Author: Grace Mattern

Grace Mattern is a poet, writer, artist, mother, grandmother, partner, friend, community activist, gardener, triathlete, hiker and for 30 years was the Executive Director of the NH Coalition Against Domestic and Sexual Violence. Her chapbook Fever of Unknown Origin was published in 2001 and her full-length poetry book The Truth About Death was published in 2012.
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Silver Stone

We woke to snow this morning, pulled up the shades and got back in bed, letting the silver light fill the room.  In spite of predictions of a change to sleet and rain, the snow kept up.  We went for a walk, the cold wind numbing our faces the way the last week of new loss has left us feeling numb and dumb and clumsy.  I don’t even know what I did yesterday, but I do know I managed to grocery shop and cook and work on a poem and go to Yogurt Poets last night.  Is that enough for one day?

Then I went for a ski, my first ski of the season, so I said a Shehechiyanu blessing (for more on that see this previous post) and thought of Eric’s mother.  Eric always said a Shehechiyanu when he did something for the first time each year — like the first chance to cross-country ski or the first kayak of spring.  It wasn’t until after he died that I found out Eric learned that from his mother, Natalie.  We were at a Passover Seder together three years ago and she talked about how often she says the Shehechiyanu blessing and all the opportunities there are in a year to bless the return to a favored place or activity.

Now Natalie is in a hospital, recovering from a bad bout of shingles.  More worry.  But back to skiing, to being in the woods, my tracks leading back into the trees, snow draping the branches and quieting the inner chatter.  Blessed.

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Ice Stone

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Morning pond croaking
Deep throated ice language
Sun dissolves in clouds.

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Sweet Stone

Today, in the midst of doing a few final death chore errands before David and I headed out from Lancaster, he had me pull into a parking lot so he could check the map on his phone, to figure out how to get to where we were going next.  A big hawk flapped into the bare magnolia tree right in front of the car, white belly, grey wings settling across the broad back.  Then it sat there, alert and watching for whatever is next.

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Big Stone

A year ago today, not by the date but by the day, Emilio was born, early in the morning.  I came back to Adrienne and Matt’s house to get a few hours of sleep, after having been up for most of two nights.  Sam woke up when I came in and I called up the stairs to him.  “You’re an uncle, and you win, you have a nephew.”  He was really hoping for a boy.

This morning Adrienne brought Emilio in to me, in bed, a bit before 7:00.  She went back to sleep, and I lay under the covers with Emilio tucked up next to me.  Adrienne had handed him a little plastic penguin and he slapped it against the pillow, over and over.  We were both drifting a bit in the early light just starting to come through the window blinds, warm and comfortable.

Then I heard my phone vibrate, and a few moments later, vibrate again.  I got up to the expected text from David.  His mother died early this morning, he was going to bed to try to get a few hours of sleep.

What a year it’s been.

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Small Stone 7

Today was Emilio’s first birthday party.  It was a hectic day, and yesterday was a bit wild too — doing errands, setting up for the party, putting up decorations, then trying to get Emilio to nap this morning, before the guests arrived.  Adrienne nursed him in his darkened room, but he didn’t fall asleep.  I took him to try rocking him to sleep, and he would fall asleep on my shoulder, but wouldn’t let me transfer him to the crib.  So I kept holding him in the dark room, put my own head back against the chair, and let the rocking settle me too.

Small stone: A grandchild’s strong young body sleeping against mine, a full day coming as we let a few minutes of rest sink into us.

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Small Stones Meets On the Road Again

I’ve still been doing a small stone every day, but have only managed to tweet it the last two days.  We’re on the road again. Last night we drove to Long Island, David leaning back in the heated passenger seat to ease the back pain he’s been dealing with all week.  Today I stayed in NY to help Adrienne get ready for Emilio’s 1st birthday party tomorrow.  David headed to Lancaster, PA on the train, heating pad along, to be with his mother who is failing fast.  Another death vigil, like this summer with his father.  So here we are again, together, apart, on the road, and at home, all of us spinning on that big wheel.

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A River of Stones

Thanks to A Woodland Rose, a sister-haiku-writer-blogger I follow, for turning me on to this January writing and being focus.  The River of Stones, created by Writing Our Way Home, invites us to focus fully and appreciatively on one small, or large, aspect of each day, and write about it.  Write it in your notebooks, your blogs, on Facebook or Twitter.  Just appreciate and write.  The simple instructions: 1. Notice something properly every day during January; 2. Write it down.  I can do that.

My small stone for today:  The avocado in my refrigerator is dark green, skin pebbled, ripe and ready to be eaten.

David and I both went out to exercise this morning.  I ran around Jenness Pond with Anne and Betsy.  David walked one side of the Pond and back.  It’s such a glorious day — bright sun, mild air, blue sky with grand white coulds — we decided we need even more time outside.  We’re going to the coast to walk along the ocean.  I’ll be thinking of that avocado, waiting for me at home to be eaten.  Yes, the New Year is a lovely river of stones so far.