On Mom’s dresser live a black metal whale and a green jade fish. I carried them up the narrow staircase lined with famous paintings and small pieces of antiquities. 
Emerging into the large open room with its plush Oriental rug covering the marble floor, I placed pieces of old Roman glass, translucent blue, in the whale’s open mouth. I arranged an altar in the center, with the candle and sage, the whale, the fish and the enameled box where the panther spirit who is helping Mom resides temporarily. Found feathers from here grace this altar too. I have lightly saged the room and have placed pillows for everyone in a circle on the Oriental rug. My elk skin drum, rattle and beaded leather medicine bag wait, ready for this ritual to celebrate Mom’s birthday.
on Mom’s table
When we gathered together, I lit the candle and called to all the directions, entreating the spirits to help us. As our intention, we asked for help and guidance for Virginia. If people wanted, I said, they could also journey for me, but I stressed that my concern was for Virginia. With that intention as our guide, while everyone lay down on their backs and covered their eyes, I picked up my drum and began to play the trance inducing monotonous beat for the journey. Finally I played the callback rhythm, bringing the journeyers back into their bodies. One by one they opened their eyes and sat up.
r. She doesn’t even smell the mothballs that permeate this room where I sleep. My nostalgia in this decayed elegance scares me, and I grow sad remembering the past. I feel myself shrinking and slowing as I see these elegant people withering and dying like the flowers on the table. My mother was fifty-seven when she moved here, still healthy and vibrant. I am only fifty-one. Time becomes shorter and I fear the loss of my capacities, and of the meaning in my life, for her life does not seem deep to me. And yet, I love the sameness of the beach routine, for the beach is never really the same and yet the sea is always there, both the same and different, the colors sparkling brilliant, the whitecaps describing the pattern of today’s tides.