoughts and ideas. He answers questions with questions, frequently quoting a favorite book or author. He audits classes at the local community college, participates in their Encore program for senior citizens, and has mentored many young children at the local elementary school. When he would arrive at the school, the kids would rush up to him and ask, “Do you have a riddle for us, Tall Paul?”
My Dad likes to put all his ducks in a row. He had a list in his hand when he had the stroke: his lawyer, accountant, physician, accounts and other information. On Monday, when he and I were alone in his ICU room, he looked me squarely in the face asked me to call the funeral home. ” Ok,” I said, tears streaming down my face as I looked at my dad, understanding exactly what he was saying. “I’m done,” he told me, “Enough.” “Yes,” I responded, “I know.”
My Dad had always told us that he wouldn’t want life support or any interventions if he couldn’t be independent. He had had these discussions with his health care providers and he wrote it all down in his Living Will. He wants cremation and for his ashes to be buried with my Mom.
Steve is making the urn. Something simple and mostly blue. He knows what to do.
As I drove home from Hospice yesterday evening, I gazed at the evening sky. Sky blue pink.
By fromskilledhands (
June 15, 2007 at 3:45 pm)
· Filed under Musings, creativity
The other day my daughter told me about an ongoing “discussion” she has been having with a friend. He is adamant that there is no such color as sky-blue-pink. My persistent daughter disagrees, and every evening, she looks at the western sky and sure enough, there it is, sky-blue-pink. This is another instance of her ability to think and look out of the Crayola crayon box–even the one with 64 colors.
It occurs to me that we would be able to see so much more if we had the courage to put down the crayon box, grab a handful of colors and have fun just to see what happens.
This evening, I plan on heading outside and looking to the west. If you have the chance, join me, and let me know what you see.
We’re often asked how long it took us to make a piece. The truth is that it took our entire lives: we bring all of the experiences of our lives to this point in time. A lifetime of building skills and of evolving how we see the world. A lifetime of refining technique and vision. as we make things one at a time, by hand. A lifetime of learning to look at the world each day with fresh eyes, wishing we could capture the wonder of a child and meld it with the wisdom of experience.
At a meeting for Parade the Circle, I was talking with Bill Wade, Artistic Director and Founder of Inlet Dance Theater about life in the arts. We were in a tent surrounded by an explosion of color and form, an incredible array of artistic endeavors, from masks to head pieces to giant puppets and floats in progress. Children, teens and adults were working on their pieces. Community people who would never have described themselves as creative were working alone, in small groups, and with professional artists. We talked about how art is everywhere in our lives, from the painting on the wall to the coffee cup on the kitchen shelf. Bill described trying to explain the significance of dance: we live in our bodies; and how we can re-learn to move and live joyfully. Young children have the innate ability to comfortably and confidently express themselves, until somewhere along the road, someone tells them, “No.” How do we, as a culture, communicate the significance of art in our lives by supporting the arts? How do we, as individuals, show artists that they are appreciated, that the vision they share, is an essential part of our lives. Support your local artist. Buy art.
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