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Susanna's Golden Ball

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Mother, writer, artist and teacher grappling with grief and loss.

    • The Cailleach

      The Cailleach, the Celtic crone goddess of storms and winter, wears a hood in visual interpretations. I imagine her surrounded, beneath her cloak, by cool and crisp vapor, more like that from an autumn evening than anything frightening. When I was isolating during the pandemic, I was trying to make drawings like I used to. I paused my artmaking for years, busy with supporting and caring for a family. After Susanna died, I became sad and withdrawn in grief, in addition to all the daily tasks and a consumptive day job. The only themes I could create when I tried were hooded figures reaching for birds to land on spindly fingers, standing or sitting next to sparse trees. There was much missing. My face was numb, my mouth and toes burned, I could not smell most things for a couple of years. When I had contracted COVID, we were still in the initial lockdown, street siren and makeshift morgue days, back when there were stories of dolphins swimming through the canals in Venice. I needed patience and recalibration.

          In my family history, there are documents and records I have been able to retrieve online. They date far back on my father’s side, colonialists and medievals. In the lineage of my mother, the paths back across the ocean to Europe are more recent, to Ireland and Sweden, and end in less tangible detail. Ultimately, we are all here on earth related and of the same family. More important than government or church papers, the connections I feel to Ireland are spiritual and ancient. They predate political borders. I have had dreams and visions of the Tuatha de Danann, the supernatural folk, of the Dagda and Lugh, of mother goddess Danu. One of my favorite inner places to find piece has a view across green mountain tops where I can see farms that look like a patchwork quilt. Upon a closer look, the vegetation would be ferns and yew branches, spattered with acorns and oak leaves. I return here often. Since Susanna died, I am always reluctant to leave.

          I have learned that painful experiences heal by my being open to re-feeling them, as cautiously as needed. As I write Susanna’s book, I am consistently aware of how deep pain can burrow and live and shape things. Blocking out pain makes me block out joy too. The universe does not support filtering out what hurts. I allow the emotions and look for solace where I find it. Our story, Susanna’s and mine, goes back as far as humans do. We have all been through wars, plagues, and tragedies.

          This time of year, sunsets are more vivid, due to the earth’s tilt, cloud cover, and cool air masses. I am not a scientist, but I was overtaken by beauty yesterday as I walked my dog. I walked by the marina and could see bits of red and pink reflected in the shallow water. Higher in my plane of vision, the sun lowered into a bright and brassy golden ball. I stepped through brittle leaves, thinking about the different contours of maple versus oak, and how much I enjoy drawing them. I suddenly felt how sad I am that I will leave earth someday. I do not know exactly what comes after, but I felt how beautiful the planet is and how much I will miss it. Maybe, the veil becomes thin in October because the disincarnate do not want to miss the spectacle of colors.

          I also wished, thinking about this, Susanna was here with me, to see everything and live and struggle. I have had so many more years here than she had. This seems unfair, and nothing at all like what I wanted for her.

         I was reminded of teaching my students about Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” earlier in the day. I came across his diary entry about what was happening:

      “I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun went down – I felt a gust of melancholy – suddenly the sky turned a bloody red. I stopped, leaned against the railing, tired to death – as the flaming skies hung like blood and sword over the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends went on – I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I felt a vast infinite scream through nature.”

      What a simultaneously wonderful and horrible world this is. A warm cloak is needed.

      




      

      

      


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      “I’m Here”: A Fictional Halloween Story
      



      

      

      

      



      

      Essence was going to be an angel for Halloween. She had several costumes this year, some for parties that happened on other days preceding. Her mother had hesitated to buy more than one costume, worrying this might be excessive. But she bought more, for her little girl, who was deeply loved. One costume was a ballerina, with actual authentic leather ballet slippers, in matching pale rose. Essence wore her hair in a bun. The second was a Rainbow Fairy. There was a rainbow tutu, glittery wings, a ribbon wand with a star shape on the tip, and rainbow striped leg warmers. The last costume, for trick or treating on Halloween night, was an angel. A tinsel halo attached to a headband, beautiful, feathered wings, and a long white gown. Essence knew what angels were and wanted to be one. When she walked, she kept her hands folded, and smiled.
      




          Halloween smelled like leaves that you raked into a pile, then jumped into. “Watch out for worms!” some people would say. But the leaf pillow was a cushion of crunchiness and smelled divine. The air also smelled like cold nights coming, passing into your nostrils for the first time in months. Halloween smelled like pumpkin guts, both slimy and stringy, and tasted like the seeds, roasted in a three-hundred-degree oven and well salted, a little hard to chew. It also tasted like Tootsie Rolls, with their odd profile of citrus and chocolate, rolled into tiny, waxed papers, twisted closed on each end. Halloween smelled like shaving cream sprayed by young vandals. Essence’s older brother, a teenager, did not like shaving cream or vandalism. Her mother and her friends reminisced about how shaving cream is what Halloween smelled like.
      




          The group of kids gathered at the corner when it became dark, costumed. Some had used smeared, greasy makeup sticks on their faces to draw cat whiskers or clown smiles. They carried bags with pictures of black cats on them, or bulbous plastic jack o’ lanterns with handles. The parents kissed them, told them to look both ways when crossing the street, and not to eat loose candy, and to have fun.
      




          The kids charged toward doors to ring them. They stepped over elaborate displays of plastic bones and tombstones which said things like “Here Lies Izzy Dead”. Essence chuckled. She knew Halloween would pass quickly and had looked forward to all the fun. When she stepped on the sidewalk, her feet felt light and airy. She knew she needed to step harder, to ground herself, so she would not float away.
      




          There were whisps and murmurs in the air, missed by some of the kids. Near the streetlamps, forms bounced in the light. They swirled together, illuminated dewdrops. Essence knew there was much more happening than could be seen.
      




          Essence looked delicate and ethereal, but at each door, she screamed a full force “Trick or Treat” and shrieked with joyous laughter. She had forgotten to bring a bag, and did not receive any pieces of candy, but she did not mind. She had come for the fun of being with kids, and hearing the sounds, smelling the smells, and seeing the misty sights. She could not wait to go home and see her mom.
      




          The night got older, the bags and pumpkins full. Bits of candy wrappers littered the ground. Someone’s feet hurt; someone had a stomach-ache. The kids went home.  “Good night, Justin.” “Good night, Sienna”. “Good night, Shareef”. They would reconvene at school the next day.
      




          Essence floated home, a little slowly and sadly. Her mother was in the kitchen, looking at a bag of small costumes. The candy bowl was empty, as was the table surface. As she turned off the light, the tears began to come, then the crying sounds, then the sobs. Mom sat on the floor in the dark, hugged her knees, and surrendered to it. Essence gently rubbed her mother’s shoulders with tiny, barely detectable fingertips. She whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m here. I’m here.”
      

      




      




      




      

      

      


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      Dumb Supper
      



      

      

      

      



      

      




      The veil is thin, October, and I am surrounded by mist. I can sometimes feel droplets, the atmosphere is cool and blurry. My awareness vacillates, I can be here or somewhere else. Susanna’s death, now years ago, pushed me toward an edge which became my home. Life/death, death/life, this blurry line is home. 
      




          My story has never been about moving past my loss, and certainly never about returning to who I was before. None of us defeats death. None of us wins and overcomes it.
      




          I began writing about what this has been like for me, staying alive without Susanna, because having others read what I had written made things a bit more tolerable. More layers added themselves as I kept writing. Susana’s story became a book I needed to write, which is now a manuscript in progress. The process is lonely and painful so far, I have never done this before. Still, our story is something I want to tell more than anything else, while I remain here on this glorious, crunchy-leaf covered earth. I have stories to read and hear and perceive, and I want to also contribute my own. Our story, Susanna’s and mine, is like so many others before us and others who will come after. Someday, I hope people from the future will read it, and remember that we were here.
      




      Dumb Supper
      




          At this time of year, pagans sometimes gather for a divination ritual called “Dumb Supper”. Places are set for spirits and ancestors, no words are spoken, and sometimes messages are made known. In Victorian times in the United States and British Isles, young women even waited for word of their future husbands in a type of love ritual. Sitting at a table, alone or with others, waiting. This does not bring someone back, but it can open some doors, if listening quietly.
      




          I set altars, not unusual for me, and light candles for Susanna and for my ancestors during Samhain, the holiday of some of my ancient relatives. I often include pink frosted donuts or other types of faerie cakes. There is a suspended state of motherhood I carry within me, as if Susanna can be five again, and alive. I want to pick up where we left off, unscathed. Susanna would laugh at the name “Dumb Supper”. We used to hang a light shaped like Cupid in the window near Valentine’s Day and called it “Stupid Cupid”, like the Connie Francis song, for fun. She would remember this.
      




          Donuts and inconsolable grief aside, divination and rituals are, to me, about the power of my intentions. The universe never abandons me, I am never lost, even when I worry that I am. Each day is an opportunity to keep going. Each perception, a flash of light or shadow, a finger-tip sized indention on the bed while awakening, a whisper crossing through the ears, all this matters. We remain.
      




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      “Kiss the Sky for Me.”
      



      

      

      

      



      

      Remote teaching has reminded me of what I know about trying to communicate with the discarnate. You know others are there, yet you are not with them, and seek  validation. It’s not exactly the same but teaching art class from my kitchen makes me dig inside and hope my  experience can help and inspire someone. I get less feedback than when I am really in the same room, so I do my best and leave the results in the ether sometimes.
      




      Since my students have significant disabilities of all kinds, most of them are remote learning in the company of family members or caretakers who I cannot see. This adds to the mystery. I have tried to appeal to all ages and make things interesting.
      




      In the absence of my rusty metal art cart and its thrifty, non-toxic, and eclectic contents, I have tried new things. I rarely have read books to my students in person. Honestly, I dislike the idea of reading aloud with a book in my hands when others are not listening. That seems like it would be embarrassing. For remote class, I discovered some wonderfully poetic picture books about famous artists. I streamed read aloud books from YouTube with full screen pictures.
      




      These are some of my favorites. I felt stirred by them. I felt the things I felt as a young person looking for meaning in my life. My life has been rich so far, but after all these months of isolation I want more. I hope everyone else does too. More art, more authentic living, more dreams realized, more connections that run deeper. I hope so. These are my highly personalized impressions of the books. They are beautiful, awesome books. Please try them for yourself.
      




      Georgia O’Keeffe
      




      


      




      When I was in my twenties, I had a dream visit with Georgia O’Keeffe. She was climbing a desert mountain by putting one foot at a time on small, ascending ledges. I was following close behind her. I realized how high we were and asked how I would get back down, and she turned around and telepathically answered with the obvious. I was not going back down.
      




      Back to the book, my synopsis. Georgia discovered she wanted to paint her own ideas beyond what was happening in art school. Georgia had awesome late 19th and early  20th century style, practical prairie dresses with boots, black hats, and capes. For some reason, she was followed by three crows. She drove far into the desert, “the Faraway’ and used her model A jalopy as a studio. She claimed the Pedernal Mountain as her own, she believed God promised it to her because she painted it so many times. Georgia climbed a high ladder to the roof of her adobe house, and slept under the stars, waiting to watch the sun come up. She said, “Kiss the sky for me”, and slipped into eternity.
      




      This is the video I like best:
      




      


      




      Yayoi Kusama
      




      


      




      When I first moved to New York twenty something years ago, I worked in the poster section of the bookstore at the Museum of Modern Art. I had very little money, but I would eye the sale books table and calculate the employee discount sometimes. I bought this poster for a song. It hung in a few of my rented rooms in Park Slope, Brooklyn. (My own poster was slightly tattered, I do not have it anymore.)
      




      




      My synopsis of the book: Yayoi found solace in her family gardens, looking at pebbles, and drawing dots in her sketch book. Like Georgia, she did not feel like she fit in. (How great it is when people can channel their alienation into art). She flew a long, long way to New York from Japan, with dollar bills stuffed in her shoes. I sensed her anxiety and air sickness. I related to wandering around New York, new and  alone, I am someone who did this too. She went to the top of the Empire State building, and looked down on people who looked like dots. We were able to see her dot paintings in her apartment and the city skyline outside of the windows. She constructed mirrors that made the dots go on, infinity. We saw her make friends and become successful. We saw what she looks like now in photos at the end. Red wig with bangs, wearing dots.
      




      This is the read aloud video:
      




      


      




      Louise Bourgeois
      




      


      




      One day, when I still lived in Connecticut and commuted to art school in New York, I saw Louise Bourgeois in front of her apartment. I recognized her because I had seen photos, and also, I was captivated by her face when she looked at me. Intense.
      




      The synopsis: Louise grew up in a family of textile weavers, along a river in France which has since been filled in and disappeared. She studied math and science in college, but when her mother died suddenly, she turned to art to express herself. She likened her mother to a spider, in the manner of how spiders are amazing weavers throughout the ages, hence those huge spider sculptures. Louise created using the actual fabric of her life. This book is so good. The title, Cloth Lullaby, makes me want to sleep by a French river in a blanket fort, like Louise.
      




      I could not find a read aloud video, so I read it myself and made a PowerPoint recording with the book pages. I did not want to read it five times a day all week.
      




      Jean-Michel Basquiat
      




      


      




      Jean-Michel Basquiat rests eternally in Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, the same as my daughter Susanna, and not far from her. When I go there, I try to locate his voice. I feel like I know him a little from the other side because of this. I have no idea what he was really like while living, but in my imagination, he is warm on the other side and calls me “Mama”.
      




      If you are interested in this book, I suggest listening to it read by its author/illustrator, Javaka Steptoe, in his lovely speaking voice, here:
      




      


      




      Synopsis: When Jean-Michel was a child, he drew all the time. We saw the colorful skeletons of his future work in his sketches, hanging all over his family’s Brooklyn home. Not made within the lines, “but still somehow beautiful”. Jean-Michel suffered his own injury and the stress of seeing his beloved mother, Matilda, ill, and he kept drawing, drawing, and drawing. Jean-Michel became successful and famous, as he desired. His mother was very proud of him. This is what is most important about his story.
      




      I’s a beautiful world out there, in spite of everything. Let’s all create something. Peace.
      

      




      




      




      

      

      


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      Palisades, and Screaming
      



      

      

      

      



      

      Autumn in Northern New Jersey USA. 
Palisades – New York State, New Jersey, New York State, Aerial View, Autumn, Beauty In Nature, Cliff, Coastline, Copy Space, Dawn, Drone Point of View, Environment, Forest, High Angle View, Hudson River, Landscape – Scenery, Leaf, Lush Foliage, Mid-Atlantic – USA, Mountain Range, Multi Colored, Nature, No People, Non-Urban Scene, Northeast, Orange Color, Outdoors, Photography, River, Riverbank, Rock – Object, Saturated Color, Scenics – Nature, Sky, Steep, Sunlight, Tree, USA, Vibrant Color, Water, Water’s Edge, Woodland, Sky, Shale-Stone, Shale
      




      The Palisades were in front of me, “New Jersey’s Grand Canyon”. Formed 200 million years ago, they were named by native people for rows of trees, Europeans for fence posts. In the fall, the cliffs are blotted with iridescent blobs of foliage in photos. I feel like I have painted them a million times. I have never seen the Palisades, but I was seeing them when I closed my eyes, in my mind’s eye. To each side I felt the presence of my familiar guides, those who, on previous occasions, identified themselves with articles of clothing, languages I used to know and names to call them by. Warm hands on my shoulders. This where I stood for the scream.
      




          There was a heaviness around my heart which I carry sometimes. This can be alleviated by screaming. My body was quiet and at rest, but my soul screamed. The answers tumbled through my consciousness. I was not screaming for me alone, but for all those throughout time who had lost and missed their beautiful children. I screamed for everything that had hurt across the ages, that is what hurt when my child died. There was pain from the lines of people who lived along the Hudson River, and who lived along my own ancestral line. We are all the same person, really. There was pain which surrounded my own center, and which hung heavy in the atmosphere. I had been aware of a similar fog last year, after my mother had passed and I had become sick. It had a mauve color and hovered close at that time, but now was clear and everywhere. Some part of the pain dissipated with the scream, but I had barely touched the surface.
      




         Recently I was told that I was standing in front of a cliff, figuratively, and I had only to picture myself on the other side. This is the same paradox I have been living for a ridiculously long time. Alone, afraid, isolated in grief, yet at the same time more connected with the universe than I ever imagined. “Pinnacles” was the word Susanna gave me in a dream soon after her death, to describe where she was on the other side. “Pinnacles” and “kaleidoscopes”. The Palisades are a cliff, Susanna’s pinnacles are infinite mountain peaks. From her vision as I had been allowed to see them, mountains erupted in rainbow fractals, rays emanating from Susanna’s hand as she swept it across the sky and sang “Let it Go”. Still my baby, but she had grown to fit the shimmering ice blue gowns of Elsa from Frozen.
      




          There is more to be said and written about our story, Susanna’s and mine. It is not just about us anymore. Mountainous, horrendous, and spectacular at the same time. Our story is everyone’s story, in time.
      




      

      




      




      




      

      

      


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      Susanna’s Golden Mouse
      



      

      

      

      



      

      




          At first, I was the only one who had seen the mouse. A flash of golden fawn, confusing. The first time was under the sink by the garbage can, followed by twice in my son’s room, on and around the old, crappy, black futon with built in storage. We have had many a mouse inside, but this was the first time I had seen one of this color. My son was disturbed, and I was thinking more about the mouse going away than about the wonder of it arriving.
      




         “Fancy Mouse” is the name of the breed, domestic pets which come in an array of colors such as champagne, chocolate, lilac, cinnamon, and fawn. The color seems to be what distinguishes them from the household pest variety, the feral ones in dull gray and brown. I do not know what would happen, should someone catch a rough and ashen household variety and make it a pet, but our golden mouse was a pet and became ours for a couple of days.
      




         On Saturday afternoon, I watched the mouse jump from the kitchen counter into one of the gas stove burners. I yelled for my S.O. to come (he is super handy in these situations). I was not enamored yet, I wanted to just make sure it was gone. Once C. had seen the mouse, who popped its head up, I would describe his words as cooing. “Oh, that’s a beautiful animal. What a beautiful baby”. Within a couple of hours, he had finessed it into a cereal box. He fashioned a temporary container from a large glass globe from a lamp fixture, on top of a small bicycle tire to hold it steady, covered with an old pot lid which had a hole where the handle used to be. This was our mouse cage.
      




         I searched for information about this situation. It does not seem to come up often, finding a stray pet mouse in your home. What little I found suggested that Fancy Mice do not live long in the wild. Among wild mice in general, I also learned, the great many are destined to die rather quickly. It is rare to survive long enough to reproduce. In my search for possible spiritual and symbolic meaning, mice represent paying attention to details. They represent change coming, or how small we all really are. In the greater system, a mouse sacrifices for its size. A lifetime spent being crushed by circumstances, living often to be food for larger animals. Humbling, all in all. 
      




          By the next day I had thought to call an animal rescue, once I saw posts of mice available at one nearby. My son did not want a mouse, even a caged one, and I worried about us losing it, or my dog catching it (our dog killed a mockingbird last summer, but that is a whole other blog post. It was self-defense). The shelter agreed to accept our mouse, of unknown gender at that point. In the meantime, C. and I figured out how to clean the lamp fixture cage. He caught the mouse with a paper towel roll to transport it to a box, and back again. It had kept tipping over the water, so I found a medicine dropper to offer some. Tiny feet gripped it and the adorable little mouth dribbled, just like a baby, suckling on its mother. I loved her. After transporting her to a plastic carrying case, I could see she was a girl.
      




          I dropped off my golden girl mouse at the shelter on Tuesday, two days before the seventh anniversary of the death of my beautiful five-year-old daughter, Susanna. Susanna’s resting place, glorious Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, was a block away so I walked through toward the subway. The weather, the sky, the fiercely green grass, and spring half blooms were unspeakably pretty. I felt guilty for not feeling good, but I was so sad. I was devastated, I realized, because I was able to save the mouse, together with C., the way we could not save Susanna. I am always sad that I could not save Susanna. I live with this sadness, a part of me now, and it presents itself in different ways and in different strengths, as time goes on. I am grateful that Susanna’s father and I could share in this kind act. We provided a better life for a living being. This feels good. It does not matter how small someone is, or what species, when there is an opportunity to be kind.
      




        I wonder, as I sometimes do, what Susanna would think about what happened. From her perspective, where she is, discarnate, I wonder if she has empathized with a life small and short and found meaning as I did. Susanna loved the word fancy, and anything golden. She would certainly make a connection to Cinderella, and any other princess who may have spoken to mice. Maybe Susanna orchestrated the visit, I do not know how these things work. I do know that there is much more to the universe than what we see here. Beyond a life that may be short or small, there is eternity. Not only monumental love, but eternity.  I picture Susanna, dancing and singing, from golden mountain tops. I love you, Susanna. Save me a spot.