The Tenacity to Endure

While scrubbing the leftover mac n' cheese residue from a baking dish this morning, I observed a female cardinal just outside the sink window as she attempted to free a piece of string from one of my potted trees by the front arbor.  She exhibited a tenacity I recognized at once.  Hopping.  Pecking.  Pulling.  Over and over and over again.  Whatever hopes she had for her nest, this thin white object entwined within the branches of my crape myrtle was integral to its design.  She would have it . . . or exhaust herself in the effort. But it was clear to me that she was in it for the long haul.  I managed to snap a quick shot just as she finally achieved her goal and flew off in a victorious whir of drab red, brown and yellow.  As I set the camera down, I did a little fist pump for her in solidarity.

This vignette tugged at my heart.  It seemed to enhance feelings and thoughts which had been bouncing around inside my head, ping-ponging from left brain to right brain and back again, since late last night.

After months of wanting to watch a particular movie about a man in prison and his dedicated sister's lifelong labor of love to see him released, "Conviction" with Hilary Swank and Sam Rockwell, I decided this was the time to hunker down and rent it.  My son begged to view it with me; I relented despite the late hour.  Though my son is deep in the throes of ornery 15 year-old freshman boy, especially where his mama is concerned, and doubtless there are a good many thoughts and incidents to which I may not be fully privy right now, his heart remains the same compassionate and empathetic spiritual organ which revealed itself quite early in his young life.  I harbored hopes that the power of a simple film, a true story, might touch places in him that I was unable to reach.

My maternal hunch turned out to be right on target.

There's a scene toward the end of the film where the brother and sister are talking about his release per all her tremendous sacrifice and downright stick-to-it-iveness.  "I could have made it another 20 years if I had to," he tells her.  She emphatically states that she would have lost her mind if it had gone on much longer.  But he goes on to qualify his words by explaining that just knowing she was out there, loving him, championing him, gave him strength where there was none otherwise.  I was IN that scene, seated with them, sitting between them, feeling the power and truth of their conversation wash over me.  I know that speech.  I've heard that speech.  The foundation beneath that speech has been the bedrock upon which my own little brother has managed to find footing for most of his late teens and the entirety of his adult life.  Of course, tears and cheers took turns with me, none of which escaped the attention of my sharp-eyed teen boy.

And, as the credits streamed by and the midnight hour tugged at our eyelids, my healthy, stubborn, blessed, All-American boy turned to me and said, "Did you want to see this because of Uncle Gary?"  I nodded, smiling, "Yes.  I wanted to see another relationship like mine.  Experience what they went through.  I needed to feel connected to others in similar shoes.  What they felt, their lives and what they shared in a rough childhood, how her life was not fully her own and she willingly surrendered a measure of her joy to keep her own brother alive and kicking . . . I understand that.  It reminds me that what I do for him is valid, even when others, even those close to me, don't get it or think I should."  For a time, he was silent.  His wheels were turning as he processed this information and connected the dots between what he has always known about his mom and uncle and what he just witnessed in a condensed Hollywood version of a similar situation.  I wondered aloud if he wanted me to sleep next to him for the night.  Sometimes he likes that.  Him wrapped in his comforter; me snuggled in mine.  On opposite sides of his platform queen bed.  Sharing familiar space.  Mother and child -- albeit overgrown child of angular limbs, caught up in rapid boy-to-man transformation.

There was no answer from his curled form.  At first, I thought he'd crashed into sleep.  But the tension in his body and the tightly closed eyes said otherwise.  I walked around the bed to sit by him, recognizing the abyss of tears into which he was desperately trying not to fall.  The moment I settled my hand on his thick short hair, the sobs broke loose.  He had no words.  Even if he'd wished to verbally express the overwhelming emotions so evident in every shake and shudder, it would have been physically impossible.  I crooned and prayed, stroking his head, tracing his perfect shell ears, admiring the line of his nose, cute as an over-sized button even in sorrow.

As I mentioned earlier, I know this sweet boy's heart.  Though he pushes the boundaries of his emerging manhood in an attempt to separate from his mother and enter the fray of independence, there is a room within that he still reserves for insight and empathy.  For softness.  He, too, has experienced intense and serious heartbreak at a young age, and it has had its way with him over the years.

What my son experienced in this still moment was epiphany.  It ushered in self-realization and opened his eyes to behaviors unbecoming his character.  Fast on the heels of this, riding in on angry black horses of self-recrimination and kicking up blinding dust, arrived guilt.  As quickly as I could, I swatted the twitching hides blocking his view, spurring them out, out, out and away.  "Zachary, I'm glad you don't spend every moment thinking about my hurts and my situation with Uncle Gary.  When you butt heads with me, you are affirming our lives, keeping me rooted in my life, and you are being a boy.  You have a safe and wonderful home with a loving family.  I'm glad.  My problems are not yours.  And your uncle wants me to take care of my family and experience pleasure and joy.  He loves hearing about you kids and your adventures.  The good and the bad and the ugly.  You help me to keep him alive,"  he heaved and a fresh flow of clear mucous joined the existing pool on his white pillowcase, "But the world is full of pain and difficult stories.  You do need to be aware. And then you must take your place as a responsible man in this world and use your awareness and your brushes with pain to help where you are able.  I am hard on you because I know your gifts and your capabilities.  It is okay that you and I struggle.  But if you want to step it up, to do more, to show me love through acts and not just words, talk with your uncle on the phone, ask me how he is, try harder in school and be a positive strong example to others."

After roughly 12 tissues and a round with the Neti pot, his sinuses relaxed enough from the trauma of a good hard cry to allow clear breathing.  We took our places on his bed, each of us with our preferred comforter, and within minutes we were out.

I knew this tender episode deserved, demanded, desired a spot on this blog.  However, with all the busy-ness of tending to my new dog, Hank the Wonder Pup, and preparing for my daughter's impending graduation, I feared the entry might never achieve lift-off.  Distraction abounds in my busy world and clamoring mind.  But then I made a unique-for-me choice when I last took the pup out for his appointed rounds with a certain patch of grass.  Quite intentionally, I pulled out a chair from the patio set and sat, wishing to still myself.  For me, this kind of decision is a rarity.  It might even be considered outlandish in the mere contemplation.  "What, me, SIT and admire the yard as opposed to endlessly toil and till and search for the endless chores abounding on our third acre plot?!"  Immediately, my eyes found pleasure in the salmon-shaded blooms of the coral bells plant I dug into the backyard arbor bed because it's one of my mom's favorites.  A dove bursting from the thick foliage of the hardy akebia vine covering the opposite side of the arbor pleased me: certainly there must be a nest with young living there, just as I had hoped would happen when first I wandered down back country lanes in search of the nursery holding a prized specimen for me.

And then my gaze settled on Hank.  His strong handsome profile, square and solid, with those silken floppy ears of the softest brown, so male, so undeniably boyish in his demeanor, this white-furred lab mix of a mutt.  I thought, then, of my brother and my son, and my own tears came, unheeded, unexpected, unchecked.  I cried out to the Lord, begging Him to heal Gary of his addiction, to allow him even a month of freedom from pain and struggle in a life where he'd been steeped in such elements, if not downright stewed and pickled.  All of the acceptance and stoicism, every ounce of strength and stamina that I'd drawn upon for the past several months to check my involvement with my brother, creating lines in the sand for safety, crumbled to reveal the raw tender wound in my heart which steadily aches for the injustice which has been my brother's life.  Oh, that he might hear the breeze ripple the tall grasses and take in the sight of the aged elm overhead with its branches embracing everything and everyone beneath its canopy.  That he could bury his face in the softness of Hank's fur and trace the faint amber wave which mars the pup's otherwise snowy pelt.  That he should bear witness to his nephew's growing up in ways more tangible than mere letters and phone calls.  Though for these things I would beg if ever a genie presented itself to me, I'm enough of a realist to know such future scenarios may never exist beyond the fertile fields of my hopeful mind.

For now, here in front of my lap top, with that pooped pup gently snoring on the dog bed behind me, and a text popping up on my iPhone screen from my son regarding baseball practice, and the promise of a chat later today with the boy-man languishing in a California state hospital, I end this account of my own helplessness, unending fraternal love, and maternal moments.  I'm thinking I'd like to write this other sister and extend my sympathies for her brother's accidental death just six months after his release from almost 20 years of unjust imprisonment.  My admiration for her is boundless when I think of how she reached beyond her limited early education and put herself through law school for the sake of freeing her brother from prison.  That seemingly endless passage of time, that endurance of spirit, the loss of her marriage, her sons' wishes to live with their father in their teen years, she counted all as necessary for the sake of keeping one single life from being forever lost in the teeming shuffle of humanity.

I am humble in the wake of her selflessness.