I went to Eugene this weekend to visit my foster family. It's four hours north east, but it speeds by with a swiftness I never feel when I drive from, say, San Bernardino to Phoenix. I think because it's so beautiful, my mind is free to wander and daydream and write little ditties in my head and suddenly, I'm there.
There is nothing more stunning than the fog rolling in on the hills upon hills of Redwoods that encase the Smith river as you're leaving Crescent City and heading toward the state line.
I've never lived in fog before. The residents here talk about it as a general oppressor, something you move inland to avoid. That hasn't sunk in for me yet, and I sincerely hope it never does. I've always been so fascinated by the languorous roll of the moisture wrapping over the cliffs abutting the sea or the ancient, giant trees. It is so reminiscent of a woman, rolling over in bed after lovemaking. When I drive through the mist, I feel as if I'm being caressed by a finger.
When I got to Jacque and Dale's, it was as it always is. Simple hugs, deep conversations, a few errands. Soaking in each others company, because there is never enough time. I feel so profoundly loved when I'm there with them. We talked about Jacque's dad, Daddy Dick (I know, right? It's funny. But it makes me think of the whale, and really, he was a force to be reckoned with) who's generosity with his children and their friends, along with his wife, set a lovely standard and foundation for Jacque to model her life afterwards. Hence her taking me in, with 51 other foster children during her youth.
Which has therefore deeply affected my own foundation, my own life model. It's why I took guardianship of my neighbor when I was 18 years old and she became my sister. It's why I plan on being a foster parent myself. Why my friends trust me to be the godmother to their children. It seems that everyone knows I can love people who, by societal standards, do not belong to me as if they came from my own womb.
I gave Daddy Dick a rock when he was sick and fading away. I was a rock thief, you know. If I saw a smooth stone in someone's landscaped front yard, I would grab the one that caught my eye the quickest. I had a small collection of them; stashed on my windowsill, in bowls next to my bed. He called it his Erin rock. When his dementia fully sank in and he forgot his wife of 67 years and the life they built and would wander away from home, he always had it with him in his pocket. Of all the possessions he would take in his confusion, my rock was always on his bedside table and if he went somewhere, it was where his hand could find it.
They buried it with him. I cry at the profoundness of it whenever I remember.
I was just a kid on the same street as his daughter that hung out at her house all the time, and I belonged to him like his own blood. Maybe even deeper. Who could question why I am the way I am when I had people like that as my archetypes?
This is something I wrote up there. And that's the end of this blog.
There is only a heart and bones in this body
One propelling the other forward
Foot by aching foot
Fiercely and frighteningly and fatefully.
I drive along the river
Letting the power of the curve whip me forward
Mile by mile
Waning and waxing and wondering.
The water is rushing the banks
Tears rolling over my mouth the night I came running
Swollen but raging
Savage and scared and sickened.
Your arms swallowed me up
Hills of redwoods surrounding the valley
Foggy and still
Silent and steady and sure.
If there’s one thing I’m sure of
The rivers of your love fill the sea of me
Fathomless and grateful
Living and loving and loved.
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