It's been nearly a year since I posted to my blog. A year that, in many ways, I would just as soon forget.

But I can't forget it. So instead, I'll write about it. Because writing is still the best way for me to process the events that shape my life.

Here goes.


Part I: Mom

Mom was 107 and a half years old when she died around 6 a.m. on Feb. 11, 2020. She died in the nursing home where she'd lived the past several years, getting out just in time -- right before COVID-19 began to threaten the lives of elders living in such places. One brother spent the previous day with her. The other stayed until late that evening -- until Mom had reached the point where she could no longer communicate.

Me? I was in London. Had been since Jan. 23, directing my university department's semester-in-London program. I'd put off telling Mom I was going there until I visited her in mid-January. Mom was, after all, a world-class worrier. She surprised me by saying she was excited for me. And she really seemed to mean it. I hope so anyway.

I'd been teaching for about three weeks when I got the news about Mom. So back I flew across the Atlantic, this time headed to Oberlin, Ohio, by way of Toronto, where my flight to Cleveland was canceled because of a snowstorm. I caught a late flight to Columbus and drove a rental car to Oberlin the following day. But that's a story for another post.

We gave Mom a good send-off, my favorite part being Father Charlie's homily at St. Mary's in Elyria, Mom's parish for almost her entire life. He joked about visiting Mom when she was 105 and finding her sitting up in bed reading Thomas Merton. He rolled his eyes. Even he has trouble understanding Merton, he said. He said if Peg Stillwell wasn't in heaven now, the rest of us didn't stand a chance (or words to that effect).

At the cemetery, after Father Charlie concluded his prayers, big brother Fred asked everyone to remain a moment. Then he sang a song in German, one he said he'd tinkered with a bit to suit the occasion: "My mother, my mother," he sang, "fly away."

It was a lovely way to say goodbye.

Fly away, Mom, away from pain and from the anxiety that plagued you for most of your adult life.

Here's hoping you're at peace -- and that you'll bump into Thomas Merton from time to time.

Small things considered

I've been noticing the occasional Monarch butterfly in the most precarious places lately: trying to fly across a busy parkway, flitting above a football field, nearly missing an oncoming car.

The one I held in my hands earlier today I'd found lying still on my driveway. No car had been on that side of the driveway for a few days, so I wondered what had cut short its flight to, well, oblivion. After all, the monarchs I see around upstate New York likely migrated thousands of miles to lay their eggs here. After that, their lives are pretty much over. They've done their bit. Time for the next generation to take over.

My mother turned 107 last month, and I find that unimaginable, too. Her life is quite small. She is confined to her bed, where she can read or watch TV -- or sleep, which she does a lot these days. She raised five children, three of whom are still around. She lived through two world wars and countless smaller ones, relieved that none of the three sons who served in the military ever saw combat. She kept our home, cleaned up our messes and fed us well. She read to us, helped us with homework and made sure we said our prayers. You could say she's done her bit, too.

Like a new generation of monarchs, who manage to keep their species alive, I'd like to think my generation has done a good job of taking over from my mother's. I'd like to, but I don't. We made a lot of promises when we were young about making this world a better place. If we'd kept more of those promises, it might actually be a better place.

So like the monarch butterfly I held in my hands, then laid in one of my flowerbeds to fade into oblivion, maybe it's time for the next generation to take over. I mean, look at them: marching for the future of the planet, protesting the violence that continues to shatter the lives of the innocent, promising to do better than we did.

I hope they'll keep those promises.

Being there

I’ve been thinking a lot about noise recently. Not just the sound of gunshots in the distance as my rural neighbors gear up for deer-hunting season. Not just the voices of politicians who think they can score points by shouting each other down.

It’s the noise inside my own head that’s kept me from feeling at peace lately. It’s the thoughts and worries that keep me awake at night, that keep me from feeling truly “there,” wherever I am. I don’t know how to turn down the volume.

Yesterday, feeling less “there” than I had in awhile, I pulled out my tattered copy of Kathleen Norris’ “Dakota: A Spiritual Geography,” a book that’s about so much more than one woman’s move from the noise of city life to the “desolation” of the high plains, a place she calls “the beginning of the desert West.”

I put quote marks around “desolation” because as sparse as the Dakota landscape might be, you don’t get the feeling that Norris’ life there is “desolate.” Living in western South Dakota, she writes, has nudged her into a quieter – and richer – existence where she can think (or not) and write. She even stopped watching TV.

Scarcity, Norris writes, has helped her form a spirituality deeply rooted in the power of “less” – fewer distractions that can deprive you of the quiet in your own mind, a kind of peace you can take with you wherever you go.

Norris calls it “desert wisdom,” a wisdom that allows you “to be at home, wherever you are.” To be fully “there.”

Maybe I should move to South Dakota.

Front yard, 2 a.m.

The first night of last month's Perseids meteor shower found us standing outside, late in the evening, leaning against the car so our necks wouldn't hurt from staring at the sky. Between us we spotted seven or eight "shooting stars," two of them with brilliant tails. Not bad, but the next day we learned that had we gone outside between 2 and 3 a.m., the show would have been more spectacular.

So the next night I set the alarm for 2 a.m. Armed with an old blanket, I headed for the front yard. (It brought to mind another August night, years ago, when we lay in the grass, watching for shooting stars, and nearly jumped out of our skins when the cat tiptoed by and her bushy tail brushed against our faces.)

Back to last month.

I lay there, staring at the sky, waiting for the show to begin.

Nothing.

OK, I did see two garden-variety shooting stars, but none of this one-a-minute spectacle people on social media had predicted.

Disappointed? A little. But the stillness of that night, the cool air, the chance to lie back and stare at the sky reminded me that I need to do this a bit more often. Maybe not at 2 a.m. in the front yard, but somewhere, sometime.

It isn't just about finding time to be still, something else I need to do more often. It's about stopping long enough to feel how good it is to still be here.

You don't need more than an old blanket and a patch of grass to reignite your sense of wonder at something as "ordinary" as a shooting star. You just have to make the time.

103 and counting

My mother will turn 103 later this month, a fact I can't quite believe. But then, neither can she.

During my recent visit to the nursing home where she lives now, she told me she thought it was "kind of neat" the way people make such a fuss about her age. As they should.

She's lived through two world wars plus countless other wars, seen the emergence of television, watched men walk on the moon and witnessed the invention of everything from Twinkies to texting, among a million other things. She might not remember what she had for breakfast, but she can tell you in detail about the time she walked along a beach on Long Island in her new white shoes and got oil from a sunken German U-boat on them.

The year was 1917. She was five.

I try to imagine what the world might be like if I were to make it to 103. What inventions -- things beyond our imagining -- will have changed the way we live? Would I, as Mom does, recall the old days as better days, despite past hardships and disappointments?

Time will tell.

Just don't ask me what I had for breakfast.

Run like the wind

She had a pronounced limp and a scar on her snout when she became our dog. At just 12 weeks of age she'd already had a pretty tough life. She never complained.

A rescue pup from down South, she was everything I was looking for in the months after her predecessor succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. She was friendly, long-haired (for some reason I'd always wanted a long-haired dog -- one too many episodes of "Lassie," I suppose) and cuddly. She was small enough to fall asleep in my lap as I drove her home for the first time.

Someone told us she was an English shepherd, and you can find out a lot about them if you Google that phrase. But a couple of people I met in England said there was no such breed. No matter. She was, to my mind, the best kind of dog: a mutt.

Despite a bum shoulder that the vet said was likely the result of an injury early in her life (I shudder to think how she got hurt) she could run like the wind and jump high to grab a stick out of my hand. I loved to watch her romp in the back yard.

Time passes too quickly in the life of a pet, but we know this when we welcome them into our homes. At 13 years of age, my mutt could, on a good day, manage a brief trot. No more jumping for sticks, though. Belly rubs were now her great joy in life.

I chose to put her through some heavy-duty surgery that I hoped would buy us time together, but things went south after just a few days. I was driving her back to the pet hospital when she decided she'd had enough. A hand to her heart let me know she was gone.

I cried my eyes out and wondered if I'd ever again feel ready to bring another pet into my life, knowing that one day I'd have to say goodbye. But that's the bargain we make, isn't it: That in exchange for their undying loyalty and love, we will be there for them until their time runs out.

I miss my dog. Miss her terribly. So maybe, in time, I'll find myself driving another pooch home for the first time, even though I know full well that one day we'll have to make another, sadder journey together.

Wherever good dogs go when they die, I hope there are big back yards to run in and sticks to jump for and someone, some very patient someone, to give lots and lots of belly rubs.

Run like the wind, old girl. Run like the wind.

The opposite of love

During my senior year at my all-white parochial high school, my social studies teacher arranged for a handful of us to meet with a handful of African American students from the local public school. We met in the cafeteria of my old elementary school and talked about our lives. It wasn't long before we realized we had a lot in common.

But we also came to realize that though we lived in the same city, we lived in different worlds.

The story that sticks in my memory, all these years later, was of an African American family moving into a predominantly white neighborhood and, within days, losing their dog to some fool who wanted to scare them away. The poor dog was doused with gasoline and, well, you can imagine what happened next.

I still remember the stoic look on the African American student's face as he told this story. Things got pretty quiet after that.

A few hours later we went our separate ways, changed -- if only a little -- because we'd made a connection with people who weren't like us and had, perhaps, begun to let go of fear.

The other thing I remember about that meeting in the spring of 1968 is that it took place just days before the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down. It might have been the very same day, though I suspect that's just my memory playing tricks on me. The date doesn't matter. The lasting impression -- that we are all human beings meant to share this world -- does.

God rest the souls of those taken from this world out of fear, the opposite of love.