.
Day number 5 on the road. I'd hoped to be there by now. But the road has what the road will have.
Today, leaving western Nebraska, a late start. My planning mind was off a day, and what I'd thought was the short day was, in fact, not. But it's alright.
This land is beautiful. So clear, the geologic record: I always feel like I am in a submarine, a submersible, not an over-land car. I am driving in the ocean, driving under the ocean. Saw my first herd of pronghorn antelope just outside of Elk Mountain, Wyoming. I stopped at the same rest-stop we did back in 2006. It wasn't a hard day.
And then. And then, the soil began to change. From yellow and brown to streaks of red. The land changed from ocean bottom to sand cliffs. The mesas rose in the distance. I switched the stereo from dance music (to keep me awake) to Robbie Robertson, because it seemed appropriate. I am singing Ghost Dance, thinking of our trip, of how we talked about the history of this land, what it's seen, what happened out here. And then.
And then, before I realize I am this close, I am on top of Flaming Gorge. I am here, where we were, exactly where we were, and Robbie Robertson's "Golden Feather" comes on the stereo. I am crying. I hear. I hear the stones you picked up, all those years ago, the ones beside your box of ashes here on the passenger seat. I hear those stones begin to sing. They do. They sing to be so close to home.
I do not want to stop. I do not want to stop. But they are singing. I have to give them back. They want to go home, and I have to let them go. I pull off the exit, crying, resisting. I do not want to go. This is wrong. Wrong to be here. But I drive. Past the place where we got gas. Past the place where we ate Mexican food, grouchy from too long on the road. I pull over as I hear (yes, I hear) your ashes beside me begin to speak. Ask to be released here. The stones have kept on singing. Your ashes, what is left of you, an excited impulse. I open the passenger side door. The pot of my one houseplant falls out, cracks on the pavement. I remove the stones. I remove the small bag of your ashes, and shake you out into the palm of my hand. Shaking. Shaking. There are big pieces here, not dust.
The stones are singing. We have been here. This is where we turned off. Where we drove off down into the winding gorge, where we cried over slaughtered skinned coyotes, where you drove the car over too-steep embankments. Looking for a place to camp. Where you spent hours the next morning finding just the right stones, the two heavy, white stones we took home, another 4000 miles back, to sit on the bookshelf, holding words.
And now - they want to go back.
I scatter you. A small handful, here on the grass between road and sidewalk. I scatter. And then I place a stone. Oh.
Oh, I see now. This is a gravestone. A headstone, a marker you yourself picked out, painstakingly searched for, the last time we were here. It is right. It is right. To scatter you here beneath a stone you chose yourself.
The other stone - offers to stay. To stay with me. One with you, one for me. A pair of matched stones, broken, but connected.
As soon as the ashes are sent, the stone placed, I am fine again. Calm. I feel you. For the first time this trip, my love, I feel you. I know you here with me.
And I drive down through the mountains, as rain begins again, down a road we did not drive. A path we did not take. You are buried here, my love. And I continue on.
.
Showing posts with label bk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bk. Show all posts
Friday, September 13, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
before I forget...
Ah, before I forget. When I leave here (so soon!), I will leave behind some physical memory prompts. Each morning, Boris chooses which direction we walk. When he chooses to walk up the hill past the church, I remember the whale story. And each time we walk by, I think - I should write that whale story here, before we leave, before the landscape doesn't prompt it anymore. And so, before I forget, here it is.
To get the real meaning and sense of this story, you really do need a little background. I tried to make it easier on you, to find a way to put the text right here, but all I could find was this and it won't let me copy and paste. You will need to pop over and read it. Just this brief little story of the whale, from Andrew Harvey's Hidden Journey. Read it, then come on back.
...
So one early morning, maybe last winter I think, Boris and I were out for a walk. I was railing at the universe, annoyed at how not clear things are. That if I were Loved, as is sometimes suggested, then it needs to be more obvious and constant, not this fickle garbage, not this obtuse sideways love.
You want to show me you love me? Give me a whale, then. Allegedly, you have done these kinds of things before. You have the universe do crazy things, beautiful waves of love via whale. So where's MY whale? You Love me? Then where's my whale? Where is my whale?
And you know what? It needs to be a CLEAR whale. Not some vague, yeah, I guess that maybe sort of is a vaguely whale shaped rock or cloud formation. You're out there? You love me? Fine. You show me my whale. A bumper-sticker shaped like a whale that says something like "Megan's whale" or "the whale of mmd" would be awesome. Clear and direct.
So I am wandering down the street like this, demanding my whale. You know where this is going, right?
...
Boris and I are passing the Polish Catholic church. Next to the church is a small garden where a statue of the BVM stands, her arms outstretched. ("BVM" - that's blessed virgin mary). I often nod at her as I walk by. From the opposite side of the street, I nod at the mama, direct a "you show me my whale" thought at her, and turn back to the sidewalk ahead. My eye catches something just beyond us, scooting around the corner.
It's a bird. A quite larger than song-bird bird. Boris and I approach the intersection here, just past the church and the garden, and I stand for a moment watching the bird scratch at a bare spot of grass. It's not a bird you'd see in downtown portland. Not a bird you'd see here at all, especially not in late winter, roaming around the sidewalk just after dawn. Upland ground birds just don't live around here.
I keep walking. Two steps, maybe three. And then I stand there, mouth open, eyes wide.
It's a quail. You gave me a quail. A q-whale.
...
I asked. No, I demanded. And three steps later, there is a quail. Love, plus comedic timing, plus a little play on words.
...
I saw that bird only one more time, though I have looked for it since. It was perched high in the eaves of the rectory, within the gates of the church and garden, tucked in and puffed up against the cold. Each time Boris directs our walk this way, I look up at the eaves, and I snort a little laugh at the BVM. Good morning mama. Thanks for the qwhale. Before I forget, thank you for the qwhale.
...
To get the real meaning and sense of this story, you really do need a little background. I tried to make it easier on you, to find a way to put the text right here, but all I could find was this and it won't let me copy and paste. You will need to pop over and read it. Just this brief little story of the whale, from Andrew Harvey's Hidden Journey. Read it, then come on back.
...
So one early morning, maybe last winter I think, Boris and I were out for a walk. I was railing at the universe, annoyed at how not clear things are. That if I were Loved, as is sometimes suggested, then it needs to be more obvious and constant, not this fickle garbage, not this obtuse sideways love.
You want to show me you love me? Give me a whale, then. Allegedly, you have done these kinds of things before. You have the universe do crazy things, beautiful waves of love via whale. So where's MY whale? You Love me? Then where's my whale? Where is my whale?
And you know what? It needs to be a CLEAR whale. Not some vague, yeah, I guess that maybe sort of is a vaguely whale shaped rock or cloud formation. You're out there? You love me? Fine. You show me my whale. A bumper-sticker shaped like a whale that says something like "Megan's whale" or "the whale of mmd" would be awesome. Clear and direct.
So I am wandering down the street like this, demanding my whale. You know where this is going, right?
...
Boris and I are passing the Polish Catholic church. Next to the church is a small garden where a statue of the BVM stands, her arms outstretched. ("BVM" - that's blessed virgin mary). I often nod at her as I walk by. From the opposite side of the street, I nod at the mama, direct a "you show me my whale" thought at her, and turn back to the sidewalk ahead. My eye catches something just beyond us, scooting around the corner.
It's a bird. A quite larger than song-bird bird. Boris and I approach the intersection here, just past the church and the garden, and I stand for a moment watching the bird scratch at a bare spot of grass. It's not a bird you'd see in downtown portland. Not a bird you'd see here at all, especially not in late winter, roaming around the sidewalk just after dawn. Upland ground birds just don't live around here.
I keep walking. Two steps, maybe three. And then I stand there, mouth open, eyes wide.
It's a quail. You gave me a quail. A q-whale.
...
I asked. No, I demanded. And three steps later, there is a quail. Love, plus comedic timing, plus a little play on words.
...
I saw that bird only one more time, though I have looked for it since. It was perched high in the eaves of the rectory, within the gates of the church and garden, tucked in and puffed up against the cold. Each time Boris directs our walk this way, I look up at the eaves, and I snort a little laugh at the BVM. Good morning mama. Thanks for the qwhale. Before I forget, thank you for the qwhale.
...
Thursday, May 10, 2012
back
.
Noticing this morning how it feels like I have you back. I mean, not literally, though I would love to wake up and find this was all just a dream. But I mean - and there aren't really words for it - but I feel like I used to with us. Lighter. Goofier. And being that, I feel like I know and feel and remember You. You as you were. Our life. Somehow, you don't feel so removed from me.
Walking our dog in the rain this morning, I was singing the zombie love song we were working on. It's a good song. Thought - ha. It would have been a great song to sing at your funeral; very fitting and funny. But then the thought on the heels of that one: I couldn't have done it, of course. I think my comment about being invited to your death was the better one. A sucker punch today, but I keep on singing anyway.
Progress, change, differentness. That I can feel humor and light, and that it brings me even closer to you.
.
Noticing this morning how it feels like I have you back. I mean, not literally, though I would love to wake up and find this was all just a dream. But I mean - and there aren't really words for it - but I feel like I used to with us. Lighter. Goofier. And being that, I feel like I know and feel and remember You. You as you were. Our life. Somehow, you don't feel so removed from me.
Walking our dog in the rain this morning, I was singing the zombie love song we were working on. It's a good song. Thought - ha. It would have been a great song to sing at your funeral; very fitting and funny. But then the thought on the heels of that one: I couldn't have done it, of course. I think my comment about being invited to your death was the better one. A sucker punch today, but I keep on singing anyway.
Progress, change, differentness. That I can feel humor and light, and that it brings me even closer to you.
.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
show up
(pre-emptively - I'm trying to figure out why some people aren't able to comment here. On your end, try logging out and see if you can post as anon. It may or may not work. I will keep poking around on this end and see what the dealio is.)
Last night was bad. Awful. In the vicinity of exit strategy. Fortunately, instead of sounding like a good idea, the idea of needing an exit strategy just annoyed me. I'm also aware that the physical pain I have going on lately is making things worse, so I try to just ignore me sometimes. Anyway.
So, I woke up this morning thinking - what good does it do to tell me that godd (in whatever form) is walking with me? It's not like it's tangible. It's not like it's anything practical or useful. You can't prove it. The day was not starting out well.
I took boris for our walk. Along the way, I found a folded up, slightly damaged, 5 dollar bill. Nice. I stretched the symbol and thought, okay well, a random five dollar gift is maybe a nudge that the financial stuff will be okay. It's probably just a regular old dropped five dollar bill that has been under the winter leaves, but maybe it is also just a little love. Breathe. Tiny bit of space.
Rounded a corner, walking just a few steps, and there on the slope was a book. The title:
Last night was bad. Awful. In the vicinity of exit strategy. Fortunately, instead of sounding like a good idea, the idea of needing an exit strategy just annoyed me. I'm also aware that the physical pain I have going on lately is making things worse, so I try to just ignore me sometimes. Anyway.
So, I woke up this morning thinking - what good does it do to tell me that godd (in whatever form) is walking with me? It's not like it's tangible. It's not like it's anything practical or useful. You can't prove it. The day was not starting out well.
I took boris for our walk. Along the way, I found a folded up, slightly damaged, 5 dollar bill. Nice. I stretched the symbol and thought, okay well, a random five dollar gift is maybe a nudge that the financial stuff will be okay. It's probably just a regular old dropped five dollar bill that has been under the winter leaves, but maybe it is also just a little love. Breathe. Tiny bit of space.
Rounded a corner, walking just a few steps, and there on the slope was a book. The title:
You'll Never Walk Alone: God is Always With You.
It's been over an hour now since I've been home. The book is sitting on the kitchen table. It's been a long time since something so concrete has arrived.
.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
sleep and tenderness
ahhh sleep. In bed by 7 last night, awake at my usual 5, but lounged there instead of getting up. It's not just the sleep that eased me a little. It was - oddly or not - sitting there in bed reliving that day. How beautiful the sky was. How much we loved, and needed, that place. I looked at dog-wash island. I saw us there on other trips, soaping boris up, and I saw us there on our last trip, you trying to hold on to the top of a tree, yelling out, letting go. You died just off of dog-wash island, trying to hold on to a tree, yelling out, disappearing. Oh my god.
And in that oh my god I felt such fierce tenderness and love for myself. How hard this is, how lonely, how scary and how sad. How hard this is. Hard.
And I think this morning how I get to the same place: refusal to do things I do not want to do, unwillingness to suffer through annoying situations, a desire to do whatever brings me any goodness at all and fighting for it if need be ~ I get to the same place I get to when the rage has control of me. I still kick over stupid things, wasteful things, but - in this moment, anyway, I want to kick them over because I love me. Because you died just off of dog-wash island on a beautiful sunny day in July. Because I couldn't stop it, even when I ran into the water and fought those currents myself. Because of all the things I had to do, all the phone calls, all the "arrangements," all of everything.
It is so much nicer on me to feel tenderness rather than rage. I think this is the goal for me, the direction to lean - not that life can be good, or that life can be anything, but finding ways to access, maybe even eventually sustain, this tenderness. A fierceness for myself that isn't so much the raging Kali stomping out the world.
.
And in that oh my god I felt such fierce tenderness and love for myself. How hard this is, how lonely, how scary and how sad. How hard this is. Hard.
And I think this morning how I get to the same place: refusal to do things I do not want to do, unwillingness to suffer through annoying situations, a desire to do whatever brings me any goodness at all and fighting for it if need be ~ I get to the same place I get to when the rage has control of me. I still kick over stupid things, wasteful things, but - in this moment, anyway, I want to kick them over because I love me. Because you died just off of dog-wash island on a beautiful sunny day in July. Because I couldn't stop it, even when I ran into the water and fought those currents myself. Because of all the things I had to do, all the phone calls, all the "arrangements," all of everything.
It is so much nicer on me to feel tenderness rather than rage. I think this is the goal for me, the direction to lean - not that life can be good, or that life can be anything, but finding ways to access, maybe even eventually sustain, this tenderness. A fierceness for myself that isn't so much the raging Kali stomping out the world.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
comes around
I really did not expect this one.
Yesterday, a friend of mine had daughter #2. Her first child was born 3 weeks after matt died. I pretty much missed it. Daughter #1 turned 2 years, 7 months, and one week two days ago. I know this because I gauge her age by the age of this After of mine.
So yesterday, I went to see said friend in the hospital, met the newest member of her clan. Getting home, I suddenly felt exhausted. Depleted. Just Wrong. I laid down on the couch, smelled the coming-rain air, the windows open to warm wind. Laid down contemplating a meeting I want to schedule with my former boss. As I fell asleep I realized - it could be July. It could be July 2009 right now, with all these things. And I will wake up and he will be here. All of this has been a dream. All of this has been a coma I have been in, some incorrect and parallel world I fell into and now I am coming out. The elements are here - the new baby, the warm wind, the coming rain, the same work-place. E's first baby shower was July 12th, so clearly it has come around again, like Groundhog Day. I even woke up wondering, testing it out. With my eyes closed, I listened for his voice, waited to hear the truck in the driveway, or hear him singing under his breath somewhere close-by. I waited for the silence to be disturbed by a teenage boy bursting in to tackle his father. None of these things happened. None of these things happened.
The grief train roared into this house and I had no idea it was coming. I am dropped.
I am down. It is early again, like the last time a baby was born.
.
Yesterday, a friend of mine had daughter #2. Her first child was born 3 weeks after matt died. I pretty much missed it. Daughter #1 turned 2 years, 7 months, and one week two days ago. I know this because I gauge her age by the age of this After of mine.
So yesterday, I went to see said friend in the hospital, met the newest member of her clan. Getting home, I suddenly felt exhausted. Depleted. Just Wrong. I laid down on the couch, smelled the coming-rain air, the windows open to warm wind. Laid down contemplating a meeting I want to schedule with my former boss. As I fell asleep I realized - it could be July. It could be July 2009 right now, with all these things. And I will wake up and he will be here. All of this has been a dream. All of this has been a coma I have been in, some incorrect and parallel world I fell into and now I am coming out. The elements are here - the new baby, the warm wind, the coming rain, the same work-place. E's first baby shower was July 12th, so clearly it has come around again, like Groundhog Day. I even woke up wondering, testing it out. With my eyes closed, I listened for his voice, waited to hear the truck in the driveway, or hear him singing under his breath somewhere close-by. I waited for the silence to be disturbed by a teenage boy bursting in to tackle his father. None of these things happened. None of these things happened.
The grief train roared into this house and I had no idea it was coming. I am dropped.
I am down. It is early again, like the last time a baby was born.
.
Monday, March 5, 2012
donation
.
I rang the doorbell
as requested
for your assistance with my donation
I am going back to the car to get more bags
you do not need to yell at me to stop
you do not need to yell
that this better be something you can sell
Do you treat everyone this way?
Even as I bring you more
you keep yelling.
Even after I am crying
and ask you to please stop giving me
a hard time right now
I understand that people often leave you trash.
Do you know what is in these bags?
My husband's shoes.
The shawl I wore to his funeral
Four days after he drowned.
I do not think you need to yell at me
today.
.
I rang the doorbell
as requested
for your assistance with my donation
I am going back to the car to get more bags
you do not need to yell at me to stop
you do not need to yell
that this better be something you can sell
Do you treat everyone this way?
Even as I bring you more
you keep yelling.
Even after I am crying
and ask you to please stop giving me
a hard time right now
I understand that people often leave you trash.
Do you know what is in these bags?
My husband's shoes.
The shawl I wore to his funeral
Four days after he drowned.
I do not think you need to yell at me
today.
.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
mixed.
Our dog was up all night, restless, growling at something outside, laying his head on the bed and wagging his tail hard enough to shake the cats off, hoping that would wake me up. We walked at 2 am under cloudy skies, no sign of whatever he saw scratching around in the brush. It is mid-february and 49 degrees, the daffodils are up, there are bug hatches and insectivores easily a month ahead of normal times. I spend my mornings dressing horses and collecting eggs. I see at least one hawk a day. Some part of me has turned towards a new adventure, and while it is not yet time to go, I can feel the traveling bone, the hobo gene as Jake called it yesterday.
Boris and I will have to see a surgeon soon about his injury, and he limps on his left front now too. The cyst that showed up soon after you left is larger now, and I wonder if it is messing with that leg, making him hobble up the steps. Your son told me how he wakes up sometimes expecting to be in his old room in our house, how it takes him a minute to realize he is not, and another to realize why. We talk about the sucker punch, how often it comes, how stunning and how hard. He has the closest thing to tears in his eyes as he ever has, which is almost none. I stand in the horse stable sobbing, yelling to nobody that this isn't right, that I don't understand. This is our anniversary week, the days of seven years ago laid over the events of 2 years, 7 months, and one week ago - both ending on sunday. I would do it all again, every second. I know you know I would. I don't know that you would let me, but that is how I roll. That is how I love.
There are hawks and horses and traveling bones, sore dogs who make me worry. There are new adventures which make me wonder if I will find you more in them, feel you more in them, as I am more like me. It's a mixed bag all this. I miss you. I miss you very much. Happy anniversary my love. I miss you very much.
.
Boris and I will have to see a surgeon soon about his injury, and he limps on his left front now too. The cyst that showed up soon after you left is larger now, and I wonder if it is messing with that leg, making him hobble up the steps. Your son told me how he wakes up sometimes expecting to be in his old room in our house, how it takes him a minute to realize he is not, and another to realize why. We talk about the sucker punch, how often it comes, how stunning and how hard. He has the closest thing to tears in his eyes as he ever has, which is almost none. I stand in the horse stable sobbing, yelling to nobody that this isn't right, that I don't understand. This is our anniversary week, the days of seven years ago laid over the events of 2 years, 7 months, and one week ago - both ending on sunday. I would do it all again, every second. I know you know I would. I don't know that you would let me, but that is how I roll. That is how I love.
There are hawks and horses and traveling bones, sore dogs who make me worry. There are new adventures which make me wonder if I will find you more in them, feel you more in them, as I am more like me. It's a mixed bag all this. I miss you. I miss you very much. Happy anniversary my love. I miss you very much.
.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Come Closer Still
In this house, there are thousands of corpses
You sit and say: "Here is my kingdom."
A handful of dust moans "I was hair."
Another handful whispers: "I was bones."
Another cries: "I was old."
Yet another: "I was young."
Another shouts: "Stop where you are! Stop!
Don't you know who I am! I am so-and so's son!"
You sit destroyed, astounded, and then suddenly Love appears.
"Come closer still," Love says, "it is I, Eternal Life."
- Jalal-ud-Din Rumi
- rather fitting, all that ashes talk, given that your son just got a tattoo with a wee bit of your ashes in it, and that the next day, I bizarrely stuffed a handful of those "leftovers" from his jar into my pocket, scooped up from where he dropped them, and cast them around the garden and off into the wind.
Also fitting, all that Love Appearing talk, given that I was just coming in the door thinking if I wrote a post today, it would be about how it is none of my business if I am in love again in this life. I could say No I Won't, I could say Yes I Will, but truly - I have no idea. And even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Clearly, what I want or don't want is not so much the way things go. I have a vote, if and when someone arrives and offers up. But whether that offer arises or not, whether I am loved and in love again in this life, is not up to me. In a way, it is none of my business at this time.
-----
You sit and say: "Here is my kingdom."
A handful of dust moans "I was hair."
Another handful whispers: "I was bones."
Another cries: "I was old."
Yet another: "I was young."
Another shouts: "Stop where you are! Stop!
Don't you know who I am! I am so-and so's son!"
You sit destroyed, astounded, and then suddenly Love appears.
"Come closer still," Love says, "it is I, Eternal Life."
- Jalal-ud-Din Rumi
- rather fitting, all that ashes talk, given that your son just got a tattoo with a wee bit of your ashes in it, and that the next day, I bizarrely stuffed a handful of those "leftovers" from his jar into my pocket, scooped up from where he dropped them, and cast them around the garden and off into the wind.
Also fitting, all that Love Appearing talk, given that I was just coming in the door thinking if I wrote a post today, it would be about how it is none of my business if I am in love again in this life. I could say No I Won't, I could say Yes I Will, but truly - I have no idea. And even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Clearly, what I want or don't want is not so much the way things go. I have a vote, if and when someone arrives and offers up. But whether that offer arises or not, whether I am loved and in love again in this life, is not up to me. In a way, it is none of my business at this time.
-----
Sunday, January 8, 2012
a story in 2.5 parts
2.5. Today is 2.5 years. I don't usually think in years. It is hitting me. It is hitting me and I cannot stop crying.
I was at work today. Looked up at the clock just as the time hit 11:35 am, the last time I saw you alive, my love, two freaking point five years ago. I could not stop crying. Washing jars and bulk tanks, sanitizing same, carrying boxes, cleaning off eggs, heating milk, cooling milk - crying. As I was filling the jars, crying again, I sent a text to a friend to just say - it is two and a half today and I cannot stop. Cannot stop. We sent some texts back and forth about the secret ingredient in this week's yogurt orders being widow's tears, and whether that would make it like the scenes in "like water for chocolate," and all of our customers would find themselves overcome by tears and sadness when they open up their jars.
---
And just then, as I was crying and laughing just a tiny bit, my step-son called. He was driving down the highway and started describing just-happened events to me in great detail: so I'm on the highway, and I'm looking at the sky. There are all these clouds, the sky is mostly clouds, and then there was one break in the sky - this one beam of light, he says. So the beam of light shot through this one cloud, and the cloud it lit up looked exactly like two people, one sitting with their back against the other's chest, you know, like one has his arms around the other. Everything else was dark except for that one part. And you know what it looked like? It looked exactly like that photo of you and dad together on the couch, you know that photo that Nana took when you guys were there, the one with his arm around you. It looked exactly like that. So I had to call and tell you.
So through tears and laughing, and whilst balancing the jars I was still filling, I told him - well, you have impeccable timing, as I am sitting here at work and I cannot stop crying.
The rest of our conversation went on as normal for us. You are never apart from our words, my love. We talk about you all the time. Your son is pretty neat. I am so glad for him, to have him here with me. And nice one, babe, with the clouds and the timing and the method of delivery.
----
and the .5 part of this story - I finished up my batch of widow's tears yogurt, cleaned everything, and was ready to head home when one of the owners came out and told me they will be laying me off in three weeks. Could be bad, could be a gift. Too soon to tell.
.
Two point five my love. That is crazy talk. But it feels better to be sad like this. Better than the blank, angry, clueless, shut down person I often am. It feels softer, better, to be sad.
.
I was at work today. Looked up at the clock just as the time hit 11:35 am, the last time I saw you alive, my love, two freaking point five years ago. I could not stop crying. Washing jars and bulk tanks, sanitizing same, carrying boxes, cleaning off eggs, heating milk, cooling milk - crying. As I was filling the jars, crying again, I sent a text to a friend to just say - it is two and a half today and I cannot stop. Cannot stop. We sent some texts back and forth about the secret ingredient in this week's yogurt orders being widow's tears, and whether that would make it like the scenes in "like water for chocolate," and all of our customers would find themselves overcome by tears and sadness when they open up their jars.
---
And just then, as I was crying and laughing just a tiny bit, my step-son called. He was driving down the highway and started describing just-happened events to me in great detail: so I'm on the highway, and I'm looking at the sky. There are all these clouds, the sky is mostly clouds, and then there was one break in the sky - this one beam of light, he says. So the beam of light shot through this one cloud, and the cloud it lit up looked exactly like two people, one sitting with their back against the other's chest, you know, like one has his arms around the other. Everything else was dark except for that one part. And you know what it looked like? It looked exactly like that photo of you and dad together on the couch, you know that photo that Nana took when you guys were there, the one with his arm around you. It looked exactly like that. So I had to call and tell you.
So through tears and laughing, and whilst balancing the jars I was still filling, I told him - well, you have impeccable timing, as I am sitting here at work and I cannot stop crying.
The rest of our conversation went on as normal for us. You are never apart from our words, my love. We talk about you all the time. Your son is pretty neat. I am so glad for him, to have him here with me. And nice one, babe, with the clouds and the timing and the method of delivery.
----
and the .5 part of this story - I finished up my batch of widow's tears yogurt, cleaned everything, and was ready to head home when one of the owners came out and told me they will be laying me off in three weeks. Could be bad, could be a gift. Too soon to tell.
.
Two point five my love. That is crazy talk. But it feels better to be sad like this. Better than the blank, angry, clueless, shut down person I often am. It feels softer, better, to be sad.
.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
good words
It's not a christmas post; I don't have one. Except I milked the cows and did chores so the farm owners could have an uninterrupted christmas morning with their kids. I brought over appetizers and fancy cakes to ronald mcdonald house so the families staying there would have something nice. And I read this, just now, which made me cry (surprise surprise). I know it is a different thing to lose a child than to lose your love, but I often find the words there suit me well.
...But what she gave me was infinite. The understanding of unconditional love, of absence, of suffering, of impermanence, of fear. (Fuck, I was afraid after she died. I was afraid of being alone and being with others.) She gave me an understanding of without. She gave me the whole of the abyss. ...I gave her some kisses, tears. I gave her an urn. A place on the shelf in the secretary. It sits in front of all my books about God. Those things seem the least I could do, the very least. ...
And the part she wrote about the tattoo makes me want one so badly, want the one I have decided on, the small one inside my wrist. What would you think about this babe? The new ink your son has, the huge ones he has planned, the one I want on me?
And then back to gifts - I love those lines above: you also gave me the whole of the abyss. You gave me absence, suffering, love. And other things, intangibles. Beautifuls and miserables; things I don't even know.
Last night - and I claim it as a gift - I was sacked out on the couch watching tv-via-netflix, and just as the subtitles flashed "you have my heart," the screen froze. The screen froze leaving those words hanging there: You have my heart. The re-loading arrows blinked, but nothing changed. For maybe the first time that whole day, I laughed. Hello my love. And you have my heart too.
.
Goodnight everybody. Peaceful christmas-hanukkah-kwanzaa-solstice to you.
.
...But what she gave me was infinite. The understanding of unconditional love, of absence, of suffering, of impermanence, of fear. (Fuck, I was afraid after she died. I was afraid of being alone and being with others.) She gave me an understanding of without. She gave me the whole of the abyss. ...I gave her some kisses, tears. I gave her an urn. A place on the shelf in the secretary. It sits in front of all my books about God. Those things seem the least I could do, the very least. ...
And the part she wrote about the tattoo makes me want one so badly, want the one I have decided on, the small one inside my wrist. What would you think about this babe? The new ink your son has, the huge ones he has planned, the one I want on me?
And then back to gifts - I love those lines above: you also gave me the whole of the abyss. You gave me absence, suffering, love. And other things, intangibles. Beautifuls and miserables; things I don't even know.
Last night - and I claim it as a gift - I was sacked out on the couch watching tv-via-netflix, and just as the subtitles flashed "you have my heart," the screen froze. The screen froze leaving those words hanging there: You have my heart. The re-loading arrows blinked, but nothing changed. For maybe the first time that whole day, I laughed. Hello my love. And you have my heart too.
.
Goodnight everybody. Peaceful christmas-hanukkah-kwanzaa-solstice to you.
.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
un-nameable
There is a movie in my instant queue called "the loss of nameless things." I haven't watched it yet, but I like the title.
The things I have lost in me don't have names anyone would recognize. I get afraid even I will cease to recognize them, the feeling of them, with or without their names. That sucks.
And something I realized this morning, which does have a name:
I lost my ability to imagine good things.
I don't imagine bad things, I just don't imagine. At all.
The loss of interest in imagining - I don't think that loss can be named.
.
The things I have lost in me don't have names anyone would recognize. I get afraid even I will cease to recognize them, the feeling of them, with or without their names. That sucks.
And something I realized this morning, which does have a name:
I lost my ability to imagine good things.
I don't imagine bad things, I just don't imagine. At all.
The loss of interest in imagining - I don't think that loss can be named.
.
Monday, November 21, 2011
dark
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
~ T.S. Eliot ~
In the Before, I had no problem with "dark." In fact, when I was seeing clients, or writing for various papers, I often talked about fear of the dark, fear of darkness, the endless pitting of darkness versus light, how silly it all was. Darkness is nothing to fear; darkness is just an inner turn, a waiting. Most things start in darkness. All germination begins in dark (well, okay, except for a few flower seeds that need light to germinate...). Anyway. Darkness is not now, and never has been, a metaphor for lostness or evil or anything negative at all, for me. Why do I say this? Well, because I like this Eliot poem very much. And because all my metaphors and analogies of life in the Before instantly became useless emptiness the moment the lead warden stepped out of the woods and said, "I'm sorry, but he's passed."
The darkness is the light, and the stillness is dancing.
.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Rough times lately.
But also lots of very early mornings of silence, tea, thomas merton - and piles of tissues.
“I was not sure where I was going, and I could not see what I would do when I got [there]. But you saw further and clearer than I, and you opened the seas before my ship, whose track led me across the waters to a place I had never dreamed of, and which you were even then preparing to be my rescue and my shelter and my home. ...Show us your Christ, Lady, after this our exile, yes: but show Him to us also now, show Him to us here, while we are still wanderers.”
― Thomas Merton
The Seven Storey Mountain
“I will no longer wound myself with the thoughts and questions that have surrounded me like thorns: that is a penance You do not ask of me.”
― Thomas Merton
The Sign of Jonas
.
But also lots of very early mornings of silence, tea, thomas merton - and piles of tissues.
“I was not sure where I was going, and I could not see what I would do when I got [there]. But you saw further and clearer than I, and you opened the seas before my ship, whose track led me across the waters to a place I had never dreamed of, and which you were even then preparing to be my rescue and my shelter and my home. ...Show us your Christ, Lady, after this our exile, yes: but show Him to us also now, show Him to us here, while we are still wanderers.”
― Thomas Merton
The Seven Storey Mountain
“I will no longer wound myself with the thoughts and questions that have surrounded me like thorns: that is a penance You do not ask of me.”
― Thomas Merton
The Sign of Jonas
.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
just drained
.
I am tired of living this.
Preaching to the choir, I realize.
I am tired of all of it,
and tired of the person I am these days,
tired of being down and annoyed and sad at the person I am.
I'd like to go now.
~
Hey babe. Your son is so sweet. He calls me on his way out of work. Calls to see if I want to come have tea with him. He is the only one who talks about you like normal. He's the only one who doesn't seem to give me that pity face I am so tired of. He doesn't give me "meaningful touches" to show he empathizes. Anyway. He is a good kid babe. Handsome. I saw him up at the counter, from the back, and saw shades of your musculature rippling under his shirt. He says he is glad you didn't have to ever get old and sick and be trapped in a hospital bed. That if you had to choose, you would have chosen this way, though older, and not to cause us any pain.
Free to the end, my love.
And, Jake and I were discussing how you used to come up behind and knock our knees out. He told me how some friends of his do that to him now, but he always turns around expecting it to be you. Just the look on his face as he demonstrates for me, I can see, though he doesn't say it, that he is disappointed when it isn't.
I dreamed this morning something long and involved, but in the end, I was laughing. It was a painful dream, but still, in the end, I was laughing. And as I woke up, I thought - man it was so good to laugh.
For our birthday season this year, I am going to learn how to slaughter and butcher a pig. How insane is that. I am camping for the weekend on-site; the first time since way Before. Probably for the first time since we drove cross-country, since we hadn't taken overnight hikes in quite awhile. Remember our very first trip? I hadn't eaten pork in almost 15 years, but we stopped on the way to the mountains and bought thick cut, local bacon. You cooked it over the fire while I was still asleep inside the tent. From there to slaughtering pigs. So much time has passed. So much everything.
I am so tired. I am so tired of coming home after these long ass days that are beating me up and know you are not here. At all. I am tired of missing you, of needing to miss you. Of why I miss you. There is no - good thing. There is no good thing at the end of my day, no rest. Just, as Julia just wrote, just getting up to do it all again.
That's all. I miss you. I am older than you now, and you won't catch up on these birthdays you have no need of anymore.
.
I am tired of living this.
Preaching to the choir, I realize.
I am tired of all of it,
and tired of the person I am these days,
tired of being down and annoyed and sad at the person I am.
I'd like to go now.
~
Hey babe. Your son is so sweet. He calls me on his way out of work. Calls to see if I want to come have tea with him. He is the only one who talks about you like normal. He's the only one who doesn't seem to give me that pity face I am so tired of. He doesn't give me "meaningful touches" to show he empathizes. Anyway. He is a good kid babe. Handsome. I saw him up at the counter, from the back, and saw shades of your musculature rippling under his shirt. He says he is glad you didn't have to ever get old and sick and be trapped in a hospital bed. That if you had to choose, you would have chosen this way, though older, and not to cause us any pain.
Free to the end, my love.
And, Jake and I were discussing how you used to come up behind and knock our knees out. He told me how some friends of his do that to him now, but he always turns around expecting it to be you. Just the look on his face as he demonstrates for me, I can see, though he doesn't say it, that he is disappointed when it isn't.
I dreamed this morning something long and involved, but in the end, I was laughing. It was a painful dream, but still, in the end, I was laughing. And as I woke up, I thought - man it was so good to laugh.
For our birthday season this year, I am going to learn how to slaughter and butcher a pig. How insane is that. I am camping for the weekend on-site; the first time since way Before. Probably for the first time since we drove cross-country, since we hadn't taken overnight hikes in quite awhile. Remember our very first trip? I hadn't eaten pork in almost 15 years, but we stopped on the way to the mountains and bought thick cut, local bacon. You cooked it over the fire while I was still asleep inside the tent. From there to slaughtering pigs. So much time has passed. So much everything.
I am so tired. I am so tired of coming home after these long ass days that are beating me up and know you are not here. At all. I am tired of missing you, of needing to miss you. Of why I miss you. There is no - good thing. There is no good thing at the end of my day, no rest. Just, as Julia just wrote, just getting up to do it all again.
That's all. I miss you. I am older than you now, and you won't catch up on these birthdays you have no need of anymore.
.
Monday, September 5, 2011
the old guy
.
There is an old man who lives up the road from me. Every day, we pass each other, each on our respective morning walks - me with Boris, the old guy on his own. At first we just walked past. Then there was a nod of recognition, followed months later by "good morning." Lately there has been a "how are you" spoken as we walk by. Today as I was walking up the hill, the old man, coming down the hill, pointed at me and smiled. "You and I, we seem to run into each other a lot, don't we."
"Every day," I said.
"How are you today honey?"
"I'm alright," I lied. Completely lied. I have already spent most of the morning crying, and just now got it together enough to get outside with Bo. "And you? How are you today?"
"Well," the old guy shifted and smiled. "I get out, I'm moving and walking around. That's what counts, that's what is each day, that is what I have."
I feel my eyes well up at this. Thank goodness my sunglasses are quite large. We are somehow still walking in slow opposite directions and yet standing close.
Then he asks, "are you married?"
I choke. "I'm widowed," I manage to say, though I am clearly crying now - I can feel tears rolling down my cheeks, caught by the lower rim of my glasses.
"Oh honey. Oh honey I am sorry to hear that."
"Me too," I said.
"You take each day, you take it by each day. That is all you can do."
It's a blur now, how that ended, how that moment passed. I think we were already passing each other as he asked the question that got him that response. By the time I said thank you and half turned away, I already had tears breaking through the containment of my sunglasses, dripping off their edge.
.
.
There is an old man who lives up the road from me. Every day, we pass each other, each on our respective morning walks - me with Boris, the old guy on his own. At first we just walked past. Then there was a nod of recognition, followed months later by "good morning." Lately there has been a "how are you" spoken as we walk by. Today as I was walking up the hill, the old man, coming down the hill, pointed at me and smiled. "You and I, we seem to run into each other a lot, don't we."
"Every day," I said.
"How are you today honey?"
"I'm alright," I lied. Completely lied. I have already spent most of the morning crying, and just now got it together enough to get outside with Bo. "And you? How are you today?"
"Well," the old guy shifted and smiled. "I get out, I'm moving and walking around. That's what counts, that's what is each day, that is what I have."
I feel my eyes well up at this. Thank goodness my sunglasses are quite large. We are somehow still walking in slow opposite directions and yet standing close.
Then he asks, "are you married?"
I choke. "I'm widowed," I manage to say, though I am clearly crying now - I can feel tears rolling down my cheeks, caught by the lower rim of my glasses.
"Oh honey. Oh honey I am sorry to hear that."
"Me too," I said.
"You take each day, you take it by each day. That is all you can do."
It's a blur now, how that ended, how that moment passed. I think we were already passing each other as he asked the question that got him that response. By the time I said thank you and half turned away, I already had tears breaking through the containment of my sunglasses, dripping off their edge.
.
 |
| a photo for HBPG |
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Thursday, September 1, 2011
crazy
It used to be, in the Before, if I was feeling stressed or anxious, I could look around at my reality and root myself in it. Sweetheart, look: everything is fine. If it is ever not fine, you will deal with that then. My go-to way of calming down, of finding an anchor, is irrelevant and suspect now. I cannot look around and say that anything is fine. Reality is crazy. Reality is wrong.
Lately, I've been feeling completely upside-down, confused, waking up thinking this has all been a dream - really, not just wishful thinking - I'm forgetting where I am and where I've been. It's a bit like the early days: I leave myself notes to remember what day it is and what time I am supposed to be somewhere; I find myself thinking it's morning when Boris and I are out for an afternoon walk. I start to answer a question I've been asked and feel like I'm not making any sense. Part of all this mind muddledness is trauma, part of the picture of trauma. There are also lots of changes going on, new stressors, new uncertainties. I've started working full time hours for the first time in two years. But the biggest most huge thing of course is that this life is utterly entirely unreal. It's insane. It's not logical. It can't be real. Everyone going on about their lives, sun comes up, sun goes down, tra la la, it all just happens, and excuse me, but are you aware that matt DIED? It has been over two years I have lived in this insane reality. Of course I'm f-ing nuts.
I don't know why it's worse this week. The confusion and sense that I'm asleep and dreaming this has been so intense. The weirdness of the world, the discordance of all of everything - it's all just getting me. National Public Radio plays all day in the barn, so I hear more news in a day than I usually do in a month or more. Between the news stories on bath salts and reality tv in the Netherlands, I'm starting to feel like I'm living in a Jasper Fforde novel. No wonder I can't seem to get a grip on anything; the world's gone totally squiffy.
.
Lately, I've been feeling completely upside-down, confused, waking up thinking this has all been a dream - really, not just wishful thinking - I'm forgetting where I am and where I've been. It's a bit like the early days: I leave myself notes to remember what day it is and what time I am supposed to be somewhere; I find myself thinking it's morning when Boris and I are out for an afternoon walk. I start to answer a question I've been asked and feel like I'm not making any sense. Part of all this mind muddledness is trauma, part of the picture of trauma. There are also lots of changes going on, new stressors, new uncertainties. I've started working full time hours for the first time in two years. But the biggest most huge thing of course is that this life is utterly entirely unreal. It's insane. It's not logical. It can't be real. Everyone going on about their lives, sun comes up, sun goes down, tra la la, it all just happens, and excuse me, but are you aware that matt DIED? It has been over two years I have lived in this insane reality. Of course I'm f-ing nuts.
I don't know why it's worse this week. The confusion and sense that I'm asleep and dreaming this has been so intense. The weirdness of the world, the discordance of all of everything - it's all just getting me. National Public Radio plays all day in the barn, so I hear more news in a day than I usually do in a month or more. Between the news stories on bath salts and reality tv in the Netherlands, I'm starting to feel like I'm living in a Jasper Fforde novel. No wonder I can't seem to get a grip on anything; the world's gone totally squiffy.
.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
and another.
Another random water death by someone fit and healthy.
I learned today that our friend David died last week, as the newspaper said, "during the swimming portion of the triathlon." He was 20 years older than matt, and matt had described him as "someone who probably used to be in good shape, but has become stiff and tense." David was both things - in good shape, and stiff and tense. He moved with a tremor you'd only notice if you were the kind to notice things. He was angry and self-righteous, anxious, controlling, and brilliant in his chosen field.
We were coffee shop friends. Matt had been working with David on some design renovations for his house in the week before his own random water death. When Matt died, this stiff, formal, somewhat angry man offered his time to me, saying, "I'm pretty good with these sorts of things."
I was just thinking of him the other day - David, that is. Matt I think about all the time. Was just randomly wondering what he was up to, how his summer was going. Driving down to the coffee shop today, I was thinking of how, when someone dies, when some random accident happens, we say "it hit close to home." I was thinking how people probably said that when their friend Matt died, that such a tragedy happened so close to home, and how for me, it wasn't "close to home," it WAS home.
I walked in to the coffee shop and sat down with a friend. We did our normal catch up on things. And then he very gently and slowly told me: there is some news. Some news in the way of sudden death. And then he said his name: David. He told me the details are not released. He told me he wanted to tell me before I read it somewhere, or overheard it in some less-than-gentle way. While reading the tribute on his employer's webpage, I came to the part where David was taken from the water during the triathlon. My friend said quietly - "it was water. That was the other thing I didn't want you to find out about alone."
What is odd to me about this is my lack of grief, I guess I'd call it. Now, David and I were not in any way close. I hadn't seen him for months. It is bizarre that he is gone, just - poof! but I feel inured to that somehow. He and his ex-wife were hostile with each other, so there is no one like me, there is no one whose life was twined with his, no one whose home took this direct hit. Maybe that is why. Does that seem rude? Dismissive? It's like seeing what happened to me, what happened to matt, from this outsider's view, this casual connection point of view, where it is not my life that has been hit. The loose-knit community absorbs it, people are shocked, but no one's life, no one's daily life, is personally changed.
And maybe because it HAS happened to me, the shock is different. I already know that weird random shit happens weirdly and randomly. I already know that the world blows up, and what happens after it does. For the people "close to home," things have a momentary rift, and then ease back to normal, perhaps with a fleeting tint of "life is short." People who take a direct hit know there is no normal anymore.
I'm not crying. I'm not sad about David. Do I need a five tombstone movie to be sure I'm still in here? Am I callous and shut down? I don't know. My friend and I sat there talking about it, talking about the details and funerals and all these things. A man came in wearing glasses a bit like David's. I said, "I thought that was him, even though we sit here talking about his funeral, I looked up and was ready to say hi to him." My friend told me he had been doing that all day. David was many circles out from the center of my home. His death will make no difference in most of my daily life. But he is one more person I will not look up to see coming through the door, no matter what the corner of my eye thinks it sees.
It's making me feel somewhat cocky. Somewhat - I don't know - fearless isn't quite the right word. Within the freak out panic of my mother around the weather coming through this weekend I feel myself bristle and think - dude, you have no idea. You die whenever you die, and there is not a thing in this world that will change it or stop it or anything else, so stop freaking out. Having only heard about David barely two hours ago, I feel a cavalier smart-ass-ness in me - get over yourself. Stop being jerks. Stop freaking out. Random shit will pluck you from this place, from this life, or it won't. Nothing you can do. You aren't safe, and you aren't in danger either.
It's really quite a bit smart-ass. Maybe I do need a movie.
.
I learned today that our friend David died last week, as the newspaper said, "during the swimming portion of the triathlon." He was 20 years older than matt, and matt had described him as "someone who probably used to be in good shape, but has become stiff and tense." David was both things - in good shape, and stiff and tense. He moved with a tremor you'd only notice if you were the kind to notice things. He was angry and self-righteous, anxious, controlling, and brilliant in his chosen field.
We were coffee shop friends. Matt had been working with David on some design renovations for his house in the week before his own random water death. When Matt died, this stiff, formal, somewhat angry man offered his time to me, saying, "I'm pretty good with these sorts of things."
I was just thinking of him the other day - David, that is. Matt I think about all the time. Was just randomly wondering what he was up to, how his summer was going. Driving down to the coffee shop today, I was thinking of how, when someone dies, when some random accident happens, we say "it hit close to home." I was thinking how people probably said that when their friend Matt died, that such a tragedy happened so close to home, and how for me, it wasn't "close to home," it WAS home.
I walked in to the coffee shop and sat down with a friend. We did our normal catch up on things. And then he very gently and slowly told me: there is some news. Some news in the way of sudden death. And then he said his name: David. He told me the details are not released. He told me he wanted to tell me before I read it somewhere, or overheard it in some less-than-gentle way. While reading the tribute on his employer's webpage, I came to the part where David was taken from the water during the triathlon. My friend said quietly - "it was water. That was the other thing I didn't want you to find out about alone."
What is odd to me about this is my lack of grief, I guess I'd call it. Now, David and I were not in any way close. I hadn't seen him for months. It is bizarre that he is gone, just - poof! but I feel inured to that somehow. He and his ex-wife were hostile with each other, so there is no one like me, there is no one whose life was twined with his, no one whose home took this direct hit. Maybe that is why. Does that seem rude? Dismissive? It's like seeing what happened to me, what happened to matt, from this outsider's view, this casual connection point of view, where it is not my life that has been hit. The loose-knit community absorbs it, people are shocked, but no one's life, no one's daily life, is personally changed.
And maybe because it HAS happened to me, the shock is different. I already know that weird random shit happens weirdly and randomly. I already know that the world blows up, and what happens after it does. For the people "close to home," things have a momentary rift, and then ease back to normal, perhaps with a fleeting tint of "life is short." People who take a direct hit know there is no normal anymore.
I'm not crying. I'm not sad about David. Do I need a five tombstone movie to be sure I'm still in here? Am I callous and shut down? I don't know. My friend and I sat there talking about it, talking about the details and funerals and all these things. A man came in wearing glasses a bit like David's. I said, "I thought that was him, even though we sit here talking about his funeral, I looked up and was ready to say hi to him." My friend told me he had been doing that all day. David was many circles out from the center of my home. His death will make no difference in most of my daily life. But he is one more person I will not look up to see coming through the door, no matter what the corner of my eye thinks it sees.
It's making me feel somewhat cocky. Somewhat - I don't know - fearless isn't quite the right word. Within the freak out panic of my mother around the weather coming through this weekend I feel myself bristle and think - dude, you have no idea. You die whenever you die, and there is not a thing in this world that will change it or stop it or anything else, so stop freaking out. Having only heard about David barely two hours ago, I feel a cavalier smart-ass-ness in me - get over yourself. Stop being jerks. Stop freaking out. Random shit will pluck you from this place, from this life, or it won't. Nothing you can do. You aren't safe, and you aren't in danger either.
It's really quite a bit smart-ass. Maybe I do need a movie.
.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
meat.
This post involves the slaughter of meat birds on a small farm. If you are sensitive to imagery involving animals, you may want to skip this one.
Before today, the only creature I have knowingly and directly killed was a severely injured flicker that was being euthanized at the bird rehab where I volunteered. With the exception of mosquitoes, ticks, and fruit flies, I do not kill anything with reckless abandon. I relocate spiders. I bring injured mice outside for the owls to eat. My laying hens will live out their lives long after they stop (sporadically) laying eggs. I was a vegetarian for a very long time, and now I eat meat. I like to know where my meat comes from and how it was raised. I knew if I was going to eat animals, I would eventually need to be directly part of their deaths. Today, I was.
I knew this day was coming. I'm signed up for a nose-to-tail hog processing in the fall. I thought maybe I should be involved in the deaths of smaller animals before I went on to the larger mammals. I've had several opportunities to help with small farm meat bird processing. Once was the week before Camp Widow, and I just felt too raw and sensitive to do it then. I almost backed out today.
I got up at 5 am to have some time to calm myself down before heading out to the farm. I kept panicking. I wasn't sure I was strong enough, or calm enough, to do this today. It wasn't until a brief text volley with a friend that I realized I was expecting to be traumatized. I was expecting to have matt's death come flooding back to me. I was expecting him to die again, there on that farm with the chickens. I was terrified to be that close to death again, and what it might do to me. It may be weird to say, but realizing he would not die again instantly relaxed me. I went from fighting back panic to being almost excited.
I drove the hour to the farm and found my friends just waiting for me to arrive. K and I went directly out to gather the ducks. Who were huge. I had my first wave of panic. Ducks are big. I won't go into deep descriptions here, as it is disturbing to me to recall and would likely be disturbing to read. Well, okay, it will still be possibly disturbing. I can't tell this story for myself without some graphic parts.
So in the barest of details, the slaughter of birds is not the calm and quick affair I had read it would be. It is graphic and visceral and loud and upsetting. I played the scientist and asked why there was so much thrashing, and why could it not be done more quickly. My friend (an acquaintance, really) said "they don't feel anything after the first few seconds. That's all just muscle spasms." Seriously? Have you ever been a bird with its throat cut? How do you, how does anyone, know whether they feel anything or not? That sure did not seem like 'muscle spasms" to me. That looked like struggling. Later, as the production line got going, there would be a bird struggling at one end of the table while people eviscerated or plucked cooling birds in the middle. It seemed so incongruous, to have this struggle happening and no one - I don't know - witnessing it. There was a prayer said before the first bird, but it was not enough for me. I felt like first dismissing, and then ignoring, the struggling was just a way of trying to make it okay for the humans involved. Now, mind you - these people take very good care of their animals. They raise them with respect and care. They are not cavalier killers. I think it is just a human tendency to mitigate what we view as suffering by telling ourselves it is not so bad as it looks, or by ignoring it altogether. I am a terrible liar, especially to myself. I cannot say that someone elses' experience is not so bad just to make myself feel better. I cannot pretend I am not complicit in pain or difficulty just so I can eat with less guilt.
Matt and I talked about raising meat animals and how that would be for us. He was a fly-fisherman. He hated killing fish. He did it with a prayer and a thank you, as swiftly and cleanly as he could. He refused to make it pretty, but moreso, he refused to close his eyes and pretend suffering wasn't happening. He did what he could to lessen the suffering, but he would not pretend it wasn't there and that he was not the cause of it. Once the killing was over, there was no sentimentalizing - we said thanks, and we ate fish.
I needed him there with me today. I imagine he would have come up with something to make the process more gentle, or more swift. I wanted to hear him talking to the animals, calling them "my friend," coming to them with his strong, gentle hands. He could be calm in the face of death. In the face of anything. But even more, I needed him to talk about all this with me. To talk about being open to death, to understand and witness it without making it pretty, to be present to our actions and still want to eat meat at the end of it all. These kinds of discussions were normal for us.
I want this now. I need this now, as my life comes closer and closer to the death of animals I have raised. I want to be able to stand there and calmly round up the meat birds, not turn away when they are put into the cone. Not stand there with my mouth hanging open while the bird thrashes around and everyone else just goes about the other tasks at hand. Not pretend that death isn't happening, that I have taken a life that was not mine. I don't know what I would do differently. Just - to do this, to be so close to death itself, to be the one choosing it, ordering it, dealing it out - I so much need him here. It would not make it pretty. But his perspective and his unshakable calm would change things for me. To do this without him is so entirely sad.
I have been in a daze since coming home. It's only when I sat down to eat (raviolis, thank you very much. no meat for tonight) that I really started to cry. I cannot believe I have to live this life without him here. That there will be more deaths, more meat, more days when our doing it together would have made everything alright when it is not. I miss how he refused to make things pretty, how he came to things with such a gentleness, such clear peaceful goodness.
And what I miss, what I miss what I miss what I miss is my love here to talk with about this. To hear his voice. To see that little light in his eye and that gentle smile. To see how it is that he leads an animal to slaughter. To see what this experience is like when done with him. I always knew this day was coming, if I was going to continue eating meat. But I thought he would be beside me. I knew he would. And he is not.
My mother cannot understand how I can do this. How I can, even in theory, raise an animal knowing I will eventually eat it. My mother eats meat. Grocery store, factory farmed meat. My argument - however unsuccessful - is that I would rather eat a creature I love, that I know has been loved, than eat one no one has ever cared a thing about. I cannot be complicit in a life unattended and unloved no matter how cheap that might make dinner. And here is the point, for me, in all of this. I want my heart open enough to witness this. To hold on to this. I want to love and care for creatures knowing full well they are going to die. That I am responsible for their death, as well as their life, and that this is part of love. I do not want to look at anyone I love, meat or not meat, and ignore the fact that death is part of us. I can't make that pretty, and I can't pretend it doesn't hurt.
.
Before today, the only creature I have knowingly and directly killed was a severely injured flicker that was being euthanized at the bird rehab where I volunteered. With the exception of mosquitoes, ticks, and fruit flies, I do not kill anything with reckless abandon. I relocate spiders. I bring injured mice outside for the owls to eat. My laying hens will live out their lives long after they stop (sporadically) laying eggs. I was a vegetarian for a very long time, and now I eat meat. I like to know where my meat comes from and how it was raised. I knew if I was going to eat animals, I would eventually need to be directly part of their deaths. Today, I was.
I knew this day was coming. I'm signed up for a nose-to-tail hog processing in the fall. I thought maybe I should be involved in the deaths of smaller animals before I went on to the larger mammals. I've had several opportunities to help with small farm meat bird processing. Once was the week before Camp Widow, and I just felt too raw and sensitive to do it then. I almost backed out today.
I got up at 5 am to have some time to calm myself down before heading out to the farm. I kept panicking. I wasn't sure I was strong enough, or calm enough, to do this today. It wasn't until a brief text volley with a friend that I realized I was expecting to be traumatized. I was expecting to have matt's death come flooding back to me. I was expecting him to die again, there on that farm with the chickens. I was terrified to be that close to death again, and what it might do to me. It may be weird to say, but realizing he would not die again instantly relaxed me. I went from fighting back panic to being almost excited.
I drove the hour to the farm and found my friends just waiting for me to arrive. K and I went directly out to gather the ducks. Who were huge. I had my first wave of panic. Ducks are big. I won't go into deep descriptions here, as it is disturbing to me to recall and would likely be disturbing to read. Well, okay, it will still be possibly disturbing. I can't tell this story for myself without some graphic parts.
So in the barest of details, the slaughter of birds is not the calm and quick affair I had read it would be. It is graphic and visceral and loud and upsetting. I played the scientist and asked why there was so much thrashing, and why could it not be done more quickly. My friend (an acquaintance, really) said "they don't feel anything after the first few seconds. That's all just muscle spasms." Seriously? Have you ever been a bird with its throat cut? How do you, how does anyone, know whether they feel anything or not? That sure did not seem like 'muscle spasms" to me. That looked like struggling. Later, as the production line got going, there would be a bird struggling at one end of the table while people eviscerated or plucked cooling birds in the middle. It seemed so incongruous, to have this struggle happening and no one - I don't know - witnessing it. There was a prayer said before the first bird, but it was not enough for me. I felt like first dismissing, and then ignoring, the struggling was just a way of trying to make it okay for the humans involved. Now, mind you - these people take very good care of their animals. They raise them with respect and care. They are not cavalier killers. I think it is just a human tendency to mitigate what we view as suffering by telling ourselves it is not so bad as it looks, or by ignoring it altogether. I am a terrible liar, especially to myself. I cannot say that someone elses' experience is not so bad just to make myself feel better. I cannot pretend I am not complicit in pain or difficulty just so I can eat with less guilt.
Matt and I talked about raising meat animals and how that would be for us. He was a fly-fisherman. He hated killing fish. He did it with a prayer and a thank you, as swiftly and cleanly as he could. He refused to make it pretty, but moreso, he refused to close his eyes and pretend suffering wasn't happening. He did what he could to lessen the suffering, but he would not pretend it wasn't there and that he was not the cause of it. Once the killing was over, there was no sentimentalizing - we said thanks, and we ate fish.
I needed him there with me today. I imagine he would have come up with something to make the process more gentle, or more swift. I wanted to hear him talking to the animals, calling them "my friend," coming to them with his strong, gentle hands. He could be calm in the face of death. In the face of anything. But even more, I needed him to talk about all this with me. To talk about being open to death, to understand and witness it without making it pretty, to be present to our actions and still want to eat meat at the end of it all. These kinds of discussions were normal for us.
I want this now. I need this now, as my life comes closer and closer to the death of animals I have raised. I want to be able to stand there and calmly round up the meat birds, not turn away when they are put into the cone. Not stand there with my mouth hanging open while the bird thrashes around and everyone else just goes about the other tasks at hand. Not pretend that death isn't happening, that I have taken a life that was not mine. I don't know what I would do differently. Just - to do this, to be so close to death itself, to be the one choosing it, ordering it, dealing it out - I so much need him here. It would not make it pretty. But his perspective and his unshakable calm would change things for me. To do this without him is so entirely sad.
I have been in a daze since coming home. It's only when I sat down to eat (raviolis, thank you very much. no meat for tonight) that I really started to cry. I cannot believe I have to live this life without him here. That there will be more deaths, more meat, more days when our doing it together would have made everything alright when it is not. I miss how he refused to make things pretty, how he came to things with such a gentleness, such clear peaceful goodness.
And what I miss, what I miss what I miss what I miss is my love here to talk with about this. To hear his voice. To see that little light in his eye and that gentle smile. To see how it is that he leads an animal to slaughter. To see what this experience is like when done with him. I always knew this day was coming, if I was going to continue eating meat. But I thought he would be beside me. I knew he would. And he is not.
My mother cannot understand how I can do this. How I can, even in theory, raise an animal knowing I will eventually eat it. My mother eats meat. Grocery store, factory farmed meat. My argument - however unsuccessful - is that I would rather eat a creature I love, that I know has been loved, than eat one no one has ever cared a thing about. I cannot be complicit in a life unattended and unloved no matter how cheap that might make dinner. And here is the point, for me, in all of this. I want my heart open enough to witness this. To hold on to this. I want to love and care for creatures knowing full well they are going to die. That I am responsible for their death, as well as their life, and that this is part of love. I do not want to look at anyone I love, meat or not meat, and ignore the fact that death is part of us. I can't make that pretty, and I can't pretend it doesn't hurt.
.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
home
I'm back. Boris had a lovely time with my father; the chickens and cats and gardens survived just fine. I think I may have spent an entire eternity on lay-over at o'hare. And, in other news, I have internet at home again.
When I picked up Boris, my mother asked if san diego was "worth it." I don't know that I can answer that, and certainly not in any words she would understand. I don't think I can create an equation where travel + money spent is < or > camp widow. I missed matt in new ways, found him missing in new ways. I took my first trip somewhere without him, and it was very wrong. The way we travel together, our rhythm of adventure, is gone. I am going to live, and I am not too thrilled about that. There will be trips and adventures, and he will not come. There are whole new places to explore, and we will not explore them together. I sat in a place I should not be, with people I should not know. I left more lonely and more sad than I arrived.
Walking in to the reception area on Friday was overwhelming. All these people. All these people, and every single one of them is widowed. Every single one. Usually, in crowds, I go into "city mode" - walking quickly with determination and focus, with a bit of the "fuck off" vibe so as to not attract the random proposals I seem to pick up from men with heavy accents. But then I realized, in this crowd, everyone is like me. This sea of people wearing green lanyard nametags, and not one of them deserves or needs the brush by or blank gaze. I kept thinking "but they're all so young," and then remembered - me too. I am one of them. There was a lot of that this weekend. A lot of reminding, as if I could forget, that I belong here. I am one of them. This is wrong. There was a lot of this is wrong.
I also got to spend long hours wandering around with a friend, sitting in churches and eating figs (figs. Local ones. My farmers' markets do not have figs. Or avocados. Or dates.) I did not get confused or pitying looks when I told Dan and Jackie about the confusion and stammering I caused my hotel's young check-in girl when I asked her to check where the widow conference was, and that I had to say the word "widow" more times in less than two minutes than I have in a very long time. I got to sit by the pool holding hands and crying with people I love (though studiously avoiding looking at the pool with all those flashback inducing people in there). I got to sit outside and discuss this life without the annoying need to translate and explain everything I'm saying, as I do with the non-initiated. I got to touch and hold on to people I already loved from a distance. I got to put my arms around people and just stand there, linked, talking within our group - a party I enjoyed, rather than tried to escape. I had hands on my back, arms around my shoulders. I got to meet other 'accident widows,' which is a rare and wonderful thing. The meeting, that is, not the accident. There is something that passes between us, unspoken and not needing to be said. Exhaustion kicked my butt, and I didn't get to spend nearly enough time out and about, but I feel like our connections will continue to grow. In that, it was exactly what I wanted - physical roots to take back into the non-physical world.
I also learned that my bed is not nearly comfy enough, and I need hotel-level amendments.
There are a few things I would like to see at future Camps - maybe an organized field trip somewhere, like the botanical gardens or something. To be out somewhere doing something, without needing to shout over music, would be great. (NOT the SD zoo! Good lord what an over-priced mass of ill behaved humanity.) I also found myself very much wishing you were there Amanda - to key out insects and plant life with me.
At the hotel itself, having a room set up with chairs and coffee/tea would be nice. A widowed-only space, like a cafe with exclusive membership. I know there were plenty of chairs everywhere, and starbucks did a brisk business, but a designated hang out place would be nice. In grand irony, we shared the hotel and conference center with a huge contingent of spandex clad "fitness supplement" people in town for their sales convention. Big banners outside read "STAY YOUNG FOREVER!" Poor dears. They also wore green lanyards. Big thick ribbony ones. They were all very perky.
In a macabre but totally within character way, I found myself wanting some kind of listing, with names removed, of causes of death, causes of widow-ment ~ was I the only drowning there? There was one widowed by fire, one by air; was the earth element represented? How many sudden deaths, and how?
I am a bit dreading the questions from people here - how was it? Did you have a good time? What was it like? I have no answers for this. I especially have no answers for anyone who has not gone through the hazing it takes to get here. That is one big thing I take from this weekend - how much nicer it is to not explain. To know that explanation is not necessary. I left San Diego thinking I wouldn't be back, that I don't need any more Camps. But then, I impulsively signed up to volunteer for the east coast event in 2012. It's still wrong, and I am apparently going to live.
Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are
Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words
Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you
Those who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart.
— Rabindranath Tagore
.
When I picked up Boris, my mother asked if san diego was "worth it." I don't know that I can answer that, and certainly not in any words she would understand. I don't think I can create an equation where travel + money spent is < or > camp widow. I missed matt in new ways, found him missing in new ways. I took my first trip somewhere without him, and it was very wrong. The way we travel together, our rhythm of adventure, is gone. I am going to live, and I am not too thrilled about that. There will be trips and adventures, and he will not come. There are whole new places to explore, and we will not explore them together. I sat in a place I should not be, with people I should not know. I left more lonely and more sad than I arrived.
Walking in to the reception area on Friday was overwhelming. All these people. All these people, and every single one of them is widowed. Every single one. Usually, in crowds, I go into "city mode" - walking quickly with determination and focus, with a bit of the "fuck off" vibe so as to not attract the random proposals I seem to pick up from men with heavy accents. But then I realized, in this crowd, everyone is like me. This sea of people wearing green lanyard nametags, and not one of them deserves or needs the brush by or blank gaze. I kept thinking "but they're all so young," and then remembered - me too. I am one of them. There was a lot of that this weekend. A lot of reminding, as if I could forget, that I belong here. I am one of them. This is wrong. There was a lot of this is wrong.
I also got to spend long hours wandering around with a friend, sitting in churches and eating figs (figs. Local ones. My farmers' markets do not have figs. Or avocados. Or dates.) I did not get confused or pitying looks when I told Dan and Jackie about the confusion and stammering I caused my hotel's young check-in girl when I asked her to check where the widow conference was, and that I had to say the word "widow" more times in less than two minutes than I have in a very long time. I got to sit by the pool holding hands and crying with people I love (though studiously avoiding looking at the pool with all those flashback inducing people in there). I got to sit outside and discuss this life without the annoying need to translate and explain everything I'm saying, as I do with the non-initiated. I got to touch and hold on to people I already loved from a distance. I got to put my arms around people and just stand there, linked, talking within our group - a party I enjoyed, rather than tried to escape. I had hands on my back, arms around my shoulders. I got to meet other 'accident widows,' which is a rare and wonderful thing. The meeting, that is, not the accident. There is something that passes between us, unspoken and not needing to be said. Exhaustion kicked my butt, and I didn't get to spend nearly enough time out and about, but I feel like our connections will continue to grow. In that, it was exactly what I wanted - physical roots to take back into the non-physical world.
I also learned that my bed is not nearly comfy enough, and I need hotel-level amendments.
There are a few things I would like to see at future Camps - maybe an organized field trip somewhere, like the botanical gardens or something. To be out somewhere doing something, without needing to shout over music, would be great. (NOT the SD zoo! Good lord what an over-priced mass of ill behaved humanity.) I also found myself very much wishing you were there Amanda - to key out insects and plant life with me.
At the hotel itself, having a room set up with chairs and coffee/tea would be nice. A widowed-only space, like a cafe with exclusive membership. I know there were plenty of chairs everywhere, and starbucks did a brisk business, but a designated hang out place would be nice. In grand irony, we shared the hotel and conference center with a huge contingent of spandex clad "fitness supplement" people in town for their sales convention. Big banners outside read "STAY YOUNG FOREVER!" Poor dears. They also wore green lanyards. Big thick ribbony ones. They were all very perky.
In a macabre but totally within character way, I found myself wanting some kind of listing, with names removed, of causes of death, causes of widow-ment ~ was I the only drowning there? There was one widowed by fire, one by air; was the earth element represented? How many sudden deaths, and how?
I am a bit dreading the questions from people here - how was it? Did you have a good time? What was it like? I have no answers for this. I especially have no answers for anyone who has not gone through the hazing it takes to get here. That is one big thing I take from this weekend - how much nicer it is to not explain. To know that explanation is not necessary. I left San Diego thinking I wouldn't be back, that I don't need any more Camps. But then, I impulsively signed up to volunteer for the east coast event in 2012. It's still wrong, and I am apparently going to live.
Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are
Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words
Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you
Those who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart.
— Rabindranath Tagore
.
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