Three years ago today, my father died.  Three years starts to feel like it has some distance and heft to it, and at times it seems almost normal to me that he is gone.    Sometimes, when I have that feeling, it brings me up short, as if I  am losing him all over again.  Grief is a very strange emotion.  Today, I am filled with memories, both of my dad as a younger man when I was growing up, and in his later years when I believe he fully came into who he was a human being.

This past year we finally sold the building that had housed the store that my grandfather started with a partner in the 1920s, and that was my dad’s life work.  My parents began their married life together in an apartment on the second floor of the store building, and I spent the first four years of my life there as well, until we moved to a house.   At the time my dad died, the building had been sold for a few years under a land contract, but by late 2010 the new owner, who resided in California,  had become a victim of the economy and had to turn it back to us.   Happily, we were able to resell it to a local family, who has remodeled it for a lovely children’s clothing store, called Chick’n Dots.   During the renovation they found old papers in the walls of the building that dated from the early 20th century–the building is one of the oldest ones in town.  My dad would be happy about its new life,  and I sincerely hope they are doing well.

Though I was tremendously relieved to finally have the building off the books, selling it  permanently also severed a final physical connection.  Now, when I look at a picture of him, or use a well-worn book or even an old shirt that I kept around to remind me of him, I think of a poem by Emily Dickinson that he especially liked:

Death sets a thing significant

The eye had hurried by,

Except a perished creature

Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships

In crayon or in wool,

With “This was last her fingers did,”

Industrious until

The thimble weighed too heavy,

The stitches stopped themselves,

And then ‘t was put among the dust

Upon the closet shelves.

A book I have, a friend gave,

Whose pencil, here and there,

Had notched the place that pleased him,–

At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not,

For interrupting tears

Obliterate the etchings

Too costly for repairs

So much happened this year.  A year ago, I was definitely not in a good place–I was facing surgery for breast cancer, with all the dread that comes with not knowing the extent of a life threatening disease.   We were also  in the middle of a move to New Hampshire, now complicated by the course of my treatment and the decisions I would have to make about not only what treatment I would undergo, but where.   I decided to have the surgery in Michigan, and the followup care at Norris Cotton Cancer Center.   I had complete confidence in my surgeon in Michigan, but cancer treatment has many moving parts, and I wasn’t at all impressed with the rest of the system there or the dismaying lack of coordination among the players.    On the other hand, the moment I walked into Norris Cotton, I knew I was in the right place.  So while the timing of our move was difficult, it was ultimately for the best.  And we love, love, love being in New Hampshire and the Northeast.  It is truly home, even though we miss friends and family back in Michigan.

Any life threatening illness forces you to change, internally as well as externally.  For me, always a very healthy person, cancer was a shock.  I felt fine–how could I be sick?  Yet, clearly, it had happened.  I decided to take it as a wake-up call to change my habits, and have switched to a heavily organic and non-processed food diet and become serious about regular exercise.   When I started to walk to and from my radiation appointments  2 miles away, I got the idea to do the Komen 60 mile walk, which I then trained for and completed.  (And thanks again to all of you who supported me in this).  And while I was working on that,  I also started to run, and completed several races in between as well as a half marathon in September.  I think that I felt a little like Forrest Gump, who ran to the end of the fencepost, and the end of the town, and then the end of the state, and then on a cross country journey that lasted three years.  One step does lead to another, once you get started on a healthy lifestyle.  My goal for 2012 is to run 1000 miles, which works out to about 20 miles a week.  I almost got there this year, so I know it’s doable if I stay focused.

There were other changes–  I started looking for a job in mid-summer as well, and landed one relatively quickly–while I wasn’t sure I wanted to work full time, I’m now really enjoying it.  And, we got a kitten–a companion for our older cat; their combined antics bring so much joy.  It is amazing how much pleasure we can take from pets.  

The end of the year, however, was also absorbed with illness, not mine this time but my  sister-in-law, who lives in New York City. My husband and I have made half a dozen trips there in the last two months.  She is now on the mend, but with a long recovery projected.  So the year has been bracketed with health issues.  I didn’t think that I took good health for granted before, but now, growing older, I realize that it is truly a gift, and I’m determined to do everything possible to take care of myself so the odds are on my side.  Exercise, good eating, avoiding stress, and appreciating and enjoying life’s little pleasures as well as the love of family and friends–these are my simple goals for 2012 and beyond.

I am a great believer in asking the Universe for what you want, and then stepping back and letting it deliver.  Often the result is better than you hoped for.  In this case, I knew that I needed a place to stay near work, to avoid having to commute from Keene every day.  I had a particular rental amount in mind, and wanted to be no more than 20 minutes from Waltham with privacy and comfortable digs.  Whimsically, I thought it would be great to be near a train stop, where I could hear the occasional train whistle that I remember from my youth–we were close enough in our last place to hear the Amtrak train in Royal Oak, but there are no trains anywhere near Keene.

 While I love the rail trails that have been created out of the torn up beds, I still miss that sound, which put me to sleep every night when I was a kid, and I have always liked living near a place where I could hear the comforting rumble of a train near by (with apologies to Thoreau, who decried the sounds of civilization like the train whistle, which  interrupted his deep thoughts…..)

The place I found, in West Concord near Route 2, met virtually all of my requirements.  The rent was a little higher, but the house is only a couple of blocks from the commuter train that goes into Boston.  As if to apologize for the rent being a bit off, the Universe threw in something I didn’t even ask for–a lovely drive to work through country roads with stone fences and fields, and a route that goes right by Walden Pond.  The lake is part of a state park now, its history laid out in a replica of the cabin that Thoreau lived in, and a memorial to the actual site of the cabin, which was torn down after he completed his experiment in natural living in the 1840s (it took him several years to complete his book, which was published in 1854).   The cabin site was unearthed in 1908, long after Thoreau’s death–but it was easily found due to his meticulous description.

I feel blessed to be in the midst of such literary history, and though I long since gave away my college copies of the famous works of this place–Thoreau, Emerson, and Hawthorne (I still have a childhood copy of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, also written in Concord) –I’ve started to re-read them, forty years later.   The distance of time and experience will make them completely new, and I’ll share my perceptions as I go along. 

September for me is  a time of new beginnings.  As a kid, I always loved going back to school–new school supplies, new clothes, a new grade, and new books and things to learn.  September is also the beginning of the Jewish New Year–a time for reflection, looking both backward and forward and turning over a new page.  And finally, it is a time of incredible beauty–fall leaves and cooler nights.  It’s  my favorite time of year.

For a while now I have been thinking about going back to work.   I have enjoyed the time off in the last year since I returned from China, but I have also felt at loose ends, and found myself wasting a lot of time.   I kept having the nagging sense that it was  too soon for me to hang it up and retire. Having said this, I think this is a very personal decision and I know a lot of people who have retired at my age or even younger who are having the time of their lives,  and who wouldn’t dream of giving up their free time and going back to work.  For a while, I thought I might be one of those people, too.

But, over a period of months, I realized that I am not–at least not yet.   So, earlier this summer, I decided to start looking for a job–whether full or part time, I wasn’t sure, but definitely something that would energize me and allow me to continue to contribute.  And with all the market swings and economic uncertainty, it was also a reasonable decision from a financial planning perspective, as well, particularly since I have family members on both sides who have lived to 90 and beyond.

Fortunately, the universe heard my decision and responded in record time.   I actually found the position through an online posting, which I have come to view as kind of a lottery type way of getting a job–there are so many applicants per position, that often the HR people don’t even respond to a resume submission.    I had only two rounds of interviews, and the entire process took less than six weeks–quite unusual in these times.   I started the job last Monday.  It’s a great company and the role is one that I like–lots of change management, international work, and bringing a team together.   At the same time, it’s a different industry than I’m used to, so I’ll learn new things.

The company is in metro west Boston, meaning that I have had to find a place to stay during the week, and come home on weekends.  Along with working full time, that will also be a big change.   I’m hoping that down the road, I will be able to work at least part-time from home, though that will not be realistic for the foreseeable future.   I am not sure how long this phase of life will last–as long as I enjoy it, I suppose!

On Sunday I ran a half marathon–13.1 miles, a beautiful course through four covered bridges in the next town.   It’s nothing I would have predicted myself doing even a few months ago.  All goes to show that no matter how old you get, life is full of surprises and you can do things that you never imagined.

Back in the late 1980s I used to run, but I let it go a few years later.  About a year ago, I found a tape I used then in a box with some old stuff– beat music for a 9 minute mile. At 60, I’m far from that now–I’m lucky to run a 5K in 33 minutes, and it took me 2:44 to run the half marathon.   But, there are relatively few of us older folks out for these races, especially the longer ones.  I was the only female over 60 at a 10 miler I did a few weeks ago, and I came in first out of three in my age group for the half-marathon, despite the slow time.

It’s not a desire to recapture my lost youth that has gotten me to take up running–rather, something much more serious.  Late last year I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and as a result, I have to take a medication that suppresses all estrogen production in my body–and with it the protective effects on the bones.   To prevent bone loss, I need to do weight-bearing exercise, and running is simply the most time effective and logical thing to do (along with some weight training).  I started on a treadmill in the winter, and moved outdoors with the coming of spring.

Running has had a lot of benefits.  I’ve lost weight, and feel much better.  It clears my head.   (At first, I had to have an iPod with me at all times–or so I thought.  One day I forgot it and realized that I really didn’t need it–though I still take it on occasion.)  And I enjoy the races and challenging myself, and meeting new people (some of them virtually, on Dailymile where I record my workouts).  I’m not fast, but I’m steady.

In June I took a class in Chi Running, which I strongly recommend to anyone who is taking up this sport.   The techniques of Chi running, which are based in part on the Chinese T’ai Chi, help the runner maintain proper form,  relax while running, and most important, prevent injuries.    I am still working on the technique, but there are certain aspects of it I feel I have mastered pretty well–like running uphill without huffing and puffing.

Running has also helped me reconnect with family–three of my first cousins run, as well one of my cousins’ grown daughters.  One of my cousins has lost a lot of weight and taken up triathletics–you can read about her amazing journey here.  We all plan to do the Rock n’ Roll Half Marathon in Savannah in November.

My goals are to run more half marathons, as well as shorter races, and improve my form and times.   Though it took a major  illness to get me here,  I will keep running as long as I can.

When I came home last night from a weeklong stay in Ohio, a single cricket was chirping.  In a couple of weeks there will be a chorus.      By the end of August, there will be thousands of them, singing  through the night and falling silent only with the rising sun.

The sound of the crickets takes me back to middle and high school, and memories of my dad reading  the poems of Emily Dickinson.  For whatever reason, he was fascinated by her, and collected all her poems, letters, and many critical works on her poetry and life–long before she became a popular figure.   I will never forget the night he introduced this favorite to my mother and I at the dinner table:

Further in Summer than the Birds
Pathetic from the Grass
A minor Nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive Mass.

No Ordinance be seen
So gradual the Grace
A pensive Custom it becomes
Enlarging Loneliness.

Antiquest felt at Noon
When August burning low
Arise this spectral Canticle
Repose to typify

Remit as yet no Grace
No Furrow on the Glow
Yet a Druidic Difference
Enhances Nature now

Before Dad explained this poem to us, I had attached no sense of time to the sound of crickets.  I simply never noticed they began to chirp only in late July, and by the end of August are in full harmony—gradually dying off as the leaves turn and summer slips into fall.   And I think, neither had he.  From then on, even after  I grew up and moved away, we listened in unison, no matter how far apart we were, for the inevitable sound that came every year on late July or early August nights, the sound of “Further in Summer than the Birds.”    When  I went to Japan, Dad was eager to know—could  I hear them there?  (Yes, suzumushi, bell crickets, figure in Japanese poetry and art as well, and have even been kept as pets.)

Though both my parents are gone, once my birthday is past in mid-July, I still tune my ear to that first faint raspy chirp, that I know will soon become a “spectral Canticle.”  It leaves me with a bittersweet feeling—the end of summer, the years that have slipped away, and the impermanence of all living things, including those we love.