steven meets me in the parking lot of the best western hotel across from the airport. from far away i immediately know it's him. the loping gait, the facial structure with cheeks like my own, a silhouette i saw so many times on the path to my aunt helene's camp. shimmering around him, in vibrant memory is forest, eclipsing the ugly motel walls, the cars, the chlorinated hotel swimming pool.
i spent my summers in the maine woods, in a camp my grandfather built. the surrounding forest was procured from his friend who owned the local mills. for $1, he bought 8 acres of shore front property. the location was prime because it was adjacent to my great aunt marion's camp. marion bequeathed her camp to her daughter, helene. helene was my father's first cousin, and they grew up together. i grew up calling her "aunt" helene.
as a kid, i sat on the floor of the mainroom of her camp, in the middle of a handmade braided rug. i would stare at the bear head on the wall, the snowshoes above the stairs. her sons, charlie and steven, would come to visit, and charlie would play spoons for me at night. steven would take me out in the canoe. when i was seven years old, steven brought his new wife, debra, and her son, jesse, to camp for the first time. jesse and i formed a friendship that i recognize in children's stories, like "bridge to terabithia" or "tuck everlasting". from the minute they arrived every summer, i was down at their camp at 8 am, sometimes not going home for days. jesse would walk me back home, down the path in the dark. we would cling to each other for dear life, and he would give me the flashlight to take home. we would say our protective chant together, to ward off whatever was, of course, inevitably waiting to eat him, and then he would take off at full speed, back down the path in the dark. held in unconditional positive love, treated with respect, and given a gift of experiencing a world of abundance and possibility, i recognized the world of helene and familiy as the one i wanted to create for myself. as time has passed, my memories of them have turned into mythology, and given the negative attitude that my parents have toward helene and steve, i doubted my connection to them, wondered if it was simply the blindness of a naive child.
steven walks me to their hotel room where debra is waiting at the door. she is older, much older than when i saw her 20 years ago. but otherwise, she is exactly the same. then the door opens wider, and there she is. my aunt helene, in her hand knit wool sweater, her glasses, her clothing that i never see anywhere but on old women in new england. i am flooded with sensation...i can smell sweet fern, i can hear the lake on the shore, i can taste blueberries and the little strawberries that grew in the grass around the camp. i flash to the bucket by the front door where we dipped our feet to get off the sand, and the way the creaking of the rocking chairs vibrated through my legs when jesse and i sat on the porch in the evening playing with old games from the turn of the century. my cellular memory is awakened, and new pathways are created as my childhood breaks over the dam and the waters of the past meld into the present.
we talk for a few hours, steven filling me in on the kids, on jesse who disowned the family 7 years ago. they ask me about my work as a psychotherapist and we stare at each other in shock as we realize that the hospice work that the family has been doing with steven's background as an MD is strikingly similar in orientation to my work with gestalt, that their spiritual path as a family is parallel to my own. we are sitting on cheap hotel beds, but we might as well be back at the camp sitting around the big table. every once in a while helene and i catch each others eye, and my heart is filled with sweetness. i am blown away by the fact that i was RIGHT. that my gravitation towards these people as a kid was like a moth to a flame. that my very young psyche recognized something intrinsically sane with these people. that unlike the fear, depression and negativity that i experienced at home, there was a HEALTH here that i tucked away inside my soul, to remember that this is what i wanted to be. this was how i wanted to be. like a dream world that i have been trying to get back to my whole life, i recognized that it was not a dream. that it was very, very real.
it is time to go and i sit next to helene on the bed and put my arm around her. "it sure is good to see you sweet heart" she says. my heart is so tender, i am so overwhelmed, that it is all i can do to not break down. i am filled with thanks, with love, with determination to continue to foster the joy that is stirred inside. like finding a beloved secret treasure that was hidden in the floorboards, i cup this love in my hands and press it to my chest.
thanks for reading, and thank you for all your well wishes for my visit with helene. it happened, and it was good.
great aunt marion
ancestors on the front porch of helen's camp
aunt helene
i spent my summers in the maine woods, in a camp my grandfather built. the surrounding forest was procured from his friend who owned the local mills. for $1, he bought 8 acres of shore front property. the location was prime because it was adjacent to my great aunt marion's camp. marion bequeathed her camp to her daughter, helene. helene was my father's first cousin, and they grew up together. i grew up calling her "aunt" helene.
as a kid, i sat on the floor of the mainroom of her camp, in the middle of a handmade braided rug. i would stare at the bear head on the wall, the snowshoes above the stairs. her sons, charlie and steven, would come to visit, and charlie would play spoons for me at night. steven would take me out in the canoe. when i was seven years old, steven brought his new wife, debra, and her son, jesse, to camp for the first time. jesse and i formed a friendship that i recognize in children's stories, like "bridge to terabithia" or "tuck everlasting". from the minute they arrived every summer, i was down at their camp at 8 am, sometimes not going home for days. jesse would walk me back home, down the path in the dark. we would cling to each other for dear life, and he would give me the flashlight to take home. we would say our protective chant together, to ward off whatever was, of course, inevitably waiting to eat him, and then he would take off at full speed, back down the path in the dark. held in unconditional positive love, treated with respect, and given a gift of experiencing a world of abundance and possibility, i recognized the world of helene and familiy as the one i wanted to create for myself. as time has passed, my memories of them have turned into mythology, and given the negative attitude that my parents have toward helene and steve, i doubted my connection to them, wondered if it was simply the blindness of a naive child.
steven walks me to their hotel room where debra is waiting at the door. she is older, much older than when i saw her 20 years ago. but otherwise, she is exactly the same. then the door opens wider, and there she is. my aunt helene, in her hand knit wool sweater, her glasses, her clothing that i never see anywhere but on old women in new england. i am flooded with sensation...i can smell sweet fern, i can hear the lake on the shore, i can taste blueberries and the little strawberries that grew in the grass around the camp. i flash to the bucket by the front door where we dipped our feet to get off the sand, and the way the creaking of the rocking chairs vibrated through my legs when jesse and i sat on the porch in the evening playing with old games from the turn of the century. my cellular memory is awakened, and new pathways are created as my childhood breaks over the dam and the waters of the past meld into the present.
we talk for a few hours, steven filling me in on the kids, on jesse who disowned the family 7 years ago. they ask me about my work as a psychotherapist and we stare at each other in shock as we realize that the hospice work that the family has been doing with steven's background as an MD is strikingly similar in orientation to my work with gestalt, that their spiritual path as a family is parallel to my own. we are sitting on cheap hotel beds, but we might as well be back at the camp sitting around the big table. every once in a while helene and i catch each others eye, and my heart is filled with sweetness. i am blown away by the fact that i was RIGHT. that my gravitation towards these people as a kid was like a moth to a flame. that my very young psyche recognized something intrinsically sane with these people. that unlike the fear, depression and negativity that i experienced at home, there was a HEALTH here that i tucked away inside my soul, to remember that this is what i wanted to be. this was how i wanted to be. like a dream world that i have been trying to get back to my whole life, i recognized that it was not a dream. that it was very, very real.
it is time to go and i sit next to helene on the bed and put my arm around her. "it sure is good to see you sweet heart" she says. my heart is so tender, i am so overwhelmed, that it is all i can do to not break down. i am filled with thanks, with love, with determination to continue to foster the joy that is stirred inside. like finding a beloved secret treasure that was hidden in the floorboards, i cup this love in my hands and press it to my chest.
thanks for reading, and thank you for all your well wishes for my visit with helene. it happened, and it was good.
great aunt marion
ancestors on the front porch of helen's camp
aunt helene
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
silversurfer:
An uplifting journal entry, and very well written. Thanks for sharing.
beadman:
Ive said it before.....you amaze me...and move me...with your writing. Its much more than that, its your ability to transfer what you feel, into words that people like me can not only read...but feel........what a wonderful talent you are.......I have a good friend...I call her "Soulshine".......I think that name fits you well also.......