Winter

The trees are naked now. Oh, there are a few leaves hanging on, but on the whole the limbs are bare - the trunks and branches, appearing barren and lifeless to the observing human eye -stretching toward the sky . Lately, there has been more wind here in North Carolina - reminiscent of Oklahoma - shifting the branches back and forth without the protective covering of the leaves.

It makes me wonder - this plan of nature that is so different from human thinking. When winter arrives, humans shrivel up and pack on layers of clothing to protect themselves from the cold. Not nature, though, the trees seem to make the most of their nakedness - expanding - stretching - reaching toward the sky - almost an unawareness that their covering of leaves is as gone as the warm fall days. Human thinking would have placed the leaves on the trees in the winter for protection from the elements and stripped them naked in the summer - but not so nature.

So what is the meaning of all this? Why do humans only see the barrenness of the winter landscape - forgetting that nothing ever really dies - just changes form. In reality, the naked trucks and branches are in a constant state of readiness - their soul alive and ready to bear new life under the warmth of the spring sun. And like all humans, I long for that moment, when those first tiny buds begin to appear like goosebumps along the surface of the branches - reminding us that although naked, the branches have housed life all along - just waiting for the right moment to spring forth once again.

In the meantime, though, it is winter. And I think of friends of mine who are in the winter of their life -- some lying in bed, unable to support the weight of the leaves of their spring, summer, and fall any longer - yet beautiful as they reach toward the spring of a new life.

And I can choose how I see them -- like the trees. I can choose to see them as naked, nearly lifeless branches - exposed to the harsh elements of winter; or I can choose to see them naked, unashamed, releasing the dead leaves of the past, reaching beyond the harshness of the winter of this life, and stretching toward the spring of a new life. I can see the beauty of the life within them, the soul that lives again and again - though in different forms. And like the trees, who new leaves this spring will never be the same leaves that fell last fall, my friends will live again, springing forth in newness of life - in a new form --because the Tree of Life never dies - ever reaching - stretching - expanding (even in its nakedness) toward the warmth of the Sun of God.

© 2006 Ilene Madrigal

“But just remember in the Winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the Sun’s Love
In the Spring becomes the Rose!”

“The Rose” sung by Bette Midler

We Remember Grandma

We Remember Grandma
By Ilene Madrigal
'Grandma's rocker.' That is what they called me after Grandma's daughter salvaged me, dusty and neglected, from a dreary, dark corner of the local used furniture store and brought me home to live at Grandma's house.

Grandma was able to be up and around when I came to live at her house, yet I became her special chair, and I would wait patiently in the corner of her living room until she came to sit in me like a proud queen ruling from her throne. Even though the family would often glance disdainfully at me, Grandma and I ignored them and rocked contentedly in our corner, and after several years, I became Grandma's whole world. When Grandma could no longer walk, her daughter would bring her into the room in her fancy, new wheelchair, but she always begged to be lifted onto my seat where she spent her entire day. She kept busy arranging her trinkets on the table beside her, and sometimes, gazing through her mind's eye into the past, she would whistle in a low monotone and move me ever so slightly -- not really rocking -- just teetering backward and forward into her reflections.

As Grandma and I both aged, her condition worsened and so did mine. The family decided to add more stuffing to my seat and to cover it and my back with an ugly, red vinyl material. After all, it didn't matter what either of us wore. We weren't going anywhere, and not too many people came to see us. It wasn't that Grandma's family didn't love her. They were just busy and concerned with their own families and jobs. Oh, they came to visit, but I noticed that they never talked about anything really important. They would discuss the weather and ask about how she was feeling and what she had for dinner; but Grandma's time was quickly slipping away, and I longed for the family to ask questions that had depth and meaning. I wanted to shout, "Look at me! Listen to Grandma! I'm not just an old pine rocker. I have an untold history. I'm valuable. Grandma isn't just an old lady that needs to be humored. Grandma has an untold history. She is valuable." Of course, I couldn't communicate my worth to them, but Grandma could if they would only ask the right questions. Sometimes I would give a little louder creak or groan to attempt to get their attention, but that just resulted in some foolish questions like, "Are you OK, Grandma," or "I wonder if we should get rid of 'Grandma's rocker'?" That would make me cry out even louder -- not for myself, but for Grandma because I knew that if they didn't discover her true worth while she was living that it would die with her. They never did either! Sure, they asked her about her life in Mexico--stories that they promptly forgot-- but they never asked her about her feelings ...about the joy of being a young, active mother, whistling and rocking new babies in a new rocker ...about the fear she may have felt when she left her home in Mexico in the early 1900's to move to a strange, new country ...about how she dealt with the raw emotional anguish she must have felt when her baby and teenage child died ...about her faith in God. Most importantly, however, they never asked her how she coped with 'being old' -- sitting day after day in 'Grandma's rocker' with only the corner of the living room as her universe. They could have learned so much, but they didn't. Instead, as Grandma's breathing became more and more labored, they talked quietly among themselves about how she had been a good mother; and sometimes they did wonder what she was thinking as they watched her teetering in 'Grandma's rocker,' …but they never asked.

Grandma spent most of the last day of her life in bed, but in the afternoon she requested to sit in me one last time. Then a few minutes later, with her arms resting on my arms, she quietly died. Many arms had held her in the past ...her husband's in passionate embrace, her childrens' wrapped tightly around her neck while giving her wet kisses, her friends' in comfort during times of distress; but it was I who held her in my arms when she died.

The family came to pay their last respects, some crying, some reminiscing, and some simply anxious to get on with their own lives. I watched from my corner, silently grieving for my old friend and for those still living who had failed to recognize her true worth.
Then as people often do when someone dies, the family began to discuss what they should do with "Grandma's things." A granddaughter wanted her Bible; another requested her photo albums -- sentimental things of little value. Then their eyes fell on me, and someone asked, "What shall we do with 'Grandma's rocker?'" One daughter replied, "Well, I don't want it. It's just an old pine rocker." Another daughter said, "Well, I certainly don't want it. It gives me the creeps since Mother died in it." I rocked forward just a bit then and gave a little nod. I thought, "Oh Grandma, they don't recognize my value either." But then, one of Grandma's sons, who like me, had been observing the others from his place in the corner, softly said, "I'll take 'Grandma's rocker.'"

In a few days Grandma's son and his wife came to get me. I rocked happily in anticipation in the back of their pickup on the trip to their home. When we arrived, though, the son's wife said, "I certainly don't want that filthy old chair in my house," so the son stored me in a cold, dark shed. At that moment, I understood the sadness Grandma must have felt all those years as she sat alone in her corner. Our time of usefulness had passed unappreciated because the family had failed to look beyond our physical appearance for the inner beauty that we both possessed.
I sat in the darkness and waited and waited. Several years passed when one day the shed door creaked open, and the son peered in through the gloomy dimness. I heard him tell his wife that he was bringing 'Grandma's rocker' into the house. He was suddenly concerned that someone might steal a worthless old thing like me. But once again, I found myself pushed back into a corner. This time, however, the son's wife began to pay attention to me. I noticed her watching me, and sometimes she even gently touched my arms, tracing their scars with her fingertips. A short while later, I heard her talking to an old lady about me. When I saw the old lady, my memories of Grandma came flooding back, and for the first time since her death, I felt hope. I had a feeling that the old lady recognized my true value, and maybe, just maybe, I would have another chance to fill a place of usefulness. The old lady examined my arms, tenderly explored my back under the cracked red vinyl; and then delivered her verdict. "This is a wonderful old rocker," she said. And the son's wife said, "Well then, take 'Grandma's rocker' home with you and see what you can do with it."

It was several months before I returned home. My ugly, red vinyl covering and unsightly stuffing was gone, replaced by a beautiful, new, white cloth seat cushion. My cracked and peeling paint had been removed to reveal the natural beauty of the white mahogany wood on my arms and slatted back. The old lady sent a note with me about my impressive ancestry. In her investigation of old rocking chairs, she had discovered that I had probably been constructed during the late nineteenth century, that my background was an unusual mixture of Pennsylvania Dutch and Shaker furniture, and that I was valued at approximately $700.00. Grandma's son and his wife cried when they read the note, because they now understood that they had not only failed to recognize the true value of 'Grandma's rocker,' but more significantly, they had failed to recognize the true value of Grandma.

I now occupy an honored place in the corner of the formal living room at Grandma's son's house, and sometimes when she is home all alone, the son's wife comes into the room and like a queen ruling from her throne, sits in 'Grandma's rocker,' teeters forward a bit ...not really rocking, rests her arms on my arms, and whistles in a low monotone. Then ...we both remember Grandma.

©1994 Ilene Madrigal
All Rights Reserved

Update:

As you can see this essay was written 12 years ago. 'Grandma's Rocker' made the trip with me to North Carolina this past summer and even though 'Grandma's Son" and I no longer occupy the same house, 'Grandma's Rocker' has an honored place in my living room and will someday move to her Granddaughter's home. I sit in the rocker often and feel Grandma's presence - still with us - and I always remember Grandma.