A picture can tell a story better than a thousand words...specially when you know the story...but sometimes even when you don't

An angel on Obstruction Island

Nourishment on top a Volcano

Hopeful Love on a Country Road

Family Bonds Grew as We Watched

Twas a Brutal Battle Tween a Lichen and a Moss

Bearing Witness to the Promise of Commitment

Tom Ka Gai. First Attempt. Absolute Success.

Ole Fashioned Love Song

Guess Which Two Became Dinner? The Boys Silly.

Fungus loves Lacey loves Fungus

These photos are in honor or my sweet sister love, Lacey Bediz. Thought I might lure her out here by showing her the likes of what treasures we can go seeking if she comes out here this fall. October tends to be pretty good. She loves her a good found food. That lobster mushroom was pretty delish with a tad bit-o-garlic and olive oil.

Confrontation

In certain circles its avoided at all costs. Others over do it. Too much of it can become annoying or provoking. But too little of it? Well, that can turn into self-sabotage: torturous, painful, sickening. If one doesn't confront someone who hurts them, what happens then? It depends, I guess. Either we let things go or that person continues to hurt you over and over simply because something wasn't put to rest.

I have felt the pain that comes from hiding from anger, hurt, or frustration. I know what it feels like to be angry at someone who has hurt my feelings and instead of talking to them about it, sitting, frozen, in a whirlpool of words and phrases I want to say . Silence begets silence. It has a tendency to expand exponentially and the longer you sit, cold in the water, the deeper and deeper the words fall away from your tongue, the faster they swirl around you.

Ouch.

I can remember exactly when, in my life, that all began to change. It was during a class i took at Burlington College in VT. A three or four day-long class about dreams that took place at our professor's sweet green-roofed home in Lincoln, VT. We had to stay over, in tents, in his yard. We spent time learning about how different cultures view dreams and practiced remembering and writing down our dreams. We learned various ways of understanding the messages in dreams as well as practicing intention-building dream rituals.

I had the honor of being the focus of a dream/healing ritual where I sat in the middle of the circle of about ten people. They drummed and chanted while sending the intention of movement, of awareness, of opening, of healing.

It was incredibly overwhelming. As I sat there, my throat tightened and tightened and began to pound. All I could do was open my mouth and quietly cry. I honestly don't think that group had any idea what they were in for when I sat down in the middle of that circle. The ceremony ended with them walking me outside to the door of the dream hut. You are supposed to go into the hut with a journal, pen, and water. Nothing else. You are to pose a question and ask for a dream to give you what you need to know.

I was gifted a dream that changed everything. There were all these distinct characters: a wacky and wild short-haired blonde woman with glass in her lip, a young girl inviting me into her home, another woman being incredibly helpful and kind and my teacher with his hands on my back, helping/healing.

The night in that dream hut left me with some heavy realizations. Mainly that I had a lot of work to do. That I didn't want to live my life afraid to confront anyone. That the relief of getting something out was worth the discomfort of the process.

That was 14 years ago. One of my colleagues told me I was the queen of confrontation the other day. He said it because I handled some things at work that weren't easy and that he was struggling with. When he said it I had a moment of connection to my life as a whole. I saw how much I had grown since those days in Vermont. And I thought back to all the teachers along the way: my aunt, many different friends, teachers, boyfriends...

I have much gratitude to all the people who showed me that confrontation can be done safely and respectfully and is always worth the effort.

It brought back one of my favorite quotes that I memorized when I was in high school:

"The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear."
— Stephen King (Different Seasons)

Hal Hillman "Papa" 1926-2009

That's my Papa. He was a very handsome man. He meant many things to me as a young woman and his vital role in my life changed over the years. I learned at a very young age how to tell if it was a snuggle-Papa-like-crazy day or an avoid-Papa-at-all-costs-day. He, like me, was never good at hiding what kind of space he was in. If he was in a happy space everyone knew it. He showed it by laughing loudly, squeezing your butt and making a sound something like "bahhhhhruuuuch!!". Sometimes it hurt but you still loved it because he shined so brightly in those moments. You were special. You were loved by the Pops.

He was an incredible cook. He was extra proud of his spaghetti and clam sauce and boasted that his were the all time best pancakes ever made, any where. I will admit that everything he made was delicious especially those pancakes which he filled with fresh blueberries, bananas and walnuts.

He showed love freely and openly and I'll never forget the feeling of kissing the skin on his paradox of a face: scratchy-scruffy but smooth and soft. His smell...which Nana says can not be attributed to any one cologne since he used a wide variety, was markedly delicious. Nana says it was just his smell. His smell which I can still remember and hope to never forget. While all the kids were in Florida, after his passing, I walked into his closet and caught Jason smelling his clothes in search of at least one shirt or jacket that held on to even the faintest trace of him. No such luck. It was his secret potion that disappeared from his clothes the moment he took them off. The magic of his scent was emmanated from him and him alone. No cotton or polyester could fake the glory of Hal Hillman. No way. Even so, I joined Jason in the search and was equally disappointed to find no trace of him.

My memories are plentiful and yet lacking. He was a regular part of my life from day one and therefore melts into the background of days gone by. Lots of memories of breakfasts and dinners with he and Nana. Many of them also include Charlie, my cousin closest in age. A whole bunch of sleep-overs at their house where Nana would lay talking to me until late in the night before retreating to sleep in her own room. When I was younger, he often gave me a hard time about something or other. In elementary school it was my average grades, in high school it was the way I dressed or my hair which needed brushing (it did). But his hard words were balanced with praise for my art work which he and Nana loved. I gave most of it to them over those years. Once Papa gave me the oil paints he bought for an art class he took. He didn't end up using them too much and was frustrated with his inability to create the way he wished he could. He was always a little jealous of my ease with drawing but praised me just the same. He had many talents of his own.

I have some memories with him that were hard. Getting slapped in the back seat for giggling too much (I was young and giggly with Charlie), getting an earful about how I was "in never never land and didn't know the real world which was not all peachy creamy like I thought it was" (I was happy and cheerful and he was clearly not that day), hearing him say something totally racist about a family that walked in front of my car (we are Jewish for goodness sake). I was afraid to say anything to him as a kid when he was said things that were mean or that I felt were wrong, but as I got older I found that I had to. I couldn't hold back. He started referring to me as the district attorney. "Anyone's getting picked on and here's Maddi to defend them". He said it jokingly but it was true and I heard it again and again. Many times my responses to him were as simple as "Papa!!" And he would mimic me but I know it seeped in a bit.

It was hard for him later as he was often so uncomfortable with back pain or neck pain or leg pain and would be grumpy due to that. I would go behind him and place my hands on his shoulders and massage him. Sometimes his pain was too intense and in those moments I would just sit my hands on his shoulders and pray for the pain to calm down. He always thanked me and said I had magic hands. Love IS magic.



How do you absorb the fact that a very loved one is gone? And what comfort do you find in their passing? They are no longer in pain. They are at peace. They lived a good life and were loved by many. Yeah, it helps. It has been a hard 15 months for my family and especially my grandmother. How impossible it must be to watch your husband of 60 years nearly die and then improve and then get worse and then improve and then finally, to die. I think of her every day. I think of my aunt who now goes to work everyday knowing her father isn't upstairs in his room. I think of my mom who struggled with loving him and hating him most days of her life. I think of his mother who died when he was three. Is he with her now? Is that true? Is he with his grandmother who died when he was 13?

Amazing that he created such a legacy out of such a broken family. He held family above all else and taught that to us well. Thing is, we now have to learn how be family without him. Not that we don't know how. The bonds in our family are strong; we are solid and love one another deeply. Its just weird to think of it. It saddens me greatest to think that he won't meet his great grandchildren. I laugh at how many times I actually wanted to have a baby right away for him to enjoy meeting and cuddling. I wasn't fast enough.

I didn't want my writing here to be sad or depressing. I just wanted to write about Papa. I will miss him so much. I will save the voicemail on my phone for as long as I can: "Hi darling this is Pops. I just want to find out how everything is. Miss you, love you, and goodbye". I will hear his whistle or his silly songs, I will smell his cologne or his delicious cooking, I will hold on to my love for him for as long as I live. And I will tell my kids about him and they will know him through our stories. And his memory will live on through future generations.

What a sadness in his eyes in the last year. Where I just wanted to jump in that bed and squeeze him so hard he would fill up with love and relax into it. His eyes, with the respirator down his throat...I heard them cry for release. Like my sweet dog Cass, when she was roaming around looking for an entrance into the woods and I forced her back into the cabin so she would rest. That look of being done. Of being so uncomfortable that death seems a gift and all that you held near during life are miles away, hidden behind layers and layers of the nagging distraction of discomfort. I want to remember him different than that and I do. It is just hard to forget the look.



He did have time though. He had time to apologize to my mom for being so hard on her. I got to tell him how much i loved him, how he was such an important father figure in my life, how grateful I am for that. He was still mean to Nana for too many visits. Even then, he couldn't see what he had. Dementia was setting in, they said. He was wiping at things that weren't there and saying things that didn't make sense. This was so hard on Nana...how strong she is, how much she loved him through all the muck and mire. Her advice is good. How do we respond to the hard times with our loved ones? The good times are easy she said...wow I love that woman. I pray to God that she stays healthy and gets to know her great grandchildren like she should.

I miss her. She is so far away. I am so thankful she has Pete, her little dog.

How quickly it must go. Our lives which seem so long at times. When you have reached the end, it must seem that only yesterday were you riding your bicycle or kissing your girlfriend or bouncing your grandkids on your knee. A flash of light brings it back and then all is quiet. The here and now will finally catch up to you. I hope his passing was painless. He saught relief from that pain for so, so long. I hope that in the end he was calm and that he looked up at the nurse that was with him and I hope she was beautiful.

Kisses to you Papa where ever your spirit dances. You are loved and you are forgiven for all your punky times. Just hang out with Nana for a bit if you can. She'd love a sign of your presence, but if not, just be there and help her feel that you are there, that you adore her, that you thank her for all she gave you.