The Gospel Bus

by Jessica Reed

Every Sunday my legs bleed. I’m waiting in just my white cotton panties and itchy, lacy bobby socks, covered in goosebumps while my mama picks out my Sunday School dress. It don’t matter to me which one she chooses, cuz I hate them all.

“Why do I have to wear a stupid dress, Mama? Lots of the other kids wear jeans and t-shirts!”

“Those are just the bus kids,” she says, setting the pink and white checked dress with long sleeves on my bed.

When she leaves me to dress myself, I know who will be waiting on the other side of my bedroom door, just like every Sunday. The door opens, whoosh, my mama leaves, and my cat Pinky slips in. My cat hates my bare legs, nobody else’s, just mine. And I’ve got my arms straight up in the air stuck in the sleeves, and the dress caught on my face, trying to pull it over my head. I think this dress is getting too small, I can’t wiggle it down past my shoulders. I am blindfolded by pink and white checkers but I can see that cat circling down there. I’m twisting and turning to hurry when I feel those claws sink in. I let out a scream but the dress is covering my mouth so it ain’t as loud as it is inside my head. But that cat is climbing my legs and holding on with her teeth and ripping the inside tops of my legs with her back claws. Her claws are blurry they are going so fast. I can feel the blood running down, sticky and hot but cold and itchy when it reaches my socks. I am busy placing a gambling bet on which trickle gets to which sock first. Pinky lets go and runs out when my mama opens the door, cuz she knows my mama is gonna give her a swatting.

“That’s just a mean cat,” Mama says, “we should take her to the pound.”

“Nooo!” I say louder than I should cuz I’m crying. “I love her!”

“If you knew what a nice cat was, you wouldn’t love her,” says Mama. But I’m not listening cuz guess what I hear? I hear the Gospel Bus coming up our road. The Gospel Bus is so magical, it is all different psychedelic colors and has loud Jesus music coming out of the speakers on top of it. The song goes like this and right now I am singing along under my dress.
 
If you want to ride on The Gospel Bus,
the bible tells us that we must,
be born again.
So, if you want to get on board,
take Jesus as your Saviour Lord and right then,
all your sins will be forgiven,
and you’ll be on your way to Heaven,
for sure, when The Gospel Bus,
beep beep, stops at your door.

I know that riding that bus is the only sure way to Heaven. I think that when you die, the bus picks you up, but only if it knows where you live. Otherwise it’s down to Hell you go. The bus stops at my friend’s door that lives catty corner from me. I see it there every week. My mama has got my dress pulled down over me and is trying to sop up the blood with Kleenex she spits in that’s got her lipstick stains on it. The spit is burning my scratches, so I’m hop, hopping away to my window. I love watching The Gospel Bus, there ain’t nothing in this life more beautiful. I see my friend Eric and his little brother Derrick rush onto the bus and their mom is in her bathrobe reaching up to hand over her two-year-old little girl, Erica, who is also wearing jeans, to the helper. Their mama is pregnant and I just know that I know she is gonna name the new one Derrika.

“Mama! Please, please, please can I ride that bus? It’s going to our church! I bet it’s going to get there even before us!” I beg.

“No, we are going as a family,” she says as she is fastening my ten commandments bracelet around my wrist. I got my heart set on a ride on that bus though and I beg her every week and every week she says no.

So I can’t help but mention to the back of her head as she leaves, “But they stop for free ice cream after church!” She turns around and gives me that shush look.

I drop it cuz I gotta finish getting ready. There is no way I can be late for Sunday School. Eleven weeks ago, I’m keeping count, we were all given a gold bracelet. For free! And then they told us that if we learned a new commandment every week for ten weeks they would give us a commandment charm to put on it. So, every week we line up and go whisper it in the teacher’s ear. Some kids get all shy and red cuz they forgot to learn it, stupid kids. They don’t got all the charms. There are weirdo spaces on their bracelets, but not mine. I earned them all so far and when I turn my wrist back and forth and back and forth, the charms fly out and clink each other like music. The charms are real gold too, I know this cuz I bit one and it felt like gold, and then I scratched a window with it, which I know is for diamonds, but it scratched a little anyway. They all look like scrolls, and the commandments we learn are written on them in fancy, old-time letters. This is the last week and I gotta have that tenth one or else. Thou Shalt Not Covet, Thou Shalt Not Covet, Thou Shalt Not Covet, I say it over and over in my head so I won’t forget.

My brother is already standing at the door in his crazy cool patchwork denim suit that he cried for in the store. Mama gave in and bought it for him, even though it cost a lot cuz he don’t usually cry for nothing. He is twelve, two whole years older than me. He’s got a bracelet too, only it’s chunkier than the girl ones, but he said he likes mine better. My daddy is standing there all handsome and we climb into the green Gran Torino and we are off like gut shot rabbits. I’m standing in the back, bent over with my arms around Daddy while he is driving, we don’t gotta wear our seat belts like some dumb kids. “Thou Shalt Not Covet, Thou Shalt Not Covet,” I say under my breath.

“Daddy, what does covet mean?” I ask.

“Well,” he says, “I reckon it means not to be jealous of what other folks have or get to do.” And at that moment I see it out of the corner of my eye, that shiny Gospel Bus whizzing right on by us. And I reckon I am coveting those kids on that bus right now. Looking way up I can see them while they are passing, all laughing and comfy in their T-shirts. I see some kid named James waving from the back and making faces at us. It’s a full bus and I’m hoping there is enough tenth commandment charms to go around.

“Daddy! Don’t let that bus beat us to church,” I scream out real loud. And that is all my daddy needs to hear. He laughs and lurches out into traffic and I’m holding on for dear life while my mama yells at him cuz she was putting on her lipstick and now it’s jaggedy all over her face. And we are whooping and egging Daddy on, and we almost got them passed when Mama turns around, and she is not smiling. And the lipstick down one side of her mouth gives her a clown frown and makes me scared and so I stop laughing real quick.

And then she says in a growly voice that doesn’t sound like it belongs to her, “Don’t you know those are the kids whose parents don’t love them enough to take them to church themselves? Those are just the kids whose parents want to get rid of them for a few hours!” I am all kinds of shocked cuz I did not know this and I look over at that grand bus just as Daddy is pulling ahead of it and I see a kid in one of the windows who still has some jelly or something on his face from breakfast. His mama ain’t even wiped his face.

We make it to the church right before The Gospel Bus, but then it pulls up right to the curb at the front door. My mama and daddy go around to the side door for their class. My brother is about seven steps ahead of me on our way to the Sunday School door on account of his longer legs. I am trying to catch up but avoiding the sidewalk cracks cuz I don’t wanna break my mama’s back. I’m jingling my almost done bracelet and repeating, Thou Shalt Not Covet real quiet when I see James step off that bus. He’s the last one off cuz everyone knows all the bad kids sit in the way back. James is old. Old enough for lots of zits so that makes him like thirteen. James comes off the last bus step onto the sidewalk just as my brother passes. I see him looking mean at my brother.

“Faggot,” he says, and then he spits right where my brother is walking. Now, I don’t know what a faggot is, but I can tell my brother does and I heard him called that at school before too. He slows down, but just for a millionth of a second. And the backs of his ears look like the sun is shining right through them. His head drops just a little along with his shoulders but then he just keeps right on walking.

If he had turned around right before he entered the Sunday School doors he woulda seen a Goddamn miracle. Ain’t that what people come to church for anyways, a miracle? He woulda seen me flying through the air and landing right smack on top of James’ shoulders. I don’t even remember how I got there. It was like the angels picked me up. Everyone is inside and the bus has gone and I am holding onto James’ greasy, curly hair like there ain’t no tomorrow. My thighs are locked tight around his neck and my knees are dug up under his armpits, with my shiny, black church shoes stuck into his sides just like we are playing Chicken Fight in a pool. James is twisting and wailing but I’ve learned from my cat Pinky and I ain’t letting go and I am scratching with my claws. There is slippery blood on James’ neck, a lot of it. And I’m so proud until I see that most of it is mine from the scabs of my cat scratches opening back up. So, I reach my head down and I take the top half of his ear in my cat teeth and I bite down until I hear a crunch and my mouth gets salty blood in it, his this time. It tastes like when I sucked on and swallowed a penny when I was little.

And then just as I am opening my mouth to let go of his ear, I get real close and whisper right down into his eardrum, “You only ride the bus because your parents don’t love you enough to take you to church themselves, they only want to get rid of you for a while. And you wear jeans cuz you ain’t got no expensive patchwork suit like my brother.” Something changes in him and he stops twisting and screaming and his shoulders drop a little like my brother’s did, making it easy for me to climb down. I don’t look back when I go through the Sunday School doors. I’m too late to whisper Thou Shall Not Covet to my teacher so I don’t get a charm, and when I look down I see a weirdo space in my bracelet. I count twice but the Ninth Commandment is gone too! It must have fallen off during my miracle fight. I remember it from last Sunday, Thou Shalt Not Bear False Witness Against Thy Neighbor. My daddy had said that meant not to lie about others. I look over at James and he is sitting with his head down. And I think, I won’t bear false witness against him, I’m gonna tell the whole truth on him, and then some!

After church I run outside lickety split and see The Gospel Bus waiting by the curb again. That’s when I see the sun shining off the gold and reach down for my Ninth Commandment. It is right behind the bus tire and is all scrunched up with some gravel on it, on account of the bus running over it with both sets of tires. I grab it and see that it is scratchy and bent back on the scroll part and missing the piece that hooks it to my bracelet. I look at it real close up to my face and see that underneath the scratches, the gold is flaking off and it is just plain silver metal. It ain’t real gold, and it ain’t nothing special and I drop it. I look up at the bus while I am squatted down there, and I can see up underneath it, all dirty and greasy, and I can see it’s been painted cuz it’s still got old yellow paint in parts. I stand up and watch the bus pull out as it runs over my ninth commandment again, and I think to myself, that bus ain’t nothing special either.

Me and Cecil

 

Roberta Lacey

Decades ago, upon first moving to Delaware Co., N.Y. from Long Island, my family and I got to know this back-woodsman, Joseph.  He took great pride in his tales of deer hunting, fishing, even rattlesnake extermination.  Most of the rattlers were found in the Hancock area and there about, he recalled.  I believe there was a bounty on "them rattlers" as he could always use a few dollars for the necessities of life.  He was truthful and honest, except perhaps at times when going into details of his hunting and fishing expeditions. 

Joe had a small garden, providing his own needs, plus a few hens and a rooster.  Since he never admitted it, we guessed he probably hunted deer out of season if one of "them ornery critters" dared to visit his garden and demolish his vegetables.  Between venison, wild turkey and trout (in or out of season), Joe remained a strong and healthy man.  At times, he enjoyed freshly killed woodchuck he saw venturing into his garden. 

Joe was generous with the few neighbors he had, especially those in need.  He bluntly told those who were able bodied to get their own garden and fish and game.  Joe hunted for food; not so much for sport.

Cecil was one friend who was ever ready to hunt with old Joe.  Though I never saw the dwelling Joe called home, Cecil was a frequent visitor.  Joe and his wife were separated long ago, before my family and I ever met him.  He would accept only certain people.  Since we moved up from "the city" (Westbury, L.I.) we doubted he would befriend us.  However, "bye and bye", he did, especially upon learning my husband was originally from Delaware County.

Joseph found a jewel of a bicycle in a junk yard.  He doctored it up, gave it a new paint job and enjoyed his "new mode of transportation".  Whenever he planned on riding in an area where summer tourists took their daily walks along the country roads, old Joe was ever ready for them.  He disliked seeing the "city people" walking six abreast, leaving no room for him and his bicycle.  Therefore, Joe carried two brooms, putting one inside each handlebar.  Each broom extended about five feet on either side.  He picked up his speed and gleefully rode down the road, watching the walkers scatter to the sides of the path in great haste.  The hotel boarders thought this elderly man was insane.  He had his own reasons for doing things.  Joe may have been a little eccentric but never stupid.  That is, if teaching six people the consequences of hogging the road for themselves is considered "crazy".

It's been said, and never denied, that old Joe was part American Indian.  He certainly appeared so.  Joe was about six feet tall and had ruggedly handsome features.  His jet black hair with only a shock of grey about his temples, belied his age.  As he aged, his shoulders stooped; otherwise he was young and sharp in spirit, and sometimes with his tongue.  In summer, his skin tanned even more than usual.  We only guessed his mother's ancestry was Mohawk.  His father was full Caucasian.  Joe had the strength of a bull and some say her was ornery as one.

Joe could be very kind, especially to children and animals.  They were his favorite creatures, except for some four legged critters who ate up his vegetable garden.  He didn't mind sharing, but resented having all his work gone for naught in one day.  Some wire fences were beyond Joe's means, but he did buy or barter for sturdy barrier that was affordable.  He was proud and would not take a gift of money.  However, Joe never forgot a kindness shown to him.  My oldest son, John, gave him a gift of a good, warm wool sweater.  Joe wrote a sweet thank-you note to him.  He seemed to treasure that sweater for years.

This "die-hard" man lived as a pioneer.  The one luxury he admitted to having was a transistor radio.  His needs were met.  With a good spring on his property, outdoor plumbing, a wood stove and kerosene lamps, what more could a man want?  His only vice was chewing tobacco.

No doubt Joe's desire to live as he did was the reason for the loss of his marriage.  His only child, a son, visited him infrequently.  He was raised by his mother in a distant city and became a "business man", as Joe put it.  Nevertheless, Joe showed pride as his face would light up when the subject arose concerning his "boy".

This good man was somewhat like Henry David Thoreau who loved Walden Pond.  He too, had personal convictions and wasn't about to leave his bucolic quarters or to become one of the sheep in the flock of mankind.  He stood his ground and was uncompromising.  However, Joe did pay his property taxes, somehow.  That was one thing Thoreau refused to do.

Joe saw God in the woods and streams, in hearing the call of birds awakening at dawn, in the morning sunrise and in the evening sunset.

Joe's tales often began, "now did I tell ya 'bout the time me 'n Cecil went huntin'?"  Whether or not we answered "yes" or "no", Joe, looking off into the distance, continued his long, detailed narrative; reliving every moment of it.  "Yes, sir, me and Cecil seen this here buck, he was a beauty of a ten-pointer, but along come a doe.  She stood up aside the buck, like as if to take a bullet for him.  Sudden like, this here buck run 'tother way...but I managed to get a shot or two in his hind quarters.  Me and Cecil went after that 'ole boy 'till almost dark, me and Cecil did"...and on and on Joe talked.  Finally, he said rather proudly with a tinge of sadness in his voice, "we kilt it dead, me and Cecil did".

Now old Joe is gone and surely hope he's happy.  We know God is patient, and may listen to Joe's stories without wishing he would soon get to the climax of the many tales of "Me and Cecil".

The Children are Crying, is Anyone Listening?

“And the Lord answered me, and said: write the vision, and make

 it plain upon tablets, that he may run who reads it. For the vision

 is yet for an appointed time; but at the end, it will speak and it will

 not lie. Though it tarries, wait for it; because it will surely come.

 It will not tarry.”  

                                                    - Habakkuk 2: verses 2 and 3.

  

Last night, I heard the cries of babies, small children screaming in fear,

crying for their moms and dads.

What’s happened to our country?  Who are we, as Americans, that we can

sit back and be somber as breast feeding infants and small children are

being ripped from their mothers arms.  Fathers being handcuffed and put

in holding cells, separated from their wives and children. What have we

become?

What’s happened to our ideals and the moral fiber of who we are as a people,

as a powerful nation? What’s happened to the principles we hold dear to our

hearts, that sets us apart from the very people we call our enemies?

As I sit here and pour my heart out on these pages, I hear the sounds of children

crying and screaming to be with their parents playing over and over in my

mind.  In my heart, I hear a faint whisper saying, this is not how you show love

for one another, as I have shown you.

We as Americans have been blessed to live in a country where we have the

freedom to speak out, to worship as we please, go and come as we please, to

take part in electing those who govern our country.  We don’t know what it’s

like not to have these freedoms. But, how are we truly free when children who

for no fault of their own are stripped out of the arms of their mothers and fathers

and placed in holding cells, with their cries going unheard and ignored?

When the President says Let’s make America great again, is this how he and

his comrades think is the way to get it done?

I say, Mr. President, America is and always has been a great country.  We’ve

fallen short on a lot of things and turned our back on God to a certain degree,

but yet, we’re still a blessed country. You, Mr. President, are contributing to

the very swamp you claimed you would drain.

If I were physically able to go to those detainment centers and reach out to

each and every child that’s crying, I would hug each one, and apologize for

the inhumane treatment they are experiencing.

As a mother, my heart hurts for these innocent children. As an American, I

am sickened as I watch politicians night after night cast blame on each other

as the children continue to cry.

Lady Liberty stands in the harbor with her arm lifted up in pride for who we

are as a country. Once, we welcomed immigrants here to work, pursue an

education and raise a family. Now, we call them murderers and rapist and say

Go back to where you came from, you are no longer welcome here.

Many of my ancestors fought, bled and died just to be treated and respected

as human beings. I speak on their behalf when I say this can’t be the country

they gave their lives for.  Complacency and apathy has set in like mold,

covering and drowning out decency, humility and compassion.

When did this happen to us?

When did we become a nation of greed, hypocrisy, self indulgence and

cold heartedness?

Harsh words for harsh times!

Let’s make America care again, love again, welcoming again. If we would

show love and compassion, we could end this torturing and dividing

evil that’s come upon us and taken captive our country and the values we hold

dear to our hearts.

Many politicians have taken to reciting scriptures to give merit to their

sadistic behavior.  Using the word of God to bend it to fit their purpose.

They seemed to have skipped over the part where Jesus said to show love

to one another, as He has shown love to us by sending His son to die on a

cross.  That’s amazing love!

The children are crying, is anyone listening?

                                                                                     -Betty Badgett

Love Passed this Way, revision 1

                                               by Betty Badgett

                                          Love passed this way today.

                                         What did it look like? How did it feel?

                                          It came suddenly, in the cool gentle breeze

                                          that engulfed me as I stood outside my door

                                          gazing up toward Heaven.

                                          I saw it again in a smile on the face of a stranger

                                          I passed as I strolled along a busy street in

                                          Manhattan.

                                          Love passed this way as the sun began to set as it

                                          does every evening, only today, I slowed down long

                                          enough to take in the glory and radiance of the golden

                                           hews as it slowly and steadily descended between the

                                           giant trees and massive hills.

                                           Love passed this way today, in the voice of a friend on the

                                           phone.  The laughter, the quiet moments, the conversation

                                           we shared. Love passed this way, while watering my garden

                                            In the cool, crisp morning air.  Basking in the bright red

                                            colors of my rose bush, the yellow daffodils and purple wild

                                           flowers.

                                           I know if love had a face, this is how it would look.

                                           Love passed this way today, simply because it always does,

                                           In our busyness, we are often to preoccupied to notice.

                                           Did love pass your way today? I’m sure it did. In your quiet

                                           moments, when reflecting on those you love and hold dear

                                           you’ll know that love is there.

                                           Love comes to us in many ways.  In the battles we’ve won

                                           or lost, the tears and laughter we’ve shared with someone

                                           special in our lives.  Believe it or not, love is with you even

                                           now.

                                           Look for it, feel it, embrace it and give thanks for it, and then

                                           pass it on !

The Hummingbird

by Betty Badgett

Each morning I see him.

Golden yellow hues radiating from his wings.

He hovers over the opening where the sugar water is placed.

He flutters his tiny wings, happy to have found a home,

Even if just for a short time.

He points his long pointy beak and samples the

water I made just for him.

Others flutter around, but he stands guard. No sharing.

This is his sanctuary, his place of refuge, only his.

I caught him staring toward my kitchen window.

He looks, watches me, probably saying thank you in the

only way that he knows how.

Who cares for our earth, our trees and flying little creatures?

God gave them a purpose. If only we cared more.

I watch for my tiny friend every morning. I fill his feeder

With sugar water that I boiled. I’m never disappointed;

he always comes back.

One day Winter will return, where will he go to find the sugar water?

Who will take my place and provide for him?

Will he come back next year?

Will this planet even be here when he returns?

I watch him flutter around his feeder, guarding his castle. Who knows

What tomorrow will bring? But for now I have a friend. My heart

Connects with his and we’re both grateful.

photo by Nancy Rodriguez

It’s been a long, cold, snowy winter.

Spring awaits on the cusp of the remnants of winter.

Soon spring will take its official place, will settle in for its season.

With the returning of spring, I can’t help but wonder about my tiny, fluttering hummingbird that made his home in my back yard

around the orange bird feeder.

He took up residence last spring and stayed through

summer and

well into fall.

What joy he brought to my heart each morning when I gazed out of my kitchen window. I watched him flutter about, sticking his long beak into the bird feeder, sampling the sugar water I prepared just for him. Flapping his perfect wings in thanks.

Looking out my kitchen window, watching him, brought a peace and tranquility to my sometime chaotic life. For those stolen moments watching him flutter happily all around that birdfeeder,

I felt that all was right in the world.

I’m starting to hear the familiar sounds of birds chirping in the trees all around my house. I see a few of them flutter from branch to branch.

I’m waiting for the return of my friend the hummingbird.

Perhaps he did not make it through the long cold winter.

Maybe he found another birdfeeder along his travels to

escape the cold of winter here in the northeast.

I’ll make another batch of sugar water and place it in the birdfeeder, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll wake up one morning, put on a pot of coffee, stare outside my kitchen window at the birdfeeder and notice him once again fluttering his tiny orange wings;,

reclaiming his domain,

restoring peace and tranquility.

Tonight I Dream Love

by Betty Badgett

It's evening, I clean up my desk, clock out and
Head Home.
I anticipate your presence.
I long for our usual conversation.
I don't mind that you ask me the same questions over and over.
I don't mind how you wait and anticipate my answers.
I don't mind because tonight I walk in the essence of love.

The bus is late, it always is, but tonight I'm in a bit of a
Hurry.
I long to see your face, feel your embrace and hear your voice.

I make one stop at the corner farmers' market, the tomatoes
Look red and ripe. I pick over a few until I hold in my hand
The perfect tomato. The salad has to be perfect.

My next stop is Cabana's wine and liquor depot.
I purchase your favorite wine Route One Cabernet.
Everything has to be perfect this evening.

I rush home and set the table for two.
Uncork the wine and pour two glasses.
I dim the overhead hood lights to set the mood.
I quickly glance through the cd collection to find just the right one.

After I take a warm shower and slip into my satin bathrobe
Waiting as I've done so many times before.
I listen for the turn of the key in the door.
I listen for footsteps coming through the kitchen.

I wait...

The salad is ready, the glass of wine poured, soft music
Emanates throughout the apartment.
Love is in the air.

I wait...

There's no sound of a car pulling up, no key turning in the lock
There never will be again.

Tonight, I can only dream of love.

Dickie

Dickie

by Roberta Lacey

Who would imagine so much excitement could be raised on our quiet street in Bayside, New York?

It was the day before Easter in 1934. Mother had been cleaning Dickie Bird’s cage and since the doors and window were all closed, she thought Dickie would be safe. He couldn’t get very far, even if he did slip through the tiny space Mom needed in order to replace fresh water and seed, plus clean paper to line the floor of the cage. Well, that was just the time I ran into the house, leaving the rear door ajar, being unaware of what was going on in the sunny front porch where Dickie resided. A flash of something yellow went by my head as I heard my mother’s voice call out to close the door tightly!! Oh, oh, too late, I thought. Only then did I become alarmed. My mother loved that little canary. He sang clearly and frequently most of the day. His early morning chirps became sweet whistles as the cloth covering of the cage was removed.

My sister and I ran out to see if we could retrieve him. As word got around, the neighborhood kids got into the hunt. Actually, we must have frightened Dickie when he saw us jumping to reach him as he sat on a slender tree branch. The higher we reached, the higher the bird flew. Being a canary, he didn’t fly very high, but was quick in avoiding our flailing arms as he elevated from bushes to small trees. The news reached the next street and those kids came to “catch” the bird. Sonny Kapsinsky was the only one of us who kept a cool head. He told us all to stay still and be quiet. He positioned himself next to the tree and could see the frantic bird hiding among the leaves as best he could. We finally remained silent and stood like statues. Sonny very slowly moved his arms inch by inch, higher and higher. He cupped both hands around the bird as Dickie was attempting to reach another branch. He proudly presented Dickie to my Mom, who was so very grateful and thanked him profusely. The “pall” was lifted from our home and little neighborhood when word got out that Mrs. Simms’ canary was safely returned. Sonny was the hero of the day.

The next day as we got ready to go to church, we were happy to hear Dickie bird singing his song and I’m sure he was glad to be back in his safe abode away from the noisy, frantic world outside. It was Easter and all was well.

It Rained Today

It Rained Today

Betty Badgett

It rained today. Walking from the hospital to my car, it became hard to know if the tears running down my face were real tears or drops of rain.

I always knew that this day would come, and I wondered what I would do and how I would be able to handle it.

My mother passed today. I was at her bedside when she took a deep breath and rolled her eyes upward. I held her hand in mine and leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It’s ok to go home now, Mom. I’ll be alright.”

She never looked at me, but slowly let her eyelids close, and her hand go limp. I can’t explain the feeling of holding on to someone when they are leaving this life and entering into eternity. I stood there at the bedside for what seemed like an hour. My feet were cemented to the cold checkered tiled floor. I couldn’t move.

Nurses and doctors walked by. A feeling of loneliness swept over me, lingering on my shoulders. What’s the next step? I thought to myself. Just wanted to cry and scream and ask the world to stop turning, and make time stand still. I had just lost my mother and a part of my heart.

My mother’s nurse and doctor tried to comfort me and asked if there was anyone they could call to be with me. I don’t remember what I said. They allowed me time to sit and be with my thoughts.

Finally gathering the courage to leave, I leaned over and kissed her forehead and said goodbye. Memories came back like a flood. I saw myself at ten, and then at fourteen. I remember graduation day. I remembered coming in from school and smelling chicken frying, and cake baking in the oven. That was just yesterday—how did I get to today?

I summoned the courage that my mother had taught me and knew that although I was entitled to grieve, I had to carry on and do what only I could do.

It’s been a month since that rainy day that came and went taking with it a large chunk of my heart and my being. I’ve gone on with my life, working, being a mother and wife, stopping now and then to remember this special woman who gave birth to me and taught me life lessons that I am using and teaching the next generation.

On any particularly difficult day when my heart hurts so much, I allow those feelings to fill my soul and I cry. I cry for the little girl who misses her mother. I cry for the woman who misses her best friend and life coach. I cry for the mother I am now, who has stepped into the shoes my mother wore.

After all the hours of crying and grieving and then coming to the realization that death is something we all have to go through. This life is temporary. This is our life class, where we learn the lessons and do the homework so that one day we’ll be prepared to move on and graduate and transition into eternity. Knowing that whenever that time comes, my mother will be waiting with open arms to welcome me into the kingdom, allows me to smile and go on with life.

My Life Song

My Life Song

Betty Badgett

You were my life’s song.

Each day, when I opened my eyes,

Whispered good morning and

Leaned in for a hug.

You smiled at me with a crooked

Boyish grin.

I smiled back, drinking in the

Essence of being your wife,

Your beloved.

Your open arms, warm, comfortable, familiar

The beating of your heart, in sync with

Mine, caused my spirit to soar, 

and my love to

Overflow.

Three years have passed since you went home.

I hear your voice, I feel your touch.

I can never forget, nor do I ever want to

You were, and always will be, my life song.

Sliding Down the Yak

SLIDING  DOWN  THE  YAK

Tibet, The Himalayas, Mt Kailas

by Pat Crosby

          Public Domain Photo Credit: http://www.urltarget.com/nepal-yak-tibetan-ox-last-animal-bear-transport-1.html

After five freezing days crossing the boulder-strewn Tibetan plateau - a once-upon-a-time ocean floor - now 15,000 feet above the current ocean floor - known as “The Roof of the World”, jostling with our caravan of Chinese drivers, jeeps, overloaded supply trucks carrying two weeks of supplies for 40 some people (including food, portable kitchen, tents, sleeping bags, oxygen, fuel for cooking and driving, spare truck and jeep parts (sure glad we had plenty of those), Sherpa porters and guides, we finally reached the sacred mountain - Mt Kailas - high in the Himalayas of western Tibet. 7 days journey so far out of rather tropical Kathmandu. 11,000 feet rise in altitude.

The five day holy ritual walk around the summit of the mountain - or ritual crawl if you are a Tibetan Buddhist - known as the  parikrama (circling the sacred mountain) is a climb from 15000 to 18,000 feet.

 

Public Domain Photo Credit: nepalguidetreks.com

The path rises at a 45 degree angle. It is rocky and steep. Pilgrims throw clothes, chunks of their hair - and occasionally their own bodies - overboard on this climb. These rituals represent leaving behind - letting die - some old aspect of oneself that one cannot keep if one intends to reach the summit of spiritual experience.

Already weakened and exhausted by the oxygen-starved altitude, the unrelenting bone-penetrating cold, nausea, dizziness and throwing up any attempted food in the last five days of the Tibetan plateau crossing (we can call this the Tibetan Plateau Crossing Diet - lose 20 pounds in 2 weeks), and the boulder strewn “path” -  actually ruts over shifting sand dunes with numerous jeep breakdowns - I hired a yak with driver - to ride up the 45 degree incline. Although not long, the rise was intense.

Yaks are big furry warm survival animal of the Himalayas - somewhat a mix of huge shaggy buffalo, don’t-tell-me-what-to-do donkey, and heavy-duty-survival-capable camel.

The yak can provide the human clan with fur, yurt (their round portable nomad house) covers, meat, milk, butter, transportation and copious excrement for cooking and fuel in the frigid treeless Tibetan terrain. These miracles of eco-efficiently manage to turn few and far-between stray tufts of dried grass scattered among the sand dunes and boulders -  amazingly - into all of the above.

And yaks provide essential milk and butter for the famous Butter Tea of the bitter cold wind-chilled Himalayas. Famously drunk by the Dalai Lama, served in monasteries, and the daily cultural survival beverage, tourists find it to be an acquired taste.. I found it to be like bone-heating substantial soup broth and grew to love it.

Public Domain Photo Credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bos_grunniens.JPG

Back to yak transportation.        

My translator/attendant negotiated the deal. He could speak five human languages (Mandarin, Tibetan, Nepalese, Hindi, and something else. Not sure if he was yak fluent.). And what a deal it was! A fortune in local currency - not so much in our money. I got hoisted onto the furry animal’s warm back. Did I mention there was no saddle - bareback! Nothing to hang on to. I clung to the shaggy mane as best I could - gripping as though my life depended on it. I was slumped prone along the beast's spine.

Getty yup! Well, not exactly. More like plod, plot. Hump bump. Plod plod. Oh no - I began to slide backwards. Slowly. Insurmountably. Definitely. Half inch by half inch. Gradually losing my grip. Trying denial first. Slip slip. Inch by inch. Gripping the hair of the beast harder - intensifying my will. Grip grip. Slip slip. Inches by inches. Going backward. Beast going forward.

Yak driver was nonchalantly talking to his fellow yak driver - both oblivious to we passengers sliding off the rump of their beasts. Slowly. Immeasurably. Definitely. Inch by inch. No grip to cinch.

Finally, a true spiritual experience. SURRENDER! I had to surrender that I was losing my grip, unceremoniously slipping backwards over the rump of the beast. No dignity. Who cared. No one. Just me and my soul - giving up any pretense that anything was under my control.

Inch by inch. Slip by slip. Over the tail.

Trying to grab the tail now. Animal beast could care less. Plod plod. Hump bump. Forward. Upward. Me backward. Backsliding. Rump hump.

Humpty dumpty. Over the edge. Losing the tail. Falling to the ground. HOLY ground it was.

I watched the rump of the ass slowly plod away from me. Plod, plod - up the sacred mountain path. Leaving me to look at the strewn belongings of the recently or

sometime-to-be departed.

Public domain photo credit: http://www.asia-insider-photos.com/tibetan-pictures.html

Death has no meaning here on Kailas. The most pious consider it the most auspicious place to lose one’s body. Just go over the edge. Lose your grip… drip drip…everyday concerns fall away ... down the mountain side into the sea of garbage of cast-off belongings. All this so the soul can fly free. Unencumbered. In the arms of grace, Lord Shiva, Mt Kailas - home of the Gods. Center of the universe. The Most Holy Place.

Creep creep. Hands and knees. Inch by Inch. Get a grip. Creep creep. Huffing and puffing. Panting. Inch by inch. Creep creep. Up the stony path. Ascending… inch by inch. I put my face down in exhaustion on the cold ice. More inch by inch. Get a grip. Creep creep. Up the path of the sacred mountain. What will greet me at the top?

Will I get to the top? Inch by inch. Creep creep. Hands and knees. Pant pant. Heard one of our party - a portly Indian man from tropical Mumbai (Bombay) - had a heart attack and Sherpa porters carried all of his heart attack heavy weight backward - retracing the path back to the starting place.

Maybe another lifetime before he can continue up the sacred mountain….?

Head hanging down. No energy to look up. Inch by inch. Hands and knees. Creep creep. Huff puff.

With extreme effort, I raise my head ever so slightly. What! The top! Pilgrims joyfully singing, waving prayer banners. Incense sticks circling in arati - the ancient waving of candles in celebration and love. Celebration of the light and achieving communion with the supreme.

In daze-ment, I see our tour guru - sitting on a boulder. His immaculate orange sanyasi monk robes pristine - as though they just came from the dry cleaners - neat and pressed.

He sat on the rock - like a beacon of “Yes You Can”. Big smile, Tender smile. Loving eyes.

My energy came flooding in. I arose, planted my earth legs firmly on top of my earth feet. Upright! At last! Hands waved in celebration! Joy! I can stand! At the top!

Having attained the summit of the sacred mountain,

prasad - blessed sweets - for everyone. How divine. God’s own celebration party.

Summiting was a grand adventure. What will the descent hold? Will it be anti-climatic?

~~~

Footnote: Since this Tibetan plateau travel adventure, the new government has built a paved road. The formerly 5 day caravan trek across rutted sand dunes is now an  8 hour  or less drive on paved road - according to a slew of youtube videos. So many adventures to miss! Sort of like if they build a chair lift to the top of Mt Everest.

LISTEN to a READING of this story by the author

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlD-WTY0Fqw

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