Dad...Laughter and Light

As the early morning light peeks up over the horizon a milk truck pulls up to a neighborhood store in a small town.  The driver leaps out of the truck, swings open its back door, and unloads cases of milk onto a small hand cart.  With a jaunty step and a grin on his face he wheels the cart into the store.  Seconds later laughter rings out into the quiet morning.  It echoes in the air as the milkman strolls out of the building chuckling as he jumps back into his truck.  Still smiling the driver, my father, pulls out into the street and continues his day.  His mission is completed.  The milk is delivered, but more importantly he got someone to laugh.

Relaxed after a day of fishing the man wanders back to a small travel trailer.  Inside his wife and children are enjoying a card game after a day at the beach.  Spying some former dish detergent bottles now repurposed as water guns Dad picks one up and squirts the water onto the trailer's sides with all his might.  Inside his wife and children roll their eyes as he circles the trailer "attacking" it from all sides.  Dad has raised a challenge.  Who will be brave enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to come out and play?  I stand up and ignoring my mother's gasp of astonishment I venture outside and grab a few "water guns" of my own.  And so the battle begins!  Darting between cars and trailers in the park we stalk one another, leap out to attack, and then run for cover once again.  Finally he corners me, and without holding anything back unleashes a stream of water that drenches me from head to toe.  I shout out with laughter and concede defeat.  The spoils of his victory include a huge father-daughter hug and a huge amount of shared love. He got someone to play.  He got someone to laugh.


This man spins his dance partner around the floor keeping time to the polka music playing in the background.  I am a child, his child, as he leads me through the dance so quickly I find myself holding onto his belt loop just so I can keep up with him.  We are breathless as the music ends, but still we laugh as we leave the dance floor.  Once again, he made someone laugh.  Years later we dance to a much slower song at my wedding reception.  He can't resist quietly telling me a joke.  He can't resist making me laugh once again.

 Laughter has followed Dad most of his life.  Today he sits in a wheelchair.  Today he resides in a locked dementia unit of a care facility.  It is rare when he knows I am his daughter, and even more rare when he calls me by my name.  I am never sure how I will find him when I visit.  Truth be told, there are days when he is cranky and belligerent.  But the man who delights in making people laugh is still there deep inside of him.  Some days his confusion lifts long enough so that he can make a comment that leaves me gasping in laughter.

There are other days when he seems lost in the fog of his mind.  The absence of laughter leaves the world a bit darker on those days.  It is then that we sit holding onto one another's hands, connected by what is in our hearts rather than in our minds.

As I get ready to leave him  I kiss his forehead, look into his eyes and tell him that I love him.  And on those rare and beautiful days I am given the greatest gift of all as I hear, "I know, Denise, I love you too."

A Gift from Mom

The woman stirred in her sleep and murmured softly.  Her dream was unusually vivid in detail.  She had returned to her childhood and to her childhood home.  She wakened slowly with the dream still holding a firm place in her mind.  She picked up a pen and and quickly captured its details on paper.  She then reached out to her sister and shared her dream.

That woman is my sister, Paula Bogdan.  I am blessed to be the sister with whom she shared the dream.  I am even more blessed because her dream was about our mother and me, and it was a message of love.

At the start of the dream Paula was the woman she is today but quickly became a child of ten years old. She was vacuuming, and it was quite a mess.  Our mother, who appeared as the woman she was when in her late thirties, entered the room.  When Paula started complaining about vacuuming Mom stopped to give her an explanation.

Our mother quietly told Paula that she needed to keep cleaning because Mom was busy building a special place for me.  She wanted me to have a place in which to keep my things, but further explained it had to be large enough so that I could fit into it.  Mom wanted me to have a haven where I could hide for a bit when the world became too much for me.

Paula readily agreed.  Her only concern was that Mom was cutting into the bedroom walls in order to create this space for me.  Paula was afraid that our father would not like that last part very much.

What is really interesting to me is that I am creating that quiet safe place to which I can escape when things get a bit too much for me. Unlike Paula's dream it is not a physical place.  Rather it is a place inside myself.  I'm building that special spot as Mom built it in Paula's dream.  And just like the dream, I need to cut into those walls that surround me in order to reach that safe place...that haven.

There is part of this that absolutely fascinates me.  Recently I wrote a blog here titled, "Love Song in Pieces."  It was my tribute, my gift, to Mom who passed away over twelve years ago.

"When you give a gift let it be a gift from your heart.  Give it simply out of love.  Expect nothing in return."  Wise words spoken by Denise Povernick.  A lesson I thought I learned decades ago, but then came my cold awareness that I had not.  Finally, a post in honor of Mom that was written with love.  Written with no expectations.  Rather written with a hope that at least part of the world would know a bit more about the remarkable woman who was my mother.  My words carried my love out into the universe, and reaching down from heaven Mom was able to reciprocate that love with a dream.  As I tuck that knowledge deep inside myself I realize that her love has helped me knock down a few walls.  Walls I built in a vain attempt to protect myself.  Using love as a tool we are together creating that special place deep within my heart.  A place where I can go when the world becomes too much.  A place where I can keep my treasure of knowing I am surrounded by love.

 In this season of frantically shopping for a loved one's perfect present mine came quietly in the middle of the night. A true gift given from daughter to mother.  Another entrusted by mother to daughter to be carried to another.   A perfect circle of love.  Simply put, it doesn't get better than that.  Thank you, Mom.

Love Song in Pieces

Clackety-clack,  clackety-clack...a song really with a steady hum and a strong beat.  A song that would occasionally awaken me as a child.  A song that made me smile.  A song of love.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...a song that called to me.  I would toss aside my bedcovers and pad softly down the hallway to the source of the sound.  It would draw me to my mother's sewing machine which was tucked away in a small nook in our house.  It sat amidst a sea of fabric with bobbins of thread adding color to the machine's black surface.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...my mother's form is silhouetted by the light streaming in from a window next to the sewing machine.  She sits leaning into the machine with a look of concentration on her face.  As the threaded needle dances up and down her hands carefully guide the fabric so that the stitches are placed in the perfect spot.  She is creating a dress for me.  It is a labor of love.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack....my mother sits at another sewing machine.  This time she is one of many women sitting in a factory carefully guiding a piece of cloth.  Without the window, without the sunlight streaming through, this is a darker place.  Her skills are implemented for what was called piecework.  Her efforts never showed a completed dress here.  Rather she sewed only a piece of it, a collar, waistband, or sleeve.  She was paid according to how many pieces she sewed.  Sew it, get it done, move on to the next.  Sew it, get it done, move on to the next.  Hour after hour she labored at the machine.  Sometimes all went smoothly, and there was a rhythm and flow to her work.  Other times, though, the machine might jam, threads might snap, or needles might break.  Time to stop, rip out those stitches, and begin again.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...a realization that came to me far too late in my life.  My mother was an artist.  Her medium was fabric.  The nook that housed her sewing machine was her studio.  Her art could be seen in the dresses my sister and I wore with pride.  Those dresses, her art, were made and given with love.  Each stitch was sewn with her hope of creating a better world for her loved ones.  Whenever I wore those dresses she made I also wore her love.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...the lessons I learned from my mother's example.  Use your gifts.   Show your love.  Sometimes things will come together with an ease and a flow, but there will be other times when you will need to rip out some stitches and begin anew.  There will be times when you are able to see the whole picture, but others when all you can do is focus on the piece that is in front of you.  My life held PIECEwork completed with love.  My life now holds PIECES of Light seen through love.

Dancing Sunflowers

My fascination with sunflowers began several years ago while traveling through the Italian countryside with my husband.  We would start out early each morning meandering from village to village visiting family.  Often we would pass fields of sunflowers with their faces lifted to the morning light and gracefully waving their greetings as we drove by. 

We cherished that time with our extended family.  The hours were spent surrounded by warmth, laughter, and love.  Eventually the time would come when we would reluctantly say our goodbyes and once again travel along the roads as they curved through rural Italy.  Inevitably we would  find ourselves passing those same fields of sunflowers now facing west as each and every flower continued to stand tall and lift its face to the sun. 

As I gazed over those peaceful fields I realized that beneath their serenity lay strength. There would be times when dark clouds would force their way in and attempt to cover the light.  Storms would hurtle their way through those fields, winds would howl and thrash those flowers about as driving rain would attempt to beat them down.  They would need to dig in and trust that their roots would hold them steadfast throughout the chaos. They would need to lean on the other, each flower both supporting and being supported by the others around it.  Through that dark time each flower would still seek the light, and when the storm passed each flower would once again lift its face to the sun.  

There are lessons I have learned from those sunflowers.  When the winds of change hurtle me into chaos I strive to find the pieces of light.  The light is always there, but appears in a myriad of forms and is sometimes difficult to recognize.  It is in the  whisper of a firefly in the night or the small voice inside of me that says, “Yes, you can.”  It comes with the exuberance of fireworks that explode  above us on a summer night and with the energy of finally believing that inner voice now shouting, “Yes, you can!”  It also comes with a sunset that paints the sky with a golden light and with the quiet yet proud voice that says, “Yes, you did.”  I recognize it in the chorus of light that dances across the water.  I see it again as I join the chorus line of loved ones, each holding onto one another, supporting one another, and then, with arms linked, kicking up our heels and dancing in the spotlight that comes from above. 

The winds of change have tossed me about this year, but there has always been the light.  That inner voice persistently repeating, “Yes, you can.”  Those loved ones who dragged me into the spotlight and supported me so I can kick up my heels.  It's time not only to seek the light, to find the light, but to dance in it as well.