My mother has been on my mind and heart a lot lately. Like me, her favorite season was Fall; a season she did not experience the last decades of her life when she and my father lived in Orlando, Florida. She liked Fall because of its changing colors and the fact that, “some of my flowers would get a chance to rest deep in the ground before they came out to bloom again in spring.” Her tone was wistful and as usual, we had no eye contact.
“Would get a chance to rest deep in the ground.” Ironic, no? My mother didn’t get that chance, or at least I didn’t get the chance to see her put to rest after she died last January 6. Perhaps this is why Mrs. Peterson, the neighbor who took me under her wing when I was a kid because she sensed my mother had emotionally forsaken me — showed up in my life ten days ago even though she died on July 30, 1993.
Adrienne and I had read about “living sculptures,” who had been serenading visitors to the Sculpture Garden at the Hirshhorn Museum on the mall in downtown Washington D.C. Since September 1 (my mother’s birthday), London-born artist Tino Sehgal‘s 2006 piece “This You” — the first performance piece to become part of the Hirshhorn collection — had been presented by eight women or “interpreters” (four are pictured below) working in four-hour shifts. Their job: To stand at the base of the ramp dividing the Rodins from the Henry Moores and come up with an appropriate verse or two of their choosing based on the mood they perceived the approaching visitor to be in. They then capped their brief burst of song with the title of the piece, “This You, Tino Sehgal, 2006.” Nothing else identified the work.
“Living sculptures”? Who sing? Who sing songs they believe connect with a visitor? Neither Adrienne nor I had ever heard of the artist, Tino Sehgal, let alone a “living sculpture” that was “activated” by an approaching visitor.
When we arrived at the top of the Hirshhorn Museum ramp on Sunday morning, October 14, we saw a young woman at the base. I walked ahead and when I was three feet away from her, she began to sing, “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” She looked at me and smiled. I teared up and was speechless, but initially couldn’t figure out why. We began a conversation with her, during which she shared that there was something about the way I “looked,” my “energy,” she said, that made her choose, “This Little Light of Mine.” The moment she said that, I remembered the anthem that was sung at Mrs. Peterson’s funeral. Mrs. Peterson’s body was not in front of the sanctuary. Neither was an urn. Instead, a single lit candle sat aglow on the altar. A young black woman stood up, walked behind the altar and sang, with humble passion, “This Little Light of Mine.”
I thanked the interpreter and bowed to her. As Adrienne and I walked away, I said, “And you too, Mrs. Peterson. Thank you.”
Twenty-five years later, I was still under her wing.
Photo of Sculpture Garden: Erin Schaff, Washington Post article, 10/10/18
Photo of Interpreters: Cathy Carver, Washington Post article, 10/10/18
I was surprised when my mother revealed that Fall had been her favorite season. We were at Epcot, waiting two hours for the evening fireworks show to begin . . . waiting two hours because my mother wanted me to experience it in a prime spot where no one could block the view. You can learn a lot in two hours about someone you don’t know very well if you ask the right questions . . . and you write down the answers in your journal the next time you open it.
FYI — I was dressed completely in black the Sunday the interpreter chose to sing, “This Little Light of Mine.” I’m certain my countenance also wasn’t exactly beaming with sweetness and light, so I’m not sure what “energy” she picked up on — maybe that I needed to lighten up.
I was reminded of the fifth verse from the opening chapter of the Gospel of John: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”
My father, who moved to Central Pennsylvania last April, continually whines about wanting to move back to Florida — the place he claims my mother called, “heaven on earth.” I doubt he wrote down anything she ever said. Every time I visited them in Florida, I never got the sense that my mother was content to be living there.
Two weeks ago, he complained that he wanted to move back to Florida because, “I don’t have to deal with seasons.” Yesterday, he told me that it gets so cold where he lives now that, “I can’t keep warm.”
“Yeah, Dad,” I replied, “but you don’t have hurricanes.”
“But I’d rather have hurricanes than cold.”
“You were born and raised in Pennsylvania. So was Mom. So were your siblings and your kids. You couldn’t get warm for nearly 60 years until you and Mom moved to Florida?”
“It was heaven on earth.”
“Didn’t Mom break her arm during a hurricane in Florida, and couldn’t get to a hospital because no emergency vehicles were allowed out on the roads? Wasn’t she in a lot of pain for several days . . . with something broken in her left arm . . . because of a hurricane?
“It was heaven on earth.”
“Dad, she died with her left arm still in a sling. I think Florida is heaven on earth for you. It was never heaven on earth for Mom. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Little girl, it was heaven on earth down there.”
“You’re closer to your kids where you are than you would be in Florida.”
“It’s too cold.”
Thank you Mrs Peterson. All these years later you can still feel her love and care. And dressed in black or not, you Sharon do carry the Light. I see it. This interpreter could see it/feel it. Way beneath consciousness and awareness. I am your witness.
And thank you, Charlotte, also a bearer of light.
Lest you think that religious songs or hymns were the “go-to” songs of the interpreters, think again. Five days after Adrienne and I interacted with an interpreter, I attended a Hirshhorn panel discussion that featured two interpreters, Laura (on the extreme right in the photo above), and Sadie (second from the left). Laura is a professional singer who annually attends the “Burning Man” festival. She was often moved to sing rap or opera to a visitor. Seriously. Sadie is a singer in a rock band and often deferred to Beyonce or Rihanna. Seriously.
All of the interpreters had to audition for the artist’s assistant, Julie. The artist himself is very private and seldom appears in public. The interpreters sensed that they were chosen not so much for their singing talent, but their openness to human interaction. “We never performed,” said Laura. “We interacted. We gave the gift — the thought process the visitor goes through is the real gift. We gave the gift externally, but the internal reaction of the visitor — that was where the art happened.”
Because the interaction was intended to be ephemeral, the interpreters requested that no photos or audio recordings be taken. Neither did they repeat what they sang to a visitor if so requested by the visitor.
Perfect timing, as I’ve been meaning to tell you how you have shined a light for me this week and I just haven’t been able to sit down to write it until now.
Earlier this week, when the breaking news was about our President wanting to back out of the International Nuclear Arms Agreement, potentially reigniting and arms race, something broke in me. I turned off NPR and put on a Wailin’ Jennys CD. Then, I picked up the “Poetry of Presence,” which you gifted me for my birthday. I turn to it regularly when I feel agitated or terribly sad.
The poem which lifted me that day was on page 63. It is about the migration of the blackpoll warbler, which flies 80 hours over the ocean in three days, losing half of its one ounce body weight. Surely if a tiny creature is capable of such a feat, I can endure this current political challenge … though the journey is sure to be a longer one.
I thought, what are the chances that YOU have become MY “yoga lady” and source of zen wisdom? I am grateful indeed for your light and for your presence (and presents) of poetry! Thank you.
Dearest Beth — thank you for your kind words, and I have a couple of things to share: ONE — on Monday and Tuesday, I chose to walk to the “Fifteen” CD by the Wailin’ Jennys, so I could CALM DOWN. Really, I did. What are the chances?
TWO — your true “yoga lady” today is my beloved pastor friend, Carol, who gifted me with The Poetry of Presence last Christmas. After reading your comment, I got out my copy and re-read, “Longing” on page 63. Good Lord, it’s gorgeous. According to my notation, I first read — and loved — this poem on January 18. Not sure Carol will read this, but knowing her, she’ll respond that I’ve introduced her to as much poetry as she has to me. And what would I know about haiku if not for you and your skill in this discipline? In the words of Julie Cadwallader Staub, who wrote, “Longing”:
The arc of our lives is a mystery too.
We do not understand,
we cannot see
what guides our way:
that longing that pulls us toward the light.
Indeed, what are the chances? That is the CD I listened to as well.
This was striking to me:
“You’re closer to your kids where you are than you would be in Florida.”
“It’s too cold.”
It is hellish moving a parent who is over 80. They often prefer a place to their people it seems. My cousins moved their 90+ year old mother closer to her daughter and she begged her friends to help her move back to Virginia Beach. She now happily lives in a nursing home there, though further away from her children.
Mostly, it is likely that your dad is missing life as it was with your mom. It will never be the same in Florida without her and as you know already, it will be a LOT harder for all of you if he lives there and needs your help in the future. Your parents moved far away from family a long time ago. It may have been an honest mistake to assume that your father would be “happier” living close to family.
When it comes to my family, Beth — particularly my parents — you are always a fountain of wisdom and common sense.
That being said, I’m really pissed at my father and am not sure when I’ll get over it. Yes, I may be scapegoating him, but at this very moment, I just don’t fucking care.
So much for being your yoga lady. Sorry.
Sharon, you may also have scapegoated your mother earlier, in order to avoid facing the fact, as you do now, that both of your parents were equally unavailable and disappointing. It was never “only” her.
Beth — yes, I probably also scapegoated my mother to avoid the reality that my father had emotionally forsaken me — and my sisters, too.
Truth be told, I miss my mother and father. I have NO idea why outside of being their daughter, but I miss them and wish I had known them better.
Maybe even more, you miss them never knowing YOU better, especially the adult you. It is their loss, but I get it, yours, too.
Nothing to be sorry about. The fact that you are pissed with your father does not lessen the light you shine in my life … thank God! Otherwise, I would be pissed at him, too!
Maybe you’ll never get over it. Maybe you shouldn’t. Some hurts are forever and realizing that relieves us of the need to “get over” them.
Sharon Friend, tears came to my eyes as I read this beautiful experience. I was very moved, but I was not a bit surprised at the choice of “This Little Light.” You have a radiance within and about you–sometimes quiet and pensive, sometimes explosive. But always there, even in your darkest moments. Because you are so Real, so Genuine, you shed Light on Life, whether you’re rejoicing or angry or deeply depressed. What a moment this must have been for you!
And yes, I have read Beth’s comments and your responses–so happy to see this wonderful book shared. And yes, I do have you to thank for so much of the poetry in my life–you are light-years beyond me with poetry and have turned on so many poetic lights for me! Just in case I haven’t said it before–thank you!
Good Lord, Carol — where did you come from? Did an angel plop you on my doorstep? I appreciate your kind perspective, but honestly, I’m difficult. I KNOW I’m difficult. If you had to be around me more often, I wonder how much light you’d glean out of my darkness. But as you always remind me — and to your credit — that’s probably my depression. Still, I think I’m a real pain in the ass most of the time.
That being said, how much of a pain in the ass can I be if I am one of your friends? xoxo
Sharon, dear Friend, I have no doubt that you are difficult and can be a pain in the ass, at least some of the time. So I’m not just naively dewy-eyed about the reality of You, even though I’m often in awe of you!
A final wondering–did the possibility of Providence cross your mind at all as you reflected on this priceless moment–as in “I have called you by name, you are mine” (Is. 43)? I don’t want to come across here as overly pious, but I have to confess this verse did cross my mind. Hope that in no way “spoils” it for you!
Carol — I’m relieved that you acknowledge that I can be a pain in the ass, even more that you are willing to actually type out the word, a-s-s. [People, she NEVER uses profanity or lazy language like I do, and tolerates mine ALL THE TIME, which I think qualifies her for sainthood . . . but I digress . . .]
No, that verse from Isaiah never occurred to me and kinda intimidates me. God calls me by my name, even when I’m a pain in the ass? Whoa — what kind of God is this? A God who loves me unconditionally? [I can see you shaking your head, “Yes,” and I love you for that.]