A Winter Season

In Loving Memory

Joseph Anthony Nolla, Sr.

December 3, 1932 - November 13, 2006

"... the leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old, but his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul ... "
Leader of the band - Dan Fogelberg

Winter has finally come to Pittsburgh. Sometimes at the beginning of a new season I think perhaps it might be possible to avoid the adverse conditions of that season... a winter with no frigid temperatures or snow... a summer with no humidity ... spring with no mud ... autumn with no loss of foliage. But, alas, no matter how long it may delay the new season will surely come, there is no avoiding it.

The season of death came in 2006. On November 13th, my dad died. I watched him change from a robust and active person to a frail, sick man in a matter of 8 months. At the beginning of such a season, it is normal to deny it, "he won't die"... "he can kick this"... (perhaps it won't snow). But slowly the reality of a season shows itself .

Saturday night, November 11th:  Four children are called to the hospital: "internal bleeding"..."respirator" ..."off the transplant list" ... "24-48 hours".

Two daughters spend the night in the hospital with their dying father. The younger tried to keep him from removing the tube.. He cried, "Please let me alone"... "I want to go home"... The older said, "Ok, Dad, we'll take you home"... they let him pull the tube out.

Sunday, November 12th, 11AM: He was home: his music, his chair, his garden... a hospital bed, hospice, medications to make it easier....grandchildren, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews... Great Aunt Marge... good-bye dad, grandpap, pap-pap, Joey, Joe, Uncle Joe.

Monday, November 13th, 7AM: A phone call, "Dad is gone"... a son's lament, "Oh, my dad, my dad!"

Tuesday &Wednesday, November 14th & 15th: The funeral home: Sinatra plays... photos.... faces from the past, so many swirling faces.... "your dad was a great guy".

He looked like himself again. The hospital gown was gone, replaced with the red shirt and red tie he bought for himself (and was quite proud of) after his wife of 40-years died. His derby was on his chest along with his sunglasses. The bruising on his hands was less evident.

A tiny little red bud from one of his rose bushes managed to defy the season. A grand-daughter placed it on his lapel. A gift from his garden.

Thursday, November 16th: A funeral: one last glimpse ... his face ... his hands ... good-bye daddy ... his four children huddle together in a group embrace... no mom ... no dad ... orphans.

A funeral mass: a young grandson wearing his grandpap's hat and sunglasses leads the procession... a son's tearful story of a relationship reconciled ... a daughter recounts a joke her dad always told... the crowd laughs through their tears.

The gravesite: taps... a flag is folded and placed in the arms of his grieving little brother...  sobs.

Good-bye my father, Joseph Anthony Nolla. Sr., my root. 

I will always remember your sacrifices... your loving... your laughter... your generosity... your jokes ... 

your food ... your song.

The Call of the Heart

Oh, the places we'll go...

 

Pismo Beach, California

Follow the hands ...

When I was studying to be a massage therapist I had a wise instructor who encouraged her students to "make the massage their dance" - fluid, flowing, and rhythmic movement.  With these five words, she encapsulated for me the "how" to do this work. There have been times when providing massage I have gotten lost ... lost the rhythm - dancing with my two left feet, or should I say hands.  The way I find my way back into the flow is to stop thinking and simply follow my hands.  Though we learn physiology and pathology in order to provide safe and effective massage, it is not a brain-led modality.  Massage, at its essence, is heart-led via our hands. 

Follow the heart ...

I have been reading a fascinating book this summer about the heart written by a psychoneuroimmunologist (long word, I know!!) In his book, he proposes that  in our science-based, brain-oriented western world we have underestimated and devalued the capacity of our hearts.  Seen primarily as the body's pump by western medicine, we have yet to realize its full capacity.   By providing scientific research and anecdotal information gained through interviews with heart-transplant patients and their families, the author proposes that the heart, not just the brain, is actually capable of thought, emotion, memory, and communication with other hearts.

As a Christian, I am familiar with the concept of a knowing, feeling, and perceiving heart. In scripture the words spirit and heart are often interchangeable. Much of my spiritual devotion is geared toward discerning the rhythm of my heart - the inner man, as Paul refers to it, where the Holy Spirit makes his abode.  Jesus taught us in John 16 that the Holy Spirit would teach us and lead us into all truth; a truth which encompasses our unique design and purpose for life on earth.  Listening, sensing, feeling, and learning to be led by the heart/Spirit's movement is the pathway to life, the mark of Christian maturity, and the channel through which heaven comes to earth.

However, we humans live among the clatter.  The clatter of the world, of our own inner conflicts, and that of other voices ... all in competition for our attention.  Yesterday, I set my intention to write this missive.  As I unpacked my computer in a local cafe, I realized that I forgot my ear-buds.  Seated at a nearby table were a group of women discussing marketing strategies for their business.  As I tried to concentrate on the voice of my own writing, it became impossible to filter out the one voice in that group that rose above the others.  This is a picture of how the Spirit's voice, that still small voice located within the depth of the human heart, gets drowned out.  So loud is the world that we lose our heart's rhythm and find ourselves living life with two left feet! 

I have to confess over the past years, I have often felt my life out of sync.  At times following the rhythm of my heart and others trying to "figure" it all out.  My western brain fretting, thinking, and running on high octane.  Even though I make regular time for prayer, scriptural meditation, silence, and journaling, the disconnect between my heart and my life has at times been torturous.  Somewhere in my life, perhaps rooted in my Catholic upbringing, or due to being raised in an alcoholic family culture, or perhaps enduring a dysfunctional marriage for over 20-years, I built a high tolerance for suffering.  I believe there is a legitimate theology for suffering - Jesus taught that we would suffer in this world (it is after-all, a fallen world.)  However, there is another type of suffering ... the type that is toxic, the type that comes from a false story we tell ourselves to help us cope and make sense of the pain in our lives. This story placates us for a time, but like a band-aid over an infected wound, it offers no true end to suffering. 

For the past 15-years I have had a longing in my heart for community.  Since the death of my mother, the dissolution of my marriage, and my children's launch into adulthood, I haven't had a true sense of home or belonging.  Even though I moved back to the neighborhood I grew up in after my divorce to live near my dad and raise my son, my heart has never been here.  I dislike the noise, the litter, and the carelessness in how people live.  I have tried over and over and over to fit in here, to be content and find purpose, but my heart .... 

Those who are my closest companions and keepers of my heart's secrets could testify that my prayers have been to be a part of a larger community of believers, in which my heart could thrive and my gifts  welcomed.  I haven't found that here, even though I have sought for it like the woman in the parable searching for her lost coin. 

So, I made a decision this summer.  A decision to follow my heart.  To lay aside my plans and human reasoning and to trust the Spirit of God is leading me through my heart's desire. I have applied and been accepted into a 9-month leadership program with IRIS Global.  Heidi and Rolland Baker are the founders of this powerful mission-oriented ministry head-quartered in the African nation of Mozambique, but with bases throughout the world. 

Heidi is often considered a modern-day Mother Teresa.  When I first heard her speak in the mid 1990s I was struck by her deep compassion and corresponding faith.  She  literally picks up starved and orphaned children from the dumps of Mozambique and provides them with food, faith, nurture, and love.  This petite blonde-haired woman from Laguna Beach has become my hero in the faith.  In my hospice work as I would walk the halls of the nursing homes, seeing our forgotten elders, I would hear her voice, "Stop for the one, would somebody, please stop for the one??"

Called to compassionate/healing work, I know that I must locate myself within the greater body before I can reach my full potential.  I need a network, I need my tribe. 

So, at the beginning of September I am leaving for IRIS' Pismo Beach base in California.  There I will spend 9-months immersed in study, prayer, and ministry. 

As when I get lost in my massage work, I regain my rhythm by following my hands ... so with my life, I am endeavoring to follow the rhythm of my own heart.

Musical Inspiration :  California, Joni Mitchell

You can never truly go home ...

I live in a haunted house ...

Yes, haunted ...

But not in a bad way ...

There are no jangling chains ...

No items flying through the air ....

No apparitions of scary monsters ....

There is no fear.

Yes, I bought a haunted house last year ...

It belonged to my parents.

My son came to visit two weeks ago and remarked on how the kitchen smelled like Grandpap's Italian cooking.

My niece came to visit and peeked in the broom closet marveling at how she used to hide in there.

They laugh when they point to the baseboard heater at the bottom of the steps, which was the cause of bumps on toddler heads, a trip to the emergency room, and a remaining scar or two.

Yes, this house is haunted with people, scents, and sounds from long ago...

In the living-room, I see a recliner with a teen-ager who immediately vacates that seat when her dad enters the room!  I see a grandmother wearing a Santa Clause cap while her grandchildren squeal in delight as they unwrap the mounds of presents placed under the tree.  I see a wall lined with shelves full of knick-knacks and photos of graduations, weddings, beloved parents and grandchildren.

In the dining-room, I see a table fully open so that it almost spans the length of the room.  I see aunts and uncles seated there nibbling on pistachios, pepperoni, cheese, and crackers.  I see the white-haired grandmother seated at its head telling a tale or two or three.  There is a family of six gathered there every evening for dinner, each in their own chair.  There is an old-fashioned phone stand in the corner and when the phone rings, I hear the father say, "Whoever it is, tell them to call back, we're having dinner."

Phone stand, now a book-nook

In the kitchen, I see the mother bent over the oven basting a Sunday roast.  I see the dad grating cheese for  lasagna and home-made hot sausage.  I see sisters squabbling while one washes and the other dries the heaps of dinner dishes.  I smell the aroma of garlic, basil, and oregano.  

On the porch, I see chaise lounges where teen-agers sleep on hot summer nights.  I hear Pittsburgh Pirate baseball games and Sinatra serenading loud enough for the neighbors to enjoy.  I hear a bug zapper fry a mosquito before it's able to take a bite out of one of the occupants on the porch.  

Porch Living

In the yard, I see American flags dotting the walkways and waving softly in the breeze. I see a rose-covered trellis, a grape arbor with its clusters, and a statue of the Madonna surrounded by flowers.  I see a toddler hiding under a pine tree.  There is a small garden with huge red tomatoes on the vine just waiting to be picked for sandwiches and salads.  I smell green onions and see the tops of the ripening kohlrabis.  I see teen-age boys mowing and weed-whacking under the supervision of their dad; a man who is proud of his flourishing green patch of ground in the city.

After years of being pruned to the ground, the roses are blooming again

Yes, this house is haunted ...

Haunted with memories that have a way of messing with me on certain days.  Memories that fill with me nostalgia and longing.  

Though I am officially listed as the owner, I will never truly own this house.

This house belongs to another era.

It belongs to ...

my dad...

my mom...

... and their family.

The Way We Were, Barbara Streisand

Engraved in it, heart & soul.