A few years back, when I had no barn but was big as one, my mother came, as mothers often do when their children need them. It was October, and it had been a long nine months. The weather was finally cooling off, and the holidays just beginning. I couldn’t climb up on things, so my mom dug the ghost out of the halloween box, and with the help of the two very small people living with us, made sure he found his traditional place on the porch.
This was my mom. These were Gin and Cam. I don’t know where any of these ancient people have gone. It’s been a very long time since we’ve seen them.
Mom climbed up on the chair. G helped. It was The Hanging of the Ghost. And it has happened at the beginning of October, within a week or two of this very day, every year—a ritual, for a very good reason. Same ghost. Same place. Same memory. I was taking this picture, probably balancing the camera on my ample person. That very night, just after midnight, one of my life’s sweetest moments happened, and my Chaz entered the world.
I had no idea, as I stood there pointing the camera at my little family, who was coming and what an impact she would have on my life – full of humor and outrage, brilliance and passion – the guardian at the gate and the puppy voted Most Likely to Bite. She would careen around my life, bashing through windows, singing at the top of her lungs, exploring the outer reaches of the universe. Scientist, artist, dancer, singer, writer, teacher, anthropologist, calligrapher, seamstress, scholar—a burst of presence guaranteed to lift the hair, blow the hat off, any quiet.
She is the salt of my life. The free radical. The untamable frequency.
She is one of four. Four powerful winds. Four children of light. Four who have given me the great gift: their lives, their faith, their trueness. Their love.
And so we hang this ghost again. And when we do, I smile.
Happy autumn. Happy birthday. Dearest Chaz.
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