Poppies

Waking from a nap is often like entering another universe. There's a vague sense of being outside your own self...followed by disorientation. Your senses are easily overloaded by a world that kept rushing past you as you slept.

When I awoke on this particular day, the bright sun outside my window had melted into twilight. Through my door I saw a thin, blue beam, surrounded by darkness. And I heard the far off chirping of perky voices, "You're out of the woods, you're out of the dark, you're out of the night..."

I followed the seduction down the hall. To my right, I passed the bathroom and the closed door to my parents' bedroom. But straight ahead I found the source of this enticement. Someone had left the T.V. on in the den. It was the only life in the dark, slumbering house.

I walked right up to the screen, my nose just inches away and beheld - for the very first time - a beautiful girl, a scarecrow, a man of tin, a lion, and a dog...all also crossing that elusive bridge back into the world of the living...from a magical field of poppies.

Poppies. The most mystical of flowers. To me they've become as mythical as all of the characters in what is still my favorite film of all time: The Wizard of Oz. I truly believe that everything you need to learn about life is contained in that movie. I quote it often. I use its allegory to illustrate points and highlight important lessons.

I watch The Wizard of Oz at least once every few years and it never grows old for me. It's still as wondrous and surprising as it was on that mysterious evening I discovered it. Alone. In the dark. In the evening. In that murky space between dreams and reality.

In that flash of time when life seemed sweet and stable and almost happy. Before my world came crashing down around me. Before my mother slit her wrists. Before I learned that the monsters in my living room were far scarier than the ones in the T.V. Before I longed to disappear into that field of poppies forever.

I was three.

I was three the first time I saw The Wizard of Oz. I was three as Dorothy clicked her heels together. I was three the first time my mother tried to kill herself. And I was three when I learned that the harrowing trials and tribulations in books and movies we're nothing compared to those in real life. It would be many decades until I'd start to connect the dots.

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My mother lived through five more suicide attempts, the last of which was terrifyingly close to successful. My life turned in on one single focal point once again: Her. And my mind wandered back to the poppy field, back to my favorite movie. And yet I'd still never seen an actual poppy.

In 2012, after a valiant 12 year battle with COPD, my mother passed away. I'd spent a lifetime fighting to break free from this difficult woman. But when she died, I found myself more embroiled with her than ever.

Pouring through the remnants of a human life - seeing it reduced to documents and possessions and evaluations - is more surreal than waking up from a nap. And there's no catchy tune or alluring distraction that can tear you away or break the spell. Days pass. Weeks and months swallow you whole as your mind attempts to make sense out of 47 pairs of socks, 29 belts, and 1 corset.

Once, about halfway through her illness, my mother was hospitalized with pneumonia and the prognosis wasn't good. The doctors suggested that she update her will and assign medical power of attorney. Living only blocks away from her, my sister took on those tasks. As they were filling out the paperwork, the question of internment came up. Mom knew she wanted to be cremated but she had no idea what she wanted done with her remains.

And so along with all of her things and her memories and her dirty little secrets, we were left to decide what to do with my mother's ashes. Thus they sat in a dark compartment of an antique bureau of drawers. They sat there. For three years. Until the day it hit me...exactly where my mother belonged.

My sister drove across the desert from Arizona to the west coast of California, where I live. And on the third anniversary of her death, we released the remains of our mother into a federally protected poppy field. It was the first time either of us would see real poppies. And on the eve of this solemn occasion, we sat in a hotel room and watched The Wizard of Oz.

Things that are epic only become so in our memories. Significance is assigned in retrospect. This year a poppy plant appeared in my garden. It came out of nowhere. A magnificent, alluring, fleeting, delicate, intoxicating gift. Each bloom burst into existence only to fall away within a day or so. They left behind their forbidden pods, full of opium and the promise of seeds. The plant bore a total of 12 buds. Six were stolen. We set the remaining six in the mailbox to dry out.

This morning my husband and I went to our garden plot. The poppy pods were finally dry and ready to yield their seeds. But there were no longer six of them. Someone had again taken half of the poppies.

And so here I sit, three poppy pods in front of me. Ruminating over the significance of what happened to me when I was three. Remembering the epic trip taken three years after my mother's death. Trying to make sense out of just where these other-worldly flowers fit in. And wondering if I'm finally ready to click my heels together three times...stepping into the sun, stepping into the light.