This Very Brown Earth


Even sheep poop

Are you familiar with the book, “Everyone Poops?” We read it to our children, who listened with scatological glee. We’d occasionally quote the book, a jovial reference to what we’d each do, hopefully, every day. We’d pass a plop of dog poop on the sidewalk, “everyone poops, even dogs.”

On this tender gray day, Catherine is home from school with a raft load of laundry, inverted socks and her blanket, sheets, jackets, jeanjeanjeans and t-shirts, waiting for the wash/rinse cycle. I get to decide how much of this mountain I will fold. I get to decide, now that she is big and making her own decisions, aligning the inseams of her own leggings, picking, hopefully, the flecks of a tissue left in a pocket, wet little Rice Krispy’s all over a fleece pullover. I get to decide.

 

 

What we give to the earth, gives back.

church windows

Monday is the anniversary of my mother’s passing, now, six years ago on a brilliant clear day in Escanaba. The leaves remind me, Janet reminds me, the garlic patch ready for planting reminds me, the ripening quince remind me, that it is time to mark the anniversary of her death. I do that by getting on my knees in, as Pete Seeger sings, this old brown earth.

I swung a pitchfork of compost over the fresh vegetable scraps I put on the pile this morning and thought about how we all die. Everyone dies, I heard. Everyone dies. Amy Oscar writes about an ongoing conversation with her mother, who is in the act of dying, slowly, of how important it is to talk about dying, not let it be hidden and thus feared, held at further-than-arm’s-length in hopes of keeping it away. We all die. And the fall season is such a visceral reminder of that.

“It’s reassuring for the dying to know that they will not be forgotten. That we are willing to continue to be in relationship with them. It’s important, also, for them to know that we will be okay – and that they have our blessing when they’re ready to go.”

– Amy Oscar

I wonder if the way I remember my mother is the way my daughter will remember me, when it comes to my turn to die. Will Janet text her a love note? Will Catherine fold her wash leaning on the dryer; hummed into a quiet pause by the whirr of the washer, her basement dry, I hope, a good place to think?

Mom and Catherine when she was 10. Catherine and me, when she was 10.

Mom and Cat in 2007 Cat and me, same year.

I don’t forget my mother at all. She is here with me in every gesture. I try my best not to nudge my glasses up my nose like she did, or clear my throat with a similar sound. I avoid her annoying habit of using miles of paper towels in her dotage after a lifetime of vigilant cloth dishtowel use, thus no paper waste. I aim to hold in me what I hold dear of her, laughter, voracious reading, and long strides on many walks. I aim to hold her pleasure of being outside, sitting out in the evening, arranging her pots of geraniums, and always offering a hand in greeting to whomever she met. Her oft quoted maxim, “If someone is without a smile, give them one of yours” runs in our family blood. We are a social lot.

Storm King Golden TreeI have not forgotten her, but I have decided what parts I want to carry forward.

The gray zone of her memories, the places she refused to go in discussion, the way she harbored sorrow-all truly unfathomable to me as her daughter, but recognizable as her way of coping with the burdens she shouldered. These habits I work daily to live beyond. I sat at the table last night with Catherine and a guest, talking about a topic I would never ever have spoken of with my mother and felt new ground expanding before me. Going further than my mother ever went with me.

 

Isn’t that what we each do, generation upon generation? Our elders set forth a set of limits within which they excel. We see those as the near reach of what we hope to surpass?

I miss my mother daily. She is with me in every hug and kiss I plant on the people I love, living through me, going further than she ever went in real life. She is in my skin, of my skin, and of the skin of my children, there, smiling with them.

Everyone dies.

It is the ache of relationship. This morning, JNB came home from his weekly swim club with news that one of the older guys in the group had a stroke and won’t be returning to the pool. The inevitable risk of falling in love with life by being in relationship, even with a weekly date at the pool or with your parent-the one who zipped your soft neck skin in to your snowsuit by mistake or taught you how to handle the delicate load, is that one day, one of you will die. And we are left with the responsibility of memory, noticing how we carry them forward.

Pete Seeger composed This Old Brown Earth in honor of the death of a friend in 1958.  He requested that it be sung at his funeral. I love his wavering voice. There is lots of room for memory in his song, lots of room to shed a few tears, and a tune that I can carry outside in to the yard, where I will dig holes in the ground, drop in single cloves of garlic and whisper gratitude to the  brown earth for my mother who got me here and for all I know who, like Amy’s mother, quaver at the threshold between here and there.

 

Mom’s spot in Escanaba

Talk to your loved ones.

Talk to them, and listen to what they say, in words and gesture.

Take from them what you will.

Plant blessings.

xoS

 

For more words on death, if that is what you ache for, head over to Modern Loss, where Janet has written some good reading.

 

“And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see – or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.”

— Alice Walker

via Lisa Sonora this week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Showing 16 comments
  • evelyn asher

    Suzi, The mirror of your words and images inspire me to write a tribute to my mother who will be gone five years this month. I smiled at the mention of your mother’s boundaries, social being and her being a voracious reader. As always, your genuineness makes me pause, then share, rise forth to be heard. Safe travels.

    • Suzi

      Evelyn, I certainly hope you wrote that tribute…and many things since the day you left me this dear comment. Thank you for reading so closely and commenting from your heart. With love, S

  • janet

    It’s raining at the beach, inside and out. “I aim to hold in me what I hold dear of her,” you wrote. Let’s all do that, that thing, all the time, with the living and the dead, with our hearts, our whole hearts, all the time.

    This is so beautiful, Suzi.

    • Suzi

      And now you just got home from another seashore. Oh JRE, reading your words gives me courage. xoS

  • Holly

    I enjoyed this post on a rainy day as we prepare for a family wedding. Thank you.

    • Suzi

      And now, months after the wedding, I hope on this sunny spring day that you and the couple are both healthy and well and digging in to life. Thank you for reading me here HWS. xoS

  • Barb Buckner Suárez

    As my parents age, this is all the more poignant to me. I even thought while reading… “I will quote some if this essay at my mother’s passing.” Beautiful, Suzi. XO

    • Suzi

      Thank you BBS. I hope that day is long far from here. xoS

  • Mendy Knott

    Ah, such and excellent piece on death and dying. I will share it with Leigh, my spouse the hospice nurse. She will love it, too. Beautifully worded and well done. Thank you Suzi. I so agree that it is important to talk and write about death, just as it is appropriate to write poetry about Spring and Fall. I will share an older post about my soldier-poet friend who committed suicide a couple of years ago. He was so young and vibrant, but the world was too much with him.

    • Suzi

      Thank you Mendy dear, I hope this comment finds you well and in the arms of spring. I have somehow neglected this long line of comments. Working on my book today and reading over blog posts to harvest. Reading your words is an unexpected rose. xoS

  • Amy Oscar

    Thank you, Suzi, for honoring me with a place in your beautiful post. I came to read it and laughed at your opening. Just yesterday, my mother and I were remembering together the book that she gave to my son when he was 6 or 8, “Everyone Poops.” As she struggled with an activity that ‘everyone’ does, automatically, naturally, until they can’t or won’t or don’t, these memories are like links in a chain. They hold her in a circle of sanity and relatedness. Just as this blogging together – one post inspiring another, and another – seems to hold all of us in a circle, as well.

    I want to add that women understand these things – organically, instinctively. We know about circles. We know the importance of children’s books. We certainly know about poop. And we teach these things to our children – as these mothers we remember today, taught us. Women know, as keepers of the fire, about memory. Thank you for this post.

    • Suzi

      Amy dear, I am only now responding to this long ago comment. And I needed your knee next to mine as I revise my manuscript, which you, midwife friend, witnessed in it’s development. Much love and many thanks for all you are. xoS

  • Brece

    Suzi–indeed, an inspiring post. Death still seems that elephant in the room–never talked about, yet part of every life. Here is a link to a Mary Oliver poem that seemed fitting–Roses, Late Summer, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLkIl9jrFbc

    • Suzi

      For sure, Brece. And even, your art is about that, don’t you think…old things, dead plants giving their last bit of life to your creations? Leaving traces of their vigor in your compositions? xoxoxS

  • Kathy

    Suzi, I was reading this yesterday in our “little house in the woods” and afterward experienced one of those moments of deep gratitude for your sharing here. It seemed as vital as the last of the garden broccoli I whirred into soup for lunch. For just a moment it seemed that life itself breathed and died and breathed again through your essay. So–thank you. You created such rich soil here of humus and seeds.

    • Suzi

      Oh Kathy, some day I hope to stand in that little house. I carry you with me wherever I go. Much love! S