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The Grief Is Enough

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I know someone who lost kin recently, tragically, and unintentionally. Odds are you know someone too. There were an estimated 173,000 accidental or unintentional deaths in 2019.

One may hear the tragic news. One may have an insatiable curiosity for the details, what happened, who was to blame, what was the single mistake, how could the victim have chosen differently? We say they were too young, so promising, oh their poor parents.

We say they were too successful, too greatly needed, too intelligent: what will their families do without them, what went wrong? We say they were too old, too mature, too sensible to die an accidental death, where was the misstep, the neglect?

The grief is enough. No amount of regret or guilt or shame or accusation or blame or getting to the bottom of it is going to fix it or bring the deceased back or heal everyone. The grief is enough. Cry with them. Sit with them. No need to ferret it out or explain. The grief is enough.

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I Still Write

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Sometimes, in the midst of our busy-ness, we forget who we are. Or at least we forget a portion of who we are. I can get so busy writing and publishing and marketing that I forget I was once – and always have been – a musician. Recently I have been so wrapped up in music and rehearsal and assignments that I forgot for a moment I am a writer. In 2020 I rereleased a book (The Pancake Cat) and published a women’s novel. In early 2021 I released a memoir- style women’s novel. While it may seem a phenomenal pace to publish a book every 6 months, it must be noted I had been working on The Pancake Cat for more than two decades; The Right Woman for the Job spanned 40 years of rumination; I lived with The Cemetery Wives for about 25 years. Publication of each of these books was an experiment of sorts – a finishing what I had begun, an edit and polish, a meeting of deadlines, a feeling of my way through independent publishing process – the satisfaction of completion. Yes. I still write. And I still do music. In fact, I got so bogged down with gigs and rehearsals and making charts for an upcoming wedding reception and trying to complete assignments for a Pentatonix arranging class I am taking, that I just played hooky last night and went to the local hot springs with my daughter and friends. – – And it reminded me that I have a work in progress. A post-apocalyptic, steampunk perspective on selfcare – full of euphemism and geology and literary reference.  Here’s a sample chapter to prove I was not just playing hooky – I was actually confirming research.

A High Desert Oasis and Hot Springs

 Up the anticline, down the syncline, Precious trekked on. Finally the path led sharply up and she found herself walking close to the rim of a dark mesa. Basalt, limestone, a smoky valley in the skirt slumping down from the top. Perhaps a blow hole? Steam rising from a hot springs? What a comfort that would be to her tired bones. Precious stepped off trail to the left. She followed a wildlife path toward a ravine. Down she went, ever lower into the canyon until she found coursing water, a small stream not too wide to jump. She bent and felt the water. Warm to the touch. Immediately she turned and followed the stream upwards. Not more than four furlongs later she came to an aperture in the rock – the place the hot spring exited the heart of the mountain. At great temperature, water flowed into a pool about nine feet in diameter. Infrequent passersby had added a small boulder or two, assisting Nature with endeavors to encourage the water – and bathers – to linger before continuing a downward journey. Precious rested her rucksack against a ponderosa pine, doffed her boots, folded her cape and tunic carefully on top her pack and proceeded to disrobe and slip into the water. The dark waters stung her skin. An involuntary shudder and an audible expression of comfort and well-being escaped her lips as the heat permeated to her bones giving stimulation and health, relaxing her muscles, clearing and focusing her thoughts. No wonder the ancient people groups that inhabited this land before the arrival of Europeans had wintered here, used these springs ceremonially. It was definitely a place of healing to Precious. She wanted to stay here forever – to be well always. In actual fact, she stayed only the better part of an hour. She breathed the mineral steam. She absorbed magnesium, calcium, silica, potassium, bicarbonate, sulfides. She soaked muscle and bone to the core. She allowed her mind to relax and cease to churn. She murmured inarticulate tones of gratitude into the mist that cloaked her from time to time. Her mind was an open channel to the Universal Cranium – Peace and quiet descended. She emerged from the water so thoroughly warmed she did not shiver. Precious pulled on clothing layers in leisurely fashion without a chill. She hefted her rucksack and proceeded to climb.

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Wisdom from Age

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Here is what I have learned from experience:

There is not enough food in your pantry or fridge to make you feel better when you are lonely. There is not enough chocolate in the world or wine in the bottle to cover your inherent fear or embarrassment. You will not find, anywhere in your job or relationships, enough sex or affirmation to give you the confidence you need to hold your head up every day and face the world. Ultimately, no amount of success nor excess of work hours will make you feel perfect and secure.

There are four antidotes I know of to assuage your anxiety:

*Take a hike in the out of doors.

*Make some music.

*Write about whatever is troubling you.

*Go work outside, move some rocks around, garden, pull weeds.

Think or pray or meditate while you are administering the antidote.

I have never had one antidote work consistently 100% of the time; nor are they instant. You can augment the effect by drinking liberally from your water bottle and engaging in thoughts of gratitude.

This is the wisdom and acknowledgement that comes with age. These are the gifts and remedies that come from the Earth, or Mother Nature, or Life, or the Universe. Use them well, but use them you must if you wish to live.

Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Poetry and Prose, Uncategorized

What a Life I’ve Had

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What a life I’ve had!

Ah, what a life I’ve had!

But I think I’ll have some more;

More pain more gain, more money, more glory!

Ah, what a life I’ve had!

Nothing the same for the past,

Sixty or sixty-five or seven,

Not one year like the other.

I must have lived nine lives,

Not as a cat;

But as a Mother,

As a sister to a brother,

As a wife, a partner, a daughter.

Ah, what a life I’ve had;

Running a business, commanding my own Starship Enterprise from an office chair,

Taking out the garbage, sweeping the dust,

Eating the losses.

Ah, what a life I’ve had,

Singing with the best, accompanying all the rest

With 88 keys at my fingertips;

Raising the young to love history and rhyme;

What a life, what a life.

Studios, stages, microphones, lead-lines,

What a life I have had,

Learning that everything speaks,

Stooping to hear what is said,

Taught by rocks and rivers and meadows.

What a life I have had!

What a fine time cutting my losses, hedging my bets,

Smelling the roses – – by whatever name.

Ah, what a life I have had!

But, I think I’ll have some more;

More pain, more gain, more money,

ALL the GLORY – this time!!!!!

Cherry Odelberg, May 2021

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Three Mountain Passes and a Graduation

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She rose before dawn- which comes pretty early the end of May; washed her face, popped in her contacts, took a hot mineral soaking bath and pulled away from the curb by 6:20 am, feeling confident. She loaded the car the night before. All she had to do was grab her purse and electronics bag. Already she was wearing her black column dress with the sandals. She had allowed a full extra 45 minutes travel time just to be safe. What a glorious morning! Hardly anyone else was on the city streets – or the highway for that matter. Her route would take her over the notorious Red Mountain Pass. Precipitation was expected – but also temperatures of 50 degrees at key points of reference. Rain was lovely-and much needed. As she began the ascent to the first of three Rocky Mountain passes she would traverse in the space of 70 miles, the absolute gob-smacking beauty of peaks and pine trees, valleys and budding quaking aspens snatched her breath away. She let out a loud and involuntary “woo hoo! Hallelujah!” right there in the car by herself. The experience was transcendental and she wasn’t even meditating with her eyes closed, free of all distraction. Far from it. She kept her eyes and her attention on the road, yet took in the wonder of beauty all around, savored the gentle rain that began to fall, teardrops of joy from the sky lingering like diamonds on the glass and then running in tiny rivulets down the silver side of the car and falling on pavement; millions and millions of tiny diamonds that without warning became pearls of snow. The pearls collected, slowed her progress, caused her to exercise ever more caution. Snow. Four or five inches of it on Coal Bank Pass. Spring snow. Not snowpack – the weather is too warm. Spring snow, slushy, crunchy snow cone snow over non-frozen pavement. She continued without incident up the pass, breaking new trail. How many other vehicles had she seen? One to this point. What a blessing, no string of traffic pushing her to go faster!

A few vehicles approached from the opposite direction, trucks all of them. An F250. A utility work truck. Rugged autos. Halfway up Molas Pass she met a snowplow, descending as she was ascending. Molas Pass was sporting a six or seven inch accumulation of the white stuff – still slushy and crunchy and slippery. 

She tried to talk to the car that passed her. She said things like, “Hello? I see by your license plate that you are not from these parts, welcome to Colorado! Did you notice that I bear a Colorado plate? This is not my first Rocky Mountain rodeo. Did you consider there might be a reason I am traveling slower than you want to travel? Lincoln Town Car is it? Great! You may have – no probably not – noticed the model of my vehicle. In very big letters it proclaims RAV4. That 4 means something important here in the mountains. That 4 might also be assumed to be “A.” In these parts “A” stands for all-wheel-drive. The vehicle I drive and my speed are both intentional choices.” Talking aloud gets the irritation out of her system. There are more vehicles on the road now. She is untroubled when a couple pickups pass. They drive as though this is a daily commute and they know what they are doing. She doesn’t talk to them. They can go on ahead, break the trail, if they like.

The valleys between passes are rainy and wet, but not snowy. She contemplates the option of laying over in Silverton and thus missing her grandson’s graduation.  Red Mountain Pass lies ahead. But no, the approach to Red Mountain looks fine and she is definitely not turning back – that would be ludicrous with two passes behind her and only one ahead. Again, the ascent looks fine, but the rain quickly turns to snow and accumulates fast. Just ahead she sees the Lincoln Town car dead in the water, straddling the center line at an awkward diagonal angle. There is nothing, absolutely nothing she can do for them by stopping except to add to the traffic jam. There might be room to pass on the right – just barely – and clear the precipice that yawns – but the road is slick. There are also tire tracks to the left and she opts for those as she can see no oncoming traffic for a mile up the incline. By the time she reaches the summit, the snow accumulation is 8 inches. A highway patrol car sits off to the left with lights flashing. She pulls off the road to the right behind an F150 and rolls down her window calling to the driver as he exits, “Are they closing the road?” “I don’t know,” he answers. “The officer is checking on a semi stopped just over the hill. I’m going to go talk to him. Hey, was that white car still in the middle of the road when you came through?” Affirmative.

She reached into the back seat for her winter hiking boots and wool socks and pulled them on. She retrieved her down jacket from storage in the hatch and pulled it on. She got out and walked to a better vantage point. The F150 driver came back. “The officer and semi are waiting for the snowplow coming from the other direction, I’m going to give it a try.”

She watched the driver disappear over the hill. She waited. He did not back up. Soon the snowplow came around the parked semi. She started her engine and moved forward, passed the semi. There were no other obstacles in sight. She proceeded to Ouray where she found a phone signal and texted ahead to warn family members of her delayed arrival. Two hours later Coal Bank Pass closed. Two hours later when she was already safely seated at the Avalon watching her grandson move his tassel from one side the mortar board to the other.

Health and Long Life, Music and Theatre, Musical resolutions, The Rules, Uncategorized

Free Music

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Yesterday, I did it. It’s taken me 14 months, but I finally played an original, complete, coherent, eight bar melody on the public chimes at the top of the sky steps at Ft Lewis College. You may well ask why it has taken me so long. After all, college music theory III required a complete Sonata of three movements plus coda in less than a semester’s time -half of which time was spent learning the rules governing a sonata. My sonata, named something prosaic like Praxis Sonata, critically acclaimed by the entire class, garnered me only a B on my final report card. A B!  In music! Even then, I knew my instructor was generous. Why? Because he knew something my classmates did not know. I had failed to analyze the piece – to mark in the jots and tittles right on the music. And though I worked frantically with my pencil on the bound and presentable copy whilst other students performed ahead of me, I had not completed the analysis before the final bell. 

Give me seven giant, floor-mounted windchimes at the top of a trail and two attached mallets, what could possibly be difficult? I’ll tell you what: They never gave me the rules. I have spent a year trying to figure out the theory of the thing. Not diatonic. Not arranged in ascending or descending chronological order. One of them is even out of tune with the other. Seven. Not six like guitar strings. Not a major scale. Not a mode. Nada. Not an Aeolian harp. I discovered the chimes early in March 2020 and played them at each passing so my ear could make out the pattern. No pattern developed. By Labor Day I could play two bars of the French Marseillaise, but after that, the available tones gave out. I pondered what I knew of world music and puttered about making incidental riffs whenever I hiked in that neighborhood. Most of the hikers and stair step masters ignore the presence of the chimes. They wear motivational earbuds so what do they care? Once, and one time only in the entire 14 months, I saw a child walking away from the chimes. Otherwise, the chimes are my oyster and mine alone, I guess. I’ve heard oysters need irritation to compose pearls. I was plenty perplexed.

With March 2021 came the advent of distanced outdoor concerts downtown every Friday. On the walk home, it seemed only natural to take in the art gallery in my path. And there I saw them; miniature, hand-held tone bars in sets of five. What were they? Freetone bells. Freetone bells made by the same artist responsible for several outdoor musical installations around the community including parks, pre-schools and Ft. Lewis College. Not one of the five tone sets is just like any other. They are all free. Each sounds its own unique pitch without regard for harmony or the chime hanging next in line. 

Do you know what that means? No rules. You are free to strike any chime you like in no particular order. But me? I’m still bound to the definition of music as organized sound. I’ve spent a good deal of time and research trying to get to know these chimes. So far, I’ve got them organized into 8 bars of passable melody. I’ve still got to figure out how to work one outstanding chime into the mix, but six out of seven isn’t bad – it’s kind of like my life. Here’s to the future; with or without rules!

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A Toast to Love!

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In honor of Saint Valentine, the patron of couples and epileptics and honey – I raise a toast to all the star-crossed lovers who faced the impossible and loved anyway. Here’s to you, Lysander and Hermia, Helena and Demetrius. A toast to you who dreamed a mid-summer’s dream of being together and were ready to pay the cost; to brave the wiles of despots in power and fairies in action and the asinine side effects of potion in motion. 

Let’s hear it for those in marriages of convenience or abject necessity that succeeded and loved anyway! Sixteen-year-old young women who people my family tree; women who married homesteaders and prospectors and widowers with children; ancestors who loved and conquered a new world and won the west. Let’s hear it for mail order brides who walked a plank ONTO a ship and into the unknown and bravely chased a new life.

Here’s a toast to all those couples of arranged marriages who learned to love anyway. Good job Mary and Joseph, Issac and Rebecca, and Bollywood actors – the world will never be the same. 

Now let’s pause a moment for those who loved and lost. For Romeo and Juliet who gave up too quickly. And especially let’s remember those who loved, really loved – no matter how short lived – no matter how soon the loss, no matter whether bereft through death, displacement or unfaithfulness.

Let’s hear it for enduring love, for couples who stay together or reunite despite the ravages of mental illness. For the wife who stays though there would be no shame in leaving; she loves the incurable alcoholic. For the husband who tenderly cares for the woman who no longer knows his name; yet he gently reminds her of the operas and symphonies and travels and grandchildren they have shared.  For those who stay steady in the face of battle scars and diabetic amputations; this one’s for you! 

And here’s a special bouquet to those singled out and shot down by Cupid again and again who keep getting up, smiling, and putting themselves out there to love one more time.

And now, one for the aunts – those women for whom the clock ticks. They have played the gambit of a queen; are ladies in birth, bearing, and education. They are full of wisdom and grace. All these single ladies know how to cook with love and fight for love. Even so, the knight on a white horse has not yet come riding by; nevertheless, they continue to love and spread that love lavishly in service to everyone they meet. 

Last, but not least, a toast to the real-life lovers, the love at first sighters, the life-long committers whose relationships have lasted not only a decade or two, but five and six decades – an entire lifetime – until they ceased to breathe. I know at least 10 of them and I hope you do too.

A toast! A toast! to couples and lovers wherever you are! What have you got that’s worth living for? Like as not, it is true love, just like Wesley and Buttercup.

Did you raise a cup for each of these lovers down through the ages? Are you now drunk on love? ‘Tis better mead than a grapevine has to offer.

A toast! To true love!

Books and other Soul Food, Character, co-dependence, Fiction is Truth, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Relationships, Uncategorized, Write

She thinks of it as her debut novel

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She thinks of it as her debut novel, though she has two preceding books in print. The plot is well aged in the whiskey barrel of life. She has been ruminating the twists for more than three decades. This is the book she left the mountains to write 13 years ago, not that she can’t write in the mountains. There is writing inspiration aplenty in such a cozy cabin, but instead of writing, she kept shouldering the duties of others instead of minding her own business – much like the main character in The Right Woman for the Job. In fact, The Right Woman for the Job mirrors many of the experiences of the author – and fictionalizes a reciprocal amount. Like the movie, Groundhog Day, this book has taken many tries to get it right – both in real life experience and in rewriting of the lines. The author herself has changed. The original model characters have changed. Heroes have risen – and fallen. Scenes have been added and deleted, format and metaphor rearranged like the squares on a sliding tile puzzle. The Right Woman for the Job has had many title changes – changes that reflect the character improvement and growth and migration and focus of the protagonist. 

Tuesday, February 2, 2021 is more than just Groundhog Day. The first Tuesday in February is a big book release day in the publishing industry. And this year she will participate – for the first time ever – in the custom of releasing a book on the first Tuesday in February. Chalk one up for the bucket list. Finally, she has done what she said she would do – she never dreamed it would take 13 years and two hundred thousand miles of detours. 

The Right Woman for the Job available softcover from cherryodelbergbooks.com
and as an ebook from Amazon.com

Books and other Soul Food, Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Leadership, Relationships, Spiritual Well Being, Uncategorized, Write

remembering Shirley Bryan-an introspective

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Shirley Bryan is dead, and she didn’t get to read the book. The book in which a very important supporting character is modeled after her. The book in which I put words in her mouth – made her say what I understood her to say. The book that was dedicated to her because she believed in me, mentored me from afar. Just knowing she was there, just knowing what she would say gave me the affirmation to move forward. Shirley Bryan died January 1 of this year. I found out when I googled her address to send a copy of The Cemetery Wives – albeit with fear and trembling because she has a much more particular grasp of the English language than I do. Nevertheless, I thought proper to send her a copy because I dedicated it to her. Would she still be at the same address? A mere three months ago when I penned the dedication line, I searched online and found her husband, Chaplin Bill, had died two years ago. I have not seen Shirley, talked to Shirley, or been in contact for over 25 years. It is I who am totally responsible for the distance and lack of communication. For the first 12 years after leaving seminary, I chose not to burden her with my day-to-day frustrations because she had plenty of new young women to mentor. For the past twelve I have been ashamed to reach out. I am divorced. My life did not go as it ought. It would have grieved Shirley, as it grieved me. My presence at the seminary was due to my marriage to a seminary student and we are no longer married. 

Back in the day when I was married to a seminary student and Shirley mentored young mothers, we had an understanding. Speaking to young wives was her calling, writing was my growing passion. We would travel the ancient biblical lands together. She would gain knowledge and speak. I would be her amanuensis. In both speaking and writing, we would reach the maximum number of people with truth. In addition, we would both luxuriate in seeing the wonders of the world.

It was never a real plan – only a casual conversation – but her participation in the dream was true encouragement. Something that told me I could move forward. I was free to pursue writing. It might even be my calling.

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She Hikes with grandma’s sunday handkerchief

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She hikes with her grandmother’s Sunday handkerchief. Yes, a vintage handkerchief. 100% cotton with a floral print around the borders. She layers it between the disposable rain poncho-which is 20 years old and not yet ready for the landfill – stuffed into the bottom of a bottle sling with the full water bottle on top. These are the essentials for a daily hike: rain poncho for a sudden downpour; handkerchief for bites the nose winter or spring allergies, and water bottle. It is not a new handkerchief by any means. Nor is it carried as a talisman. Grandma has been gone since 1965 and this is the year 2020. In her memory these are Sunday best handkerchiefs, too pretty for daily use. They are Pentecostal handkerchiefs once used to dab off the tears of joy while murmuring, “glory!” And they are babies in a blanket handkerchiefs, quiet, soft-as down distractions to keep toddlers occupied during long sermons. These handkerchiefs – there are four of them- have been carefully stored for 56 years. They came to her in an old-fashioned cedar chest this year upon the passing of her mother. Mother never thought to use the handkerchiefs for herself because disposable tissues have been the norm since the 1950s. For the last 50 years, Scotties and Kleenex and Puffs made the weekly rounds to church and office, carefully folded and tucked into purses. But these handkerchiefs are practical gold for the leave no trace hiker. Before COVID, on longer hikes, she traveled with two bandanas – one for wiping the face and nose and spills and the other for use as a tablecloth for lunch in a beautiful place. That was how she came to have 15 cotton fashion bandanas to choose from for face coverings. Now every hike requires a jaunty bandana tied around the neck at the ready to lift to the nose – but not to wipe the nose. So, she chooses a bandana carefully to match her mood or outfit and she heads out into Nature to meet and greet strangers by hoisting her bandana into place over her nose, slick as a cow puncher keeping out the dust. Between times, when her nose gets so chilly it drips or when the bridge of her nose has been pressed so often by the bandana it runs, she pulls out the Pentecostal handkerchief to gently dab at her nostrils. Nowhere is the likelihood of her becoming charismatic most strong as out on the trail – in Nature’s beauty, where all creation sings and blesses her and restores her spirit; where the sight of a mountain or a waterfall or a glimmering icicle provokes an exclamation of “hallelujah” or “glory,” – most generally translated “wow!” or “awesome!” and a spontaneous waving of a handkerchief.