Life, a circus
It sounded like a circus out there this morning. Birds chirping everywhere, simultaneously. You couldn’t distinguish a single sound, except for the masses. The winter has been long and heavy, with more than ninety inches of white stuff. Yeah, heavy.
But you wouldn’t know it, from the sound of the birds. I’m guessing there were a good deal of mating calls mixed in. They teem with life. 24 hours and momma Robin promptly got her nest together on my back lights. Life readies for life.
When my mom passed away last summer, a certain degree of life in our family home went out. It’s not coming back. All the things that once illuminated her presence immediately grew pale. We’ve been trying to figure out what to do with the place since she left, if even just establishing some semblance of order.
“Who carpets their whole house green?” My dad asked me the other day. He was his general mystified self, at my mother that is. She had her ways.
When I was about six years old, she covered up all the original hard wood floor, with bright green lush carpet. She went on from there, painting all woodwork and walls white. It was almost as if she thought she was above nature, and perhaps in a way, she was.
Those white walls went on to contain all sorts of masterpieces. Some were originals, others prints, artworks old and new, most often containing New England themes: whales, ships, men on horses, raging waves, houses with shutters and wind vanes. Art books, toby mugs and high back furniture completed the look. Everything upright. Her life and home were a certain kind of masterpiece, with momma D’s lasagna baking in the oven.
But of course she loved the singsong of the birds as well. This, proven by well stocked feeders out the kitchen window, the bushes she’d planted, as well as the birdbath out back. Her unrelenting hospitality extended to all creatures, great and small. Her spirit was a gift to any room, although typically it would pull you into her home. Warmer weather would draw us out to the front porch, for hours. The citronella candle would get lit and never seemed to go out. She, more than anyone I knew, welcomed the circus.
My cousin was a trapeze artist in cirque de soleil. Once, I offhandedly remarked that something was, “like a circus”. She stopped me in her non-assuming and informative way, “You know Annie, I gotta tell you. I know what you’re saying, but people in the circus community actually get kind of bothered when people say that. Everyone tends to think it’s all chaos and no one is thinking, stuff is just happening… when in actuality, nothing could be farther from the truth. Everything is highly orchestrated, paramount is the safety of ourselves and one another, everything we do involves lots of organization and communication…”
Lately I’ve been raking up leaves, cleaning up and out. As for myself, the past few years have been a muddle of busy. The workload has only increased since my mom passed, which is okay. I think this is how things go. This circus ebbs and flows, spotlights shift. Things will calm down again, I think.
I look out at nature now, I hear birdsong and I think heck, this is all a highly orchestrated event. Maybe my mom just played an exceptional role, or perhaps, we all do.
My dad is older, with time on his hands to lean into reflection and ponder what’s next, if anything. He often asks me about heaven now. “Honestly, Anne… do you really think, could there really be? Is your mother in heaven?”
Me, I’ve always had a hard time knowing about heaven, its so unfathomable. Really? Something is just perfect and it doesn’t involve lifting a finger? Almost too good to be true. I set my eyes on what’s in front of me. The right kind of work, gives way to a home and eventually, a way to life. I don’t know about heaven, but here on earth, everyday seems a circus, and I’m actually, quite joyfully glad about that.
Anne Buckvold is a member of the Times Writers' Group. She is a social worker, organizer and artist who lives in St. Cloud with her family. Her column is typically published the third Sunday of the month.
This article originally appeared on St. Cloud Times: Life, a circus
