The evening after the eclipse, Sunny and I take a walk. The sky is mostly clear, except for a few dramatic clouds hovering behind the tree line. The horses are grazing as usual, their coats covered in fine sweat that is just beginning to evaporate as the heat and humidity slowly lift. It is 8 o’clock, four hours after the sun and moon finished their dance through the sky.
Joel, Sydney and I went down to the barn and watched the eclipse from there. We did the pinhole through the cardboard trick and used eclipse glasses to take short peeks at the scooped out sun.
Sydney and I let the horses out because they seemed eager to enjoy the grass under a slightly cooler sky. The temperature gradually dropped from 91 to 87°.
At one point I brought a chair and sat in the shade under a tree. I was surrounded by the shapes of crescent moons created by the sun filtering through the leaves.
As the moon covered 97% of the sun I looked and listened for anything that might be a sign. The cicadas continued chanting, a single bird chirped behind me, the horses eagerly cropped grass. Sydney noticed that one of the cows from next door was looking at us and the herd was slowly making its way toward the neighbor’s barn. Maybe the unusual light made them think it was time to come in.
And suddenly the crescent shapes shifted from one side to the other, and the scrim over the sky seemed to lift.
I thought of all the people looking up – friends and family in the mountains, at the beach, in town, in faraway states. For that one moment, we were linked. Held together by a celestial ribbon, an awareness perhaps of the beauty of our sun – its strength and fragility.
When the eclipse was over, I was exhausted and empty, as if a part of me had been scooped out. I hadn’t expected to feel that way. Actually, I hadn’t thought about what would come after. Maybe I was picking up on the collective sigh from our country.
Tonight, I am grateful for the presence of horses grazing in the fields, the dog who walks by my side, my family and friends who share this wide world with me and the glorious colors left behind by the setting sun.
The beach has always been a place of deep nourishment for me. When my mother passed away, after living with Alzheimer’s for 14 years, I was physically, emotionally and spiritually depleted. I fled to the coast in search of the parts of myself I had lost.
Each morning, I got up early and walked the damp sand, studied the shore birds, listened to the roar of the waves and inhaled the salt breezes. My mother had always loved the ocean and images of her inspecting shells or pointing out dolphins gradually began to float back to me.
As I remembered and grieved for my mom – the woman I had lost, the mother whose physical form had departed this world – tears filled my eyes and slipped down my cheeks.
At the same time, descriptions and words filled my head. and I began jotting down lines of poetry that turned into poems. In this period of solitude, I gave voice to the myriad emotions that came to the surface.
Little by little, a lightness began to permeate my soul. It was as if my grief had been clogging the pathways to joy. And as I gave my feelings permission to take flight through words, a sense of the sacredness of life filled me. Gradually, I awakened to some of the day-to-day blessings I had been blind to over the years as I numbly cared for my mother.
I’m excited to share my journey from grief to joy in my new collection of poetry called The Beach Poems. It will be available through Main Street Rag Publishing Co. The list price is $12. But If you live in the U.S. and you order now, you will receive the pre-publication discount of $6.50 (plus shipping).
Click here for your pre-order discount. The collection will be mailed to you upon publication. Thank you for your support, and may your beach days be blessed!
I was just chatting with a “friend” on Instagram. We were connecting about our love of animals and nature, and our conversation suddenly took a turn. She told me that her mother’s birthday was tomorrow. I knew that her mother had died and sensed that she felt this loss intensely.
I felt a sudden deep empathy. My mother is gone too, and her birthday was in late June.
My Instagram friend is a writer like I am and her words made me pause. “We never fully stop grieving. It is an ever evolving process, and through writing they live on with us and through nature and animals communicate to us. Never the same, but comforting.”
As a poet and a nature and animal lover, I know this to the core of my soul, though I’m not sure I’ve spoken it out loud. My mother was deeply in tune with nature. I remember her awe over the spectacular winter sunsets on the North Carolina coast, her silent reverence for the beauty of Lake George and its wildlife as we paddled her green canoe, her passion for protecting undeveloped land.
Like nature, she was never in a rush. Mom taught me to appreciate the mountains around the lake and the long stretches of damp sand along the coast. With her eyes, I take in the tall pines that line the bay, and I scan the ocean’s dark grey green waves for the fins of dolphins.
I follow her footsteps as I hike the rocky hills of the Adirondacks. Is it her feet or mine that sink in the sand as I search for shells beside the ocean as the salt air caresses my cheeks?
Each time I walk on the beach or return to my ancestral home in upstate New York, I am soothed by visions of her.
To read more about my mother and her influence on me, order a copy of The Beach Poems, a collection of poetry about the Carolina coast and the crescent of sand we called “the beach” at Lake George in Upstate New York. To receive the pre-publication discount, click here.
Also, check out my friend @meditatingwithanimals on Instagram and learn more about her lovely book here.
I’m so pleased to announce that my collection, The Beach Poems, will be published by Main Street Rag Publishing Co. I’ve been working on this group of poems for oh…about 10 years. (Not long compared to the time I spent on my memoir.) 🙂
The beach has always been a place of deep beauty and healing for me. My mother passed away in 2007 after 14 years of living with Alzheimer’s. As you can imagine, it took some time for the layers of loss to lift. This collection of poems is special to me because it shares the story of my journey from grief back to joy.
Here’s the exciting part. My publisher Scott Douglass is offering a pre-publication discount. The book will be released in a couple of months. But if you order now, you can get it for $6.50 (plus shipping) instead of the cover price of $12. Not a bad deal.
Here’s a link directly to my author’s page:
The MSR Online Bookstore: http://mainstreetragbookstore.com/
*A note from the publisher: Those of you who don’t like buying online, Main Street Rag will take checks, but the price is a flat rate of $12.50/book regardless of quantity which includes shipping and sales tax. Please remember, though. This is for advance orders. It doesn’t mean the book will be shipped early, only that you are receiving a discount for ordering before it goes to press, but the price will only last for a limited time, so order now!
Thank you so much for all of your support! I send my deepest gratitude and blessings to those of you who have walked with me and been on your own journey through grief. May your beach days be blessed.
To read more about The Beach Poems, go to my website by clicking here: www.anncampanella.com
I’ve been at the lake for almost a week, just enough time to slip into the rhythm of a lake dweller. Someone who has forgotten the minutiae that occupied my mind before I arrived, someone who eats meals on the deck and no longer cares about washing my hair, someone who takes note of the wind and checks the surface of the lake each time I’m outside. Someone who cools off before dinner with a swim.
Here at Lake George the weather shifts from cool and windy to warm and sunny to damp and rainy within a few hours. This year, we’ve been blessed with beautiful days where we’ve enjoyed being out on the boat, swimming to the float at the family beach, spending a morning on a dining porch or an afternoon on a dock chatting with cousins, watching the sun set over the mountains.
The first few days, we rushed to get everything in, still running on the energy of our regular lives. But today, my last day here, I want to slow down and absorb the messages this place holds.
On our first days, we took Sydney tubing with a cousin, went kayaking around the bay, swimming at the beach. We gathered with cousins for our annual family meeting and picnic. There was a flurry of activity and fun.
Midway through our time here, something slowed inside me. My daughter and I canoed to Joshua’s Rock. The wind was so strong, we hardly needed to paddle on our way out. We sat on the ledge that I’ve shared over the years with my mother, my siblings and cousins and looked out on the expanse of lake. Neither of us said much. My daughter picked wild blueberries from the bush beside her as I studied patterns of moss on the granite under my bare feet. On the way home, we had to dip our paddles deep to keep from floating backwards with the current.
Before sunset, the wind died down and we took our friend’s pontoon boat out. The water in the bay was like glass and the sky a tapestry of greys.
Today, I walked down the hill to the beach and felt the echo of my childhood footsteps, how I couldn’t stop my young legs from running, skipping over the stones that rose from the green grass like the brows of my uncles.
The sight of water behind the tall pines along the shore never fails to lift my heart. And on a day when the sky is china blue and sketched with white clouds, this place feels like a small piece of heaven.
After losing about a month to illness…a sinus infection (hidden deeply behind my right eye) and perhaps a touch of bronchitis and/or pneumonia, I am returning to the land of the living. Out of necessity and lack of energy, I had to pull inward, drop out of many of my normal activities. As I sat with myself for so many uninterrupted hours, I couldn’t help but ponder the transitions that have been and are afoot around our place. We’re caring for horses again on our property after a good decade of having the barn empty, and six years of homeschool are coming to a close. Both of these things feel major, and one is the beginning of a new (and old) venture, the other is an ending (at least for now) and also a beginning. And as someone who likes to put things in order, this tangle of beginnings and endings has been confusing.
One of the startling things to me about bringing horses back to the farm is how familiar and different it feels at the same time. In some ways, I’ve stepped into old roles, often without even realizing it. As I’ve been teaching Sydney and Lauren-Kate about horses and giving them riding lessons, words come out of my mouth that I had long forgotten were even in me. I even find myself standing or walking differently…a stance and a pace from my 20s and 30s, the days when I taught a dozen or more kids and kept five horses at our barn.
What is also startling is that my daughter has suddenly (seemingly overnight) become a responsible horse woman. She brings horses in from the field, feeds, grooms, checks water and does every other barn chore without needing to be reminded. She seems to have a sixth sense about how to handle horses.
My last memories of having horses at the barn a decade ago were somewhat dreary – me, childless and exhausted from caring for my mom, feeling as if the day-to-day chores were endless. And so, although, I love horses, I was in no hurry to have several in my care again.
It has been such a sweet surprise to see how Sydney (and our friends) have happily taken to barn chores. I pinch myself almost daily as I walk down to the barn and am suddenly transported back to my own teenage years. I remember how I “did it all” as my mom stood to the side, and now I see Sydney doing the same thing. Not only does she not need my help, she likes being independent and showing me her new-found skills. And, of course, this is a little confusing too and requires some adjustments on my part. While I am “the professional,” I must take care to step back and give my daughter the opportunity to be “in charge” of certain things.
At the same time as barn and horses are shape-shifting in my mind, so is Sydney’s schooling. She is no longer (and hasn’t been for a while), the child who needs me to oversee each project. She has been taking the reins (pun intended) and setting her own course. And next school year, she’ll be stepping into a new situation, one where my presence will only be necessary in a peripheral way.
Most parents, who don’t homeschool, probably experience this change much earlier or perhaps in a gradual way as their children move through the grades of traditional school. But the shift from homeschool to traditional school is more abrupt, and there are bumps, even though both Sydney and I are excited about what’s ahead. She’s looking forward to fun social opportunities, days full of activity and new experiences. I’m excited to hear about her new adventures, encourage her through these transitions and have new pieces of time for myself.
But navigating these new situations will be a challenge. Figuring out my new role and respecting hers will no doubt cause friction at times. Change doesn’t occur in a straight line. We’ll both no doubt slip into old patterns and stumble our way into new ones. Learning who my daughter is becoming and what she needs and doesn’t need from me is somewhat daunting.
I’m sure that on occasion I’ll miss the toddler who ran into my arms for comfort. But at the same time, I celebrate the changes that Sydney is embracing. She is an amazing young woman who both challenges me and expands my awareness of what it means to be a loving parent. I adore her and look forward to this new stage of life! It has been the most incredible gift to be Sydney’s mother. As always, I pray for God’s grace as we travel the path ahead.
After 10-plus days of head-aching congestion, laryngitis and basically feeling pretty rotten along with many days in a row of having a fever (once all the way up to 103), I’ve been feeling rather pitiful…missing my mom (she took great care of me when I was sick!). I had a couple of hours of being fever free the other day (so I decided to give myself the gift of writing about my mother), then wham the fever hit me again! Is this the dreaded 10-day virus? Or is my immune system just seriously compromised after dealing with the Lyme co-infections? Who knows? It just is… Maybe this is where humility begins. So much for getting a running start into summer. Thought I’d post a pretty photo, so at least my eyes can be happy.