As far back as I can remember I’ve felt my world as enchanted. I think most of us do as children, but as we get older this sense of enchantment is left behind. What I mean when I say I felt the world as enchanted is a knowing not only of everything (besides humans) as alive, but also aware and connected to me in a way that allowed, even encouraged, communication and participation: trees, plants, the brook down back, even the smooth stones that provided a way of crossing the brook. Even now, more than fifty years later, I can close my eyes and bring the vision and the essence of that brook and those stones clearly into my being. It wasn’t something I thought about, at least not until I was much older, it just simply was.
I was fortunate to grow up in what is generally known as the Mount Washington Valley of NH. The woods were my playground and my father taught me so much about them all the years of my life. We moved to this area when I was 3 from Norwalk, CT because my father had fallen in love with the mountains (God’s Country he called it) as a Boy Scout on a camping trip. Before moving, we’d vacation often in one of the National Forest campgrounds. Our tent was a large Army surplus version and I can still remember how it smelled – a bit musty, a a bit like turpentine, but also of the woods and bug dope, wood smoke and mystery.
Spring! When the woods come out of their deep sleep! As soon as the snow melted I’d begin my daily visits to my special places looking for the beginning of new growth. I relished the musky, damp smell of earth as I gently moved dried leaves and pine needles to see if the May flowers were blooming yet. I’d visit the shady place under towering white pines where the Lady Slippers grew. Mostly pink, but some white, and occasionally a very rare yellow one. Then there was the bog closer to the brook where violets bloomed and Jack-in-the-Pulpits. And everywhere red and painted trillium, and what I called “wild lily of the valley”, starflowers, partridge berry – I had so many plant friends! What a happy day it was when I’d spy the first, oh-so-fragrant May flower! That meant spring had really and truly arrived!
I never tired of examining rocks for hidden crystals, large bits of mica, and garnets. My parents didn’t seem to worry about me spending so much time alone down back in the woods, or later as I’d take off on my bike to explore Diana’s Bath or the Saco River or to pick blueberries in one of the many places I knew. And it never occurred to me to be afraid.
Enchantment informed and made possible the many years I spent as an activist, writer, advocate for an economy for the living earth. But over time what I learned, the horrors humans inflict on the earth, indigenous cultures, indeed all of life, for profit and meaningless crap, for wars and power, and in ignorance of what they are really doing not only to the planet, but to themselves as well – took its toll and I was no longer able to honestly share stories of hope and enchantment because I was burnt out, depressed, and angry.
The first thing I did after making the decision to move to the family home to live with my disabled sister in Maine – even before actually moving our stuff here, was to start a garden. And fall in love with all the beautiful, huge white pines and ancient maples that live there. And the views of the mountains I grew up with. Over time thanks to these magnificent trees and mountains, digging in the soil, planting perennial herbs and flowers, I started to come back to life and enchantment became real again.
Time passed. My two older boys were already on their own when I moved to Maine, then my youngest also moved away. Grandchildren were born. The garden thrived and kept me sane in so many ways, and when I’d forget the magic because of the burdens of life, someone always pulled me up, shook me, and reminded me of what’s real. (When I say “someone” I mean a plant or insect or frog or tree or bird – someone who knew me and wouldn’t let me get away with forgetting who we are, what we are to each other).
But despite my best efforts, and the best efforts of the more-than-human beings in my life, fear crept in. Fear and anxiety have always haunted me. Sometimes just lurking like shadows that disappear when you seek them, sometimes growing huge and dark lunging for me wherever I’d turn. Climate change, the destruction of so many beautiful places, the loss of bees and butterflies that became impossible to ignore as each spring and summer saw fewer and fewer of these magical beings visit my garden, increasing species extinction, all the horrors and pains of the times we live in became overwhelming. No matter what I did, I couldn’t escape my awareness of them and fear and anxiety became ever-present in my daily life.
At the same time, Jason’s life (my oldest son and father of 2 boys) started unravelling. Drugs had held a lure for him off and on over the years, and as his life started falling apart he fell to drugs to deal with the pain. A part of me knew this, of course, but a larger part wanted to believe him when he’d tell me everything was okay. But addiction is a disease that won’t go away just because you want it to (whether you’re the addict or someone who loves the addict), and I eventually had to accept that Jason was seriously addicted to heroin (or any drug he could find if he couldn’t get that), and my love wasn’t enough, his love for his sons wasn’t enough. I write about this period of time in one short paragraph, but his descent into addiction so serious he lost everything until he was living on the streets of Barre, VT in the fall/winter of 2012/2013 took a couple of years of ups and downs, lies and truths, and so much hurt and pain and despair words don’t do it justice.
Meanwhile I tried to live my life in Maine as if everything was okay. I spoke with Jason frequently (we always were close that way), I saw him when I could. But it was so hard and after every visit, whether he came to visit me or I went there, I had a sick feeling inside like something was decaying. I knew my son was in trouble. But I felt helpless. I wanted/needed to believe his lies. And in fact, a part of him actually believed them when he was telling them to me.
The garden was my salvation. When I was digging and planting and weeding I was present in the moment, and it was a relief. It was pretty much the only time that I was. If I wasn’t in the garden or making herbal stuff or cooking/cleaning, I’d be escaping reality completely in a book. I read like a crazy person to keep the fear and pain and despair at bay.
There was a lot that happened in the final three months of Jason’s life. They were so painful and I was petrified and angry. Not at Jason but at the system itself that refused to help him when he literally begged for help. That’s it’s own story, but I will say here, as I’ve said often, that most people think the hardest part of recovery is getting an addict to admit they need help. That once they finally ask for help it will be there. That is so not true. Yes, it’s hard to get an addict to admit they are powerless and they hate what their life has become and they desperately want help. But the lie is that help will be there. Sure it will be if you have great insurance or plenty of money, but for people like my son who just had Medicaid and nothing else, not even a roof over his head, the help isn’t there.
Jason died in May 2013. The medical report found fentanyl in his system, the amount consistent with a heroin dose. But that amount of fentanyl is fatal. So either the person who sold him the drugs that killed him that night, or the person who sold them to that person in effect committed murder. And this person has never been found or punished. This person is also probably responsible for more than Jason’s death because there were a string of overdoses, and at least one other death, within a few days of Jason’s death.
If you have ever lost a child you know there is nothing as painful. I remember going out to the garden, leaning on the potting bench that Jason built me after I first moved to Maine, looking out at the mountains and keening. I had heard that word before and knew intellectually what it meant, but until I opened my mouth and that sound came out I had no idea of the reality of it. It felt as though all my limbs were being torn off me, like my heart was being ripped from my chest. The pain was just as physical as if I was literally being torn apart alive. I keened and keened and keened, loud and harsh until I was hoarse and spent.
I found it hard to talk to people except my sons and very close friends. The first person I called after learning Jason was dead, was my long-time childhood friend who lost her younger daughter in a car accident years before. Melissa would have been the same age as Jason. She was killed when she was 16. Chris was the only person who would know exactly how I felt.
Where is enchantment in the midst of such despair? In fact, it is everywhere. It is probably why I am still here now. My knowing that there is more to life than meets the eye allowed me to be open to signs, to dreams and even visitations from my son. Here is just one example:
My mother died when Jason was 4, and she loved him so much. After he died, I asked her to send me a sign, and I trusted that she would. The sign came in mid June, about 3 weeks after Jason died, and a week before the Celebration of his life would take place in Vermont, when the oriental poppies started blooming. These poppies are fragile, their blooms don’t last long, and rain or wind will speed their demise. A couple of the poppies had bloomed, the first two of the season, and since rain was predicted, I went out and took pictures. It did rain, and it rained hard. The next day I went out and more poppies had opened – but the first two were just as fresh and beautiful despite the rain. Each day more poppies opened, there were a couple of rainstorms, but none of those poppies lost any petals! Not even the first two.
Magical Poppies
Finally, one evening I was standing just outside the garden fence closest to the poppies, that were still gorgeous. It was that time of day when the sun was just setting and the air was glowing golden – and I realized that the poppies were my mother’s sign! She loved to garden too, and especially loved flowers. She didn’t have poppies, but she knew how I loved them. When the realization finally came to me, I heard her voice saying, “It took you long enough!” which is exactly what she would have said when she was alive. The next day all the poppies were losing their petals. This is enchantment. It speaks to communication and participation and how truly connected our hearts and spirits are not only to each other even after death, but to the natural world – the spirits of the plants and the woods – there is so much more to who and what we are to each other than our physical bodies bouncing around here on this bountiful, endangered earth.
There were other signs too, and I wasn’t the only person who loved Jason who felt/saw/experienced his spirit manifesting through nature. Someday I will write those stories too.
After the Celebration, in which time was literally suspended – a reality that everyone who was there marveled at over and over, I returned home and quickly sank into despair. I had no energy. Even the garden was a chore though I kept it up because it’s what I do. The house was never cleaner. Shelves, drawers, closets that had been ignored for years were scoured, things sorted, tossed or donated. I had to stay busy but I couldn’t do anything that required me to think or feel. Cleaning fit the bill perfectly. But then what?
I had trouble breathing through my nose, couldn’t take a deep breath, nasal congestion became the norm. I had never suffered from allergies but now it seemed I was allergic to everything, in every season. I had no health insurance and didn’t have the option of expensive allergy testing so I basically had to live with it and deal as best I could. I had recently started making botanical perfume, took a great course, and was starting to make my first blends – then Jason died. And now I could hardly breathe. My creativity was gone. It was all I could do to keep up with orders for my existing herbal products. There would be nothing new created for quite some time.
Fear and anxiety overtook my life. Every storm was a disaster waiting to happen. Every gusty wind, every lightening strike, every inch of snow. The huge trees that I fell in love with became potential destroyers of my home. And indeed there were homes nearby that had trees blown onto them – we have had, and continue to have, numerous heavy storms that cause severe damage due to downed trees. So it’s not like I was being silly. It could happen. But I lived with the anxiety that it would, and then all the work and stress of dealing with the aftermath would fall on me. My blood pressure sky-rocketed, and it got to the point that I could never breathe fully through both of my nostrils at the same time. I felt that life was a burden and I just wished I could breathe or die. One or the other. The limbo I was in was stifling. In short, there was no enchantment, no magic in my life.
The first year anniversary of Jason’s death was more painful than I could have believed possible. I wasn’t prepared for it – but I now know this is normal. I wish someone had told me what to expect. I relived the whole thing: a year ago today I spoke with Jason for the last time – thank god I told him I loved him – it’s the last thing I said to him. And the last thing he said to me was, “I love you Mom.” A year ago today Jason was still alive. A year ago today my boys were here and we cried together. And so on and on through the days. I lived the whole thing all over again, day by day until the Celebration. Then the despair set in just like the previous year.
Another year went by. There was no improvement in my breathing and I had not recovered my desire to create new things or make any new fragrances. Though I did make a perfume in memory of Jason – full of hay and cow barn and cognac and tobacco – the things he loved best. This perfume has aged into something quite special. I still feared storms, the trees, damaging winds, and fear and anxiety still pretty much ruled and controlled my life, though I would never have admitted it. I felt ashamed that I, lover of trees, lover of Gaia, lover of everything wild was now afraid of it. I just wanted to stay safe, to feel in control of my life. And as we all know, we have no control of nature, and really no control over what happens to us though we like to believe otherwise. What happened to that little girl who wasn’t afraid of being alone in the woods, who reveled in the wind whipping tree branches around in a wild dance? Who wanted nothing more than to dance with them, safety be damned? Who had I become?
By the second spring after Jason’s death, I had come to accept that I would never be the same again. My “allergies” had worsened and there was no relief, day or night. In late March 2015 I got a cold, but didn’t realize that’s what it was at first. It was like I had no nose at all. What was worse is that even if I could take a breathe my sense of smell was gone. I felt that my life was over. How could I make perfume? How could I make my creams? What would be the point of gardening if I couldn’t smell the bee balm, sweet Annie, spring moss? I panicked and went to the emergency room. Of course they did nothing. The next day I went to the clinic where I was reassured that I had a cold. I didn’t believe it, but sure enough that day I started in with a cough and soon it was a full-blown cold like nothing I had ever had before. People assured me that my sense of smell would return when the cold left but I had difficulty believing it.
My perfume teacher, who also happens to be a TCM practitioner, offered to help and I took him up on it. He checked out my tongue and made some recommendations for Chinese herbal formulas. We talked about his diagnosis – congestion in the intestines, lungs, weak wei qi . . . Afterwards, I got out the book I helped edit on TMC (The Body Owner’s Manual by Deb Degraff) years earlier. I opened the book to the section on the lung meridian, and remembered Deb saying (and so it was also written in the book), “grief resides in the lungs”. It was an ah-ha moment! I remembered that my “allergies” had first appeared in the fall of 2012, when Jason’s addiction became so very serious I had no choice but to acknowledge it. I know it seems unbelievable, but at that moment I felt some of the congestion lessen.
I religiously took all the herbal formulas I’d been prescribed, and within days I could breathe and then my sense of smell returned. I still had the remnants of the cold but I knew that’s exactly what it was – a cold. That was the beginning of the end of my “allergies”.
I have meditated on “grief resides in the lungs” quite frequently since. I never take being able to breathe in and out deeply through my nose for granted. Never. Often during the spring/summer/fall I sit on the cedar swing outside, with the view of the mountains, and I feel . . . love, pain, grief, despair, and back to love. I love my boys, I’m grateful that even after death Jason’s spirit is still with me. I love this place and the earth. And I grieve what we’re doing in the name of greed and ignorance and fear. I breathe in and out over and over. In grief, out love, in fear, out anxiety. Whatever comes, I breathe it in and out. Deeply. Over and over. And am so very grateful that I can!
Slowly I sense my fear and anxiety lessening. I am more aware of it when it comes so I can breathe it out. Just a few days ago I was standing out in the yard surrounded by the huge white pine out front, the ancient and even bigger maples on the side yard, and the other huge trees (maples and white pines) all around, forming what felt like a protective circle of guardians around me, the house, my garden, my world. I felt the trees saying to me, “You have no reason to fear us. We are your guardians.” I raised my arms and slowly circled around to greet them all in turn, and thanked them. And vowed that when my fear and anxiety return (as I know they will), I will remember that moment and their message to me and know it for truth.
Note: This post was written before I moved to NY. I have said goodbye to my Guardian Trees, though they still live and continue to guard the new owners of my old home. I am getting to know the Guardian Trees who guard my new home – beautiful hemlocks, spruce, cedars, white pines, and a young tamarack tree! I continue to live in an enchanted world, despite all the bad news, despite the pain and destruction. Beauty and magic can be found everywhere – even just a small plant like a dandelion growing through a sidewalk crack or a sapling somehow thriving as it pushes up through a boulder in the woods (how do they do that?)! Keep your eyes, ears, nose, intuition wide open and you will find the magic around you!