Hubris

Murmurous Absences

February 11, 2013 /

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“In the final months of her journey towards death, she fearfully let go the chisel, and saw me take it up and throw it away. (We had no need of that chisel now.) It had lost its edge some time ago. Only the soothing touch of hands, smoothing away the dust, the detritus of anger, fear, self-pity—only that clearing pass of palm on heart, on head—was all that was required.” Helen Noakes

Waking Point

By Helen Noakes

Mother and Father: murmurous, eternal presences.
Father and Mother: murmurous, eternal presences. 

“The air through which I move is murmurous with absences.”—John Banville, Shroud

Helen NoakesSAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—2/11/2013—If I were to recall 2012, I would remember the long months of slogging through darkness towards a distant pinpoint of light. I would describe the year as a seemingly interminable, exhausting journey towards a moment of immense clarity. For 2012 was the year of my mother’s death, a year of endings and beginnings, a year that taught me to forgive, release, and bless the one person who shaped me in the womb and out of it.

And while this shaper, this sculptor of my strengths and weaknesses, was baffled and, at times, appalled at the shape I took, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was her chisel that had cut and scraped me into the woman I had become.

In the final months of her journey towards death, she fearfully let go the chisel, and saw me take it up and throw it away. (We had no need of that chisel now.) It had lost its edge some time ago. Only the soothing touch of hands, smoothing away the dust, the detritus of anger, fear, self-pity—only that clearing pass of palm on heart, on head—was all that was required.

We sat in silence in her quiet little room, rain pattering on the window, the sounds of children’s voices from the grammar school playground next door, the clock on the wall, silently marking off the seconds, minutes, hours. Until, one day, a day when she seemed more aware of the present than her imagined past, I thought to ask her forgiveness for any pain my being in her world had caused. She stared a moment, in surprise, and said I had done nothing that required forgiveness. And after falling silent for a minute, murmured, “But she was a terrible mother.”

I was stunned into silence. She gazed at me for one more moment of lucidity and then slipped into the soft-focused world of her dreaming mind.

Hearing her refer to herself in the third person, I knew that she had accepted her separation from this world. There was no turning away now. My hand moved over her in the familiar prescribed Reiki patterns. I felt her spirit seek a peace her body would not permit. And, as if driven by another wisdom that had its own prescriptions, my palms sought patterns: brow and heart, crown and solar plexus, sending energy between the two, opening pathways towards peace. I later found out that these were not new, these combinations. Dr. Usui, the founder of Reiki, had used them. It was the Reiki, the repeated affirmation that she was loved that allowed her, days later, on November 10, to slip gently into her good night.

On January 1, I marked the beginning of 2013 by taking a long walk on Ocean Beach. The Pacific sparkling and frothing with immense waves, the cries of children, the barking of dogs, seemed far away. The ones who shaped me flitted gently through my thoughts. It was my father’s birthday, January 1. With that memory, my mind conjured my parent’s wedding picture—my mother’s hope-filled smile, my father’s serious gaze. My father with his infinite patience and his iron will: contradictory traits I inherited.

My grandmother’s love for the holidays soon drifted into my thoughts, her cooking for days towards our Christmas and New Year celebrations. She loved books, my maternal grandmother—books, music, and the Christmas season. Did she imbue me with those tastes? My aunt, whose free-wheeling independence seems to have rubbed off on me, did little, enjoyed much, and found humor in the most unlikely circumstances. My great-uncle, whose letters to me I found as I was clearing my mother’s house, led me to think beyond the ordinary, to dig deep and not turn away. And my maternal grandfather, who died when I was four, left a deeply imprinted memory of his love, his patience, his indulgence.

How much of them I carry in my bones, my thoughts, my writing and my art. Like the breaking waves I cannot stop watching; they hover on the sparkling tides of memory for a moment, wash away, then return. Whether I see them in my mind’s eye or not, they are in me, around me, and despite their absences, they murmur their stories, their incredible stories.

Note: For anyone interested in reading further from John Banville’s work—a quote from his novel, Shroud, precedes this column as an epigraph—please go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shroud_%28novel%29 and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Banville.

Helen Noakes is a playwright, novelist, writer, art historian, linguist, and Traditional Reiki Master, who was brought up in and derives richness from several of the world’s great traditions and philosophies. She believes that writing should engage and entertain, but also inform and inspire. She also believes that because the human race expresses itself in words, it is words, in the end, that will show us how very similar we are and how foolish it is to think otherwise. (Author Head Shot Augment: René Laanen.)

29 Comments

  • Robin Bradford

    February 11, 2013 at 1:43 pm

    This is a lovely essay, Helen. I now feel I know your mother a little…and you a little better. Thank you!

  • Dennis Hanshew

    February 11, 2013 at 1:59 pm

    Dear Helen, My life has been “on hold” for well over a year now, waiting for mom to pass. It has been, thus far, a horrible, slow, agonizing exit from life. Her doctor told me that had it not been for her dementia, she would have given up and passed by now. But because of her dementia, she does not think or know to give up. A terrible twist of fate I am afraid. It is not what she would ever have wanted and yet, small blessing that it is, she does not know to know. Compounding it and bringing it all down to such a base level is the financial burden, the worry, the stress, will there be enough money to pay for it all. Do you know the author, Bohumil Hrabal? I’ve just read a marvelous short novel, “Too Loud a Solitude.” There is a line that sums up the story and so much else, really, “Not until we’re totally crushed do we show what we are made of.” Dennis

  • Helen Noakes

    February 11, 2013 at 3:00 pm

    Robin, thanks for taking the time to read and to send a comment. Complimentary words from a fine writer like yourself — that’s just wonderful!

  • Deborah R.

    February 11, 2013 at 3:17 pm

    This is truly beautiful writing. It comes from such a deep place, and how wonderful that you could capture and bring up so many moments, then cast them into words like a sculptor casting a graceful piece into bronze.

  • Elyce Melmon

    February 11, 2013 at 4:09 pm

    Insightful, sensitive poetry that I will want to re-read and re-read again. I think of the many people who feel as you do but are not equipped to express it. How fortunate for us all that you are!

  • eboleman-herring

    February 11, 2013 at 5:30 pm

    It is an honor and a pleasure to have Helen back, after a long, loving sojourn with her mother, during which she had very little time to write for us. I loved this piece. All of us who have nursed parents through final illnesses will find poignant echos here of our own experiences. However “good” a death our loved ones experience, the last bit of road is so, so difficult to travel for those going, and those staying on a while. Godspeed, “A.,” Godspeed. Love, e

  • Eve

    February 11, 2013 at 5:57 pm

    I felt like I was there with you….the pain, the love, the forgivness and acceptance, both hers and yours….The melding of the souls and hearts…..Helen, what a wonderful piece of art!!!!

  • Helen Noakes

    February 11, 2013 at 6:00 pm

    Taryn, thanks so much for taking the time to comment. I hope to see you very soon, at the Mechanics’ Institute Library. A wonderful place, a nurturing hothouse that allows my writing to grow.

  • Helen Noakes

    February 11, 2013 at 6:02 pm

    Deborah, my dear, given your recent loss, your words touch my heart. Writing is our way of honoring, grieving and coming to terms, and aren’t we lucky to have such a wonderful outlet. Thanks for your comments.

  • Siddheshwari Sulliva

    February 13, 2013 at 6:49 pm

    Hi, Helen. Thank you for sharing these precious thoughts and moments. As Elyce wrote, many of us have the experience but not the skill to put it into words. Thank you!
    Dennis, I am sorry that your mom is having a hard time – and you as well. That she is not mentally clear enough to be able to let go. May something shift so that she can find her way.

  • Helen Noakes

    February 14, 2013 at 2:05 pm

    Dennis, I wrote a long response to your comment, and somehow it didn’t post, as I’d expected it to. Perhaps it was too long and much too tedious. I sympathize with all you are experiencing. It is, indeed, a difficult time that requires our going inward to find the strength we have funded in dealing with our grief at seeing someone we love going on the most difficult part of their journey through life.
    Please take good care of yourself, and find support in your process. There are many agencies that can help you, personally, and advise you on matters related to the mechanics of taking care of your mother. Do look into Family Caregiving Services in San Francisco. Their Social Worker was invaluable in giving me direction. In the meantime, I send you my warmest good wishes. Keep strong.

  • Helen Noakes

    February 15, 2013 at 12:53 pm

    Thanks so much, Barbara. I appreciate your taking the time to read and to comment. And thank you for standing by me during difficult days.

  • Helen Noakes

    April 3, 2013 at 12:27 pm

    Thanks for taking the time to write in, Jon. As you well know, it means a lot to writer to know that people are interested in what he/she has to say.