The End of an Era

Robin Botie of Ithaca, New York, photoshops a restoration of a photo of her young children, now the end of an era.My mother’s house in Massachusetts had sold, and I was desperately searching the shelves to take away something to remember all the sweet times over the twenty years in that place. Tears welled as I took a final glance around, said goodbye, and went out the door for the last time.
“It’s the end of an era,” friends kept telling me, when I arrived home sad and dazed. I thought about that. I tried to envision all my personal eras: childhood on New York’s Long Island, college and graduate school upstate, two decades in business designing my world as Silk Oak, and the years spent raising my babies into adulthood. But the “end of an era” meant far more than simply the loss of this time and place. Something bigger was ending.

For as long as I can remember, there were adults in my life I looked up to, ones higher up than my parents. There were important people who took care of us and I trusted them. Kind Doctor Strauss, the firemen who stopped our boiler from exploding, the tall policeman who occasionally visited PS94 to talk to us about safety, my teachers, … my President. The ones who had my best interests in mind. I felt safe and secure because I was in what my father called “the best country in the world” and we had really strong leaders. Later, I got to vote for some of my leaders. How amazing when the ones I voted for were elected; how much faith I had when the other team won, that we would still be lead judiciously even though under another brand of wisdom. Those days when I casually wondered what a World War must have felt like, or when I didn’t have to consider that I might possibly be a next target of racism or discrimination – that was an era.

Losing my mother’s place where I loved spending long weekends is sad. Losing the ceramic bird and beautiful white blankets my mom said I had to leave behind for the new owners is mildly heartbreaking. But losing my security and the trust that my leaders are looking out for me – this is indeed the end of life, as I’ve known it.

 

What does “the end of an era” mean to you in your life? What helps you deal with disappointments and worries in the world today?

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Blooming and Blossoming Aunts and Uncles

Robin Botie of Ithaca, New York photographs a lotus pond thick with lotuses at all stages of life.I’m running out of aunts and uncles. Last week my beautiful, brave Aunt Ilse died. Now I’m down to one aunt and one uncle. Plus another aunt who is really my first cousin once removed. Somehow, while I was mooning over all my cousins’ children’s babies wishing I could hold a grandbaby of my own, I hadn’t noticed the shifting of our family tree.

It used to be there were enough of them to fill every holiday, enough aunts and uncles to have favorites. My cousins’ parents. They weren’t at all like the parents of my friends. No, these adults were mine, as in My Aunt Bope and My Uncle Max. They showed an interest in me; perhaps they were seeking similarities to their siblings. If I did something remarkable, like get married or have kids, they gave me gifts. They gave my children gifts. They always seemed happy to see me. And at each stage of my life, I’ve loved being in their company. But over the years they’ve been disappearing.

There were only a few days between the joyful family event that brought my tribe traveling west to Colorado and then south to Ilse’s funeral in Florida. In between, in Ithaca, I met up with my photographer friends at a lotus pond. We took pictures of young shoots emerging from the muddy pond bottom, new pointy-leaf buds, and unfurling blooms already pinked out or still green like their stalks. Some of the flowers had petals opened wide and falling. There were old dried up, naked pods standing tall or bent downward. The pond was thick with lotuses at all stages of lotus life.

Stages. Changes that happen between life and death. The shifts I’ve made from thinking in terms of my tiny shrinking family (my single child left, one remaining uncle, one of this and one of that…) to considering the whole family forest. My cousins and my cousins’ children are now aunts and uncles. They branch out with partners and step-kids and “extendeds.” Thanks to all their blooming and blossoming, our tribe continues to grow.

And maybe it will be my funeral they gather at next. Or maybe, I’ll soar up into the sea of clouds above the magnificent flowering earth, and be the one to outlive them all.

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An Unexpected Moment of Joy

Robin Botie of Ithaca, New York, at peace, watches the sky and is grateful to be exactly where she isA feeling came over me like a brain wave. A flush of contentment, an inner spread of bliss. Like sweet fortified wine seeping through my entire system.

There was no reason for this. I’d traveled from Ithaca to Denver via Detroit. I should have been cranky. And I had been most of the day. But then, fifteen hours after boarding the early morning plane I found myself sitting on a folding chair on the lawn outside Temple Emanuel in Denver, with my sister and cousins and a hundred or more strangers hanging onto cellphones, children, and dogs. Under a graying evening sky we sat, listening as the temple’s cantor played her guitar and sang like an angel, and asked us to rise-if-able, and be seated, and rise-if-able again and greet those around us.

This was not a scene I’d usually find comfortable. But sitting there in the gentle breeze I forgot about how many hours I hadn’t slept. I forgot about the harsh descent into the dry brown desert surrounding Denver International, and the haze that hid any possible view of the nearby Rocky Mountains. My sore back and restless leg syndrome grew faint and almost disappeared. Soon it no longer mattered that I couldn’t see the mountains or any decent-sized body of water. Something in the music or in the air had squelched every ache and disappointment. I melted back into my chair and smiled at the kids playing quietly with dogs as the cantor continued her songs. At peace with the world, I watched the sky, grateful to be exactly where I was.

I even joined in some of the singing.

And even though the people were singing in praise of God, and even though I myself had not spoken to God in many years (or even checked in briefly to see if anything had changed in our relationship), I’m pretty sure if I lived anywhere near that mile-high-in-the-sky city of Denver, I’d be going back to the Friday evening services at the temple every week to recapture my moment of pure, perfect happiness.

 

When and where did your unexpected moment of joy happen?

 

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The Life Changing Event of my Son’s Birth

Robin Botie of ithaca, New York, restores an old photograph of herself showing her young son an ocean, in Photoshop.The person who changed my life, as much as and maybe more than my daughter who died, is my son. My first-born. On the day my son was born, my most life-altering event (next to my own birth) happened: I became a mother.

That I became a mother at all is a wonder. Motherhood was not on my to-do list until it was almost too late for it to happen. I was too busy trying new things, trying to find myself, be an artist, become a teacher…. I wanted to travel the world. But when I birthed my son, my world was immediately and utterly funneled into his eyes and the sweet space directly around him.

He doesn’t like when I write about him. So, mostly, I don’t. But I think I can tell you about how terrified I was, at the beginning, to bathe him or cut his nails. I still remember how scary it felt the first time I strapped my son into his car seat and drove to the supermarket. How I wrapped wool blankets around him as he slept, until the hair on his head matted down in sweat. How I kept checking to make sure he was still breathing.

My beautiful amazing boy grew to be bold and strong. Fearless. A completely different creature from his mother. When he finally left home, I stayed up late nights waiting for the familiar chirping sounds of him communicating on Instant Messenger. From faraway deserts riddled with improvised explosive devices, I messaged him back, “Watch out for the giant spiders out there” and “Eat lots of protein.”
“You’re a wimp,” he always says, eyeing the dog squirming in my arms. And I’m sure he’s really saying that to me, I’m a wimp. Yet I know being a mother is the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

It’s his birthday today. And it’s the anniversary of the day I came to know what it means to love someone more than myself.

Early on I showed my son a beach and he led me to the ocean. Ever since, he’s been traveling the world, trying new things, phoning home from distant shores and making me speechless in awe. Making me proud.

 

Who changed your life? What was your most life-altering event?

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Can We Communicate with the Dead?

Robin Botie of Ithaca, New York, photoshops a picture of a small gold moth, perhaps a sign sent to her from her daughter who died, from the other side.Hearing my dead daughter’s words in my head wasn’t enough. So, last weekend I attended a Forever Family Foundation retreat where three mediums conducted spirit communications. I was hoping to get a message from Marika. Instead, I got a golden moth.

We were eating lunch outside, between sessions, when I felt a light tickle on my wrist and turned my right hand over to find a delicate gold charm attached. The moth glistened, iridescent in the sun. Its tiny feet clung to my skin like minuscule Velcro pads. It sat there, close to my beating pulse, its fragile wings occasionally flapping in the breeze while I ate with my left hand, wondering how long it might stay. Half an hour, my friend told me, later. Long enough for another friend to snap its photo on her phone. Long enough to consider that maybe the golden moth was a gift from my daughter, from the other side. It was not the clear coherent message I wanted. I was still hoping to be “read” by a medium.

Lunchtime ended. The moth flew off and I went to the next session and watched in awe as the medium first validated the presence of a family’s loved one, and then relayed messages that were received with tears of joy. Details, bits and pieces of peoples’ lives were exposed; secrets and explanations were revealed. There were apologies, pardons, advice, and affirmations of love. How and where could such information be found, or kept, other than in the consciousness of the deceased loved ones themselves? I waited, my eyes begged the medium, please, connect me to Marika. But the other people’s needs must have been greater than mine. Maybe their loved ones’ spirits were more determined than my daughter’s. Or maybe I wanted it too much.

I did not get a reading that weekend. But I did get to witness the joy and transformation of others hearing from their loved ones. And I came 95 percent closer to believing in after death communications and the survival of consciousness after death. I’m reserving the last little bit of skepticism until the day I get to have a reading myself.

And I wonder: if people can believe in a God who gives and takes life and sometimes answers our prayers, why shouldn’t I put my own faith into the small spark of vibrating energy that remains (somewhere) of Marika? I pray to my daughter. And she answers my pleas by sending me small creatures, mostly at mealtimes.

 

What do you believe in? Can we communicate with the dead?

 

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Relationships with Deceased Loved Ones Continue, Change, and Grow

Robin Botie of Ithaca, New York, photoshops a collage of herself and her daughter's images to represent ongoing relationships with deceased loved ones.My daughter used to tell me “Go fall off a mountain, Mom” and “I hope you drown.” After she died, six years ago, I kept hearing her voice.

Rocky relationships lead to complicated grief. Bonds with your deceased loved one, complex or otherwise, continue unless you intentionally detach yourself. Current grief theories no longer demand an ending point or detachment from the deceased in order for an individual to be considered healthy and well adjusted. Counselors acknowledge that we find ways to redefine our relationships with loved ones after they die, often creating ongoing connections that can last our lifetime. These relationships can evolve and mature, especially if they were of an abusive or dysfunctional nature. They can make you into a stronger, more compassionate person. If you want to witness this, listen to Sherman Alexie’s audiobook version of his new memoir You Don’t have to Say You Love Me, produced by Hachette Audio, 2017. Renowned author, poet, and filmmaker, Alexie struggles to come to terms with his chaotic childhood on the Spokane Indian Reservation with the mother he simultaneously loved and hated.

There are many ways to maintain long term ties with loved ones after death. Some of the ones Alexie employs in his memoir are: talking to his mother, keeping her photos, remembering the ways she influenced his life, imagining her advice or opinions on current issues, living in a way that would make her proud, saving her quilts and other special belongings, allowing himself to experience her presence, doing things she liked to do, writing letters and poems to her, and researching her life to learn what made her the person she was. In the audiobook version, read with great passion by the author, Alexie sings, cries, reads his mother’s words aloud, and speaks for her. She becomes a part of him. “I have a better relationship with my mother – with the memory of my mother. A better relationship with her ghost,” he writes on the box that contains the CDs.

Long after my daughter died I kept talking to her. With time, her harsh words softened and I heard her begin to support me, cheering me on when I was scared, “Go for it, Mom. You can do this.” Each day I carry her with me to whatever new venture the day brings. I’m a bigger, better person because of her.

 

Do you talk to any ghosts? How do you feel about listening to audiobooks versus reading? Have you listened to or read any great memoirs lately?

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