A love immeasurable

'These kids love you, and speak to you with their hearts-- when you speak with the heart, you cannot stop it.'

-Sendo, May 29, 2013

Avek soléy

The summer solstice came and went
so we gathered in the streets
to watch the sun disappear behind the trees

The longest day came and went
The days grow shorter now

A life so spent
---

Don't you dare think
of it

That summer sun,
going along

And for me,

The trees in the horizon

Holding onto you forever.

- E. Whitmire 5/29/13

Variation on a theme

'Thank you my life long afternoon
late in this spring that has no age
my window above the river
for the woman you led me to
when it was time at last the words
coming to me out of mid-air
that carried me through the clear day
and come even now to find me
for old friends and echoes of them
those mistakes only I could make
homesickness that guides the plovers
from somewhere they had loved before
they knew they loved it to somewhere
they had loved before they saw it
thank you good body hand and eye
and the places and moments known
only to me revisiting
once more complete just as they are
and the morning stars I have seen
and the dogs who are guiding me'

-w.s merwin

John

John died on a Saturday. He was buried in the night, where fresh dirt and flowers lay.

An unmarked gravestone.

I don't suppose I'll ever wrap my mind around

The what ifs and the how comes

Of this place

But what I do know

That God is here.

In the happiest man I have ever met.

In the gentlest soul.

In the quietest ponderer, and in the biggest spirit.

In the hardest worker, and the sweetest smile.

I've known these faces

And I'll tell you something. On Monday morning,

As the sweat came down my face, and my neck was hot with the beat of the sun.

As the tears mingled and singed my lips. I gazed up towards the sky.

I looked up at the passing clouds.

They moved so fast, I felt alive.

And a 21 year old boy in a wheelchair held my hand.

He held my hand, and I cried.

How can they

'How can they spend hours doing that.'

'That's so hard to see. Really sad.'

I glance to where the girls are looking.

Teenagers and little ones have made a narrow soccer goal out of rocks. Older guys are sitting on the hill, drinking beers and laughing.

The kids line up from a distance and try to shoot straight enough to get the ball through the goal. They're betting pennies.

They're playing.

And I can't think how many times my dad picked a spot. We picked three rocks. Hit the tree, hit the trashcan at the James river, hit that rock.

Golf on my uncle's ranch to the closest tree. See who can get a grape in someone's mouth first. Everybody plays.

Boogy boarding at the beach, my uncle, my dad, my sister. See who can float furthest in on the sand. No cheating. Catch the best wave. Sabotage, but don't get caught.

Throwing handfuls of jelly fish. Swim down and squeeze my ankle. Pretend you're something that bites.

My dad and his brother rough housing in the surf, the last to be called to come inside.

It's time for dinner.

Play a game of catch, if you make a bad throw you get a point, if you drop the ball, you get a point, drops is the name of the game, and HE is the sole arbiter. Points are bad.

'It's sad that they have nothing to play with'

I follow their gaze and see a couple of friends, sword fighting with a stick and a rolled up piece of cardboard.

I think about chasing dad around the house with a hairbrush and a whisk. I think about him running down the halls of the church ahead of me to hide and jump out. I think about being 26, and knowing from a mile away that he's hiding, and where he is.

I think about when Brie locked him in the closet when he hid in there and then we pretended not to know where he was.

I think about cops and robbers and slap fighting on a points system.

I think about camping and fishing and rock hopping and

All those head injuries.

making his daughters laugh when he got hurt.

I think about the man who taught me that joy is not material.

To

I should take more pictures of this place.

Try and capture the life I'm living.

The ways I know when something is funny, when I don't know what's being said.

The shared sweat, the dripping sweat.

The sway of the markets and the screaming dogs at night

I love walking through this place. Any excuse to go anywhere, I take it.

Speaking creole. I had forgotten how much I love to be challenged. To dig down deep and try. To furrow my brows and sound like an idiot.

To ask, again, and again.

To try and understand.

Change

I hate change. If you know me, you know that I don't do well with transition.

And I'm not brave.

What I am, is stubborn.

Stubborn, and willful.

I think about going to the Ashland berry farm haunted hayride with my father. Terrified, I dreaded stepping into those damned haunted houses and running through those woods. I distinctly remember forcing my father through a door first, my face buried in his shirt, and refusing to let go, in spite of hindering both of our abilities to escape the terror.

I think about going to bonnaroo with my dad the year I graduated highschool, so sick with Lymes disease I could barely see straight. But I wasn't going to miss a minute.

And the examples go on. Roller coasters at the state fair, because I don't want to fear them, and horror movies in the theatre, so that I don't turn them off.

I pressure myself to be braver.

And, I want to be someone, who travels. Who is adventurous. I love the idea of that person.

I love adventure.

But I'm often afraid. Worrisome. If you will.

So, I live in Haiti.

I wanted to, and I can.

I am someone, who can live in Haiti.

And I absolutely love it here.

Now, faced with the opportunity to move back to Richmond and enter into a new job, I'm frozen.

I'm sad, and I'm scared.

Change.

And I feel stuck.

Can coming back to richmond really be as scary as moving to Haiti?

Can leaving Haiti break my heart?

And how do we know. Where to go.

I was scared to go to college, when I hated my first semester but refused to transfer.

Scared to move to Spain by myself when I had my heart broken.

Scared when I stood in the doorway of St.Joseph's in port au prince, and watched every person that I knew drive away.

But in all things that I want, I can dig my heels in.

I can stick it out.

It's not the doing that scares me.

It's the knowing.

I don't know. If I should stay in Haiti.
Or accept this job in Richmond.

I'm not scared of the doing, I'm scared of the not doing.

I think leaving Haiti might break my heart, but this opportunity is calling to me. And it seems like it could be time to take another step.

To dig in my heels, and be braver than I am.

I just never figured, in a thousand years, that the brave step could be Richmond.

But Haiti or Richmond.

Change is inevitable.

And hopefully for the better.

I just pray it's for the better.

How do you know, when you pray, what is fear, and what is right.

At night, I pray about moving back to Richmond and I cry. I don't want to leave Haiti.

But I'm not sure I'm supposed to stay.

Lord, I pray for you to guide my steps. Quell my fears, and in all things, let me trust in you. Don't let me leave if I shouldn't. And don't let me stay, just because I want to.

This place

yon pòm chak jou

I'm sitting on the porch eating an imported gala apple from Washington. I let the sweetness crush against my teeth and burst. And I wash it down with a beer so cold it tastes like frost.

I walked to my best friend's home today. His name is Jean Rodaine. He is 28, married, and has two baby girls. One is three, one is only days old.

My creole has grown, and we talk about more than action verbs.

Not only what we're doing, but when we're doing it. And how we feel.

How we feel, and who we are. As friends.

As people.

I had forgotten, like when I moved to Spain,

That you can lose yourself in the unknown.

Without the words to be yourself.

Who are you?

Who am I in creole?

Without my words? Who am I?

I'm beautiful but not exceptional. I'm musical but not virtuosic. I'm smart but not a genius.

In all of these things.

I am loved.

And I am patient.

I waited. To learn. To speak.

I waited for them to know me.

And they do.

Who am I in creole. Who am I,

Anywhere.

Jn Rdn has two jobs. I didn't know this until today.

We left work at four, and walked up the mountain for about 45 minutes.

We arrived and stayed no more than 30 minutes when he said, well, we'd better go back.

He had to be at 'work' at 5:30. We needed to catch a motorcycle.

It's a big deal, to be invited into a Haitian's home. It means that they trust you. It prefaces a real relationship. It's the fourth home I've been invited to.

When we parted ways, Jean asked me if I could come to dinner on Monday.

He and his family live in a two room cement building. The ceiling has sunlights cut out, and the doors are partitioned with plastic and fabric. The walls are sparsely decorated, and the bed is a frame he carved himself. Living with his family are three orphaned children from the neighborhood and two teenage boys that help out around the house.

And I understood. One thing.

'Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.'

If you've ever been asked to share a meal with someone who has nothing.

If you've ever known love you couldn't return.

If you've ever been known.

I ate an apple and watched some of the kids. They stand on the balcony and gaze into the mountains. So still.

The rain had settled and the clouds are warm.

I feel insignificant in the wake of Jean Rodaine's friendship.

How I'll never be able to reciprocate his generosity

And he may never know,

How much I care about him.

How I've been so humbled by his love.

How I spent more on an apple than he will make tonight at his second job.

How I'm sorry.

And in no languages, and in all languages,

How I thank God.

e mwen lapriyè pou mwen ka fè pi bon pase mwen fè

She

I remember how she rubbed her knuckles. How she slid a dense silver ring over a begrudging, and tired joint. How she turned the ring around on her finger, absently, when she was thinking.

When she was watching.

I remember driving in the car,

Out at all of the beautiful trees, the sky, the flowers, the park benches

The abandoned buildings.

It made no difference.

Sometimes to see a spectacle.

The obvious.

Mawmaw, how beautiful is that, just look.

But she was already looking.

Perhaps not at the monument, the house, the garden, the sunset that you chose for her to attend to.

Perhaps a swirling plastic bag, caught in the breeze, skittering down the sidewalk.

Perhaps a young couple in the car beside you.

Perhaps an overgrown curb, the weeds vying for opportunity, cascading down along the pavement, yearning to be noticed.

And she did.

I owe my attention to beauty to you.

No matter where you were.

An overflowing adventure.

Life.

Always worth living.

Love, again.

I tell myself. I say it out loud. And under my breath. I whisper it and feel the words pass over my tongue and through my lips.

It is worth the suffering that comes with the loss.

If it was worth the love.

But sometimes I miss my dog so much that I can't breathe.

And when I think about walking down the aisle without mawmaw by my side, I can't breathe.

Of marrying a man who doesn't know, this family, that I cherish beyond words.

Who doesn't know I am,

Because I am this love.

And what of being stuck in a love that left three years ago.

Of being someone who wishes

It was the way it was

Back then.

Jackie

Being with Jackie is like constantly being in on the best secret.

He has an unquenchable light in his eyes.

And when something goes wrong,

Or something amuses him.

When a visitor locked the only key to their room inside, and someone else with a key to the room won't be here until Wednesday,

He explains the situation.

He calmly asks if I know where there might be more keys, or if I have a key.

I say no.

And he says, no?

I say no.

I throw up my hands and shake my head.

Jackie glances towards the sky,

And the corner of his mouth tips upward.

It's negligible,

But it's there.

He thinks it's funny.

Well, Isabelle,

What are we going to do?

'I don't know Jackie. Darn.'

Darn.

Another smile.

'Okay, thank you.'

Comfort

Are we comfortable? Are we challenged? Do we tell ourselves that we face challenges in our every day lives, full well knowing that they don't scare us?

Last night a spider the size of a tennis ball stood between me and my bed. Where did he come from.

Why.

I'm already in Haiti.

It's scary enough, I tell you!

I didn't need this.

A plan was hatched. A bucket and a mop were engaged.

It was a failed mission.

He ran off towards my bed, in between my suitcases where I assume he lays, lurking under some unworn garment.

I can feel myself cringing and telling myself he left.

He may not have.

But I cannot live in fear.

I have to face this challenge.

He forces me to.

And all I can think, is,

Elizabeth, you asshole, why did you leave so many clothes on the floor.

This is Haiti.

Mother and little bit

My mother is my biggest fan, my bravest critic, and the most unyielding support that I have ever known.

To be honest, given the general gravity and unavoidable quantity of disaster I oft find myself in, I think I can safely say she is the most unyielding support I will ever know.

It's not unusual that your mother love you, that she would be proud, or encouraging.

But it's more than that. What she is. Who she is.

My mother loves me courageously. With bravery.

She is unceasing.

I wear her out. I know it. The mistakes I make, the general disregard and neglect I have taken for basic living requirements, my inability to pay attention to detail...

I am exhausting. In fact, I exhaust myself.

None of this is to say that I do any of it on purpose.

It's only to acknowledge that I know how distracted and forgetful I am. How irresponsibly I spend money, and just how many coffee mugs I've left in my car.

Not only does she forgive me time and time again, unfailingly, with no remembrance of grievances past, she forgives instantaneously.

Say I spent two hundred dollars erroneously on clothes with her credit card without asking, left my dinner dishes in the sink, went out to get drinks with my friends, having done nothing in the house to lend any finger of a hand, and then came home at 2:30 am, waking her up when I very well know she will be on the organ in the next 4 hours.

Did I not know the actions would disappoint her? That they were wrong?

Well, whatever the reason, let's not get off task, people!

And knowing that growing up is a serious business, I'll tell you what follows.

I'll go to church. 8 refreshing hours of sleep later, having bought a new outfit with money I didn't earn, I'll look beautiful. I'll 'do my grievous' duty, and let the dog out before I go. The 1/2&1/2 will inevitably be left out on the counter, and I'll miss the prelude.

My mom will see me in my pew when she wheels around after the processional, and I'll smile.

And I'll get this look.

I can hear it across the room.

A subtle exasperation. A mitigated sigh. Hello Lisbeth.

I love the way she says my name.

But she won't be amused or elated to see me. I'll receive a curt acknowledgement of my presence in the service.

Fast forward to the end of the service. I'll come up to her on the organ bench. I'll chirp, 'hey mommy, great playing. (I'll mean it). To which I'll receive a distended hug and a thanks babe, you look nice...

A disparaging call out.

'You are in fact wearing the outfit you bought without permission with money that wasn't yours to spend.'

(Yes, I am. I'm sorry I couldn't. I didn't help myself.)

I didn't help myself. And I'll hug her again and head off on my march.

My mother is not a physical person by nature. I suspect, that marrying my father and bringing two chubby Whitmire babies into the world was a quick remedy. And now,

When I was so sick. When I lost the man I loved so dear. When my dog died. So little, and so encompassing.

Still, when she's frustrated, her hug is short, like the way she clips my name.

It doesn't feel good.

That normal and delicious drawl- a 4 syllable name rounded into a windy two syllable spoonful.

But in her distaste for my indiscretion, it's articulated.

Good morning Elizahbuth.

Where my father is a tonal man, and 'dizzy' takes on a variety of pitches and cadences, so that I know where he stands in that day, and where I stand with him.

But my mother is a counter.

Rhythmic to the core. She clocks out the syllables with purpose.

And I. Know. What. It. Means.

And where I probably shouldn't, and where she probably won't like it,

I love this about her.

later, (soon.)

I'll see her again.

I'll strike up an anecdotal story, to which I'll get little response.

I'll berate her with questions, that she'll answer with minor irritation, but that doesn't dissuade me.

I keep on until I latch onto one.

And all it takes is one. One question more, and she's distracted by our conversation.

She's talking to me. Responding. To me, her person. Her daughter, her dear friend.

And here's where it happens.

I will make her laugh.

This sounds like a scheme. It isn't.

What starts as a hell bent intention to make sure that my sweet mother isn't angry with me, (because I can't bear it).

Because it takes so much to anger her and so little to make her happy

Because she asks for virtually nothing that is unreasonable

And literally not one thing that is irrational.

Because, in the end, she will always laugh.

She will always laugh, and I will always laugh.

We will always laugh. Mother. Daughter. Best friends. Confidants. Allies.

For there is no one in the world that finds me funnier, or lovelier, than this woman.

A love so deep, that one good joke sweeps it all under the rug. And she looks at me with new eyes, the sweetest eyes, all over again.

The eyes I imagine I first saw when I came into the world


So on this day, I find myself asking,

Just how lucky am I (God-given luck) to know that love?

And between you and me, a good sense of humor doesn't hurt either.


I love you more than you will ever know, mom. Happy Mother's Day.

The kids

The kids are hollering. Little baby goats. Just barely born, their owners are spritely 11 year olds with chicken wire legs.

They run down the mountain and along the dirt trails. Impossible to say who is frolicking and who is leading who. A lively flutter of color and limbs.

Sister Irma is singing. The same song every night. It's so beautiful.

I know in writing, one should aim for description.

But it's just beautiful.

A simple song. Sweet, and soft.

The clouds are settling in, and soon the entire house will be ensconced,

Like a secret. Like a dream.

We're all here, together.

I try and think about what matters.

And forgive me for being narrative, or cliched.

But all that matters.

Is who we have.

Who we have, and who we lose.

Who we love.

How.

How we love.