{"id":886,"date":"2012-01-16T15:24:37","date_gmt":"2012-01-16T20:24:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.katrinakenison.com\/?p=886"},"modified":"2012-01-16T15:24:37","modified_gmt":"2012-01-16T20:24:37","slug":"bootcamp-boxes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/bootcamp-boxes\/","title":{"rendered":"Bootcamp & “Boxes”"},"content":{"rendered":"

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I am in Florida this month, enjoying my own private writer’s bootcamp for one. By the time my sons went back to school after Christmas, it was pretty clear to me that if I had any hope of making my book deadline in March, I was going to have to take drastic steps. So, my husband booked me a plane ticket, and here I am, holed up in my mother’s quiet guest room, with no distractions, no responsibilities, and nothing to do but write. My mom doesn’t care if I go for twelve hours without speaking. She has her own life. And here, alone with my laptop, I am finally making some headway. I write. I take a run. Write. Do yoga. Write some more. That’s about it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Two years ago this month, my aunt Gloria, my mother’s only sister, died. The two of them were close. They saw one another several times a week, and I know my mom misses her terribly. This week, in honor of the anniversary of my aunt’s death, I have invited my first guest-blogger into this space, my mother. She doesn’t consider herself a writer, and yet when she showed me this piece, I knew I wanted to publish it here, to share the amazing woman who is my mother with all of you. I am so grateful to her for giving me a way to “retreat” for a while. And I’m proud to introduce her to you, my readers and on-line friends. The photo was taken the year Gloria died. That’s my mom, Marilyn Kenison, on the left.<\/p>\n

BOXES<\/strong><\/p>\n

I held my sister\u2019s hand as she took her last labored breaths and, with a final gasp, passed from this world to the next. It was the first time I had witnessed a death and somehow I expected more. But that was it. The end. No more. No more breaths, no more movement, just stillness.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s gone,\u201d I said, as much to myself as to her husband beside me. He was prepared and knew who to call: the hospice nurse to make the official pronouncement, the crematorium to take away the body, the children. Within an hour, my sister truly was gone. Gone not only from my sight, but from this life, forever.<\/p>\n

A few days later, she was back. I went over to her house to help her husband sort through a few things and when I arrived he said, \u201cGloria\u2019s in the bedroom.\u201d And she was. Sitting on her bureau was a bright yellow shopping bag, and in the bag a plain, white, cardboard box. And in the box, the remains of my sister. I stood looking at that box and the incongruous yellow bag. With a bit of tissue paper and a bow on the handle it could have been carried with pride to any party.<\/p>\n

The bag and its box remained undisturbed on the bureau for several months. Whenever I visited the house I would find a few moments to stand before it and wait \u2013 for a sign, a feeling, something to reach me from the other side to let me know my sister had safely arrived. But there was nothing, just the silent, inscrutable box.<\/p>\n

Our parents are buried in a lovely cemetery in New Hampshire. Gloria had told me and her husband that she would like a marker placed on their grave to commemorate her life. It was arranged that when I left Florida to drive north for the summer, I would take my sister\u2019s remains with me. I didn\u2019t feel right about relegating the yellow bag and its contents to the trunk, so I set it on the back seat, next to my dog and his bed. Gloria loved dogs. I think she would have liked that arrangement.<\/p>\n

Back in New Hampshire I assigned Gloria\u2019s remains to the dining room, one of the most pleasant but little-used rooms in our house. A few months later, as I set the table for dinner guests, with profuse apologies I moved her to the hall closet. The dinner guests were her husband, Chet, and a lady friend. Although the family was comfortable with Chet\u2019s newfound companion (at 83 you can\u2019t wait too long to take the next step in life), my sisterly loyalty prevented me from serving the soup that evening in the presence of the yellow bag.<\/p>\n

A granite marker with appropriate wording was placed on my parents\u2019 grave later that summer. Together, Chet and I had removed a spoonful of powdery ash from the cardboard box and placed it in an empty film canister. The monument maker, a long- time friend, agreed to tuck the canister beneath the stone when he put it in place, even though such a burial was against the rules of the cemetery.<\/p>\n

That left me with the rest of my sister\u2019s remains and no instruction as to what to do next. Before she had become bedridden, Gloria and I had spent a week together at our family house on Bailey Island in Maine. We reminisced, ate lobster and ice cream, painted with a local watercolor group, and each evening made a ritual of pouring a glass of wine and watching the sunset. One of those sunsets was the most spectacular show of brilliant reds, oranges, and magenta either of us had ever seen. That particular summer sunset was something we talked about many times during Gloria\u2019s remaining two years. It was our own special memory. I decided to leave Gloria\u2019s ashes on Bailey Island, with a view of all the sunsets to come from now to eternity. This time the yellow bag shared the front seat with me, as Gloria and I made our final trip to Maine.<\/p>\n

Each evening for a week I watched as dusk approached, waiting for just the right moment to release my sister\u2019s spirit to the world, but the sky remained somber. Finally, it was my last night and although there was no sign of a sunset, I knew I must complete my mission. I sat on a rock and remembered my sister. It was easy to conjure the evening we had shared, in awe of one of nature\u2019s greatest shows. I opened the box of ashes half expecting to hear one small, final sound, perhaps the sigh of her spirit passing through, but the night was quiet and the sky still gray. What to do next? The sheer volume of chalky white ash and what it represented overwhelmed me. I didn\u2019t know how to proceed. Here, after all, was my sister. I felt responsible to her still, wanting to somehow imbue this moment, our last contact, with dignity and meaning. Through tears of frustration and grief I emptied the box over the grasses, rocks, and water. Small piles settled on the ground or floated away on waves. Suddenly the water was alive with light.<\/p>\n

I looked up at the sky. The clouds were parted by a white brilliance. There was no color, no red or orange, but it didn\u2019t matter. The light was pure and dazzling; the effect, breathtaking. I had the sign I had been waiting for.
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I am in Florida this month, enjoying my own private writer’s bootcamp for one. By the time my sons went back to school after Christmas, it was pretty clear to me that if I had any hope of making my book deadline in March, I was going to have to take drastic steps. So, my […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":15183,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[31,32,14,49,15],"tags":[201,209,280,477],"class_list":{"0":"post-886","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-grief","8":"category-healing","9":"category-soul-work","10":"category-writing","11":"category-writing-and-reading","12":"tag-grief-2","13":"tag-healing-2","14":"tag-marilyn-kenison","15":"tag-writing-2","16":"entry"},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/10\/600x600.png?fit=600%2C600","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/886","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=886"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/886\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15183"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=886"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=886"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=886"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}