An old friend called and left me a voicemail the other day. He said he’d been coiling up an extension cord and it called Val to mind, because of course he did it the way Val taught him: the way that lets the cord unwind again later without tangling. Val had firm opinions about the proper coiling of cords and hoses, developed early in her careers in landscaping and television. A messy cord exasperated her. She mentored me in the coiling knack, too, and probably lots of you (I don’t know who taught her; do you?). First, with another person, you draw the cord out straight, smoothing out any twists and kinks. Then, as you wind it up, wrapping from hand to elbow, you do a kind of inverted loop at every other pass; that’s what will let the long line unfurl perfectly later. It was a pleasure to watch Val’s competent hands moving smoothly with body memory, tucking loops of cord into a neat coil that would make a sailor proud.
It made me cry and it made me smile, listening to that short voicemail. It was a gift: to hear that Val left this friend with something, to hear that he was thinking about Val. It was a gift to feel accompanied in my outpost of affection and sorrow. It was like getting a postcard on the ice floe.
I notice that many people in my regular world are no longer mentioning Val, or asking how I am, with time to listen to the answer. Of course, of course I know folks don’t want to say the wrong thing, or unwittingly stir up murky waters during my work day; no one wants to accidentally punch through my paper equilibrium. People are nervous or busy or sad, or don’t feel entitled, or a million kind and vulnerable things.
So, I will tell you. Speaking for myself, here on my ice floe, let me say that I welcome the company. I am sad, and I am thinking about Val. All the time. I am many other things too, including happy sometimes; but right now I am also always sad and thinking about Val. So I like it when people ask. I want people to ask me all kinds of things like: How are you feeling? How are you getting through the day? What’s hard? What’s easy? What surprises you about this? What’s beautiful about it? What are you scared of? How has your life changed? How do you miss Val the most? How are you missing Val today?
The other Portlanders and I, the emergency-room sisterhood, we are all dispersed to our houses and work lives now; and when we are able to talk to each other it seems to me that everyone is a bit dazed and a bit lonely. You who live elsewhere, I imagine maybe you feel adrift too. I think there is big company in this grief and affection, but we are newly scattered. We aren’t on the party line anymore.
But a blog is kind of a party line. Maybe this can be one place we keep gathering.
So: I love hearing the ways other people miss Val. I love the firework moment when she is conjured up in conversation in a bright splash of memory. I want people to join me on my ice floe. I invite you to chime in, any time. Comment here or call or email me if you’d rather. Or tell one another. How is Val present in your life? What called her to mind today?
I will tell you one that is on my mind. Used to be, when I was at work, the dog was with Valerie. Now she spends the day with dear friends, her extended family. But I can tell that when I am gone all day, the dog misses me. She is so happy to see me when I pick her up in the evening. When I come to get her she jumps up in my lap and then I take her home and cuddle her on the couch. Every night when I sit with her and pet her moppety head I think of Val lying in bed in her treehouse bedroom, watching me fondly with tired eyes, telling me in between sips of oxygen how much she loves watching me pet the dog, how I’m the best petter of the dog. And sometimes I think of her in the park, helping Tuley stalk tennis balls by the tennis courts. And cavorting with her on the trails in the Gorge and at the ranch; and laughing at Tuley’s intent expression as she chases flies. And calling me up to say, “Oh, man, your dog was so bad today.”
I miss loving the dog with Valerie.
Your turn.
Love,
Deborah
p.s. Or not. No pressure. All things in their own time.
Well, as you know, I had french toast yesterday with peanut butter and maple syrup. And, also, it was something my dad really liked. So I started wondering if Valerie has met my dad in the afterlife, and if they were both talking about how much they love peanut butter on french toast, with maple syrup, and ESPECIALLY with bacon. They would totally bond over that. And maybe she would introduce her mom to my dad, and the three of them would have a lovely breakfast and catch up on a lifetime of stories. It was an amusing and comforting thought… then I felt a little guilty about being able to actually ingest the delicious food, and then I wondered how there could be bliss without a body. She still makes me think!
French toast with peanut butter always makes me think of the whole Val clan. I can vaguely remember that it seemed surprising to me at first, but now it seems exactly natural and obvious. And yummy. I love that your dad liked it too (did he get that from his family?).
I wonder about bliss and bodies, too. Could be the body filters and constrains bliss, and without it we dissolve into a bigger Blissfulness. But body bliss is its own magical thing too, and I would (will) miss it, I think. From my current perspective. I love that she still makes you think. (Not that it’s surprising, of course.) She was naturally talented at philosophical speculation. I am constantly wanting to pitch “what ifs” to her.
Peanut butter on pancakes, french toast, waffles. Its a Garrison thing, we all do it. I am Val’s cousin and I think of her every time I see my beloved uncle or go to the ranch. Val is in the land, the sky, the clouds, the hint of rain, the rainbow. She had that kind of love of all nature. We miss her here too. As long as people think of her and have memories, she lives on.
Oh Deborah – this is so lovely. Thank you.
I have been listening to Val come out of my mouth since I came home from her memorial. The intonations of how I say things. And this week, not quite awake in the morning, as I was getting ready to go to work, I was singing a nonsensical song about “the hat is too hot” “nobody wants the hat” and dancing around and making faces. And as Jaki shook her head at my strange behavior, I was flooded with Val. And her songs and rhymes and dancing.
There is so much (SO MUCH) that is who I am, that I don’t know if she taught me, or I taught her, or we discovered together. But I am so grateful every time I hear her in my own voice, or realize that what I am doing, comes from her, through her, with her.
I send light signals to your ice floe, and much love.
Ha! Nobody wants the hat!
I sing her songs to the dog, too. And my songs. Both. I miss her spontaneous songs (although some of them happened VERY early in the morning) and I love that you are carrying those forward too. xo
I just want to say thank you to you all! I was kinda feeling like Deborah in one of her last posts, the one about forgetting Valerie. Now I know I’m still living and breathing because the tears are freely flowing once again. This week I am sending a gift to each of my children in Valerie’s memory. I hope they will share her with their children and perhaps there will be a whole new generation of Val-isms that will arise! I LOVE YOU ALL!
Jane, what a lovely thing to do. Hugs.
Love you, Deborah. I’m missing her so much this week. Forever, for the rest of my life, when I need Val’s special brand of compassionate and exasperated advice, the only way I’ll get it is to imagine it. No more surprises. I don’t think like her. I’ll never quite get it right. I miss her counsel. And her laugh. And the way she looked at me so sweetly that I knew I never had to doubt if I’d be loved. I am sorry for your sadness. I share your sadness, at least my small part of it. And I wonder how you are a lot.
i wish i had been able to ask val all of those questions. visiting from afar and with somewhat tiptoe caution, i didn’t probe. in her last year here with us, i had only days around her. and i let the time exist without forcing it in any direction. it seemed the kinder path. perhaps it seemed uncaring or fearful to her. i would have been present for any conversation. but i didn’t initiate all the questions i may have wanted to know. maybe one day those who had more time and proximity can share what she shared. if it doesn’t feel violating. for now, wishing you all love through the loss. i still don’t know what it means. xo,dara
Sweet Dara, I hope we will have lots of time for talking. I can tell you from my perspective and conversations with Val that your peaceful days with her this last year certainly did not feel uncaring or fearful to her but present and calm, and it was indeed a kindness she needed. xoxo
Deborah, thank you for these continued pebbles in the pond, dropping deeply for those of you at the center of this terrible beautiful thing and sending ripples of connection to those of us at the periphery.
I’m just home from a backpacking deep into the Quinault rainforest where I built a cairn in honor of Val’s rainforest days… And just before that from the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival where I built a cairn out by One World where Val had been on crew.
Even in the small dose in which she entered my life system she remains a potent presence. It gives me some small appreciation for the enormity of your loss.
Much love,
Holly