Meeting my Mother on the Drunkard’s Path

Meeting my Mother on the Drunkard’s Path
A Dozen Haiku

(On finding the squares for a “Drunkard’s Path” quilt in my mother’s belongings)

Hospital phone call,
Her voice happy. Eager. Clear.
“I feel like quilting!”

doves2#2 Two days later, gone…
We claimed pieces of her life –
I took squares of cloth.

“Drunkard’s Path”, they say,
Is the real test… Difficult
To piece together.

Fifteen neat, precise
Squares. Perfect, familiar script:
“Tumbleweed.” “Chain.” “Doves.”

I add my own squares.
Use cardboard template she’d held.
The same earnest care.

Blindsided sometimes
By a note to herself, or
The sheer perfection.

Laying out the quilt,
I marvel. Hours of her life
Unjoined before me.

I take what she left
And border it with memory.
“Can you see this, Mom?”

Symmetry – tidal, rhythmic
Grief on “Drunkard’s Trail”

Carries me along.
Understanding. Legacy.
Daughter’s from mother’s.

What of my mother’s
Unfinished work is mine, then?
Any of it? None?


Square by piece by row,
I make my way to the past.
Unwrap forgiveness.



Creativity and My Bra

bra_stacks-454x599There is a website called The FLYLady where you can get help to declutter and organize your house and life. While I am not a “FLYBaby,” as new members are called, a couple of friends had said how helpful the site is, so I went for a look.

Marla Cilley, the creator of the site, has a bunch of rules for neatnik wannabes. They are good, sound suggestions for simplifying life and not overwhelming yourself. One of her rules helped me realize that there is a direct correlation between creativity and my bra.

A mainstay rule is that you must “Get Dressed to Shoes” every day. Her point is that we behave differently with our outside-world clothes than we do in our pajamas. She is a teeny-tiny bit of a drill sergeant about this shoe rule. There are no exceptions, no excuses, no wiggle room for talented procrastinators. In her words, “I don’t want to hear, ‘Well I don’t wear shoes in my house.’ Well you do now, sister! Buy or clean up a pair just for that reason.” Yikes. Just reading that made me want to salute.

I looked at my shoes and thought about which ones I would clean up for indoor wear. Sneakers? (Sbootshe recommends lace-ups because they are harder to take off…) Clarks Mary Janes? Maybe my ruby slipper ballet flats? One look at the shoes next to my kitchen door, and I realized this might not work for me. There were the fluffy slippers I muddied running up to get the mail. The nice white cross trainers that were supposed to be “just for the treadmill,” and now were grass stained and dirty from the day I hopped off the treadmill to see where the grandkids were. No, any pair of shoes on my feet would not be “strictly indoor” for long.

But that get-dressed-and-get-going notion hit a chord. I began to observe myself. On my weekend days – my only time to write – I noticed that as long as I was in my jammies, certain entities held me in trance. Facebook, that sly siren, had magnetic appeal. As did Freecell Solitaire and Words with Friends. I would sit in my recliner on a Saturday morning, iPad in hand, and suddenly it was midafternoon. Wait, what?

I experimented with various middle ground solutions. Sweats? (Still in the recliner…) Business casual? (Made me feel like I needed to find a church…) Yoga Pants? (Caught myself passing a mirror. Um, no.)

So here is what I discovered after exhaustive scientific study of my own weekend dressing habits: If I get dressed as though I were waiting for a repair guy (minimally, bra and underwear, jeans, socks and a comfy shirt) I am ready to roll. My feet are often cold, so the socks are important. (Also, if I step barefoot on anything like a bread crumb or cat whisker, it feels like a boulder or a log. I know, I know. My mom read me “The Princess and the Pea” about eighty thousand times. I get it.) And wearing socks without shoes keeps me grounded, literally. I can walk around and be aware that I am in contact with the floor. With my home. With my writing. With life.

And the bra? Well, I do feel a responsibility to the poor repair guy. No need to traumatize, now is there? And it seems like a little bit of armor. Some support around my heart. Up with the girls, on with the day!

If I am dressed to answer the door, I am dressed to write. I can’t exactly say why it is. I know it’s a psychological trick I have to play on myself in order to sit down at the computer and actually write something. Like setting the time ahead five minutes. I know it’s a trick, but it still works.

I have found my middle ground for writing on the weekends: If I wake up without an alarm, give myself two cups of coffee, and then get dressed for the repair guy, I can write.

So far my bra and I have finished two health books, many blog entries, several scholarly articles, and a novel. We are currently working on a riveting best seller. I think the FLYLady would give me a pass on the shoe commandment. “FLY” stands for Finally Loving Yourself. And so I am. Warm socks, bra and all.


What I Didn’t Say

HandsUpI wrote a letter to the editor of our local paper today. It supports an initiative on the ballot this year that would extend background checks on gun sales in Washington State. I wrote about what a sensible measure this is and how it would save lives. I wrote about how, as a public health professional, I was committed to vulnerable populations, and had spent my career trying to improve their health status. I pointed out that states with similar background check laws reduce the rate of murder-by-intimate-partner by 38 percent. I said I supported this bill and hoped my neighbors would, too.

What I didn’t say was that one night when I was in my twenties my sister stood in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, with a shotgun pointed at her head. I didn’t say how my mother, who lived across the street, heard the yelling and flew out her front door. She might have seemed comical in any other context – hair on end, flannel nightgown a little too short, flip flops on her feet. But she was not comical. She was fierce and unhesitating. I didn’t describe how she ran between my sister and her husband, who was holding the gun on her. I didn’t say how my mother pointed a finger at him and said, “Put that thing away!” and then, turning her back on the gun-holding son-in-law, embraced my sister. I didn’t tell how my mother guided my hysterical sister back into my parents’ house and closed the door quietly, leaving a man standing alone in the street with a shotgun in his hands.

I didn’t recount in that letter to the editor how I felt knowing I could have lost my mother and my sister in a single moment to a drunken man with a gun.

I did not point out that reducing the murder rate by 38 percent means that many more women who:
• live to raise their children,
• see another day,
• have a chance to leave their violent partners

Background checks seem a tiny price to pay for the lives of women who might otherwise have been murdered. It seems a supremely reasonable measure to keep guns out of the hands of people who would let their uncontrolled emotions rob children of their mothers, women of their sisters, grandmothers of their daughters. In the U.S. we lose three women every day to domestic violence deaths. If background checks saved one woman a day, it would seem a great bargain indeed.

Perhaps I should have said all that in my letter to the editor. For now, I am saying it here.

Birthday Thoughts

Lighted Candles


A week ago, or so, it was my birthday. I received many, many wishes of happiness and returns of the day — Facebook mostly.   Feeling well-acknowledged, I spent a quiet little day and took deep breaths. Thankful.

Often I hear people my age – and beyond – complaining about getting older. “Old age ain’t for sissies” and similar comments. (Not that I’m THAT old… Or a sissy for that matter…) But every year brings a pang, and then gratitude for me. Because, really, it’s all about “the alternative.”

My sister Paula died when she was fifty-two. Ever since that sad and difficult year, each birthday is a reminder. A grief, and a blessing. Every year on my birthday I think, “This is another one that she never saw.”

She would have loved her fifties. Many of the nieces and nephews that she adored got married and began families during what would have been her fifties. She was poised to retire and travel with her husband – she would have loved visiting my parents in Florida, seeing national parks, driving at a leisurely pace here to Seattle. She would have loved that I published a novel. And that I got married. And we would have grieved my mother’s death together. Her fifties would, mostly, have been my fifties, too. And we would have had a lot of fun comparing notes.

But that didn’t happen.

What did happen is simple: she lived a compassionate and courageous life – up to and including her last days. That standard is her perennial birthday gift to me. Every year I renew my intention to do same – honor her by emulating her. To love people – even when it’s uncomfortable. To savor time spent with my kids, my grandkids, my friends. To listen with kind ears. To ease the grief of others – whether it means bringing a casserole to the house, or picking up the dog at the groomers so they can deal with hospice. To laugh with those who need a lightness. To sit quietly with those who need to cry. To be comfortably alone sometimes to stay grounded. To be the best [mom, partner, grandma, friend, colleague, nurse, teacher, writer, person] I can, whatever that means in whatever moment I find myself.

I cannot bring my sister back. I cannot keep others from following her. But I can be here. Paying attention. Giving her little reports in case she is listening. Reminding myself that my next birthday is not guaranteed, and that this is a year to be cherished, lived, relished and appreciated.

She and I may yet compare notes. I want to pay good attention. I want to be able to tell her everything.

Matrika Shakti

Matrika Shakti

WoWords11-Croprds are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones, in the right order, you can nudge the world a little.
–Tom Stoppard

I am a writer. Words are important to me. I subscribe to the conceit that words can – and do – change the world. Sometimes they do this one op-ed at a time. Or one Facebook post at a time. In our literate culture, we sometimes throw words around and squander their influence. (It’s like spending your money on a bangle bracelet instead of a Heifer Project goat.) We toss them at each other, hurl them at those we argue with, whisper them to those we love, persuade those who disagree. They are valuable capital, but there is no high school class or online course in “Word Economics 101.”

There is, however, a Sanskrit term, “Matrika Shakti.” It means “The power in the word.” It is the basis for using a mantra. It is also a description of the energy contained within a given word. If you throw a racial slur at someone, you can be attacked or arrested – powerful word. If you take a slur and reclaim it by using it as your own descriptor – think “queer” or “bitch” – then suddenly it loses power because you own it and claim it. A single word captures all the energy and momentum of everything it evokes, and everyone who has ever used it. Think, “forgiveness.” Think, “widow.” Think, “embrace.” Words are killers and healers. They serve warriors and cowards. Sometimes it is by sheer number that they work their magic, as when thousands of people write to a legislator. Sometimes it is a single person saying the exact right combination at the exact right time. “I Have a Dream.” Sometimes it is the comfort of a familiar progression of words, “Once upon a time…”

If I needed a reminder of the power that a word can possess, it came to me recently with the death of a colleague. I didn’t know him well, but I loved running into him in the elevator or the break room. He was a kind man, and everything about him said, “safe.” He was friendly and smart. His job was in IT, and he gently helped many coworkers disentangle themselves from some computer mess or frustration. Even people who didn’t know his name knew he was a dear soul. It was a great shock to learn that he had died. The loss reverberated through our county agency. “John died, did you hear?” Many of us had not realized how ill he was.

But here is the good news: John did not die without knowing the magic of the matrika shakti. John spent his last days on a path paved with love and caring, and in the sure knowledge that he was seen and adored. And all it took was a word. One. Single. Word. Here’s how.

When it became clear to John’s wife, Sheryl, that his illness was gaining ground, she wanted him to know that he was an unusual man. Not just “special” to her, but a truly unusual person. She knew he must have had a huge impact on his friends and co-workers. She also knew that, being an “incredibly humble” man, he would probably be clueless about that impact. So she sent out a note.

John had friends at work. And, as a guide-dog trainer, many friends in the guide-dog community. There were family members and neighbors. She sent her request to all of them, and she encouraged people to forward the note to anyone who knew John. She wanted to give him the gift of knowing how people saw him. And, she told me, it turned into a “much, much bigger gift than I could have realized.”

She didn’t want people to be intimidated by a ‘writing assignment,’ so she asked each of them to send her one word that described John. She knew that if she asked for just one word, people would be more likely to respond.Matrika

And she was right. The words started pouring in. Not surprisingly, some people used the same word in their response. Sheryl started a list. As more one-word emails arrived, she grouped the words into clusters. She gathered and sorted. She and a friend painted them on little canvas squares, which she glued to wooden blocks.

One night while John slept, she put the words on shelves and counters all over the house. They were everywhere. When he woke up, she invited him to take a walk with her. Puzzled, he let her lead him around their living room and his office. She held his hand and explained that she had requested words from his friends and colleagues. They walked around the house and she read the words out loud. (Part of matrika shakti is the vibration of the sound the word makes. She made these sounds and let him hear the words people used for his impact on them.) He was overwhelmed. She was overwhelmed. They cried. They paused. They walked some more. They read some more.





John had a hard time taking it in. He couldn’t accept it at first. He kept shaking his head. Sheryl walked him around the house many times in the next weeks. Slowly, it began to soak in.

He said, “I never knew…”
“I know,” she said.
“I had no idea,” he said.
“Right,” she answered.

What he came to understand was that you didn’t have to live a “big life” to have tremendous impact. That being your compassionate self was enough. In fact, it was everything.

Sheryl told me that the words from his co-workers had had the greatest effect on him. He had no idea how much they cherished and appreciated him. As time went on, and it was clear that his illness was getting the upper hand, friends would call him to chat. Many times the conversation began with them telling him what word they had sent. Then they would tell him why. That word was not just an offering to him; it was the portal for staying connected, and for helping him know how much he mattered. It was the content through which they could continue to tell him that he was loved.

JohnWordsSheryl and John had many, many talks about the words that were displayed in their home. She wanted him to realize, at the deepest level, that his time on the planet had been well spent. That he was a gifted and gifting person. During one of those conversations, John turned the words back into a gift for Sheryl. He said, “I hope they know that, if I am any of these things, I am that way because of you.” And she took that in.

John lived long enough to see his daughter married — more magical words that sang to his heart.  This was a joy to him, among the many joys he found as time ran short and as pain increased. In the end, Sheryl brought all the little canvasses to John’s hospital room, so he could be surrounded by reminders of how people saw him. She knew it was a source of deep comfort and happiness for him. And for her. And that he “got it” about being a meaningful presence in each of those lives.

She kept all the words. They are still in John’s office, where she visits them and remembers how pleased he was to have them all around him. They are both a memory and a way forward. She can remind herself that not only was John so known and loved, but that he died knowing so.

Knowing John’s story is a gift to me.  I think more, now, about the words I use.  I think about how I describe people — both in my thoughts and to others.  I pay attention to what I say out loud.  I understand in a permeating way that there is power in a word. Real power. Healing or injury. And that every now and then the power is magic, and that we are all magImageicians.

The matrika shakti is our wand. How shall we use it’s energy?

Call a friend.

Have a word.







© 2014 Kate Bracy      Photos by Sheryl Speight