Aufwiedersehen

Recently, when I went for my daily walk, I came across the pussy willow shrub I discovered a few years ago along the shore of the small lake near our house. The pussy willows had just burst from their buds. I've always loved them because they are one of the first harbingers of spring. I picked a few sprigs and put them in a vase so I could enjoy them at home. I took a picture and sent it to my sisters and one of them asked me, "What is it about pussy willows? Why do we love them so much?" We came to the conclusion that our Mom had loved them, so they were a reminder to us of her and of home. Mom passed away in January 2008, just as we were getting ready to leave Ontario and move to Winnipeg to be a bit closer to her (and my extended family) and to our children and grandchildren. It was a difficult time for us as we had to adjust to giving up our home in Kitchener (where we had lived almost 25 years) as well as the parental home we had enjoyed so much for a few weeks every summer.

The day after I discovered the pussy willow in bloom, I went for another walk and stopped at the same bush. I thought about my Mom and how much I loved her and what she meant to me. We always had such good conversations on the phone and such wonderful breakfasts together when we visited. I wished that I could have her with me again, even if only for a few minutes; just a small sign of her presence would suffice. I looked around me. Everything was very quiet. A few feet from the pussy willow I noticed a canoe. It was not tied to anything, just sitting there on the rocks. It was empty.

The next day I again returned to the same spot. I had brought my camera and took a few pictures. I noticed that the canoe was painted moss green, Mom's favorite color. That was the only connection to her that I could think of. Perhaps she was letting me know that she had come for a visit and parked her boat so that she could walk with me. Or maybe it was a sign that she had crossed over to the other shore, stepped out of the boat and gone to be with those who have slipped from their earthly bodies.

Recently my sisters and I and a niece who feels very close to her grandmother got together and reminisced about our Mother and Grandmother. We decided that maybe we needed to let her go. Maybe we were hanging on to her too tightly. Together we read some words from one of Henri Nouwen's devotionals:

There is a moment in which we need to give those we love the permission to return to God, from whom they came.  We have to sit quietly with them and say:  "Do not be afraid ... I love you, God loves you ... it's time for you to go in peace. ... I won't cling to you any longer ... I set you free to go home ... go gently, go with my love."   Saying this from our heart is a true gift.  It is the greatest gift love can give.

Reminiscing about all of this, I was reminded of Alfred Lord Tennyson's long elegy In Memoriam, which I studied and wrote about for my MA thesis. When he was still a young man, Tennyson (1809-1892 -- poet laureate of England), lost his best friend Arthur Hallam in a boating accident. Tennyson's elegy  is a celebration of a friendship as well as a mourning for the overwhelming loss of that friendship. It is a frantic search to somehow make contact with his dead friend, to assure himself that their bond is not severed after death. Tennyson worked on his long elegiac poem for many years. He laments that he could never achieve the goal of seeing his friend again or hearing from him.

                                             O life as futile, then, as frail!

                                             O for thy voice to soothe and bless!

                                             What hope of answer, or redress?

                                             Behind the veil, behind the veil.

In 1889, toward the end of his life, Tennyson composed that beautiful poem Crossing the Bar, about how he envisioned his own departure from this world. No doubt, even though his mind probably went back to his friend as he penned these words, he seems to have come to terms with his loss and is certainly at peace with the thought of his own death:

                                             Sunset and evening star,

                                             And one clear call for me!

                                             And may there be no moaning of the bar,

                                             When I put out to sea,

                                              But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

                                              Too full for sound and foam,

                                              When that which drew from out the boundless deep

                                              Turns again home.

                                              Twilight and evening bell,

                                              And after that the dark!

                                              And may there be no sadness of farewell,

                                              When I embark;

                                              For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

                                              The flood may bear me far,

                                              I hope to see my Pilot face to face

                                              When I have crost the bar.