Stillness, Silence, and Solitude II

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Continued

Solitude

At home, I am not solitary. I live with my spouse, my dog, and two cats, in a vibrant retirement community in a college town where intellectual work, art, theater, and music flourish. Tourists stroll the streets in summer. I am always meeting people I know well—or not at all. This social identity feels so natural, so me, that it is hard to believe it is constructed or conditioned.

Entering solitude, for me, is like going home. Though I am far from my physical home, I feel more at home here. Alone, I am more aware of my feelings, more curious, open, at ease, and forgiving. In the quiet of this cold winter morning, I ask: Who is my essential self? Is it distinct from my conditioned self? Does my essence emerge in solitude, or in relationship with others, or somehow in both? The witness self—the continuous, conscious observer—appears more readily for me in solitude.

Still, I must be careful. I am convinced that truth lies in balance rather than extremes. Perhaps I value solitude so deeply because I have so little of it.

Stillness

I arrived with the hope that my days alone would be unstructured, guided by the heart’s promptings. I imagined staying in my pajamas all day, doing nothing at all. That fantasy dissolved when I decided to bring the dog. I have meandered from one activity to another, discovering that it is far easier to imagine being still than to be still.

What do I want from stillness? The word that arises first is settling. I long for the persistent sense of inner agitation to give way to calm. Through meditation, I have learned that this happens when I sit still for long periods. Buddhist teachings liken the mind to a muddy pond: when left undisturbed, the sediment slowly settles, and the water clears. In my own experience, my body settles first, then my mind, and finally my emotions; clarity emerges.

With clarity, my actions become more intentional. This week, in my efforts to be still, I have taken special care to cook nourishing food and arrange it beautifully in the mismatched bowls and plates I found in the cupboards. I eat slowly—and, of course, silently—savoring each mouthful, noticing flavors and textures, surprised and grateful. No conversation distracts me from chewing thoroughly, to the relief of my delicate digestive system.

I read slowly, reflecting on what I read, appreciating the symmetry and beauty of language, and letting words sink into my consciousness, hoping they will water the seeds of my own writing.

Slowness, I tell myself, is the first step toward stillness, as the dog and I head out on our thrice-daily walks. Snow, ice, and mud slow us down, and we accept and adapt to them all. He stops often to sniff each new scent. I stop too—standing still, looking around, breathing, inhabiting the moment.

Fast and slow, motion and stillness, cannot exist without each other. Neither is inherently good or bad; each has its season, even if I have my preferences.

Silence

It almost goes without saying that outer silence supports inner silence. Alone and still, silence becomes tangible. I soak it in, treasuring it. I resent the heater kicking on with its low hum, the sound of the upstairs neighbor’s truck pulling into the driveway, his boots pounding up the stairs, the clicking of my keyboard as I type. When these sounds subside, I sink into the silence and luxuriate in its nothingness. It wraps around me like the heat in an empty sauna.

For a moment, I imagine never speaking again, never hearing another word. I contemplate the silent emptiness of death, and while I imagine it, I notice a quiet gratitude arise. Then the heater kicks on once more, and I feel my body tense—just slightly—reminding me how much stress accumulates when we are constantly bombarded by sound. How restorative silence feels, with its sisters, solitude and stillness.

And yet, silence is not the same for everyone. If I could not hear, would I long for sound? My partner is functionally deaf. Without her hearing aids, she hears nothing at all. Deaf since early childhood, her experience of silence is marked by alienation, misunderstanding, and disconnection. For her, sound can be orienting and connecting—or overwhelming. She reminds me that silence, like solitude, is not inherently sacred; its meaning depends entirely on context.

As I bring these reflections to a close, I search my OneDrive for a poem I wrote some time ago and read it carefully, recalling the feelings behind the words.

THREE MAGI

Stillness
Silence
Solitude

Three Magi, wise and noble,
Enticed
By intuition,
A common secret dream.
Set off to find the source of all that Is—
of love,
of hope,
of truth.

Stillness ambles imperceptibly.
Motionless, she travels far—
deeper,
nearer,
clearer.

Silence speaks no words,
Adds nothing to the frantic roar
of hate,
despair,
and lies.

Solitude bears destiny as she strides forth.
Knows birth and death and all between alone. Her heart
a pulsing,
throbbing,
longing.

Three Magi,
seeking their soul’s star,
walk home.

What is the soul’s star I seek during this week of stillness, silence, and solitude? As I ponder the question, my witness-self watches thought-clouds drift across the sky of my mind: essential, real, true, authentic, love, compassion, home. Any of these could be my soul’s star. And these three wise magi—Stillness, Silence, and Solitude—are my companions and guides as I walk home.

I rise from the computer and walk slowly to the kitchen to boil more water for tea. The kettle whistles, breaking the silence. The dog stirs, stretches, and hops down from his chair to follow me. I look out the window at the fresh snowfall, still undisturbed. I remember that I have a few more days alone before rejoining those whose lives are bound to mine. I give thanks.

I give thanks.

Author’s Note

This essay grew out of a week-long solitary retreat in central Maine in 2023, and reflects my ongoing spiritual inquiry into stillness, silence, and solitude. Written as contemplative nonfiction, it blends my lived experience with reflective practice. My intention is not to idealize the three s’s, but to examine what they offer when approached with curiosity, humility, and balance.

Stillness, Silence, and Solitude

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I wake slowly and fitfully in what I sense is the middle of the night, in an unfamiliar, semi-dark, silent room. I toss and turn in the warm bed until I feel the need to pee, then roll onto my right side to get up. If I were at home, I would open my eyes to the digital clock on the bedside table—but I’m not at home. I’m on a week-long solitary retreat in an Airbnb in central Maine.

The retreat is part of my spiritual theme for 2023: Stillness, Silence, and Solitude. I was drawn to those words at the end of 2022—drawn by a deep longing for those states themselves, and for the transformation they might cause within me if I were to embrace them. Once this visceral yearning rose to consciousness, my practical nature kicked in, and I began looking for a place to be alone. I searched Airbnb and VRBO and ended up with a cozy apartment in a small town about half an hour—and a world—away from home.

No familiar glowing red numbers orient me in the dead of this night, so I make a deliberate effort to determine the time. I reach for my iPhone. 1:01 a.m. At the same moment, I catch a glimpse of an email notification that arrived after I turned out the light at about 9:30. It says:

“I completely agree with Daisy’s approach….”

Suddenly, I am wide awake. Why does this sentence jolt me so fully into consciousness? Because I disagree with Daisy’s approach—or at least, yesterday I had the uneasy feeling that it was naïve, lazy, or even a cop-out. Now my mind is engaged, and experience has taught me that the likelihood of falling back asleep is slim to none.

So I get up to pee, stewing mildly about Daisy’s approach and everyone’s easy acceptance of it, then return to bed and pull the warm covers over my chilled body. I lie there for a while, breathing deeply and saying to myself, Let it go, let it go, over and over, in rhythm with my breath. The stillness of my body and the measured breathing are soothing, and I almost believe I will slip back into sleep. Though my body is calm, my alert mind witnesses my feelings about Daisy’s approach and the emailer’s response, weighing my options for responding—or not.

Finally, I decide to see this early-morning waking as an opportunity rather than a dreary inconvenience—to view Daisy’s approach not as a problem to be solved, but as a stimulus for exploring my spiritual theme in the first hours of this new day. I get up, put on my long johns and warmest wool sweater, and boil water for tea. I intend to meditate first, then write.

After an hour of silent sitting meditation, reading, and journalling—unexceptional, much like my usual start to the day—I feel the urge to write an essay about where I am and why. I record the first moments of this day, an exercise in orienting myself to the here and now. Then I broaden my field of awareness to the larger context of this small Maine town.

As we drove in, it appeared extremely conservative. “How did you know that?” someone asked me later. I answered by pointing to the many American flags displayed everywhere, several with black-and-white stripes and a few bearing the “thin blue line” that often signals support for the police and opposition to Black Lives Matter. There were almost no cars. Pickup trucks sped past me on my walks with the dog. All of this, in my liberal mind, added up to conservatism—perhaps even of the radical sort.

And yet, while self-consciously practicing open-mindedness—and briefly abandoning my pursuit of silence and solitude—I paused to speak with a few locals during my walks. A young fireman at a nearby station waved at me. Thinking we might have something in common, since my family includes a couple of firefighters, I approached him to chat. I began by saying I was a stranger. He told me, among other things, that he was new to town as well and found the people friendly and welcoming. I felt a fresh breeze move through my mind.

Early in the week, I went to the corner store in search of a vegetable peeler. They didn’t have one for sale and directed me to another shop, a ten-minute walk away. As I headed up the road, I heard a shout behind me: “Hey, lady!” I turned to see the young woman from the store waving a vegetable peeler.

“You can have this one,” she said. “We don’t use it anyway.”

“I’ll bring it right back after I peel the sweet potatoes,” I replied.

“No—keep it. Leave it in the B&B for the next occupant.”

We wished each other a nice day, and I continued on my way, struck by her generosity. Nothing, it seems, is as unambiguous as it first appears. I am as guilty of stereotyping as the next person—quick to jump to conclusions based on first impressions, preconceived ideas, and unexamined prejudices.

But the title of this essay is Stillness, Silence, and Solitude. So, I pause my typing to ask myself: what do these insights have to do with those three words? Immediately, it occurs to me that I might not have arrived at these understandings without the space to reflect that stillness, silence, and solitude are providing.

My aim in seeking this trinity of s’s is to encounter my authentic self. Who am I when I am not doing, talking, or relating? I have spent most of my life engaged in activity and conversation. We all have. I wonder who I might be if I sat still, stopped talking, and lived alone. There is a rich spiritual heritage of solitaries who withdrew to caves and deserts—Jesus among them, at least briefly—to face themselves and seek meaning and purpose. Could I place myself, from time to time, in that lineage to do the same, and to better understand what motivates me, why I react as I do, and whether I might want to change some ingrained patterns?

Five days into this experiment, I ask myself: what am I discovering?

To be continued tomorrow

Okay: Part Two

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Though I am categorizing this as a story, it is creative nonfiction — based on real events. Names have been changed to protect privacy. Each of us approaches and responds to death uniquely. I want to honor that particularity.

Over the last three years, I visited Sarah about every couple of months.  I’d call or email a day or so in advance, and we’d agree on a time in the early afternoon.  Sarah didn’t see well or move quickly, so I would ring the doorbell, peek in the window to see her sitting in her usual chair awaiting my arrival, and then I’d open the unlocked door and announce myself.  “It’s Moriah.”

“Come in, come in.” 

I’d settle in the chair opposite her, and she’d ask how I was.  I’d tell her exactly what was on my mind at that moment, no matter how personal or difficult it was to admit or express.  Her head shook, and her voice quavered more and more as the months passed, but I listened closely to every word she said in response. I had come to rely on her utter sincerity and genuine concern. I was convinced Sarah, who had only recently become my friend, understood and cared deeply about me.  When I was finished opening my heart, I’d ask about her, and she would tell me—honestly but without drama—the health problems and every day difficulties she was experiencing; not in a complaining fashion, but matter-of-factly, always ending with gratefulness for the simple gifts in her life that brought her happiness.

I learned that Sarah was a Buddhist of Tibetan lineage and that she meditated regularly.  I meditate too, so that created a bond between us.  She told me about her teacher and some of the practices she had learned.  She joined me several times to meditate with a local mindfulness group. She always asked me about my writing and insisted on buying my novel when it was published.  I don’t know if she was able to get someone to read it to her. Her near blindness prevented her from doing so herself.

Sarah was so quiet and undemanding that people may have forgotten she lived in the neighborhood.  She would tell me she felt lonely and she was hungry for news about the neighbors and the goings-on in our retirement community.

She found workarounds for her limitations, though.  A personal assistant helped her with email, bill-paying, and the ubiquitous paperwork that inundates us all. Her daughter, Riley, came every evening to have dinner with her and help with anything that Sarah could not do on her own.

About a month ago, we noticed more traffic in and out of Sarah’s driveway. Riley began coming during the day, as well as in the evenings. Then she started staying overnight also.  I stopped in for a short visit to learn that Sarah was on hospice and declining rapidly.  Riley led me to Sarah’s room, where she was stretched out in a recliner with a cool cloth on her forehead.  She clasped my hand, told me how much I meant to her, and thanked me for our friendship.  She knew her time was short and was ready for death. We were both aware that this was, perhaps, goodbye. 

But it was not. She lived for another week or so, and I saw her a few more times.  The last one was the evening of her death. She was unconscious, breathing very lightly and gently.  While her daughter took a short break, I played a Buddhist chant, hoping that Sarah could hear and understand the reassuring words.  In the early morning, while I slept, a text came in that she was gone.  I saw it as soon as I awoke and rushed to her house in my pajamas to see her one last time, standing by her bed, kissing her smooth forehead and gazing at her peaceful face.

After that, Riley came and went from the house, handling the tasks one does after death: taking care of property, family, and financial matters with the help of Sarah’s personal assistant.  When I was finally able to catch her alone one evening, just before Christmas, she showed me the memorial altar she had lovingly and sensitively created around Sarah’s colorful tree. In the center sat her urn, carved with a Tree of Life.  Surrounding it were photographs and mementos from her life, several that I recognized, and one, a Buddha card I had given her a while back.  The altar was characteristically Sarah—unpretentious and beautiful. 

Sarah told me she was okay after Joe’s death, and I am okay after hers.  Each morning for the forty-nine days of her journey through the bardo or transitional state, I am ringing a bell and saying this gatha in her honor: “Body speech and mind in perfect oneness, I send my heart along with the sound of this bell.  May all who hear it (especially Sarah) be awakened from forgetfulness and transcend all anxiety and sorrow.”  Because everything is impermanent, I am letting Sarah go, along with the bell’s vibrations, into the universe on her journey home to the Source of Life.

The End

Okay: Part One

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Though I am categorizing this as a story, it is creative nonfiction — based on real events. Names have been changed to protect privacy. Each of us approaches and responds to death uniquely. I want to honor that particularity.

I was away when Sarah’s husband died. A neighbor sent me a staccato email, “Joe died this morning. Been over with food support.” We all expected Joe’s death. He had been on hospice for about a week and was declining rapidly. A couple of days before I left on my trip, when no hospice volunteers or caregivers were available, I sat by his bedside for a few hours one evening while Sarah rested. He talked deliriously for most of the time, the large-screen TV just feet from the end of his bed, blinking incessantly with wild-animal videos from the San Diego Zoo. I found the flashing images distracting and asked if I should turn them off. He said no, he liked the creatures, so I put down the remote and repositioned my chair so my eyes would not stray to the screen. I muted the sound, but the colors still danced on the wall behind his bed.

I had not talked with Joe for a while. Before COVID struck, we went out for coffee a few times. He told me about his life, work, and some of his unusual adventures. I mostly listened, except when asked a specific question, but the conversation always floated back to whatever was on his mind. He’d had a challenging career as an engineer, a happy family life, and enjoyed travel and living abroad. I relished getting to know him, and as a bonus, he introduced me to an excellent local café.

Now, as I sat beside his bed, he told me that he was content with the way things were ending. His children had taken good care of him during the last months, and he knew they would be there for Sarah after he was gone. He had completed everything he felt he needed to do and was ready to die. Even his garage workshop, where he had repaired all sorts of electrical and mechanical gadgets for folks in the neighborhood, was in order, thanks to his son’s help.

I moistened his cracked lips and dry mouth. I said I was happy to sit with him, that he needn’t talk, that he could close his eyes and rest, and he did so for about five minutes. Then the phone rang—his son was calling to say goodnight. I held the receiver up to his ear. After the call, there was no stopping his flow of words. As I hung up the phone, he launched into tale after tale about his life, much of it incoherent, with occasional dramatic bursts of clarity. He kept this up for nearly two hours until Sarah came into his room from her nap, and I rose to go home. I said goodnight and told him I was glad we had spent some time together. Indeed, I was grateful to have the opportunity to say goodbye to this gentle and kind nonagenarian. However, I didn’t know if I was saying goodbye for the night or forever. The next day, I left for a week’s vacation.

When the email announcing his death came, I decided to give it a day before calling Sarah. I know a lot of details must be settled immediately after death, and she and the children would be occupied. So, when I called, I just said I had heard, asked how she was, and told her I would come for a visit when I got home. She was grateful, and I found the call easier than expected. She seemed poised and peaceful, and that eased my shy discomfort. 

A day after I arrived home from my trip, I went into my garden and picked a few autumn flowers—some dahlias, some ferns, and tiny sunflower blossoms. I placed them in a vase and, taking a deep breath, called Sarah to ask if I could come over. She said a visit then would be fine. It took her a while to push her walker to the door, but it finally opened, and she warmly welcomed me. I offered the flowers, and she led me to a table along the dining room wall where she had put pictures of Joe, a copy of his death notice, and another small bouquet. Finally, she added my little offering to the display, invited me to sit, and suggested tea.

“Thank you, but no, I’ve just had my morning coffee. How are you?”

“Well, I’m okay, really,” she replied. I smiled and nodded, my eyes inviting her to say more. It seemed clear to me that she was, indeed, okay.

“Things went well at the end,” she continued. “He had finished everything he wanted to complete, made all the necessary legal and financial arrangements. He said goodbye to the children. Once he stopped eating and drinking, things went pretty quickly. I was sitting with him when he died, and he was peaceful. After that, my daughter came, and we just sat there for a couple of hours, looking at him, saying our goodbyes, and quietly talking until we were ready to call the funeral home. Of course, I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept much in the last month, but I’m relieved that it all went so smoothly. We had wonderful help from hospice and the children. I couldn’t have asked for it to go any better.”

I told Sarah about the few hours I spent with Joe the week before—that he had expressed gratitude for his life and peacefulness about death. I wanted to validate her sense that his end had been good. She smiled and thanked me for being there for Joe and here, now for her.

“Do you have the support you need right now?”

“I do. I’ve never lived alone in my entire life, and my health is still good enough that I think I can do that for a while. I’d like to see what it’s like to be on my own. So many people have been in and out of here, all his caregivers, hospice nurses, people bringing food, family. I’m enjoying the quiet and getting some rest. Yes, I think I will be fine, and I know the kids will help when I need it. And I’m fortunate that I can afford to stay here. Very fortunate.”

I asked a few more practical questions, to which she had ready answers, delivered calmly and confidently. She said that hospice had offered her grief counseling, and she might consider it. She thanked me for the few hours I spent with Joe before his death, and I expressed my gratitude for them. I said I sensed that she would, indeed, be okay.

As I got up to go, she remembered something she wanted to tell me. On the day of Joe’s death, an appliance technician had arrived in the morning to install a new dishwasher. Unfortunately, theirs had broken down, and the one ordered a couple of weeks ago had just come in. She explained to the fellow that Joe was dying and suggested perhaps he could come back another day. “I’ll be quiet,” the technician replied, so she let him go ahead with the installation.   

I chuckled and thought that Joe, an engineer and consummate handyman, would have appreciated that life goes on and dishwashers get hooked up, even while one is dying. Neither Sarah nor I put our thoughts about the peculiar irony of Joe’s final morning into words, but Sarah had a twinkle in her eye as she waved goodbye from behind the screen door. I walked home smiling and feeling okay, too.

Continued in Part Two

2025 Wrap-Up: Looking Back, Looking Forward

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I’m closing out 2025 with a review of the most popular articles I’ve posted on this blog since its inception in January 2017. With All Due Respect has a limited audience of just over one hundred followers, composed chiefly of friends, former colleagues, and a few strangers who have found me through internet searches. It’s intriguing what people find interesting. 

LOOKING BACK …

…at my stats over the last nine years, the most popular post, the one with over 1.5K hits, surprisingly is Nursing Homes: Clothing and Incontinence. It has topped the list of most-read annually for the life of the blog, including in 2025. Indeed, five of the top fifteen articles are related to aging, senior health care, and nursing homes. Is this surprising? Is aging of concern just for my peers, or more generally these days?

This article on incontinence and the treatment of patient clothing in nursing facilities gets at the very heart of human dignity and the respect or lack thereof that we demonstrate toward one another. Incontinence is often viewed by those who are gradually losing control over their lives and their bodies as the last frontier, the most humiliating, debasing loss. I’m not surprised that search engines have brought readers to my humble blog post.

I imagine a reader, perhaps a daughter, exhausted by months or years of care for her elderly parents, seeking advice on what to expect if she gives in and places one or both in a nursing facility.  What would upset Mom most, she wonders. What would Dad hate the most about it? Sitting in a urine puddle in a bed or wheelchair, she suspects. So, she searches the internet to find out how nursing homes manage incontinent patients.  Up pops my post, and she is mesmerized and appalled.

Little has changed in nursing facilities in the nine years since I wrote that article. The better-funded and staffed ones do a more acceptable job of managing incontinence and clothing care. However, the direction of senior health care funding in this country does not bode well for the future of even these places. The general societal attitude toward the elderly has not improved appreciably, though end-of-life care through hospice and Death with Dignity legislation have advanced the quality of life approaching death for many.

Curiously, my second-most popular blog post is The Waterwheel, with 803 hits.  It quotes well-known and beloved poet Rumi’s wisdom and was written just a few days after the start of the COVID pandemic. Its message of taking up and letting go, embracing and relinquishing, is just as personally, socially, and politically relevant now as it was in March 2020. I suspect most readers find it by googling “Rumi” or, perhaps, “letting go,” a frequent theme in my writing.

The Anatomy of Respect, with 617 hits, comes in third. It goes to the heart and root of this blog over the last nine years by emphasizing the role of listening deeply to understand and develop respect.  I have tried to link each essay, poem, and story in the blog to the theme of respect and have encouraged my readers to share their experiences and reflections in response.  Truthfully, only a few readers have done so.

The most extensive dialogue with a reader occurred when a self-described, deeply conservative Republican, then Trump supporter, businessman, and father, Ryan, challenged me to engage in conversation about our differences after I posted the next-most-popular article (with 323 hits), Deep Listening, in December 2020. Our exchange of philosophical, political, and religious ideas, recorded in the comments following the Deep Listening article, began in February 2021. It ended in July 2022 when his family and business life became too busy and complicated for him to continue writing. It was fascinating and encouraging to see how much we had in common. Also, it was extremely challenging to be open-minded and respectful when we differed.

Often, at the beginning of a new year, I launch a new theme with the intention of focusing my writing on a particular aspect of respect throughout the year. It’s not always apparent how the theme relates to my overall subject. For instance, Practicing for the Big Let Go, begun in January 2024, initiated my reflections on letting go in everyday situations as a way of preparing for our final surrender at the time of death. What does this have to do with respect? Letting go involves engaging with the fundamental truth of impermanence—constant change. It requires respect for oneself, others, the flow of events, and our nature as human beings.

LOOKING FORWARD

As 2026 looms on the horizon, and I take stock of the world around me, close to home and farther away, I find it disingenuous to wish an uncomplicated and joyful “Happy New Year” to my friends. I wonder which aspect of respect we will encounter, reflect on, and perhaps write about in the coming year.  As I grow older, my journey toward self-awareness takes me into more vulnerable, authentic, and intuitive territory. As I approach the culmination of life, I’m confronted by my affinity, even my oneness, with those whose ideas and actions I find disturbing or even abhorrent. Painful as it sometimes is, I sense my kinship and interdependence with everyone and everything. Thich Nhat Hanh called this “interbeing.” Acknowledging our interbeing, my three-fold aim to do no harm, help everyone, and embrace life just as it is, is a perennial and unrelenting challenge.

So, instead of “Happy New Year,” here’s my wish for us all. May we seek to respect one another, and may we meet next year’s opportunities to do so with courage, accept their invitation with curiosity, and respond with compassion.

Perspective (7)

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Seventh Installment

Deborah’s heart sank. The dream of swimming free at Concord Lake was dashed, but she felt, after all the distress she had caused, that she owed it to her sister and everyone else to acquiesce. So, she promised, relieved that Meredith had not been angrier. The conversation ended with a silent hug, but the inner turmoil, for herself and, she suspected, for Meredith, would continue.

Swimming back and forth along the shoreline, with everyone watching her like a hawk, had no appeal whatsoever, but she decided to take one last swim before the vacation ended. She had heard that Alex lost his favorite T-shirt in his brief attempt to swim to her rescue. When he tore it off and flung it toward the dock, it had been carried by the wind and sucked under by the waves. All attempts to find it had failed. It was black and had sunk out of sight to the mucky bottom of the lake.

But Deborah wasn’t ready to give up. No one else had goggles. Hers might give her a better chance. Without telling anyone what she was doing, she donned her bathing suit, lime green cap, and Speedo goggles and waded out into the lake. The sun sparkled on the gentle waves, relaxed voices echoed from the cabin porch, and Jiffy sat alert beside Roxy’s chair at the tip of the dock. She paddled around for a few minutes and then began diving beneath the surface, going as deep as she could and staying under as long as she dared. She interspersed the dives with gentle stroking, checked to see if Roxy looked comfortable, and then dived again. It took fifteen minutes until she saw something out of place in the mud—a wrinkle, not a stick or a rock. When her pale hand reached through the murky water and clutched it, it came away from the bottom in a cloud of muck. She swam slowly to the dock and held the balled-up shirt before Roxy, smiling and placing a dripping finger on her closed lips. Roxy grinned.

Deborah rinsed out the shirt in the shallow water near the shore and held it up as she walked toward the porch. Alex stood as she approached. At first, he looked puzzled, but then recognition spread across his face. He said nothing, but reaching for the shirt, he wrung it tightly and walked silently to the clothesline. Meredith smiled, Tony looked sideways at Jason, who was playing games on his iPad, and Trisha got up to join Alex at the clothesline.

Deborah, also smiling, returned to the water to float on her back in the shallows, looking up at the deep blue sky and puffy white clouds.

The End

Perspective (6)

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Sixth Installment

“I know you thought you were doing something safe and reasonable from your point of view, but did you consider how it might look and feel to the rest of us. If you had drowned at the cabin, I would never have been able to enjoy it again. I would have been forced to sell it or let it fall into ruin because I could not bear the memories it would bring up.

“And Alex? Did you have any idea of the predicament you put him in? He was desperately torn between Jason, because of his terror of thunderstorms, Trisha, who would never have forgiven him if Jason were hurt in any way, and his fear of losing you and failing me. It was an impossible position for him. Alex said he learned one important thing: that Roxy is of no use whatsoever in a crisis. He felt so alone and scared. And, afterward, terribly angry. That’s why he doesn’t want to talk to you about it. He’s afraid of what he might say.

“Why didn’t you go to the cottage on the other side of the lake and ask for help? They could have called us; we would have known so much sooner that you were safe, and we could have come to pick you up. I wanted to throttle Tony for not dropping everything and going to rescue you immediately. I was so angry at you and at him, so scared that you might have drowned.” 

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All this poured forth from Meredith, but more calmly than Deborah had expected. Meredith now seemed reflective rather than angry. So, Deborah took the risk of describing the incident from her point of view.

“I had no idea when I started to swim that such a huge storm was coming. Before I knew it, I couldn’t see the shore in any direction. I’m a good swimmer, so I wasn’t scared, but I realize now you didn’t know that I have been swimming three times a week in a pool for the last year. I hoped that neither Alex nor Roxy would do anything to try to rescue me, putting themselves in danger. I worried about that a lot as I swam. I’m sorry I didn’t call from the opposite shore but chose, unwisely, to swim back across the lake. That was a mistake…” she trailed off.

*************************

Meredith listened without interrupting. She didn’t argue or try to persuade. She was sure of the rightness of her point of view, so felt no need to defend it. But she was determined to make Deborah promise. “Do not ever do this again. Don’t swim out towards the center of the lake. Swim back and forth along the shore at a depth that allows you to put your feet on the bottom at any moment. And don’t swim unless someone is watching. No solitary swimming!”  Her fists were clenched as she delivered the last command.

last installment tomorrow

Perspective (5)

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Fifth Installment

Meredith strode into the cabin with her usual quick, in-charge stride. She carried a large pot containing potatoes, beans, peas, and carrots that she would boil and add cream to, making the local dish called “hodgepodge,” a family favorite. She went straight to the stove, added water, and turned on the burner, not even glancing in her sister’s direction, but knowing Deborah was standing immobile in the bedroom doorway.

She heard Deborah’s unsteady voice start, “I’m sorry…,” and commanded evenly but firmly, “We won’t talk about it now or at dinner. We’ll focus on the meal and being together as a family. We will talk about this later.”  Inside, Meredith was barely holding it together, but outside, she was in charge of the situation—her jaw set, her back straight, her eyes focused. She was intent on containing her anger, but how could Deborah have been so self-absorbed and clueless about the impact of her reckless actions? Meredith’s overwhelming fear of Deborah drowning had immediately transformed into rage the moment she heard her sister was safe.

**********************

Deborah knew better than to fan the flames of Meredith’s anger. She felt both relief and a sense of absurdity when her sister said they would talk later, but she did not argue.

***********************

Trish hugged Jason, asked if he was okay, and received a simple “Sure!” in his big boy voice. She exchanged a cautious glance with Alex, who, without a word, went out to unload more food from the car, while Meredith started the grill. Trish predicted that she and Alex would be up late that night, processing everything in whispers behind the door of their bedroom on the second floor of her in-laws’ house. Alex would need lots of calming before either of them could get any sleep. She could well imagine what he must have gone through in the half hour or so that Deborah was missing.

**********************

Deborah busied herself setting the table as she was instructed. She felt calm and quiet inside. They would all pretend nothing had happened and that everyone felt happy and “normal.”  They would be polite, laugh, make jokes, focus on Jason, and enjoy the hodgepodge, grilled steak, and hamburgers. It was 5 p.m., and a glint of sunshine was peeking through the clouds. Soon her brother-in-law would arrive, his hip-mounted firefighter radio crackling, and they would sit down at the table. Roxy would get up from her nap, and Deborah would be gentle and attentive to her. Everything would, indeed, be normal for this family.

It was two days before Deborah and Meredith talked. In the intervening days, no one from the family dropped in at the cabin to visit. Roxy read and slept, and Deborah took refuge in meditation and solitude. She sank into her sadness and loneliness rather than pushing them away or blaming herself for them. She carefully reflected on her own motivations and tried to understand the others’ feelings and reactions. Her depression gradually lifted. The sadness also eased, and her resentment that no one took care of her after the ordeal receded, as she had known it would as time passed. She felt calm but guarded—buttressed against the anger she expected Meredith to express. Her sister had a temper, and Deborah had been surprised that no explosive outburst had yet occurred. Meredith had some errands in the village, so Deborah offered to drive her to the post office and elsewhere. They bantered in the car as they went. After the post office, Deborah pulled into the United Church parking lot. Meredith was puzzled, “Why are you stopping here?” 

“I wanted to give you the opportunity, since we are alone, to tell me how you felt about my swimming in the storm the other day.”

Meredith took a deep breath. Here it comes! Deborah thought.

to be continued tomorrow

Perspective (4)

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Fourth Installment

Roxy’s eyes registered Deborah’s blue suit and green bathing cap striding through the shallow water toward the pier. She saw the living, moving body, but her brain did not process the reality that Deborah was alive. Crippling sadness and overwhelming loss still gripped her. The rain had plastered her short hair to her head; soaked clothing clung to her shivering body. Her face was expressionless, and her eyes were black and empty. She watched blankly and numbly as Deborah climbed onto the dock and came towards her, making soothing sounds. She could not recognize the words.

*******************

Lifting her goggles and wiping the water from her face, Deborah saw right away that Roxy was in shock. Alex was nowhere to be seen. She walked slowly toward her shivering partner and put her dripping arms around her, murmuring, “It’s all right. I’m fine. Don’t worry; everything will be all right.”  Roxy was like a statue in her arms; rigid and cold. She needed to be warmed as quickly as possible. With an arm around Roxy’s shoulder, Deborah led her across the lawn and into the cabin. Jiffy bounced along behind them, trying to get Deborah’s attention, then, just inside the door, shook himself happily, sending spray flying everywhere. Alex was standing in a puddle holding his phone, and Jason was still playing with his iPad.

“I need to get Roxy dry and warm first, and then we can talk,” Deborah said hesitantly.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Did you call your mom to let her know I am okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to worry you so much, Alex. “

“Why didn’t you come right in when the storm started?”

“By that time, I was far enough away that I couldn’t see the shore through the rain.”

“Well, you just wait until Mom gets here. She is going to be furious with you.”

“I know. I’d better get Roxy dry.”

Deborah led the still-shivering Roxy into the bedroom and began removing her clothing while Jiffy hopped on and off the bed. She toweled her off, found warm, dry sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, and tugged them over Roxy’s limbs, then led her to the bed and covered her with a warm blanket. “You’ll feel better soon, once you warm up,” she soothed.

“I thought you were dead,” Roxy spoke for the first time in a dull monotone. “I thought that was it. Dead.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Deborah apologized, touching her face and kissing her on the lips. A tear rolled down Roxy’s cheek.

Outside, Deborah could hear a vehicle approaching. Through the window, she saw a flashing light, visible against the still-dark sky. Jason woke from his iPad trance as a search-and-rescue truck pulled into the driveway.

Deborah, still in her wet bathing suit, hair askew, and Jiffy at her heels, went out to the porch to see who was on the rescue team. Jason, with his love of fire and rescue trucks, was already there, mesmerized by the flashing lights. Her brother-in-law, Tony, climbed down from the driver’s seat and smiled at her, then ruffled his grandson’s hair.

Again, Deborah started with apologies. “I’m sorry to trouble you and the fire department,” she said. “No worries,” Tony responded, with a slight chuckle as a stranger emerged from the other side of the truck. Deborah explained the drama that had unfolded only half an hour before. “As you can see, I am perfectly all right and not in need of rescuing.”

“That’s a happy ending,” Tony quipped. “We were on another call and couldn’t get here right away, but that one had a happy ending, too. Well, we’d better get this truck back. See you later.”  Deborah waved as they turned off the flashing light and pulled out of the driveway. Jason stood beside her on the porch, also waving goodbye to his grandfather.

Inside again, she found some dry clothes, dressed, and took the wet things – hers and Roxy’s – out to the line to hang. Having done all that she could to ease the effects of her selfish miscalculation, she noticed her depletion. Not just physical but mental. She felt lonely and depressed. Roxy was incapable of offering her any comfort. Alex was silent and angry, again absorbed in his phone, while Jason stared at the iPad. Meredith would return soon. With dread, she anticipated the sound of her sister’s car. She crawled under the spread on the bed next to Roxy, with Jiffy snuggling between them, and, closing her eyes, gave in to her sadness.

No one had expressed relief at her survival. No one had given her any credit for her level-headedness and strength in the ordeal. No one had “taken care” of her in any way once she was onshore, except for that small smile from her brother-in-law. They all seemed absorbed in their own take on what had happened and how it had affected them. She felt profoundly tired and alone. Automatically, she began breathing deeply and slowly. Eventually, she felt sleepy.

But before she drifted off, she heard a car approaching the cabin. It would be Meredith with the family’s supper fixings, and Trisha, Jason’s mother. She lifted her heavy body from the bed, sighed deeply, and, straightening her shoulders, opened the bedroom door.

to be continued tomorrow

Perspective (3)

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Third Installment

Meredith speed-dialed her husband, Tony, a senior firefighter in the local volunteer fire department. He picked up immediately, “What’s up?” 

“You need to get to the lake right away. Deborah went swimming in the storm, and they can’t find her.”

 “Okay, who’s there with her? Where are you?”

 “Alex and Roxy are there, but they can’t swim well enough to look for her. I’m at home.” 

“I’m on another rescue call right now, but I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Tony responded.

“Damn it!” thought Meredith, but Tony hung up before she could argue.

She dialed Alex back, “They are on their way.”  She put down her phone, gave in to her fear, and began to cry.

*******************

Roxy stood like a statue at the end of the dock, frozen, drenched, her mind filled with darkness. Her only thought was, “I’ll never see her again; she’s dead.” Each time these words cycled through her brain, a gushing torrent of sorrow denser than the sheets of rain around her washed through her. Though she remained upright, she was completely unaware of her body.

*********************

Alex paced back and forth on the porch, cell phone in hand, mumbling to himself, “Hurry up, hurry up.”  Minutes were like hours. Jason took out his earbuds and played the cartoon on his iPad’s speaker. Silly, childish tunes filled the cabin.

**********************

Deborah stroked steadily, stopping every minute or so to look around. Sometimes she felt closer to the flag, and at others, she could see she had veered to the left or right. She needed to touch shore on the small stone beach beneath the flag. On either side of that beach, she knew, were trees and large rocks at the shoreline—no place to climb out of the water. She checked her direction and swam forward again. Stopping to look around broke her rhythm and slowed her progress. But gradually, stroke by stroke, she neared the dock with the flag at its tip.

Twenty feet from shore, she gingerly lowered her foot to test the depth, and it sank into the muck on the bottom of the lake. A few more strokes and she touched coarse sand. She pulled her tired body up from the water and waded slowly toward shore, larger rocks on the lake’s bottom bruising her unsteady feet.

Through the rain, she saw, with a sinking heart, a man who was standing in the doorway of the cottage withdraw inside and close the door. A flicker of confusion flared in her mind. She refocused on breathing deeply, slowing her pulse, and relaxing her tense muscles. The downpour had let up enough that she could dimly see her sister’s cabin on the opposite shore. Imagining that Alex and Roxy might be able to see her, especially her bright green bathing cap, she turned and waved both arms in hopes they would see she was okay.

As she rested in the lighter downpour, Deborah considered her options. Why had the man gone inside instead of coming to the shore to help her? Did he not see her? Should she knock on his door? She felt physically exposed in her dripping suit and shy about knocking on a stranger’s door. If the man opened it, would he help, only to later broadcast the incident throughout her sister’s small community?

Her sense of independence and self-reliance asserted itself. This was up to her. She had never been able to rely on anyone else, anyway. When she tried, they’d let her down. So, if she couldn’t seek help from the man, should she try to walk barefoot, on the muddy woods road, out to the highway to flag someone down? Did she have enough energy to swim back across the lake once the storm let up? The answer to the last question was clear. Already, after just a few minutes of rest, she felt alert, renewed, and confident.

For a short while, Deborah stood, resting in the shallow water. From time to time, she waved at the opposite shore but could see no movement there. The thunder and lightning had ended, but the rain had only diminished slightly. She knew the longer she was gone, the more worried they would be. Soon she felt ready to start back. She waded out to the edge of the mucky bottom and lifted her legs, surging forward with strong arms. “Take it slow,” she said to herself, “you can do this.”

Minutes passed, and she frequently stopped to get her bearings, but each time she checked and reoriented, she was nearer home shore. About halfway across, she could see Roxy standing stock still on the pier. A few seconds later, Alex appeared beside her. Deborah shouted and waved. No response from Roxy, but Alex’s angry voice boomed across the waves. “You get in here, right now!”  A flicker of dread rose in her chest. She had been right; they were mad at her. Alex shouted again. Deborah called out that she was coming as fast as she could and strained to pick up her pace. What would she face when she reached shore? She almost wanted to stay in the water, but that was not an option. Soon, she put her feet down on the pebbly bottom of her sister’s beach and dragged her utterly exhausted body out of Concord Lake. The rain had finally stopped.

To be continued tomorrow