I spent my morning contemplating peace. Just that. I left that space and time feeling more…peaceful. Thank you, sound. Thank you, friends. Thank you, world.
Before I came to be in the company of friends who would support me in the search for peace and beauty, I sat in my car in an old neighborhood of our town. I needed a few moments to myself. A few moments where I could take in the colors of autumn, the sounds of leaves falling from trees. I was gifted with colors and sounds that I rarely take time to notice.
Even when I don’t write here for a few days or more, people who’ve lost loved ones, write to me. They’re looking for others who know their pain. I know their pain. And, I don’t. Because, their pain is their pain. I only know what losing Owen is like…what it’s like to lose my mom, my dad, my relatives, my friends. I also know how beautiful and peaceful losses such as mine can become. Huh? Yep, I wrote that. Because, it’s true. I don’t want it to be true, but it is.
I wrote this post on November 8, and couldn’t post it. I can now.
It’s time to share some of Owen’s writing. Oddly (and not so), I’m posting this on November 22 - my dad died 43 years ago today. We handed out the poem below at Owen’s funeral. He would have liked that.
All the Sea Soaked Songs
Black dogs on
skeleton sills
holding orchids
in their teeth
red naked tulips dancing
on some sheer walls of reality.
~ E. Owen Riley
Song for the night: Moonlight Sonata, Ludwig van Beethoven (One of Owen’s favorite classical pieces. He loved the movie, Immortal Beloved.)
When Owen was 13, his bedroom was full of photos of wolves. Lea and he had spent a lot of time together that winter, talking late into the night about animal medicine and the spirit world. The wolf photos remained among his favorites until we left San Diego and moved to Washington. After he died, I found a folder of the wolf photos among his belongings.
I took a journey with a white wolf tonight. She and I have been spending time together for the past 10 days, and I feel her with me now. Since I was a young woman, I’ve been howling at the moon whether it was visible or not. It’s always there, and I’m always willing to bay for the sheer joy of sound.
Owen howled when he felt comfortable enough to let go of the confines of mainstream life - and when he was in pain. If that doesn’t sound familiar to you, maybe you haven’t spent time in the woods, or in a backyard during a full moon - when time and space are of little consequence, and sound is everything. If you haven’t done this, find a time and place where you can howl like a wolf. Try it on. It’s an amazingly comfortable experience.
Wolf is a teacher, and wolf’s time spent alone is time spent contemplating what’s next. My wolf is showing me what’s next. My picture isn’t yet in focus, so I’m howling away my nights and peaking through branches during daylight. I laugh and cry as I hear my voice call out. I’m neither happy nor sad. I just am, and I’m certain the lessons I learn will be lessons I teach.
Song for the night: Night of the Wolf (no idea who did the music)
In 1999, when we decided to move from Northern California to San Diego, we were given a wonderful gift from our friends, Cheryl and Alan. They let us live in their garage apartment in Long Beach, CA, while we looked for a new home in the Southland. Nat was 17, Owen was 13, and Grandma was still with us. Dave was working out his contract in Washington with FedEx, and my job was on the move. I was the HR Manager for a web-based telecom company based out of Novato, CA, opening offices in Irvine and anywhere else where we thought we had a customer base.
During the month-long search for our new home, Cheryl and Alan afforded us the luxury of a home from which to set our sights on a new life. We were grateful then. I’m grateful now.
That summer was hard, and fun. Hard, because we didn’t know where we would land. And, fun, because that’s what we did. We took every opportunity to learn about our new environment, and made the most of it. We were very lucky people, and we knew it.
Tonight’s song was at the top of the lists, and when Nat, Owen, and I were traveling the freeways of Southern California in search of our next home, we listened to the radio at a decibel level uncomfortable for the average family. Why did we listen to music so loud it could have drowned out oncoming sirens? Because we were having fun, and we were on an adventure that had the possibility of being a jumping-off spot for so much more. We knew it, and we were bonded together in this new endeavor.
When I asked Nat tonight if he remembered the song, he said, “Oh, my god, I don’t ever want to hear that song again.” My response was, “Yeah, I get it, but we had fun, right?” He smiled, and said, “Yes”.
I know he remembers our trips up and down the 405 freeway, when the song came on the radio, and all three of us would begin the “dance”. We would do the car-dance, the physical gesticulations so familiar to people trapped in a speeding vehicle, searching for the future, barreling toward the unknown, full of melody and rhythm, full of laughter, full of hope. We were, indeed, all of that.
Song for the night: Mambo No. 5, Lou Bega (We didn’t have YouTube to give us visuals for the song back then. We were at the mercies of our imaginations. I was a mom, my kids were man-children. I’m sure their visions were different from mine. Ha ha ha. ”Hoochie-mamas” were okay by me, because my kids were lovin’ life. I loved being there with my boys, singing, and bopping along with them in the car. We were an amazing sight, and an amazing family.)
Lea and I were in the Los Angeles area this week, showing her paintings to some galleries. She has two exhibitions coming up in the next year or so, one in Malibu and one in Santa Monica. The trip was fast, we accomplished a lot, we laughed, we cried, we told stories, and as usual, we drank a lot of coffee. Besides two galleries wanting Lea’s work (which was the purpose of the trip), we met some friends of a friend and spent a wonderful evening with them, and had lunch at Pink’s on La Brea. All these years, I’ve been telling Lea about Pink’s, and finally we got to spend a much-too-hot (90-degree weather in October) hour on the patio underneath an umbrella, eating our chili dogs, onion rings, and Cokes.
That same afternoon, Wednesday, before starting our drive home, we visited with Carla at a coffeehouse on Sunset and Cahuenga in Hollywood. We talked about how funny it was that we were all together in L.A., but figured it would be just as easy to imagine having coffee together in Paris someday.
Today, looking for some paperwork, I came across some CDs of photos Carla sent me after Owen died. Of course, I’ve been glued to the computer since, remembering those years in Bellingham, and downloading the photos. Lea’s taking a nap, Anna’s at work, Dave’s running errands, and I hear Nat and Ruby coming in from school now. Ruby was Alice in Wonderland for the school Halloween parade. Kindergarten. Tonight, she’ll be R2D2 for trick-or-treating. We’re not expecting many kids at our door, as there are no sidewalks on this street and quite a bit of traffic. We bought candy last night, just in case, but I think we’ll be eating most of it over the next few days.
Dave and I have been on vacation from work this week, and over the past six months, we had about a half dozen different ideas of places to visit. Instead, he stayed home and got some things done while Lea and I were down south for three days. Lea leaves for Washington tomorrow, and Dave and I will spend the next two days in Redding, checking on his mom’s house before winter gets here.
The wind and rain have kicked up since yesterday. I remember as a kid, what a drag it was to go trick-or-treating in this kind of weather. Somehow, after a few houses and a few pieces of candy, the wind and rain didn’t seem to matter much. I hope Ruby feels the same way. Coyote is sure to be out there with her, and the wind and rain will mostly disappear.
I was out of town for the past few days - in Austin, Texas - for work. I have a hard time leaving home since Owen died. I was out of town for work on the night he disappeared. I will always wonder…
Weirdly, and not so, as hard as it is for me to leave, coming home from my travels is what I imagine astronauts experience when Earth’s gravity pulls them back to the ground. A coming home, to be sure, but to no home they’ve ever seen. Everything is changed. I don’t believe we can go away and return to the same place.
As my plane landed yesterday, I saw the runway, the smoke from the tires hitting the surface, and thought about the comings and goings of our lives, our journeys. I returned to no home I’ve ever seen, and to one of the many homes I’ve known in this realm. Re-entry - a birthing of sorts, a dying…all the same.
I have a friend, I’ll call her the Owl. She’s been with me since shortly after Owen died. She offers me a language I never thought I would need to learn. Recently, she offered to accompany Owen to the home of his ancestors. After a time of discovery, a time of resolution, a time of letting go, of thank you’s and uh-huh’s, I noticed him tapping his foot. Owen always tapped his foot when he was done with something. He finally understood why things happened the way they happened…and so did I. I finally understood who he, Nat, and Michael (their father), were and are.
Owen accepted the Owl’s invitation to fly. I trusted that she would watch over him on the journey. He walked through the fire, and his wings carried him beside her. I watched and listened as they flew together, and I felt both peace and longing. Peace in the knowledge that he’s sitting with his people now, and longing for that same peace for us all.
I will always think of Owen as the son and friend I know and love, and as the Raven he was - magical. I will remember him as a night owl, too. We had that in common, our love of those hours after sunset, when everything is quiet enough to contemplate what’s so…and, what’s next.
Tonight is a two song night. I go on my search now. The search for a song that illustrates Owen in his Night Owl image, and a song for The Flight.
Songs for the night: Night Owl, Little River Band
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFLdHx2ZXUA
And, this one: Owl Music Video, Brand X Music, BBC Motion Gallery
A few weeks before Owen died, a mama bird made a nest in the eaves of the roof above his bedroom. I don’t know what kind of bird she was, just that she flew like a bird, and made a nest for her babies. Owen could hear her working away on the construction of her new home, the pecking, scratching, and rearranging necessary to make a comfortable place for birthing and babies. He said she was tapping away at all hours of the day and night. She made for a loud and obvious presence, and he couldn’t believe a bird that size (she was about 6 - 8 inches long from beak to tail feathers) could make such a noise. From our balcony - the one we called Chicago, because it was always windy - we watched her flying to and from the roof to gather building materials, the sticks and twigs of bird nests.
About two weeks later, he noticed a tiny hole in the ceiling of his room. He watched it over the next few days, and the hole grew. The mama bird worked so hard, she pierced not only the roof, but the ceiling in the corner of his bedroom. Each day, the pile of nature’s fallout grew larger on his floor. He was mesmerized by this event. He talked about it daily - the tapping, the scratching, the falling debris.
The Sunday morning before he went missing, Owen and two of his friends met me on the deck for coffee. We talked about the bird, who by this time, had hatched her babies. They knew, because they could hear the tiny tweeting sounds, and as we talked, we looked up to see the babies take their first flights. They didn’t fly far. Just a few beats of their wings, then a return to camp, to home. All of us smiled, laughed a bit, and found joy in the new life before our eyes. We resumed our coffee-drinking ritual, and wondered what, if anything, we should do about the hole in Owen’s bedroom ceiling. Nothing, was the consensus.
On what would have been Owen’s 21st birthday, June 13, 2007, with him gone for about two weeks by then, I climbed his stairs to clean his bedroom. It seemed like the right thing to do. Mama bird and her babies had vacated their nest, and Owen’s room was silent. As I picked up his clothes, changed the sheets on his bed, and ran my hands over his belongings, my eyes caught on the ceiling, and I cried. I had cried so much by then, and since, it didn’t strike me at first, that I was crying for both - new life and life lost.
It strikes me now. It strikes me often. New life and life lost. One and the same. The cycle, the circle, nature’s gift, nature’s fallout - all visible in a bird’s nest, and in a pile of sticks and twigs on Owen’s floor.
Owen loved birds. He loved ravens, especially - it was right. He was one. He’s home now. The owl escorted him to his place among his ancestors. The eagle and the hawk protect him, from above and below…all flying, all free, all home.
Song for the night: The Eagle and The Hawk, John Denver
I came home early today. My dentist appointment was at 3:00. When the drill stopped, with my temporary crown in place, my face cleaned up, and my next visit scheduled, it was too late to return to work. So, I drove home, looking forward to a few minutes at the piano before my Thursday evening group gathers in our moderator’s den. A salon of sorts, but less practical, just as much if not more, heady. None of those in our group live in the practical world. Some of us barely live in this world at all.
Ruby sat with me at the piano, plinking away in her 5-year-old’s way. I taught her to play a chord, C major. Her hands are so small that this was indeed, a stretch. Then she asked me to play something from the music on the stand. I told her those songs are difficult for me, but that I would play one of my own tunes. She sat as I played a recent beginning to a composition that started on the second day of the piano’s new home in our bedroom. I didn’t recognize until last week, that the song sounds Russian. When I did, it hit me that the piano had written the song for me, being Russian and all. Not being able to read Russian, I still don’t know the manufacturer of the piano. I just know that it not only speaks to me, but apparently writes songs for me, as well.
Ruby left to help Anna with something in the kitchen, and as I was closing the bedroom door, I said, “What a blustery afternoon.” The wind has been blowing for a few days now - that gentle, comforting autumn wind that I love. Ruby asked her mom, “What does blustery mean?” As Anna’s voice began the definition, the door connected with the jamb, and I was alone with the wind, audible from the two exterior doors from my room to the outside, where blowing leaves reminded me of all the autumns when Nat and Owen were kids, and Halloween was whispering just beneath the surface.
I played part of the score to “To Kill a Mockingbird” - not on the piano, but on my computer. At once, I was 22, watching the movie in my living room on Craig Street in Pasadena. Still feeling like I’m 22, but with 53 years of life behind me, and who knows how many in front, I thought it might have killed me back then, if I’d known what was to come. Mom’s been gone 7 years today. A blustery afternoon, indeed.
Song for the night: Catch the Wind, Donovan (Owen discovered Donovan late, but liked his music a great deal, “…ah but I may as well try and catch the wind.”)
Not queues. Queues are lines of people waiting for something to begin - a movie, a play, a ticket to buy (not one to ride, that was the Beatles), a dinner to be served at a newly-opened restaurant. That’s not my theme tonight. Actually, I’m waiting in a queue to post tonight’s message, for I am too tired, too weary, to write in a cohesive manner. So, I’ll wait in a line of others waiting, for “the” time to arrive. That time when their message might be read by those who wait to read. Huh.
Again, I talk in circles. All life is a circle. A circling, recycling, rhythmic pattern of things gone before, things happening now, and things left to come. Huh.
My head is spinning. If it weren’t, I’d be confused. Oh. That’s right, I’m supposed to be confused. But, for some reason, I’m not. Instead, I dance in circles, and enjoy the moment. I enjoy those dizzy moments when time passes before me, when my eyes work hard to catch a freeze frame. I have so many. My breath stops, I recognize that frame, hear the voices, and smell the fragrance of joy. Huh.
I enjoy the visions of things left to come. I am hopeful. How can that possibly be? Because…it is. Huh.
Things left to come. Tonight I was talking on the phone to Lea about something that speaks to me in a way my simple, everyday life doesn’t. Something exciting. Something that can last beyond me. Just as I was confirming this thing as a possibility, a moth flew in front of me, and fluttered about in the light under which I sat. THIS was a cue. This moth was a blessing. This moth cued me to take my place on the mark, to speak loudly enough for others to hear, to let my voice move through the universe until it hits something that absorbs it - or on which it can bounce back. A cue. Huh.
Song for the night: Waiting for You, Seal (if you knew Owen, and wondered how he felt about you, and you really knew all along, this song is for YOU)
I went to a poetry workshop tonight. I haven’t read aloud since well before Owen died. I thought it might be fun. I can’t actually call it fun now, now that I’ve read aloud again. I can call it a thing whose time has come. So, I will. Tonight, I did a thing whose time has come.
As I promised, there will come a time when I’ll post Owen’s poetry. It’s not that far away now. Not today, though. Posting his words requires my ability to read and reread his journals. Something about Halloween…maybe…we’ll see…spirits have a way of prompting me to act. Nothing too woo-woo here. Just a reality I’ve come to accept as…true.
Tonight’s poem, which I wrote in 2003, maybe 2004, can’t remember, doesn’t matter, seems like such a long time ago now…it was:
Avenue
Be careful, step lightly
on the avenue.
Down those side streets
lies another life, not yours.
Look closely at the signs,
they may be cherries strewn under the tree.
Could be your heart in pieces.
Pick up the leaves that drop at your feet
they may be your sisters,
they may just be leaves.
But you’d hate to find out you left
them behind, in either case.
After all this time
haven’t you found your way back?
Be careful, step lightly
the return trip is full of pebbles, stones,
roadblocks stand firm.
Grab hold of my hand
I’ve been here before.
I know the road, I built it.
Grab hold.
******************
Owen didn’t need smelling salts to arouse his consciousness. Smelling salts, however, release ammonia for just that purpose. I feel sometimes I could use a dose. Snap that little capsule, and maybe I’ll wake up. Maybe not. The bats are circling, they’re awake, it’s nighttime…and I’m too tired to sleep.
Song for the night: Ammonia Avenue, Alan Parsons Project
I’m not quite sure if the changing light of Autumn is accountable for what happens to many of us during this time of the year. I’m not quite sure it’s not. Something does happen in this season, that causes many of us to take notice, to listen with a keen ear to nature, to observe those things that are typically unobservable. How do we do that - how do we see through the thin veils?
True, sometimes, I write in riddles. If you are not only aware of the thin veil, but see it, through it… then perhaps you, too, feel the veil becoming more transparent. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, save your surfing time, and click off this site now.
Tonight’s Vice Presidential Debate is replaying on my television at the moment. I’m stunned at the thought that any thinking person doesn’t see how vaguely the structures we’re living within, are organized to speak to the “sheep” that they (the government, the media) hope we are, that we’ve become. I don’t rant on the subject of politics because I don’t feel educated enough to teach anyone, anything in this realm. I only know what I know.
This is what I know: this current U.S presidential election is one of the most entertaining elections of my life. Did she say, “entertaining”? Yes. And, why? Because I’m not sure our citizenry has a clue about the platforms (are there any that will affect my family’s life in meaningful ways?), the personalities, the histories, the freakin’ CONSTITUTION of the United States of America, nor the candidates’ abilities to lead…so I watch the Democratic and Republican National Conventions, the presidential and v-p debates, the pundits’ commentaries, and wish that none of it mattered. In our lifetimes, I believe all of it has some validity. In the long run, though? Not so much.
The thin veils are showing themselves in all their flowing, transparent ways. Our ancestors are circling their wagons. They’re taking inventory and stoking their fires. I see them behind the chuck wagon, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, and drinking from jugs of hooch, talking of unknown futures, and hoping for nothing more than to wake tomorrow when the sun will allow them to make it to the next stop, to feed their babies, and to plant a few seeds in a field of gold. I see them welcoming those of us who work hard to stay in this place, in this time…then letting go when we’re compelled to think our votes can make a difference. I see them laughing at our ignorance.
Where’s my horse, where’s my covered wagon, where’s my ballot? Where’s my vote going to land in a country that thinks my voice is irrelevant, so relies on the Electoral College to speak for me?
The veil is thin enough now for me to enjoy Autumn’s dimming light, and in that low glow, I see all of them in those gold fields - my ancestors and descendants who watch from a safe distance. They’re having some kinda party, ya know?
Halloween is coming, and I recall a time not so long ago, when masks and makeup were fun. The masks and makeup I see on the evening news in the form of politics are not fun. They are fake, just like Halloween allows them to be. Sad, the candidates don’t know they’re playing characters during a holiday feast.
I trust little now. I’m registered to vote, but don’t know that I need bother. I’ll go to the polls anyway, and check the boxes in which I used to believe. I feel my civic duty pulling at a tiny corner of the curtain of my reality. So, I’ll go. But, I let hope take a siesta a few months ago when propaganda became thick with the sticky sap of hype, of preaching, of revenge, of polls, and of downright lies.
I see you there, friends and family. I see you Owen. I see you in the mists. I know you know. Nat, you’re here with me. I hear you. Who should we elect?
If we can’t figure it out yet - we shouldn’t wonder why an inexperienced governor from Alaska appears important to women who don’t know themselves and are afraid to ask; nor whether a tortured VietNam veteran is an advocate of the Iraq war (or any war); nor whether a Harvard-educated friend of the working class makes sense as the leader of a nation of diverse citizens; nor whether “Just Joe”, with over three decades of government experience in Washington, DC, offers common sense in the chance he might need to become the chief executive of the land. If we can figure it out, the only ticket that makes sense is: Obama/Biden.
The thin veil is waving in the wind, and those on the other side are yelling, “Trick or Treat!”
Reading the page below entitled, "Mystery O. Riley" will give you some background, and if you find our mystery something you'd like to follow, please come back often. Losing our 20-year-old son isn't the way it's supposed to be, as we always hear people say. But, for some of us, it is the way it is. And, there's nothing to do, but find a path on this unthinkable road, through an unimaginable forest of grief, and in our case...an unforgiveable river of mystery.
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