wonder

We go to SAM today, a planned outing. Jennifer, Lorna, Mom and me. It's one of those blustery almost-winter days. While Mom refuses to wear her hat when inside the foyer of the Mirabella, she readily consents once she feels the blast of cold we encounter once outside the automated glass doors. Larry, our driver, is ready, more than ready actually, as I arrived a few minutes late and then there was the ubiquitous taking of pictures--my insistence that these final days of Mom will go recorded, as best I can.

Mom is in good spirits today, not like the rocky start on our last adventure to the Pike Street Market. While it's just been several weeks since the market visit, it's remarkable how the season has changed--how we are bundled up in our wools rather than sporting shirt sleeves. We stall for a minute while Larry adjusts Mom's wheel chair for its rocket ride up to car deck level. Mom is use to this. She doesn't say a word. Neither do we. We are all pros here.

While Jennifer and I are kibitzing over the best route to get to 1st and University, the address of SAM, I am taking in the streets--the cars darting and honking and turning at will through the busy afternoon Seattle streets. I am thinking about all the times that Mom and I drove ourselves to downtown, making stops at F&N, Isadora's, Maggie's Shoes, even Le Panier. Always the issue of where to park and how much this parking will cost us. Should we park on the street (it's cheap, as in several dime's worth) or do we give in to luxury and park in the Diamond lots (convenient but pricey--several dollars then but presently they are twenty dollars for two hours)? Now, none of this is a worry. Larry makes the decisions about how to avoid the traffic, where to turn, where to double park for the off load of Mom's chair. It feels decadent in its convenience and yet all the time I know that the reason for our convenience is Mom, her leaving me--day by day, hour by hour. What is here of her today, will not be the same pieces of her that are here tomorrow. Deception--how the skin hides these transformations, makes it appear as if all is the same, all is well, when in fact nothing is okay about any of this.

The first thing we see when we enter SAM is a gigantic, life-size exhibit of Ford cars, six Ford Taurus automobiles to be exact, suspended from the ceiling by a sculptor who specializes in live fireworks displays. I can see the connection, as jutting out from every possible angle from these hanging cars are streaks of multi-colored lights attached to rods of varying sizes. The effect is mesmerizing. We stand and strain our necks for the longest time, words like "ooo, look at this" or "wow, can you believe this" leaving our tongues. Even Mom is intrigued, though her range of movement for her upturned head is more limited than ours. There's a pattern to these lights, and Jennifer and I try to interpret what they are meant to suggest--the yellow, green and red of stop lights blinking on and off, perhaps? But really, I just think the artist is playing with us, fascinated with the whimsy of light bursts against the sheen of white paint on Ford aluminum and steel.

After using the elevator to gain another floor, we find ourselves confronted with a spectacular "tapete"--a traditional Mexican sand painting spreading across the floor of the museum entrance. The painting has been done in honor of the upcoming Day of the Dead celebration (El Dia de los Muertos). The painting's sand is brilliant, primary--our eyes are fixed to the flourish of color. There's texture too, a nap really, in fact so much texture that we are sure the "painting" is a carpet, that is until Jennifer confirms with her hand that indeed it's sand not carpet pile there on the floor. Her touch leaves a mark, or a blemish rather, and we giggle to ourselves both in embarrassment for the blemish and in dis-ease, the concern that someone may have noticed and we might get out hands rapped with a ruler, so to speak. This is just the first of our many "transgressions," to be quickly followed by an admonition by the ticket taker to "check" my water bottle at the front desk--apparently water bottles are not allowed. Instead, Jennifer just stuffs my bottle inside her purse; purses are still allowed. Jennifer and I are now one for one. It appears to have been a long time since Jennifer and I have been to a museum. We don't know how to behave. We learn soon enough.

Up two more floors and we find ourselves in an exhibit of tribal masks--fantastic wooden carvings that seem as if they would crush the head that would wear them, with sheer weight alone. One particularly interesting exhibit is a fertility mask of huge proportions with breasts, neck, head and some sort of fantastical outcroppings on her brain--judging from the size, it must weigh at least twenty-five pounds. There's just too narrow slits to allow the wearer to see where she is going. It looks punitive rather than celebratory. I'm fascinated by the juxtaposition of tribal carvings with modern day clothing--how they have the mask-wearing mannequins outfitted with fabrics full of stripes and plaids and pok-a-dots--an eye-full of texture and color. There's even a mixed media artist from Ghana included in this exhibit, a sculptor who creates "personal coffins"--coffins that are made of wood and paint and reflect the life and interests of the deceased. I raise my camera for a (non-flash) photo of the "limo" coffin and several of the masked mannequins, before I hear--"Miss, miss, put that camera away now." Apparently no photos are allowed. Verboten! Jennifer and I speculate that it must be an issue of marketing--keeping control of who is allowed an image of what, just in case we feel compelled to take home something of what we've seen. After all, there's a fine museum shop down two floors ready and willing to take our money, if we so chose. We don't.

Next we amble towards the direction of what we've come to see-- "Michelangelo: Public and Private." But before we get shunted down the long hallway that leads to the exhibit, we are arrested by several life-size sculptures by artist Nick Cave. What intrigues us is that his "people" are made of thrift store sweaters, fascinating creations which have twists and knots and swells and dips as Cave sews together the color coordinated wools. One figure in particular is made of sweaters and human hair, a shaggy mane of reddish-bronze hair falling in waves from the figure's neck and shoulders. The effect is stunning, I mean literally we are too stunned to speak. Cave speaks for us; he writes--"I believe that the familiar must move towards the fantastic." And indeed, Cave has taken the ordinary, the familiar, the discarded and created something that completely captures our fancy. Wonder is what I'd call this.

There's even a Stephen Greenblatt quote, inserted into this portion of Cave's exhibit--taken from one of my favorite books of his, "Marvelous Possessions." Greenblatt writes--The expression of wonder stands for all that cannot be understood, that can scarcely be believed. It calls attention to the problem of credibility and at the same time insists upon the undeniability, the exigency of experience." The quote is so arresting, that I decide to write it down and have borrowed a pen from Jennifer to do so. I'm scribbling quickly, not wanting to keep the others waiting and, as I do ,I hear--"Miss, miss, no pens allowed." A short stubby (and dull) "library" pencil is then presented to me, as the museum employee watches me put the pen safely away in the pocket of my coat--no longer a dangerous weapon, apparently, when cloaked from sight. There's to be no airport-style confiscation. I'm relieved. Our fourth transgression is now over and done with.

Through all of these fantastical displays--the colored sand, the tribal masks, the sweatered figures--Mom is quiet, but she appears to be looking, attending. We talk with Mom, touch her sleeve, bend down and engage her at eye level--we are determined that Mom enjoy this outing as her outing--at her pace and for her purposes. Every now and then Jennifer and I check to see if she is engaged, if she is awake. At one point Mom appears to be sleeping and Jennifer riles her with--"Rumor has it that you, Dorin, are notorious for falling asleep at plays, ballets, movies." Mom laughs then--a loud injudicious laugh that I am almost sure will get us busted for "too much noise." There's glee in that laugh and I am glad to hear it--the first genuine emotion I have seen from her since we entered the museum. Lorna offers Mom gum--something to help keep her alert--and just as Mom is opening her mouth like a baby bird, taking the gum from mother Lorna's fingers, we hear--"No gum allowed, sorry." Now we all laugh--it's just too funny, our errant ways. The museum representative looks sharply at our combustible noise but says nothing more. We are all relieved.

Once we get inside the exhibit, Mom seems entranced. I stop at each of the placards, explain what they mean. While Mom can still read, comprehension is an issue. I'm a tour guide, a magician, conjuring for Mom the past trips she and I took--how we made our migrations to the mecca of art--Florence, Rome, Sienna, Pisa--to see the work of Michelangelo and others. I was an art history major at the time, so I took on our travels as an assignment: we were determined to see everything! I made lists from my art history textbooks, from slides I'd seen in class. This was a serious matter, something we both believed. As we stare at the full-size portrait of Michelangelo, done contemporary with many of the drawings we've been viewing, I wonder at what she's thinking. This very same painting we have seen before, at least twenty-five years ago, in Florence. And here we are now, a place I never could have imagined, anticipated--Mom in a wheelchair incapacitated through Alzheimer's and a stroke and me battling with my brother and soon to be family-less. What if I had known, could have seen this future moment, would I have done anything differently? I want to ask Mom this, but she is far away at present, her eyes staring off towards the next exhibition room. I think she's getting tired. "Where are you Mom?" I want to ask. I feel alone in the space opened now between us, despite our close proximity. We are at different places in our lives, different ages--I am coming into my own and she is letting go of what she has been. Where do we meet in this?

Just when we are deciding whether to cut the exhibit short to take in a meal at "Taste," SAM's first floor diner, we hear--"Hello Dorin" and are greeted with a delighted smile from my cousin, Mark, and his daughter, Elizabeth. Unbeknown to us, Mark and Elizabeth had gone to the Mirabella after we'd left; they'd come to visit before going to the museum. Serendipity. Mom is ecstatic! Haven't seen her engaged this much during our whole museum visit. We talk for quite some time, Mark talking about his potential move, Elizabeth talking about her current art major at the UW and her dream to move to L.A. to work in the public/community art industry. Mom's listening to every word. This is very good. All the while, Jennifer and I are looking around furtively, wondering if Mark's elbow on the glass case or our loudish talking voices will draw the attention of yet one more reprimand. It does not. We are relieved.

When Mark and Elizabeth leave to feed their parking meter (not having the luxury of Larry's door-to-door service) we take the elevator down to the first floor to be seated for "Happy Hour" at Taste. Mom's tired and we've all had enough looking. The menu at Taste is fascinating--a cheese platter with candied walnuts, fig preserves, pickled cherries, three kinds (one of them unpasteurized) of cheeses I've never heard of, and raisin-rye bread toasted. There's also a flat-bread with pork rind and sauteed onions as well as a grilled cheese sandwich with Gruyere cheese. We are enchanted and order one of each to share. While Lorna, Jennifer and I greedily eat our fill, Mom pulls her--"I'm not eating this" routine. Lorna cajoles, reminding her that she her own plate is full (so Mom can't say that she won't eat so that Lorna can eat instead). Jennifer whispers to me--"Take some of the food off her plate--maybe the amount of it sitting there is alarming." I try this, but still Mom won't eat. I know when we return to the Mirabelle for dinner Mom will say--"I already ate at the museum." But I will know that she didn't. But despite Mom's food war, we converse happily enough until it's time for Larry to pick us up at 4:30.

When we get back to Mom's room, I ditch my earlier plan to leave right away. Somehow, sitting here with Mom with such a lovely adventure just done, is soothing. I want more of Mom, more of the old Mom that laughed and went to museums and ate heartily at delicious little hole-in-the-walls. I wonder at where this has gone.

I don't have my usual bag of trick--the day's newspaper, the book of poems we are reading, the latest photos we are reviewing. I left my bag in my car, knowing at least one thing about museums--that large bags are verboten. So we just sit here together. Lorna is off in the staff kitchen rustling up her dinner. So it's just the two of us.

"You are..." Mom begins and the stops.

"I am what?" I ask her.

"You are...you know...you are...different."

"In what way?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"You are..." and then she points to my clothing with her left hand, making it shake with her effort.

"What am I Mom?" Now I'm really needing to know--I want to know what Mom thinks of me, how she see me, what she thinks of when she sees me.

"Hoops," she says and I wonder--what is she talking about?

She points then to my feet and I think--heels, she means heels. I feel disappointment then, thinking that all she means is that my somewhat higher heels have created a different effect. So I say--

"You mean that I'm wearing higher heels today?"

"No," she says firmly. "Not that."

We struggle like this for several minutes. Lorna comes and goes from our room. Still Mom can't say what she means. We are both frustrated. The best she can offer is--"different." So I must take what is given, and ponder this for what she might mean. It's all I have. This is happening more and more frequently--Mom's inability to get the gist of what she's saying across and my inability to decipher the nuances of her abbreviated speech. Sometimes the words just aren't there but other time the wrong words present themselves--like "hoops' instead of "heels." This frightens me, because it suggests a further decline. Gone are the weeks last month where Mom was clear thinking and nearly clear speaking. Where has she gone?

I stay for nearly two hours longer, helping Mom to eat her dinner--"Sweet and Savory Beef Stew, Fresh Potato Salad and Succotash" (not sure what this latter grain is)--talking about whatever comes into our heads. But there's no more soul searching, tongue twisting for just the right word, nothing further about "different." So I am left suspended with Mom's aborted thought--some utterance that I am sure would have been significant, would have told me something about how Mom sees herself in relation to me.

Greenblatt has it right, I think, the juxtaposition of the "undeniability, the exigency of experience" with the "wonder" of what can't be understood. Every day with Mom embodies this combination of wonder and exigency. Everyday I learn about Mom and I learn what I can never know or understand about Mom. It's a constant collision of the practical--changing Mom, turning Mom, getting Mom to therapy, getting Mom to eat--with the wonder of what might still be here for the two of us--what discoveries we might make, what reconciliations we might permit, what grace we might embrace.

Wonder and what can scarcely be believed.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--