Remembering Virginia and the Whales

In 2005, at just about this time of year, I went to Baja California with Virginia and another friend to visit the gray whales in Scammons Lagoon.  Last week, Virginia died.  I know she would agree that we spent one afternoon in Paradise with the whales.  Here is the way it happened.

I've made it once again to another place where I know there are whales.  But I've never been able to actually see one in the wild.  The day is beautiful - warm and sunny.  The large lagoon is quite pretty with it's fringe of white sand dunes.  As the boat skips over the waves with the sea air and the wind in my face, I can enjoy just this.  But I hope this will be my time to see a whale in the wild.

Can that be a whale?  Yes, I see a mass in the water spouting its air through its two blowholes.  One of the twelve passengers on our small boat shouts, "There's one."  Another whale is lifting its huge head out of the water spyhopping, like in the picture I put over the bathroom sink and looked at every day for a year.

I'm seeing whales -- for real -- in the wild!  They're huge and glide by silently, without even the tiniest splash.  I enjoy the way they are at one with the water.  How I wish I could take in 360 degrees with my eyes.  I hate to miss any chance to see them.  I'm taking pictures even though I know I'm too far away to get a decent shot.

Is that - yes, it's a baby swimming beside its mother.  A 1,500-pound baby gray whale is so adorable!  After the 5,000 mile migration from the Arctic to Baja California, Mexico, then delivering the big bundle of joy, how can the other produce 50 gallons of milk a day?  And she hasn't  eaten since she left the Arctic months ago.  Nature's adaptations defy logic.
I think - yes, that baby has just fallen or intentionally tumbled off mom's back.  The tail is so tiny and cute compared to mom's.  They said there were 1,500 gray whales in this lagoon at the last count only a week ago.  How wonderful to be hanging out on a sunny day in the company of these amazing creatures.

With the boat's motor off, the silence is lovely, punctuated only by excited shouts of "There's one."  But no, it's not really silent.  I've never heard such a sound in a sea before.  I can actually hear the whales breathing all around me.  I know it's the whales that are breathing, but I feel the water, the sea itself, is alive in a way I've never experienced before.
We begin to distinguish the footprints of the whales - flat areas on the sea where they've gone down.  I know that sometimes the whales will come very close to the boats.  I'd like that, but if it doesn't happen, I feel content being in their company inhabiting the same place on a warm, sunny day.

Ohhhh, my god!  There's one right next to our boat.  It seems to go on forever, like watching a freight train roll by.  But it's going by so slowly, so intentionally slowly.  I am trying to digest what I've seen when someone says, "It's still down there."  I can see the mottled barnacle-encrusted bulk, and distinct fins.  It's going under the boat.  I rush the short distance to the other side to watch it come up again and roll over ever so gently.  Someone from the boat puts out her hand and touches it as it glides by.

Now everyone wants the chance to touch it,  but this one stays tantalizingly out of reach.  "It's too close," exclaims a photographer who no longer needs a zoom lens.
Its eye!  I want to see her eye!  Now we know "it" is a "she."  She's much too big to be a baby; we don't see a baby around her.  She has come to play with us.  It's true.  She actually wants to be with us.  Why else does she follow our boat?

She can hold her tail still in the air!  I didn't know whales could do that.  It looks like a huge flower growing out of the sea.  With the backdrop of the blue sky, blue-green water and the white sand dunes, it's perfect.  Hope the photographer got it.  But I have it in my memory, just in case.  Her tail is very distinctive because there's a rather large half-moon bite out of it.  Wonder what tail tales she could tell us.

How beautiful!  She's a ballet dancer too.  What an exquisite slow motion unfolding of her tail as she dives beneath the surface.  Those are the same powerful flukes once used in self-defense when they were called "devil fish" in the sad days of whaling.  We are in the same Scammons Lagoon, named for the captain who turned the waters deadly red from the whales' blood.

What's she doing with her tail now?  She's swirling up the water.  She's actually splashing us - not enough to hurt us, just enough to hear us gaily laughing.  How honored I feel that she wants to play with us mere mortals after all the terrible things we have done to her kin and their home, the ocean.  One flip of her massive fluke could easily destroy our boat and us.  But the furthest emotion from my mind is fear.  I am thrilled, fascinated, reverent.

Now I must see her eye.  It's hard to find among the barnacles.  Even when her huge head comes out to spyhop so close to the boat, I still can't find the eye.  And then she passes by - and I see it.  She's not looking at me, but still I feel a jolt of pure joy go through me.  It is magical.  It is mystical.  It is the most incredible single moment of my life!

I relax.  I have seen a whale's eye.  But I continue to dash from side to side.  What's that?  Someone is handing me a box lunch.  I don't want to eat.  I want to play some more with the two whales who have befriended us.  Oh no!  The boatman has started the engine.  We're leaving this idyllic spot.  When I look back, our whale is holding her tail with the half-moon bite up in the air.  I'm sure she's saying goodbye, and I want to cry.  I bid her namaste; the boat picks up speed.

Suellen Zima

Suellen Zima, the Senior Hummingbird, is a writer and blogger based in southern California. She is the author of Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, and Out of Step: A Diary to My Dead Son.

GOOD GRIEF!

I grew up in Norco, La., a small town west of New Orleans   There was a woman in our town whose name was Miss Makabot. Most of the children in the town were afraid of her because we thought she might be a witch. She was a strange-looking figure who haunted my dreams.  She wore black clunky heels, black stockings, a plain black dress, and covering her grey hair was a black bandana folded into a triangle and tied on her head. Her skin was sallow and wrinkled and I think she had a pointy nose.

When I’d see her coming down the sidewalk I’d run to the other side to avoid being anywhere near her. She never did or said anything to make anyone afraid; it was her demeanor that scared me. The darkness of her clothing and her dour expression reminded me of death.

I woke up Wednesday morning and for the first time in almost sixty years I thought about Miss Makabot.  What I realized as I recalled her demeanor was that this woman was probably in mourning for a dead husband. Back in those days widows dressed in black for a year or two as a sign of grief for the loss of a loved one. Some wore black for the rest of their life, as did Miss Makabot.

That was a time when people seemed more apt to go through the grieving process, instead of around it. They took their time in grieving their loss and literally wore their sadness for all to see.

The last twelve months has brought a lot of loss into my life. I lost my home and land, which I loved, nurtured and cared for, my cat who was my constant companion for sixteen years died, some family relationships that I held dear crumbled before my eyes, and I finally took off and gave up my rose-colored glasses of idealism.  These things are all gone and I had to experience the loss in my life.

My Sheba the day before she died

Being with my grief and processing it has taught me a lot. I’ve learned:

1. I have to complete the process; I cannot stop halfway and say I’m through. Unprocessed grief continues to show up and will dog me in my body, my psyche,  and my relationships.

2. As I continue in the process, the more I see and feel the wellspring of joy that is bubbling within and making its way to the surface. It reminds me of a poem by Rumi:

I saw grief drinking
a cup of sorrow.
It’s sweet, isn’t it?
Grief said, you put
me out of business.
How can I sell grief
when you know it’s sweet?

I have finally gotten to the place where I am tasting the sweetness of sorrow. The sweeter the taste, the easier it is to give myself fully to it. Grief is not something to ignore or deny: rather, it is the gateway to true joy in being. Not the feeling of thrills and excitement that generally accompany happiness, but joy deep in my gut.

3. Giving myself over to the grieving process is what I call dying while I’m living. I get the experience of letting go and moving into the light.

The more I allow myself the gift of grieving , the lighter my life and vision gets. As I release my losses to the wind I sense the time is drawing closer when I will shed my mourning clothes. Until then, I’m giving myself over to the process.

Thank you, Miss Makabot for visiting my consciousness on Wednesday morning. Sixty years later I understand that the process of grieving loss is not something to fear and to run from, but that it is necessary and good.

From The Seeker’s Guide by Elizabeth Lesser

“Grief is a river running through the heart. I know that if I block the way, the water dams up, builds pressure, and spills over, making me sick, or hostile, or tired. Grief turns into joy when we get out of the way, let the river flow, and wait for the water to settle and clear. It’s that simple, and that difficult, and that magical.”

Brenda Marroy

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