A Difficult Woman
Today a year ago I said goodbye to a difficult woman on the spot where her body was found, head down, washed up on the beach six days after she left home one afternoon. Her daughter of fifteen was waiting for her return with supper ready; her mom never arrived.
The beach was still dirty from the previous fall with a foot-wide ribbon of decayed leaves crumbled up into a mushy sludge left behind at the high water line, interspersed with sticks and stumps of driftwood. An old water bottle that lost its label rested at the edge, half buried; it must have been there since last summer, or possibly had floated across the lake from the other side, like her body.
Apparently no other people felt like spending time on the beach on this day that couldn’t make up its mind: gentle rain fell, with sudden wayward rays of sun coming through the clouds for a few minutes and then disappearing and reappearing.
The weather followed my thoughts vacillating between sadness and short bursts of relief, realizing she is at peace, then the horror contemplating her life’s cruel ending. She must have fought to her last breath resisting her captors when they threw her into the icy cold water. Yes, she probably was drinking with people she thought were her friends. These were her two lasting weaknesses: choosing the wrong friends and drinking at the wrong time.
After the shock of the coroner’s call an overwhelming sadness stayed with me. I caught my thoughts returning again and again to this young woman and her three daughters who thought the world of her. Flashes of our intense conversations intruded on me in quiet times. Her daughter had turned into her mother’s mother. She could not protect her that fatal day; she will feel responsible.
I struggled with anger: if only she had not taken that first drink, if only she had listed to me and to those that tried to help her. I felt I had become her nemesis, a role that I resisted. I was meant to motivate her to deal with life’s troubles—all in vain. I asked myself if I somehow had contributed to her fate, always a good question for a mindful practitioner.
I kept hearing her voice, remarkably low for such a wisp of a woman, and kept seeing her face, still quite beautiful, although age and rough life had begun to show. Conversations ran through my head, trying to make sense of what happened to her.
She touched everybody who met her and she divided them in camps—for or against her. Middle ground did not exist in her world; grey was not a colour she knew. I wandered towards the nature reserve and saw a stone in the sand that stood out, a lighter colour than the others, and broken, with a jagged edge. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. It felt heavier than its size.
Walking on the elevated, wooden boardwalk through the nature preserve I observed a crow being chased by two brave blackbirds, pecking and diving down and chattering to get the much larger bird away from their nest. That’s what parents do; ignore the danger to themselves while fighting for their brood. She had done that, always fighting while ignoring the danger to herself. I was not certain how she got her wires so crossed and kept mistaking the helpers for enemies and vice versa. It had cost her dearly.
The noises of the city were muffled by the dense underbrush and the tall cottonwoods growing which ever way they pleased in this small enclave of nature, the size of three city properties. I wondered how long she had been floating before she was found that evening. The preserve was flanked by two public beaches, then the street continued on either side along the waterfront with million dollar homes. She might have gone off with anyone from these homes; had they possibly gone for a boat ride?
Today at four on a Saturday afternoon all was quiet. A couple of walkers marched by and nodded, apparently intent to march right through the preserve on to the next beach. My city is full of strident walkers, always appearing in twos and mostly female. I wished she had been with another woman that night—a real friend.
I returned to the beach and noticed between the rubbish a tall feather at the water’s edge. It had the colour of decayed vegetation. I picked it up. It was whole and I brushed off the bits of sand clinging to it. It was part of an eagle, but without the white tip. An eagle’s feather is a token of blessing, a token of honour and reverence when given to someone. This feather will be my symbol for her: by itself inconsequential, even fragile, but when part of the whole as it was meant to be, it has great strength and loft. I quietly said her name and bade her goodbye.
Wow the movement between the physical surroundings and her thoughts are beautifully prepared. Completely enjoyed the story even though loss is a trigger usually for depression. Johanna’s reverence to this woman is so palpable.
Touching and so well written my friend.
Thank you for this sadly beautiful piece, Johanna Van Zanten. This story reached into my very core. Like flash floods, heavy turbulent images of the struggles of women invade my mind re-coding seems like every latent neuron along a path so well travelled. So many symbols of fact and truth, too many to list here. Perhaps my own contexts impose too much on the intention of the story, but they nonetheless, are essential in anchoring me in this unusual awakening. In the end, I am mostly at peace as the symbolism and the application of the eagle’s feather bring me great closure. I would love to have the opportunity and the rights to share this story.
A beautiful piece that made me think of the difficult people in my life, and yet I keep coming back to how well written it is, the feelings, the words.