Only Travelers Here

I am perched on a tall green sponge-painted kitchen chair eating plain yogurt with fruit, telling my mother a bit about my Tibetan Buddhist teacher Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, who as luck would have it is to speak tonight in Long Island City.

"Who is this person?" Mom asks haltingly between bites of lunch. She lifts the fork in a slow trajectory toward her mouth: a swipe at the cheek, a shaky rotation to the chin, then a hesitant slide into her mouth. I resist the urge to applaud, or to say, "Good job!" as if she were 10-month-old Oliver.

"He is a kind and compassionate man, who believes that all sentient beings -- " I begin.

"Scented beans?" Mom demands. Simultaneously we burst out laughing. A piece of cantaloup shoots from my mouth. We howl so loudly that Liz, the day shift nurse, comes inside to see what's happening. Lynn emerges from the den.

"What's going on here?" Neither Mom nor I can speak.

"Oh, dear, you've made me wet my pants again," Mom gasps.

"That's okay," Lynn says. "You're the only one who can."

"What else?" Mom asks, when we have recovered.

"Well, a few times a year he and his students go to Maine for a ceremony to release lobsters, and sometimes clams and mussels as well. It's called a Tsetar Ceremony, the practice of Life Release."

Mom chews thoughtfully.

"If he releases them, doesn't he have to catch them first?"

I have no answer to this. I am imagining a happy troupe of Buddhists manning a fleet of dinghies on choppy seas, reeling in lobster traps and flinging wide the doors. "You are free, crustaceans, free!" 

"I have a new beau for..." Mom says suddenly, popping my fantasy.

"Tina?" I know where this is going.

"Yes! I forget his name. He's a sort of a...?"

"Neighbor."

"Bill something or other..."

I mention the name of a man 30 years older than my sister; in fact, he is a contemporary of my mother's.

"Yes! They have so much in common. They both go around sniffing for worms," Mom says.

"They what?" Lynne, Liz and I demand. We cannot speak as waves of laughter roll through us.

Mom wiggles her fingers. "You know!" she says.

"She means dowse," Lynn guffaws, having heard this many, many times before.

"Yes!" Mom agrees. "That thing to find water."

*

I find E-Vam Center in Long Island City and a place to park on the street, a mere block away. At 6:30, the door opens, and we descend past prayer flags and a stone buddha down a few stone steps into a small, bright room. Rows of cushions have been placed upon the floor before an altar of artifacts, small bowls, relics. There is a colorful teacher's chair. There is a row of chairs and a small couch at the back, but ignoring the fact that I cannot sit comfortably with legs crossed for more than 20 minutes, I eschew the more comfortable seats to be closer. I will spend much of the next 2 hours squirming painfully, legs and hamstrings numb. I will take careful notes. I will make a mental note to get a pedicure. I will be reminded how in moments of discouragement or loneliness, I can always return to the cushion, always to the breath. I will gaze at Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, at his calm and beautiful face, moved by his kind attention, wisdom and open-hearted presence. 

"We do not know who our parents will be when we are born," Rinpoche says. "Karma brings us to connection with dharma, to a particular lineage; a particular teacher sparks our interest to study and practice. It could have taken lifetimes to get here, to be on the path, yet even with obstacles, there is an ongoing experience of growth."

For me there is also a sense of an internal life, of being someone who finds joy in meditation. I have no real understanding of how I got here, nor how many lifetimes it's taken me. What I know absolutely is that one of my root teachers is 95, and her sense of humor is irresistible.

*

Word Salad

Tripp sings "Itsy Bitsy Pider" 500 times a day. If you hide in the next room, he will obligingly sing it en espanol. He is enthralled by language. Our new game is for me to read aloud from cards depicting heavy equipment vehicles that each begin with a letter of the alphabet: A is for Articulated Hauler, B is for Boom Truck, V is for Vibratory Compactor. I read a bit about each machine while Tripp studies the picture, pronounces, "I don't have one of those," then places them all in a neat stack.

On a recent Sunday, Tripp was bouncing on his new bed. His mother and I were folding laundry. Correction: I was only allowed to fold the sheets and towels, and to match pairs of tiny socks. My daughter imagines me to be geometrically impaired laundry-wise.

"Where did Mommy go on business?" Katherine questioned her son.

"Um, California!"  He pointed to me. "You say," he instructed. "Ca-li-forn-ya."

"Ca-li-forn-ya," I repeated dutifully. He launched from bed to pillow to stool to ottoman. He covered himself with his quilt.

"What are you doing, silly?" asked his mother.

"He's pretending," I told her.

"I pretending I'm a dog. Woof." The dog emitted a tiny whimper.

"What's wrong, Dog?" I asked.

"I'm hungry. I need a bone."

"Here's one," I said, scratching a place on the off white rug with my fingers. "You must have forgotten where you buried it."

"Yes," the dog replied. "Put it over dere."

"Here you go."

Another small whine escaped the bundle of quilt.

"What is it now?" asked his mother.

"I need another bone." This was followed by something muffled.

"What did he say?"

His mother's shoulders shook with mirth and she had to lean against the changing table for support.

"He says he needs another bone to take to sleep. Oh, boy, between the two of you I feel like I'm in a crazy house."

"Did I tell you?" she said to me, "Tripp has named his stuffed butterflies Bucky and Salmon? I have no idea why."

At this, the grandmother was overtaken with giggles and needed to excuse herself before she peed on the off white rug like a dog.

*

Mom was sitting in the sun wrapped in a green shawl. I was eavesdropping from an upstairs window as she and Jeanne played the alphabet game. 

"Okay, Mrs. V,  give me a word that begins with the letter O."

C'mon, Mom, I cheered her silently. 

"I can't seem to - oh, dear -"

"I'll start," Jeanne interrupted promptly. "Onion."

"Oxymoron!" I bellowed.

"The heavens have spoken," Jeanne laughed. "The smarty pants heavens."

"Oscillate," said Mom. 

"Obsidian!" I yelled. 

"What's that?" Mom frowned. "Anyway, down here we're winning."

*

Later, Mom roused from a stuporous nap to glance at her watch. An ingrained movement, requiring little thought, mere habit.

"Where's my watch?" she cried.

"Right here. See, it's right here." I touched her wrist, tapped the face of her watch.

"No, it's gone!" 

"Here it is, Mom."

"Oh... I really think I must be going. It's been lovely, but, if we want to change before the party..."

"Whose party?' 

"Well, you know..."

"Is it at Dimmy's?" I queried, referring to her grandmother, whose kindly presence frequents conversation these days.

"Yes. We'll be 16, I think." She peered ahead, as if picturing an engagement book. "You and me and of course..."

"Dimmy."

"Yes. I think I really should be getting back."

"Okay, Mom. I'll drive you home. Not to worry, there's still plenty of time to change."

Oh, good. Thank you, Sweetie. You played well today, I'm sorry I was so lousy."

"Mom, you weren't - " But, she'd fallen back to sleep. She nodded, smiled, dozed. I hoped that to whatever soiree her mind had taken her, her dinner partners were handsome, athletic and sublime, her dance card full.

*

Birthday Pesints

Tripp is "free!" Three years old.

His mother told me that when he woke up on his birthday morning and asked his customary morning question, "Mommy, are you upstairs or downstairs?" She called up to him,"Down here, Birthday Boy, and you are three years old today!" I imagine she swung her arms wide to embrace her son.

"No, I not!" Tripp wailed, rubbing his eyes. "I still two."

"Oh, okay," his mother said.

Then he noticed that a new toy had been added to his collection of Toy Story characters: the much coveted Zurg, Disney's version of Darth Vader. After some playing with Zurg and Jessie the Cowgirl and someone named Stinky Pete, "the pwospectuh," he said, "Okay, I free now."

A boy needs time.

Tripp, unlike his grandmother (in this case me) did not rip through his presents with an air of dissatisfaction and incipient sadness. He carefully explained that Zurg fights Buzz Lightyear with laser cookies. To demonstrate, he performed a series of vigorous flinging motions. I learned about Jessie and a Slinky dog and a truly frightening character named Big Baby, whose purpose seems to be to loom over the other toys in a menacing way, a death grip on its bottle.

During discussion time it is vital for me to express my comprehension of different elements in the story by repeating them, verbatim.

"And this is Bullseye, Jessie's horse," Tripp explained.

"I see," I said.

"Bullseye," he repeated. "Jessie's horse."

"Got it," I said.

He waited.

I waited.

"Oh! This is Bullseye, Jessie's horse!"

"Yes," breathed Tripp.

I brought BOOKS, some more appropriate than others. A story about a young raven named Edgar who replies Nevermore to each request made by his mother was a good choice.

"Can you read it again? Again? Again?" And, holding up his forefinger, "Okay, just one yast time."

A board book based on Moby Dick was not. Each page contained a single illustration. First was the Pequod, labeled "ship."

"Ship," repeated Tripp with great seriousness.

There was a cotton tufted Moby Dick, labeled "whale."

"Whale," said Tripp.

But, then came Captain Ahab's peg leg labeled, as one might expect, "leg."

"That's just great, Mom," my daughter said, closing the book before Tripp could see it or the next page beside which was the caption mad.

"You can just take that one right back to Vermont."

We could, however, all agree on a collection of books about Winnie-ther-Pooh. My mother had read them to me, and I had adored them. When I read them to Katherine, Milne's wordplay and humor was as evident to her as it had been to me. As a little girl she had quickly gotten the gentle joke of Pooh living under the name of Saunders. Tripp in his turn giggled in the first chapter when Pooh slithers down through the branches of the bee tree, foiled in his attempt to garner honey, exclaiming ow and bother as he falls.

I suspected he might, he being that sort of boy.

He will outgrow Zurg. Eventually he will discover Melville. Winnie-the-Pooh is forever - or at least until next Tuesday.

*

Sisters

I met my "Little Sister" Clementine in the hallway outside of fourth grade. She was at the tail end of the line and glanced over at me with a shy smile. I smiled back at the slender long-legged child with the pink sneakers, white laces trailing. Sue, the Big Brother/Big Sister coordinator, led us down to the school's media center and we sat together at a table. Clementine pulled lunch from a bag. We examined our matching beige canvas totes, each containing a plastic cup and pen and a file with pertinent information. Sue left us with a tackle box of beads to string. Clementine plucked an elasticized turquoise friendship bracelet from a tangle. 

"I think orange would look nice on you," she said, shaking her glossy brown bangs.

And so we began: New friends, treading with care.

"I'm adopted," Clementine announced mid-munch.

"Me too!" I exclaimed, surprised.

"You are?" Clementine grinned.

"Yes."

"When were you adopted?"

"Right out of the hospital, after I was born," I replied, realizing, well, no, probably not right out of the hospital. I was brought to a lawyer's office and my parents picked me up there. And was it both of my parents, or was my father working? I seem to remember being told that my godmother went with Mom... The myth of me.

"Oh."

"How about you?" I asked, wondering if I should.

"My foster mom adopted me."

"That's awesome," I said.

I am out of practice with bead stringing and knot tying, my fingers clumsy, but Clementine helped me. I tied her friendship bracelet around her wrist. She told me that her mom surprised her with a trip to Disney in California to celebrate her adoption - a lovely, elaborate scheme, suitcases hidden from sight.

As we talked I was struck by the energy and openness of this child, and I felt echoes of a much younger me, bright, anxious to please, story spilling out.

Growing up I grappled with the fact of being adopted. It was my theme, my sadness, my pride, my isolation, my rage, my shame. Within minutes of meeting a new friend, I would proffer it - a tarnished pearl.

Or, in conversation with a new therapist:

What brings you here?

Well, I'm adopted.

I tried to sever myself from my family. I tried to amputate the pain. Rage twined with fear, with desperation, with hope. 

My practice was to ferret out ways I didn't belong, while yearning - above all - to be convinced that I did.

A few years ago around Easter my mother did that thing, that exclusion thing, that separating me from thing. It had to do with the amount of people for Easter Sunday lunch, an unlucky count of 13. I discovered the list of guests with a note written by my mother next to my name in which she hoped I might go elsewhere, so there would be 12.

"We're going to talk about this now, Mom!" I demanded in the marble foyer of her home. 

"What?" My mother demurred. She gripped her walker and tried to veer away. I followed and faced her down. 

"I don't know why you are so upset," she said evasively as we circled.

"Yes, you do! I am a member of this family!" I shouted. "I choose this family!" I belong to this family!"  I stopped yelling. There was an almost audible pop, as though unseen fingers had snapped. Poof! I was done with it. I was stunned. Laughing with relief and amazement I kissed my bewildered mother.

Was it me who had needed to choose all this time?

"I forgive you Mom, and I love you," I said, "And I will be here for lunch on Easter Sunday."

"Well, I love you too, Ame. Always have."

I will be taking Family Medical Leave to spend precious time with my mother, but this connection with Clementine seems vital. Every other Monday I will be back home in Vermont getting to know this eager, multifaceted child.

We have lots in common: soccer, reading, traveling, writing, family.

*

It Being Easter

Mom used to hide the Easter eggs up at the summerhouse, a cool, white, open pavilion, the interior walls of which were painted robin's egg blue. There was a slate terrace with three wide steps going down to lawn bordered by a rose garden, and slate alcoves for sitting. Vines with long beans we called "tumba pumba beans" climbed the outside walls. We stomped them underfoot. We held spoon races, our arms outstretched, balancing a pastel-dyed wobbly egg in a tablespoon. We wore Easter dresses with white ruffled anklets and red leather or black patent leather shoes. Our parents' friends came for cocktails after church and brought their children.

This past Sunday, Mom sat in her wheelchair in the sun wearing a straw hat and a green shawl, fastened with an art deco pin, jaunty and dignified. The great-grandchildren - The Greats - grasped baskets and searched for dozens of luminous eggs which I, wearing white furry rabbit ears as the Easter Bunny's helper, had hidden in plain sight.

"I might look near the stairs..." I hinted to my grandson Tripp.

"Let him find them himself," his mother said. "Try that bush," she added.

"I just keep yooking," Tripp said happily.

"Sank you," he said as he placed each egg into his basket, a little Buddha, celebrating his world.

Nicola, nearly five, wearing a lavender dress and a white bow in her hair, found the golden egg. Julian, a bit younger than Tripp, preferred sword fighting with his dad, Towson, each brandishing an alarmingly large bamboo pole.

"Put that down, Julian," my sister Helen told him. "Towson!" She addressed her son, "That's not safe!"

Helen had decorated the table with straw rabbits, yellow straw chicks, baskets, Beatrix Potter place mats, and green linen napkins. Katherine had brought orange tulips, the color of Mom's sweater, the color of sunset. The Greats milled around, eating cheese and crackers, until the quiches were ready.

"Gogs is worried because she can't remember a toast," my brother-in-law called gently from his seat near Mom.

"Why doesn't Amy give it, as the eldest daughter," Helen suggested.

I stood, the daughter who for a long time had never quite felt part of, the naughty black sheep, the once upon a time incorrigible young woman, now the eldest daughter, a mother, grandmother, sister, and aunt.

"Here's to family," I said. I babbled thanking everyone, making toast after Perrier toast. "To those not able to be here." (My son Will, my sister Tina, her daughters.)

"Here's to Oliver, " My nephew Chris said, "The newest Great."

"And to Nicky," I followed, "The eldest Great."

"And to Tripp," my niece Helene added, "The second eldest Great."

"And to Julian, the intrepid sword fighter."

I watched as the three elder Greats beamed with joy, as the youngest Great chewed a piece of cracker, as they reveled in the light of simply being adored, of just simply being.

After lunch we sat on the terrace in the sun and began taking turns telling an Easter Bunny story. "And then from inside the burrow came a deep-throated..." my brother-in-law was saying.

"Oh, no," cried Tripp and scampered onto his father's lap.

"Oh, no," Mom said as we began to leave. "Please don't leave me. I have to catch a train; will someone please take me to the train."

"It's okay, Mom," we said. "You're not alone. We're here."

Helen would stay for awhile with her son and grandchildren before the care givers took over. I would take my brother-in-law and nephew to the train before driving back to Vermont. My daughter and her husband and the boys would go home for naps, Tripp cradling his Easter basket in his lap.

I would call Mom from the road, and later again that night, just to say over and over and over: You're okay, you're not alone, I love you. I love you.

Row the Boat Gently

Tripp is bouncing on his trampoline. He is wearing fire engine red pants and a blue and white striped shirt.

"Wo, wo, wo you boat gently down the steam!" he sing-shouts.

I am keeping time with a tambourine, and Ollie is chewing on blue wooden castanets shaped like monkeys.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a deam!"

After the eighth round, I insert an alternative verse. As Tripp sings "merrily" - or something that might be "meow, meow, meow," or a combination of both, I sing, "I want more ice cream!"

Tripp flies off the trampoline. "No-o," he says, amused. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a deam!"

"But, I like to sing I want more ice cream."

"Okay," he says after a few seconds of reflection. "I like to sing life is but a deam."

Later, in the bath, as Ollie splashes the water from his perch in a purple safety chair, his entire body quivering with delight, Tripp sails his boat - a tiny truck perched on a blue rubber duck - "awound and awound" the tub. He sings it his way, and I sing it my way, and then he chuckles, gently acquiescing, as we both sing the chorus together I WANT MORE ICE KEEM! Even his mother joins in.

This is how I do it when I go back to visit my family. First, I play with the boys, building cities from Legos, where all of us live in Tripp's imagination. I hold Ollie who lives to bounce, his muscular little legs mighty springs, propelling him endlessly from the floor or my lap. Ollie and I touch noses. Tripp and I read books about real planes.

"This is an experimental plane, " I explain. "Here are the engines."

Tripp nods, leaning in. "Experimental pane," he whispers.

"Maybe some day you will fly in your own plane," I say.

"Wis you," he says.

After supper and bath time and jammies on and some more singing and jumping off the plastic potty, it's bed time, which is sacred time for my daughter and her boys and their dad, and I know it's time to go.

*

Mom is lying in her hospital bed when I walk into her room at home after leaving my daughter's house. The rails of the bed are draped with quilts, and she is tucked in up to her chin, cosy and safe. Joyce, the young night time care giver from Ghana is leaning over her, her hand on Mom's heart and they are saying the Lord's Prayer. The trust in my mother's eyes and the kindness emanating from Joyce opens my heart and the tears come.

"Hi, Mom," I say softly, "It's Amy."

"Oh, Amy. Have you written any books today?" I study my mother carefully, look into her blue eyes, which can barely make me out, note the transparency of her delicate skin. I touch her face and kiss the top of her head.

"No, not today," I laugh. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know, I'm forgetting everything."

I think about how hard it must be for her, how frightening to lose her bearings. Sometimes she thinks we're all in Vermont, and she asks me to come by for dinner. She might be back in time to her childhood in Garden City, where she played hopscotch with her best friend, Mary T., where her grandparents had a farm, and their own railroad car. She remembers watching Lindberg take off from Roosevelt field - or did a few weeks ago. She asks for her mother, her childhood dog, Nicky, talks about playing a particular golf course, worries about what's next, worries her life has not held meaning.

Once, when we were sitting together at lunch, she asked what I thought heaven is like. Being a Buddhist, I wrestled with what to say. What's needed here? I wondered.

"I think it's a beautiful blue sky Adirondack day," I said, "and Dad and all your friends and everyone you've ever loved are waiting for you. There's probably a big party somewhere, and bridge and golf."

I have no answers, but I know what's important is to let go and enter her world, wherever she is, with all the love I've got, hold her hand, kiss her.

The song is right: Life is but a dream.

Gimme My Grandchild!

Nora the nanny from Honduras is a blessing.

When my daughter returned to work and was forced to stretch the blissful motherandson connection to encompass a job and other humans, Nora scooped him up in a flurry of Spanish and electric energy. She also possessed a seemingly magical ability to get him to nap for long stretches in a wildly pitching swing.

My daughter could relax - only a mere text and five minutes away. And I was content, spared from absentee grandmother guilt, selling books in Vermont. At first.

It started with a pet name. "Muneco," loosely translated as "little doll," Nora called him, accompanied with dozens of staccato kisses and strings of Spanish syllables.

"Hi, my Bubbadoos," I crooned during my first visit. There was a certain gleam in Nora's eye. I felt sized up, immediately conscious of needing a new haircut or an entirely new wardrobe.

"Mi Mmmmuneco," countered Nora. She had Tripp in her arms and was swooping him in a figure 8 motion I'd seen his mother use.

"How's my little Bubbadoos?" I said, reaching out for him.

But Nora swept off to the kitchen with Tripp in her arms, indicating his mother's frozen milk in the freezer, the trick bottle with its three parts, while firing information about naps and diaper changes.

"I got it," I said. Now gimme that baby! I thought.

After more kissing and cooing of Spanish endearments, I was allowed to take possession.

"Thanks Nora, " I smiled, "You can go now." 

Hows it going? Katherine texted.

Perfectly!

Nora usually gets him to nap for a few hours. 

Good for her, I replied. Gotta go.

I changed Tripp's diaper, having memorized the exact place his mother fastened the velcro tabs. I changed him out of an outfit of Nora's in which he resembled an infant jockey into a new onesie and a pair of little jeans.

I gave him a bottle, burped him twice, and placed him in his swing. Waaaaa! wailed Tripp, surprised at first, then furious. I increased the speed, gave him his binky. WAAAA! he squalled.

Bzzzzt! buzzed my phone. Everything okay? 

Just getting him down. Can't talk. 

Text me when he's asleep. Nora...

I tried music, adjusting the swing's arc, playing nature songs, adding a blankie. Purple-faced, Tripp thrashed.

"Okay, Bubbadoos, let's go out in the carriage, I said, determined not to be bested by Nora. We walked the neighborhood and I sang and smiled and replaced the binky as needed, and eventually Tripp's eyes blinked closed. He's asleep! I texted my daughter. (Ta da!)  We walked for three hours. Three hours in the fresh air. Three hours out of the swing.

"Can I say something," I asked my daughter a few weeks later.

"What?" she demanded.

"I'm sure it's nothing," I said.

"What is it, Mom?"

"I just noticed... it just looks as if Tripp's head is the tiniest bit flat in the back where he's been lying in that swing."

"Are you saying my son has a flat head?" 

"No! No! Not at all. Just maybe you could ask the pediatrician when you take him next time. Just a suggestion. I'm sure it's nothing."

As it happened, I was along for the next visit to the pediatrician.

"Everything looks good, Mom," said the pediatrician. "Any questions?"

"Someone in this room, " Katherine intoned, "Someone not me - "

"Nor me either, " said the pediatrician quickly.

" - thinks the baby's head is flat in the back."

"From lying in his swing," I added, "napping."

"Actually, you are both right," the pediatrician responded. "Baby's skulls are malleable and while it does look a bit flat, that can easily be remedied by turning him on his side, and not keeping him in his swing for extended periods."

"Ha!" Katherine and I said simultaneously.

A few months later I went into Manhattan for a new haircut at a pricey salon, a cut that cost me two week's salary. There was a chic new blonde streak on one side and razored layers.

"Oh, I like you haircut," Nora commented.

"Thank you," I said. Now gimme my grandson!

"Nice streak, Cruella," whispered my daughter at Tripp's bedtime as we we both gazed, enthralled, at the peaceful bundle of baby.

*