letter to spring

Dear Spring:

Since you haven't returned any of my calls, I can only assume that you caught wind of my love letters to Winter a few months ago. Yes, I took pleasure in his hardy embrace, and yes, I find him irresistible at a certain time of year--I mean, he's so burly and rugged and exciting. But we're not exclusive, Winter and I, and really, Spring, I do just wish I could look out the window and see your colorful blossoms, moist with dew. I mean, come on, Spring, is this silence, this evasiveness, really necessary? It's April 22nd, and my toes are freezing in my wool socks. The tea in my hand can't even take the edge off the chill. Winter has departed, but you, Spring, stubbornly hide yourself away, leaving us here in a seasonal purgatory.

And come on, Spring, I mean everyone sings your praises. In literary terms, you are Rebirth, Regeneration, Love; poor Winter has to get stuck with Death and Dying. Poets muddle through the cold season, pouring their darkest humors into their winter poems, in order to find their way back to you, Spring. Nobody looks out his window on a fragrant, sunny day in May and mutters, "Oh, God, it's warm and clear again."

So, with all due respect, Spring, I think a little perspective is in order.

If that isn't enough, then I'm willing to get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness. Please come back, Spring. Please?

for the love of cold

Time for the weather report. It's cold out folks. Bonecrushing cold. The kind of cold which will wrench the spirit out of a young man, or forge it into steel.

(Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure: Lost and Found, 1992

There’s something exhilarating about cold, real cold, the kind of cold that freezes your nostrils and forms tiny icicles on your eyelids, that nips at your flesh, penetrating the layers of fleece and polyester and Smartwool. It is at once energizing and humbling: it reminds us that nature is both a blessing and a force.

Last weekend, my friend Pete and I set out for the DeDominicis trail in Cheshire at 8:00 am, when the thermometer said the temperature was minus-five. Before we had even reached the trailhead, which is about a mile and a quarter from my house, the wisps of hair that had made their way outside the balaclava I was sporting had become white and hard, and my teeth were so cold that conversation was nearly impossible. My feet, still warm thanks to the miracles of Gore-tex and merino wool, seemed to stick to the ground with each step, and my breath came in short, sharp gasps.

I admit that none of this sounds especially enjoyable or pleasurable. Yet, as we trudged up and down (mostly up, or so it felt!) the snow-covered hills, less packed down than we had hoped, our quads burning from the effort, I felt alive, really and truly alive. Having lived, albeit briefly, in the cold climes of Anchorage, Alaska and Burlington, Vermont, I had come to think of Connecticut as mild, disappointingly so. My heavy thermals rarely have occasion to leave the bin of cold weather clothing under my bed. My down jacket comes out two or three times a year. As a result, I felt my own spirit had become domesticated. I would shiver when the temperature dipped below forty. I would lament my “tame” geographic location (much to the irritation of friends and family, who have had more than enough of my complaining, and of my nostalgia). Now here was Mother Nature in her essence, showing us that she could flex her biceps even here in southern New England. And while I embraced the challenge of working my muscles in the arctic air, I also bowed to the power of Nature.

Such a deranged view of cold is probably a result of my obsession with Alaska, a place to which I still feel drawn. Alaska, for me, was a personal challenge, a test of physical and emotional will. While my time there was too short, I emerged a more complete person, more confident, more awake, more aware. This is the gift of adversity, be it in the form of weather, exercise, tragedy, distress, illness, or emotional duress.

Blow, blow thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind. . . .
(William Shakespeare)

christmas and spirits; or, a child's christmas in waltham

Dad was always giddy about Christmas. He was, without fail, the first one up on Christmas morning, rising when it was still dark. I remember waking up often to the sound of his footsteps in the hall; he was trying to be inconspicuous as he made just enough noise to rouse us. It was still dark outside; sometimes it was as early as 5:00 am when we opened our eyes, confusion slowly giving way to excitement. The four of us followed Dad down the hall while Mom took up the rear. “Hold on,” he would say as we got to the stairs. "I need to make sure the Big Guy came."

(Aside: This practice of my Dad's was especially important, because you never knew whether Santa might goof and actually skip your house. Seemed implausible, but we didn't want to take any chances. As a matter of fact, one Easter Sunday, my brother Joey and I were stunned to find that the other Big Guy, the Easter Bunny, really hadn't come. We sat down and mulled over this for a few minutes as we stared at the empty coffee table where our Easter Baskets should have been. Maybe, we thought, we should have listened to our parents when they told us to "Knock that off! The Easter Bunny's watching." As it turned out, the Bunny had forgotten his "special key," and was crafty enough to have left the loot in the trunk of Mom's car. Crisis averted.)

Back to Christmas morning. Dad crept down the stairs as our hands shook and our hearts fluttered nervously. "Hmmm, " he would mutter. "He didn't leave the presents here." We'd look at each other, trying to figure out whether or not he was serious. Was it possible Santa could have . . . .?

And then the light would go on and we would scurry down the stairs and the frenzied gift-grabbing would ensue. A Barbie Towne House for me, some Star Wars guys for Joey and Mike, a doll for Kaytie.

Santa was always far more generous to us than we were to each other. In the early years, we bought our gifts at the elementary school's Christmas bazaar. Each year, someone got a mini screwdriver set (and I don't mean vodka and orange juice), some crocheted mittens, and some pens. One year, Michael gave me a pad of paper. Another year, Joey gave me his old Led Zeppelin boxed set; he didn't bother to rewind the tapes. The most memorable sibling gift, however, was a 2-inch plastic rendering of Barney Rubble of the Flintstones, known hereafter as the Glass Barney, given to Joey from Michael.

(A year after Michael died, I searched for Glass Barney on Ebay, found it, paid about 100 times what Michael must have paid for it at the Fitch School, and gave it to Joey for Christmas again. It's now a permanent fixture in my parents' living room.)

This ritual of waking up at the crack of dawn continued into adulthood. One Christmas I was home from Colorado. Kaytie and I stayed up late, drinking wine we had received as a gift and catching up on the latest family gossip. It was probably 2:00 when we finally retired. I nestled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of Kaytie's room, as my former chamber had been taken over by Michael after I'd moved out.

Sometime during the night I felt a foot nudge me, and then I heard a gruff, smart-alecky voice. "Hey, booze-bags," Michael greeted. "Rise and shine."

Was I dreaming, or did the clock actually say 4:45am?

"Get out of here," I said to Michael. "It's too early."

"Get up," he said, nudging again. "Dad's waiting."

I crawled out of my sleeping bag, anticipating the hangover that was sure to follow. There was Dad, in the living room, waiting like an anxious kid. The smile on his face was half-jolly, half-mocking as Kaytie and I rubbed our red, red eyes.

In more recent years, we have done our gift-swapping on Christmas Eve, since Bryan and I want our children to wake up in their own home on Christmas morning. But this never quelled the Christmas Spirit in the Dowcett home. On the contrary; the arrival of grandchildren seemed only to foster my parents' excitement about the holidays. We often joked that my parents were going to need to put an addition on their home to accommodate all of the wooden carolers, nutcrackers, and other knick-knacks. I declared a moratorium on buying Christmas decorations as gifts.

Today, I was preparing lunch for Dylan and Alexa while Dylan perused the Christmas cards that had come in the mail. One was from my aunt Ann, my mom's sister. "Who's this from?" Dylan asked.

"From Auntie Ann and Uncle Bob. They're the ones whose house we go to on Christmas Eve."

And as I said "Christmas Eve," I was struck once again by Dad's absence; I immediately felt my eyes get hot. It's not the first time this season that I've been hit in this way, but for some reason, in that moment, my loss felt more poignant then ever. Christmas without Dad? I've scarcely gotten used to Christmas without Michael, even though he was far less active in my daily life than Dad was. Christmas, for me, is synonymous with Dad, with Dad and Mom. As it is, I can barely accept the vacant easy chair in the living room of my parents' house; I can hardly look at the tools and gardening supplies hanging neatly in the shed, or enjoy the back porch Dad finished only a few weeks before he passed away.

For my kids, I want Christmas to be about sharing, about social responsibility, about joy, and so for them I'm trying to keep my sadness covered up. But while I'm quite good at distracting myself, when left alone, even for a few moments, it feels raw once again, raw and recent and too real.

I'm playing this Buddhist mantra on an endless loop: Nothing is permanent; enjoy each moment of each day. Nothing is permanent; enjoy each moment of each day. Thicht Nacht Hahn says grief is easier if we accept from the beginning that everything is temporary. Accept life as it is, not as we wish it to be. I agree, but I wouldn't say it has made it easier.

I do have the memories, though, and through these, Dylan and Alexa can come to know the grandfather who adored them. Lexi still fondly recalls watching Frosty with Grampy last year while I went to watch Kaytie onstage in Boston. How much of this memory of hers is real and how much the result of our reminders is unclear, but it doesn't matter. I may be unclear as to my religious beliefs, but I do believe in Spirits, and I know that Dad's with them, with all of us, in some metaphysical way.

As human beings, we all want to be happy and free from misery.

We have learned that the key to happiness is inner peace. (Buddha)

human beings we all want to be happy and free from misery.
W
We have learned that the key to happiness is inner peace.

autumn, etc.

Recently, I have taken advantage of our gorgeous Indian Summer by riding my bike to work. The foliage is brilliant this season, and my route consists almost entirely of bike path, which is laden with maple and oak trees. As I pedaled home on Friday, there was a slight breeze blowing, and this, combined with my modest speed, caused the leaves to come at my diagonally, hitting me in the face, sometimes poking me with a sharp edge. This was a little disorienting for the first few minutes, but after several batterings I was able to dodge the leaves by bobbing my head from side to side.

Autumn is, hands down, my favorite season. But this year, it is, like the leaves, tinged with sharp edges. It’s impossible to think of autumn without thinking of Dad. He adored this season. When most people were lamenting the passing of summer, Dad was shopping for mums and pumpkins, adhering leaf decorations to the windows, making flower arrangements in vibrant oranges and yellows. So now that the season is here, the absence of Dad is palpable.

And today would have been Michael’s 34^th birthday, which makes the air feel even heavier.

Dad dealt with his grief over Michael by tilling the soil. He visited the cemetery nearly every day, tending to the flowers he would plant according to the season, sometimes adding a photo or a trinket. He was as attentive to the tiny plot in front of Mike’s headstone as he was to his luscious lawn. By doing this, by feeding the soil and nurturing the plants, he was able to take care of his son in a way Michael never allowed him to in his last years.

Since Michael’s death, I have spent every October 14 in the company of my family: usually, I drive up to Waltham. One year, I ran the Hartford Marathon, and Mom and Dad came to cheer me on; last year, we camped in the Berkshires.

This year, with Dad gone, Kaytie, Joey and I decided to carry on Dad’s tradition of working the earth as a way of healing our souls. Joey dug up the perfectly-planted impatiens that had blossomed so beautifully all summer, thanks to Dad’s extraordinarily green thumb. Kaytie and I bought mums and pumpkins, and set upon the task of adorning the front of the house (and, later, the headstone, which now belongs to Michael and Dad).

I love gardening, love digging up soil and planting flowers. That said, I have inherited nothing of Dad’s plant panache. After a couple of hours of work today, the mums I planted looked scraggly and ill-spaced, compared to the impeccably groomed flower beds of my memory, and to add to the sense of comic chaos, I dug so hard into what I had thought was a rock that I broke a valve on the sprinkler system, and water came shooting out at me and into the flower bed, flooding the hole I had just dug. I yelled to Mom, who thought I was running from a bee. Once I had gotten my message across, she searched the basement, trying unsuccessfully to find the correct valve so that she might stop the shower. She found it after ten minutes or so, and we had a good chuckle. I imagined Dad groaning, good-naturedly, over the state of his front yard.

In spite of the mess, it was therapeutic. I feel closest to Dad when I’m working in his yard, digging with his tools, my hands in the gloves that used to be his. I marvel at his organization. I aspire to his sense of perfection, though realistically I know I’ll never achieve it. His yard, his shed, my family’s house: all are a reflection of Dad’s love and devotion to his family.

So, we were grieving two family members today. But also celebrating lives, remembering birthdays, and enjoying each other’s company, however briefly, however chaotically.

Happy 34^th, Mike. Love ya.

welcome, spring

It's hard to know how to talk about and celebrate Easter with your children when you are not religious. We have had this discussion often, Bryan and I: how do we instill spirituality and a sense that there is something "out there," something that is looking out for their well-being, without subjecting them to dogma? We have considered the Unitarian Church, and my friend Heide, who is dealing with the same religious questions, has recommended a book called "Parenting Beyond Belief," which I intend to read in the next couple of weeks.
In the meantime, there was Easter. For me, personally, Easter is about resurrection, just as it is for Christians, though not so much the resurrection of Christ, but the resurrection of life in the buds of trees, the blossoming flowers, the return of various birds, and the vitality that comes with all of the colors of spring. So last night, we went to the Ansonia Nature Center for a "welcome spring" drum circle, and this was a good way for us to connect, for Dylan and Alexa, the Easter holiday with something tangible: the arrival of spring. Dylan was more interested in the playground and the remote-controlled cars zooming across the baseball field that was across from the picnic pavilion and bonfire where the drumming took place, but Alexa really got into it, banging on her Guatemalan drum and, later, dancing. She has proclaimed herself a drummer, so perhaps she will follow in mom's footsteps and be a percussionist-band geek. In any case, I enjoy witnessing the musical spirit in our kids, whether they are strumming the guitar, blowing on the mouth harp, or trying to keep up with Paul McCartney as he sings "O bla di, O bla da" (which Lexi sings as, "O bla di, o bla da, life goes long johns!").
Happy spring!