.
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 precise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label precise. 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, April 26, 2012
tapes
Do you mind if I post these things? These little occurrences that happen? Mostly, I need them for me. Anyway -
So I am working on a project. It has come to the stage where I need to produce a demo recording, and I've been letting fear and procrastination masquerade as lack-of-technology to produce said demo. If I tell myself I'll figure out how to get my computer to record, this will never happen. I know I have a tape recorder somewhere. I found the external mic easily. Checked a few places already where the recorder is likely to be - no.
But this morning, walking with boris, I had a sudden flash, a memory of your voice, of something, and I realized right where the recorder is. In the box of your things from the last days. Just where I left it after recording your last voicemail to me, frantically trying to save your voice before it was erased by the cell phone system.
At home, I open the box. Carefully. There is your handwriting. A list you made that very morning in July. I see the things I saved. And right on top, the tape recorder. And a brand new blank tape. I would never have found it in my ordinary search. Whether this was my mind doing a stellar job of memory retrieval, or it was you, or something else - I am humbled, and I know I am helped.
Love is beside you, everywhere.
.
So I am working on a project. It has come to the stage where I need to produce a demo recording, and I've been letting fear and procrastination masquerade as lack-of-technology to produce said demo. If I tell myself I'll figure out how to get my computer to record, this will never happen. I know I have a tape recorder somewhere. I found the external mic easily. Checked a few places already where the recorder is likely to be - no.
But this morning, walking with boris, I had a sudden flash, a memory of your voice, of something, and I realized right where the recorder is. In the box of your things from the last days. Just where I left it after recording your last voicemail to me, frantically trying to save your voice before it was erased by the cell phone system.
At home, I open the box. Carefully. There is your handwriting. A list you made that very morning in July. I see the things I saved. And right on top, the tape recorder. And a brand new blank tape. I would never have found it in my ordinary search. Whether this was my mind doing a stellar job of memory retrieval, or it was you, or something else - I am humbled, and I know I am helped.
Love is beside you, everywhere.
.
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.
.
Monday, February 6, 2012
tells
I woke up the other day thinking of Decatur. The year matt and I met, before we met, a whole lot of "random" occurrences happened that made me think moving to georgia was the right thing, so I quit my job and gave notice to my landlord. As soon as I did that, ye olde georgia plan fell apart. What I needed, apparently, was a push to quit the job I hated. That worked. Anyway, I hadn't thought of georgia in the years since, except in an off-hand way to myself, like code: oh, you mean I should do this like you mean I should move to georgia.
So it was odd to have Decatur so clearly in my mind a couple days ago, in line with the current level of Wondering going on. I actually spent a few hours revisiting the websites of places I'd found interesting, checking satellite maps of the area looking for water access for boris and I. I had to intentionally not think about what I was doing - not look directly at what looking at new places to live includes: leaving our home, actually living this life - all that. The fact that I am wondering at all is pretty astonishing. I am not anywhere near ready to be considering any movement, let alone taking it, but the wonder is a big thing.
So there's that.
I told the woman I occasionally farm-sit for that I was getting laid off and asked if she would keep her ears open for me. Three days ago, she called to tell me a friend of hers needed help in her stables, and might be calling. Said woman called, and I went over there this morning. Hadn't even occurred to me that P would have likely told her my "status," but I was wary of being asked too much about myself.
J was very talkative for the first hour or so, barely a breath - I didn't need my normal reminders-to-self to turn the focus away from me and onto the other person so the personal questions would be deflected. As she talked, I noticed a wide gold ring on her right hand, and I thought - she's a widow. But then I figured, nah, lots of people wear rings on both hands.
She was sifting the stall bedding, her bird-dogs bringing wood block dummies and dropping them at my feet. I said something about how our dog does that with tennis balls. She asked something about Boris, then suddenly stopped shoveling and said - "P told me." Damn. My eyes welled up - it takes nothing. Before I could say anything back, she said "I was widowed too. I'm a war widow." While I was trying fiercely to not openly sob, I missed some of the details, but I heard her say that the man she is married to now took care of her husband's body, and that her now-husband's wife died of cancer. She said, "I wish I could tell you it gets better. It gets easier, but not really better. But I will tell you - they never go away. They never leave. I know mike is right here, when I need him to be."
I was there for another hour or so, talking about various things. Of course, in my head, I was trying to do the math and figure out how long she had been widowed, listening for clues and such (best guess - somewhere between 22 and 28 years). I realized I've never actually spoken with someone who was widowed young and is further along this road than I am. She was neither chipper about the whole thing ("it all worked out for the best") nor bitter and angry. While we are different people in many ways, there was enough resonance there to be really comforting to me. She told me she turned to the horses when her husband died. When I said I quit being a therapist when matt died, she said - "of course. You have no tolerance for whining or lying or any of the messes people choose to get themselves into. Animals don't do that."
The other interesting news is that last week, I was farm-sitting for P. On the way home, I decided to take a road I hadn't been on before. Driving down it, I saw a Very Expensive Looking farm and thought - man, where do they get that kind of money, and - I wonder if they need any help. So whose house was I at today? Down what road and at which farm? Right.
Anyway. An intense and comforting and bewildering morning.
- no matter how bleak and hard it gets, there is a force of love still here.
.
So it was odd to have Decatur so clearly in my mind a couple days ago, in line with the current level of Wondering going on. I actually spent a few hours revisiting the websites of places I'd found interesting, checking satellite maps of the area looking for water access for boris and I. I had to intentionally not think about what I was doing - not look directly at what looking at new places to live includes: leaving our home, actually living this life - all that. The fact that I am wondering at all is pretty astonishing. I am not anywhere near ready to be considering any movement, let alone taking it, but the wonder is a big thing.
So there's that.
I told the woman I occasionally farm-sit for that I was getting laid off and asked if she would keep her ears open for me. Three days ago, she called to tell me a friend of hers needed help in her stables, and might be calling. Said woman called, and I went over there this morning. Hadn't even occurred to me that P would have likely told her my "status," but I was wary of being asked too much about myself.
J was very talkative for the first hour or so, barely a breath - I didn't need my normal reminders-to-self to turn the focus away from me and onto the other person so the personal questions would be deflected. As she talked, I noticed a wide gold ring on her right hand, and I thought - she's a widow. But then I figured, nah, lots of people wear rings on both hands.
She was sifting the stall bedding, her bird-dogs bringing wood block dummies and dropping them at my feet. I said something about how our dog does that with tennis balls. She asked something about Boris, then suddenly stopped shoveling and said - "P told me." Damn. My eyes welled up - it takes nothing. Before I could say anything back, she said "I was widowed too. I'm a war widow." While I was trying fiercely to not openly sob, I missed some of the details, but I heard her say that the man she is married to now took care of her husband's body, and that her now-husband's wife died of cancer. She said, "I wish I could tell you it gets better. It gets easier, but not really better. But I will tell you - they never go away. They never leave. I know mike is right here, when I need him to be."
I was there for another hour or so, talking about various things. Of course, in my head, I was trying to do the math and figure out how long she had been widowed, listening for clues and such (best guess - somewhere between 22 and 28 years). I realized I've never actually spoken with someone who was widowed young and is further along this road than I am. She was neither chipper about the whole thing ("it all worked out for the best") nor bitter and angry. While we are different people in many ways, there was enough resonance there to be really comforting to me. She told me she turned to the horses when her husband died. When I said I quit being a therapist when matt died, she said - "of course. You have no tolerance for whining or lying or any of the messes people choose to get themselves into. Animals don't do that."
The other interesting news is that last week, I was farm-sitting for P. On the way home, I decided to take a road I hadn't been on before. Driving down it, I saw a Very Expensive Looking farm and thought - man, where do they get that kind of money, and - I wonder if they need any help. So whose house was I at today? Down what road and at which farm? Right.
Anyway. An intense and comforting and bewildering morning.
- no matter how bleak and hard it gets, there is a force of love still here.
.
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.
.
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 |
.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
all that can be...
My
Kid
Is
Home.
I don't usually say anything about my step-son. He lived with us. We were very excited for his 18th birthday. On so many levels and for so many reasons. My step-son's birthday is July 13th. His dad drowned on July 12th. We had stopped off for a quick swim before picking him up at the airport later that day. My kid just turned 20. That is insane. He moved out of state soon after matt died.
He called me last month to tell me he wanted to move back home. Today, he arrived. Wearing his dad's shoes. He has started to fill out a bit like his dad. He arrived with his car full of all of his belongings. He is looking for a job. We just spent 3 hours hanging out, normal, sweet, silly. He knows all my jokes; I know all of his.
My kid has been gone for just shy of two years. I have only seen him once in that time.
The other living member of my family is home. All that can be right in this world - well. All that can be righted is righted when my kid is near by.
Here is how I think of this - almost all the time, I am calling out into the world and nothing stops it. There is no echo back to me. When I am with someone who knows matt, they catch. They cast out their own memories. Between the two of us, matt exists. He is three dimensional and real. When my kid is here, our life exists. He was real. We were real. We lived. It is all as normal as it can be.
And a small detail thing - the whole time my kid was here at the coffee shop sitting across from me, there was a man across the cafe, facing me, who had matt's hair and matt's beard, the same small bald spot starting on top of his head, matt's coloring. Never seen the guy before, and he left right after my kid. I choose to believe it was a physical reminder, a suggestion, that my love is orchestrating what he can, being here with us. That he has been doing what he can to keep our connection strong. Our family. Maybe he isn't. But I will take it.
_
Kid
Is
Home.
I don't usually say anything about my step-son. He lived with us. We were very excited for his 18th birthday. On so many levels and for so many reasons. My step-son's birthday is July 13th. His dad drowned on July 12th. We had stopped off for a quick swim before picking him up at the airport later that day. My kid just turned 20. That is insane. He moved out of state soon after matt died.
He called me last month to tell me he wanted to move back home. Today, he arrived. Wearing his dad's shoes. He has started to fill out a bit like his dad. He arrived with his car full of all of his belongings. He is looking for a job. We just spent 3 hours hanging out, normal, sweet, silly. He knows all my jokes; I know all of his.
My kid has been gone for just shy of two years. I have only seen him once in that time.
The other living member of my family is home. All that can be right in this world - well. All that can be righted is righted when my kid is near by.
Here is how I think of this - almost all the time, I am calling out into the world and nothing stops it. There is no echo back to me. When I am with someone who knows matt, they catch. They cast out their own memories. Between the two of us, matt exists. He is three dimensional and real. When my kid is here, our life exists. He was real. We were real. We lived. It is all as normal as it can be.
And a small detail thing - the whole time my kid was here at the coffee shop sitting across from me, there was a man across the cafe, facing me, who had matt's hair and matt's beard, the same small bald spot starting on top of his head, matt's coloring. Never seen the guy before, and he left right after my kid. I choose to believe it was a physical reminder, a suggestion, that my love is orchestrating what he can, being here with us. That he has been doing what he can to keep our connection strong. Our family. Maybe he isn't. But I will take it.
_
Thursday, June 16, 2011
3 things
Yesterday was not so bad. Wait. That's not true. Driving out there, being so near to the river, looking down that road, then coming back, past the fire station parking lot with those familiar ambulances - that all hurt. And seeing me, seeing myself there, the road where I was found, being back there again. And all the places we have been, all the familiar roads, trips, all the places we have been. All of that. Was horrible and hard. I came home and slept for hours. And that part was good. And I felt better. In small ways, slowly. What came to me, and remains today, is being willing to feel comfort. Being willing to be comforted. That came from wondering about these hearts I find, the earache medicines, the dog tags and birthday songs, and what I am supposed to do with them, or know from them. There is no "do," really. But today, and yesterday, what I hear, for me, in tenderness and kindness for myself, is to be willing to feel comfort. Not fixing, not replacing, not promising anything at all, but willing to feel comfort. I can take that one, today.
And there is this too, from Gillian this morning:
Because I think (in my limited experience) that grief will learn to hide itself over the years only to reveal its presence when it wants to. That although the grief we feel now might soften, might eventually evolve into an accepted and familiar part of our being, I suspect that later we will have times when it will wound us afresh all over again and possibly in a completely different way. And I think it might be important to set aside specific moments in life if only to feel our grief once more. To acknowledge that although we continue to live and breath and love, something important has been painfully altered, and it remains altered.
Something important has been painfully altered, and it remains altered. It is a beautiful day here today, our dog is at my feet, I ran this morning, and I have tea. Again and again I tell myself: be willing to feel comfort.
This is a mish-mash post - I also wanted to say something about camp widow. I didn't write anything for the contest thing. Aside from being not much into, I don't know - contest things, I also couldn't afford the airfare and hotel should I win the conference costs. Well. Let me rephrase that. Airfare and lodging would wipe out my savings account, and that's not terribly practical. East coast to West coast airfare in itself is craziness. And, I don't love conferences. Workshops and such - meh. But as the weekend comes up, as the windows for even reasonably/astronomically priced airfares begin to close, I am bummed out. It's not the workshops I care about.
I want to physically be with these people I love. I want to know people in actual real life, to have shared real life experiences, to have and continue friendships that have an actual basis in physical reality. I want to have tangible things to refer to when we are not in the same room or same state or same continent. I want to have shared things that are not only internet shared. I may be a writer by trade, but I am not good in print. As I've said before, just being together silently doesn't really go over so well on-line. You can't really order breakfast together on-line, or point out a cool bird, or hand somebody a tissue. Typing is not a substitute for spending actual time together. I want actual, tangible friendships. Not, you know, lots of them, but enough. And to be super honest, I want to be one of the cool kids. There are friendships happening, or deepening friendships, that I am not "in on," and that bums me out. I feel left out of something good.
And lastly - to validate and acknowledge the comment leaving difficulties - blogger is still being cranky, especially (as I've found) if you are using Explorer rather than Firefox. And, if you keep getting redirected to log-in, so far, I've found you can log in with your name and url, rather than that pesky annoying google account thing. Or, send me a message. Hi ferree!
++++++++++++++++ PS - I have to go back out there today, too, to pick up what I had dropped off for repair.
And there is this too, from Gillian this morning:
Because I think (in my limited experience) that grief will learn to hide itself over the years only to reveal its presence when it wants to. That although the grief we feel now might soften, might eventually evolve into an accepted and familiar part of our being, I suspect that later we will have times when it will wound us afresh all over again and possibly in a completely different way. And I think it might be important to set aside specific moments in life if only to feel our grief once more. To acknowledge that although we continue to live and breath and love, something important has been painfully altered, and it remains altered.
Something important has been painfully altered, and it remains altered. It is a beautiful day here today, our dog is at my feet, I ran this morning, and I have tea. Again and again I tell myself: be willing to feel comfort.
This is a mish-mash post - I also wanted to say something about camp widow. I didn't write anything for the contest thing. Aside from being not much into, I don't know - contest things, I also couldn't afford the airfare and hotel should I win the conference costs. Well. Let me rephrase that. Airfare and lodging would wipe out my savings account, and that's not terribly practical. East coast to West coast airfare in itself is craziness. And, I don't love conferences. Workshops and such - meh. But as the weekend comes up, as the windows for even reasonably/astronomically priced airfares begin to close, I am bummed out. It's not the workshops I care about.
I want to physically be with these people I love. I want to know people in actual real life, to have shared real life experiences, to have and continue friendships that have an actual basis in physical reality. I want to have tangible things to refer to when we are not in the same room or same state or same continent. I want to have shared things that are not only internet shared. I may be a writer by trade, but I am not good in print. As I've said before, just being together silently doesn't really go over so well on-line. You can't really order breakfast together on-line, or point out a cool bird, or hand somebody a tissue. Typing is not a substitute for spending actual time together. I want actual, tangible friendships. Not, you know, lots of them, but enough. And to be super honest, I want to be one of the cool kids. There are friendships happening, or deepening friendships, that I am not "in on," and that bums me out. I feel left out of something good.
And lastly - to validate and acknowledge the comment leaving difficulties - blogger is still being cranky, especially (as I've found) if you are using Explorer rather than Firefox. And, if you keep getting redirected to log-in, so far, I've found you can log in with your name and url, rather than that pesky annoying google account thing. Or, send me a message. Hi ferree!
++++++++++++++++ PS - I have to go back out there today, too, to pick up what I had dropped off for repair.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
mass
Matt has a lot of friends who are priests, and ex-priests. It came in extremely handy to have a catholic priest as a close friend, one who could speak intimately about my love, and his life, as all those people crowded into church four days after. Matt's uncle felt matt would want some priest he knew in childhood, but I knew. Jim was perfect. Today, I emailed Jim to ask if he would say a Mass for Matt this month, this month between 23 and 24. I always hesitate. I figure if his friends wanted to have any contact with me, they would. Anyway. Jim said yes. Said he has been thinking of Matt a lot. And that he wonders, too, who these Mass intentions are for - the gone or the still here. Who needs them more?
I think my love is fine, where he is, wherever he is, if he knows he is still him. If he does not know, then for sure, he is fine.
I saw a house last week. An indulgence on my part, possibly not wise, as I don't know how I'd buy anything. But I got there, to a very old house, very empty, except for the old man's old books on his old bed. I picked up one, some book about faith, an old christian something, and opened it. Inside, what fell out into my hand - a single blister pack of homeopathic earache medicine. Precise and random. I think it means - just Hi. Hello. Something is by your side.
I have been reading this morning about the needs of others, how it makes them tell us what things mean for us, when really, what they say is what they need for them. It has nothing much to do with our life, our own meaning, or our own needs. I have given up on thinking I know what things mean, or that they mean anything beyond the Hello, and, I am here. What says hello, my hopes tell me it is matt, my heart says it is love, my mind sometimes looks to science - some kind of loving science.
I need to say it's him. I miss that man so much.
So Jim is saying Mass. I think that is enough. A friend of mine I don't talk to near enough told me yesterday how she has been feeling, hearing, knowing she wants her life rooted in god, but she does not know how. She says, "I don't even know what that means, let alone what I am supposed to do about it." I resist (though not very well) the urge to say - just knowing that you want it, sometimes that is enough. But I know that isn't true. Just wanting it leaves you just wanting it, shouting at the sky or your own heart that you need more direction than that. Something to DO with that wanting for rootedness in god. God is bloody amorphic in the times I need her most, and the thought that all we need to do is turn our hearts that way makes me angry, which I'm pretty sure is the opposite way from where I want to be.
Anyway. Jim is saying Mass on June 28th, his next opening. I am wishing I could be catholic. Wishing I could be anything that would hold me up, or take me in, or let me farm on their land and chant out of their books. But I know none of those places are true for me, or true to me. I've descended into rambling again. For what started as a hello, a notice that tomorrow, the 12th, is the 100th sunday, the 12th before the 12th, the 23rd month.
I will say Mass in my own way. I think my love is quite used to that.
_______________________________
I think my love is fine, where he is, wherever he is, if he knows he is still him. If he does not know, then for sure, he is fine.
I saw a house last week. An indulgence on my part, possibly not wise, as I don't know how I'd buy anything. But I got there, to a very old house, very empty, except for the old man's old books on his old bed. I picked up one, some book about faith, an old christian something, and opened it. Inside, what fell out into my hand - a single blister pack of homeopathic earache medicine. Precise and random. I think it means - just Hi. Hello. Something is by your side.
I have been reading this morning about the needs of others, how it makes them tell us what things mean for us, when really, what they say is what they need for them. It has nothing much to do with our life, our own meaning, or our own needs. I have given up on thinking I know what things mean, or that they mean anything beyond the Hello, and, I am here. What says hello, my hopes tell me it is matt, my heart says it is love, my mind sometimes looks to science - some kind of loving science.
I need to say it's him. I miss that man so much.
So Jim is saying Mass. I think that is enough. A friend of mine I don't talk to near enough told me yesterday how she has been feeling, hearing, knowing she wants her life rooted in god, but she does not know how. She says, "I don't even know what that means, let alone what I am supposed to do about it." I resist (though not very well) the urge to say - just knowing that you want it, sometimes that is enough. But I know that isn't true. Just wanting it leaves you just wanting it, shouting at the sky or your own heart that you need more direction than that. Something to DO with that wanting for rootedness in god. God is bloody amorphic in the times I need her most, and the thought that all we need to do is turn our hearts that way makes me angry, which I'm pretty sure is the opposite way from where I want to be.
Anyway. Jim is saying Mass on June 28th, his next opening. I am wishing I could be catholic. Wishing I could be anything that would hold me up, or take me in, or let me farm on their land and chant out of their books. But I know none of those places are true for me, or true to me. I've descended into rambling again. For what started as a hello, a notice that tomorrow, the 12th, is the 100th sunday, the 12th before the 12th, the 23rd month.
I will say Mass in my own way. I think my love is quite used to that.
_______________________________
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
medical irony
I have been deaf in one ear for about three weeks.
I figured it was a cold, or allergies.
It made my voice echo in my head in uncomfortable ways, turned my thoughts cloudy. Cloudier. Made me more inclined to silence, as speaking made it worse. Yesterday, I realized I couldn't smell things very well, so I finally called my doctor.
She looked. She tried to clear my ear. Didn't work. The nurse tried flushing it with hot water. Didn't work. They had me lay on my side so they could pour some solvent in my ear. I soaked in solvent for awhile. Lying there, I wondered about the body-wisdom of left-side deafness - whether my ear says I am not listening well enough, or that I am listening to the outside world too much. I think it just means I am temporarily deaf.
The solvent irrigation didn't work; I remain deaf. Though it did do enough to let my dear sweet doctor decide....
I have swimmer's ear.
She apologized. She knows that I have not, and cannot go swimming, due to intense flashbacks.
The fact that I have swimmer's ear is either cruelty, or poetic irony.
_______________________________________________________
I figured it was a cold, or allergies.
It made my voice echo in my head in uncomfortable ways, turned my thoughts cloudy. Cloudier. Made me more inclined to silence, as speaking made it worse. Yesterday, I realized I couldn't smell things very well, so I finally called my doctor.
She looked. She tried to clear my ear. Didn't work. The nurse tried flushing it with hot water. Didn't work. They had me lay on my side so they could pour some solvent in my ear. I soaked in solvent for awhile. Lying there, I wondered about the body-wisdom of left-side deafness - whether my ear says I am not listening well enough, or that I am listening to the outside world too much. I think it just means I am temporarily deaf.
The solvent irrigation didn't work; I remain deaf. Though it did do enough to let my dear sweet doctor decide....
I have swimmer's ear.
She apologized. She knows that I have not, and cannot go swimming, due to intense flashbacks.
The fact that I have swimmer's ear is either cruelty, or poetic irony.
_______________________________________________________
Friday, March 25, 2011
there is a path
Heart, you are lost; but there's a path
From the lover to the soul, secret
But visible. Worlds blaze round you –
Don't shrink: the path is secret, but yours.
- Jalal-ud-Din Rumi
-------------------------
I have been to the beach where I yelled really vulgar obscenities at god. And then apologized. And then cried. And then just told god I need a purpose to be here. A purpose that means something to me, an actual one, not a tacked-on busywork purpose that some other person thinks would be just great. Just saying that, I felt better. Who knows why.
I don't think having a purpose is the same as having a "reason" for living this. No "reason" is going to make this right. There is no grand hurrah, no time when I will say "oh, well then, clearly I had something to do that could not have been done without sudden accidental death going on, so as long as there's a reason, everything is alright." I just know that waking up and breathing around aimlessly in a day, any day, with nothing that means anything to me - that's not life, for me.
Done at the beach, I got in the car with the tired out dog, turned on the radio to hear the end of a talk show wherein the speaker said, "so he had this really great thing, this real mountain top experience, and then he slammed into really not so good experience, and the path was gone, he suffered, and then here, in the story, he was recommissioned by god." I liked it. No idea what that could possibly mean at all, for me, to be recommissioned. And certainly, I don't feel any "recommissioning" going on. I feel like I need to make disclaimers to the universe - You recommission me into something stupid and I will not be happy.
In really bad moments, I feel like hope in being recommissioned is flaky fantasy, unrealistic, and unlikely. Like I have been thrown so backwards that I can't possibly hope to have life of the quality and goodness I had; there is no continuation from here. But I can't be here without that hope that something - something real - will be here for me, not instead, but while. I have to look for it, or listen for it. Believe myself that I will be recommissioned. That there will be a path, true for me, secret but visible.
______________________________
ps - commission : mid-14c., "authority entrusted to someone," from L. commissionem (nom. commissio) "delegation of business," noun of action from pp. stem of committere (see commit). Meaning "body of persons charged with authority" is from late 15c. Recommission: "back, again" + commission. .
______________________________
From the lover to the soul, secret
But visible. Worlds blaze round you –
Don't shrink: the path is secret, but yours.
- Jalal-ud-Din Rumi
-------------------------
I have been to the beach where I yelled really vulgar obscenities at god. And then apologized. And then cried. And then just told god I need a purpose to be here. A purpose that means something to me, an actual one, not a tacked-on busywork purpose that some other person thinks would be just great. Just saying that, I felt better. Who knows why.
I don't think having a purpose is the same as having a "reason" for living this. No "reason" is going to make this right. There is no grand hurrah, no time when I will say "oh, well then, clearly I had something to do that could not have been done without sudden accidental death going on, so as long as there's a reason, everything is alright." I just know that waking up and breathing around aimlessly in a day, any day, with nothing that means anything to me - that's not life, for me.
Done at the beach, I got in the car with the tired out dog, turned on the radio to hear the end of a talk show wherein the speaker said, "so he had this really great thing, this real mountain top experience, and then he slammed into really not so good experience, and the path was gone, he suffered, and then here, in the story, he was recommissioned by god." I liked it. No idea what that could possibly mean at all, for me, to be recommissioned. And certainly, I don't feel any "recommissioning" going on. I feel like I need to make disclaimers to the universe - You recommission me into something stupid and I will not be happy.
In really bad moments, I feel like hope in being recommissioned is flaky fantasy, unrealistic, and unlikely. Like I have been thrown so backwards that I can't possibly hope to have life of the quality and goodness I had; there is no continuation from here. But I can't be here without that hope that something - something real - will be here for me, not instead, but while. I have to look for it, or listen for it. Believe myself that I will be recommissioned. That there will be a path, true for me, secret but visible.
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ps - commission : mid-14c., "authority entrusted to someone," from L. commissionem (nom. commissio) "delegation of business," noun of action from pp. stem of committere (see commit). Meaning "body of persons charged with authority" is from late 15c. Recommission: "back, again" + commission. .
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Sunday, December 12, 2010
sunday the 12th
seventeen calendar months today. For some reason, that seems very very much far more worse than 74 weeks. The other day, I imagined someone saying to me, "but he's been gone a year," and I said - "No. It can't be. That isn't. No." And then I realized - he has. He has been gone a year, and then some. A year and five months, today.
I went to mass, heathen that I am, and Mike's homily was perfect for me, as always. Well, as often. I learned that today is the 3rd sunday of advent, also called The Sunday Of Joy. (it is also the feast day of the virgin of guadalupe, which he didn't mention, but I already knew) So - the Sunday of Joy. He went on to describe the difference between happiness and joy. He took a detour to talk about grief - when our hearts are shattered, when we have lost one we hold most dear, when there is no happiness, there may be joy, somewhere, in knowing that our separation is only temporary. We must hold our hearts, feel our brokenness, and all the while know our separation is temporary.
I try to believe that. At least (at most), to know that there is more to this world and whatever lies around it than I will ever know. There is more heaven jammed into this place right now than most would know, and who am I to say whether our separation is temporary or no. I can't imagine love would disappear. I need to know, and believe, and remind myself, that love Is. And when my time comes to join the compost pile of this life, I have to believe I'll know it's time, because matt comes on over to pick me up. Rests his hands on the chair opposite mine, and just says "ready?"
I wish (though not really) that I believed in any one thing, so I could, I don't know, join something and feel like it fit. No, I really don't. But I do like churches, and I always have. Especially when they are empty. If there were some Order who would take me, take me in all my spirit of gods but not the letters of people, take me without pinning me into one way and one way only, then I would probably become the nun my high school guidance counselors thought I would be (much to the surprise and hysterical laughter of my friends at the time). I've always been a monk of my own order. My fellow goofy monk has gone on ahead, and I am not digging this order alone. My match and my equal, my peer and my friend. I miss you my love.
Happy third sunday, 74th sunday, and day of Our Lady who brings surprise tangible gifts of her love.
I went to mass, heathen that I am, and Mike's homily was perfect for me, as always. Well, as often. I learned that today is the 3rd sunday of advent, also called The Sunday Of Joy. (it is also the feast day of the virgin of guadalupe, which he didn't mention, but I already knew) So - the Sunday of Joy. He went on to describe the difference between happiness and joy. He took a detour to talk about grief - when our hearts are shattered, when we have lost one we hold most dear, when there is no happiness, there may be joy, somewhere, in knowing that our separation is only temporary. We must hold our hearts, feel our brokenness, and all the while know our separation is temporary.
I try to believe that. At least (at most), to know that there is more to this world and whatever lies around it than I will ever know. There is more heaven jammed into this place right now than most would know, and who am I to say whether our separation is temporary or no. I can't imagine love would disappear. I need to know, and believe, and remind myself, that love Is. And when my time comes to join the compost pile of this life, I have to believe I'll know it's time, because matt comes on over to pick me up. Rests his hands on the chair opposite mine, and just says "ready?"
I wish (though not really) that I believed in any one thing, so I could, I don't know, join something and feel like it fit. No, I really don't. But I do like churches, and I always have. Especially when they are empty. If there were some Order who would take me, take me in all my spirit of gods but not the letters of people, take me without pinning me into one way and one way only, then I would probably become the nun my high school guidance counselors thought I would be (much to the surprise and hysterical laughter of my friends at the time). I've always been a monk of my own order. My fellow goofy monk has gone on ahead, and I am not digging this order alone. My match and my equal, my peer and my friend. I miss you my love.
Happy third sunday, 74th sunday, and day of Our Lady who brings surprise tangible gifts of her love.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
tags
(this happened last winter, right around our anniversary, but I need some reminders of goodness and mysteries.)
boris lost his dog tags, just a day after I looked at them, with both matt's and my phone numbers on them, thinking "I hope I never have to replace them, get new tags without your phone number on them." I retraced our steps for hours; didn't find them. It took me 9 days to get new tags, just my number on them now. boris and I went to the beach, I needed to let him swim. I was standing at the edge of the surf, missing our life so much. I looked down. Just barely sticking out of the sand was the corner of a green metal tag: boris. Matt's phone number, and mine. Ten days after it disappeared, it is found mostly buried in the sand, exactly where I am standing. Ten days of high tides and low tides, and it was right there, with me.
Last fall, Matt was out of town, and I had both boris and jake to tend and check on. I'd come home from work, taken bo to the beach, and needed to get back to do something with jake, can't remember now what, but I was in a rush. bo and I were ready to leave the beach when I realized I had lost my car keys. The spare key was at home on Matt's bookshelf. Crap. I would have to walk all the way across town with boris, leave him home, then walk all the way back to the beach with the spare key, then still manage to do whatever else I had to do. I searched the beach awhile, had some people help me look, and was just about to give up, close to tears. I closed my eyes and said "I could use some help, please." I opened my eyes. I am not exaggerating at all: a beam of light came out from the clouds and landed on my car keys, half buried in the sand, at the edge of the water.
I called Matt and said "the COOLEST thing just happened!" I attributed it to prayer and a need for help spoken truly, without an actual expectation of help arriving. Or something. We just both thought it was amazing.
I was not looking for bo's tags. I was looking for us. Pretty much the same spot my keys were found, his tags materialized. I stood there sobbing and laughing, gripping those tags. My love. You are totally cool.
boris lost his dog tags, just a day after I looked at them, with both matt's and my phone numbers on them, thinking "I hope I never have to replace them, get new tags without your phone number on them." I retraced our steps for hours; didn't find them. It took me 9 days to get new tags, just my number on them now. boris and I went to the beach, I needed to let him swim. I was standing at the edge of the surf, missing our life so much. I looked down. Just barely sticking out of the sand was the corner of a green metal tag: boris. Matt's phone number, and mine. Ten days after it disappeared, it is found mostly buried in the sand, exactly where I am standing. Ten days of high tides and low tides, and it was right there, with me.
Last fall, Matt was out of town, and I had both boris and jake to tend and check on. I'd come home from work, taken bo to the beach, and needed to get back to do something with jake, can't remember now what, but I was in a rush. bo and I were ready to leave the beach when I realized I had lost my car keys. The spare key was at home on Matt's bookshelf. Crap. I would have to walk all the way across town with boris, leave him home, then walk all the way back to the beach with the spare key, then still manage to do whatever else I had to do. I searched the beach awhile, had some people help me look, and was just about to give up, close to tears. I closed my eyes and said "I could use some help, please." I opened my eyes. I am not exaggerating at all: a beam of light came out from the clouds and landed on my car keys, half buried in the sand, at the edge of the water.
I called Matt and said "the COOLEST thing just happened!" I attributed it to prayer and a need for help spoken truly, without an actual expectation of help arriving. Or something. We just both thought it was amazing.
I was not looking for bo's tags. I was looking for us. Pretty much the same spot my keys were found, his tags materialized. I stood there sobbing and laughing, gripping those tags. My love. You are totally cool.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
songs
Honoria turned from her contemplation of the ocean. "Miss Mado, she got through the darkness. She knowed love has to work itself all the way through the dark feelings; you can't go round them they has to be gone through, all the way through." ~ The Other Side of the Sun
I didn't get to make cake until Friday, Matt's birthday. I didn't mean it to be that day, but it was.
It was pouring. The dog did not want to go out. We drove the tiny eighth of a mile to the dog park instead of walking, because it was so windy and he hates to get his feet wet in puddles. A man opened the gate for us, a very sweet man, who had apparently spent the night in the shelter at the dog park. He talked to me about his dogs, how much he loved them, how he was with them when they died. He asked about our dog, and I told him how Matt had crouched down in front of his kennel at the shelter and told me, "he's the only dog in here." I told him how we wanted an older dog, in order to give him a good last few years. The man said how important and kind that was, how special it was to adopt a creature knowing you are facing the end sooner than you'd like. He said, "you and your husband are good people." During all this, I managed to not cry at all. I was, however, trying to talk myself out of offering him a ride somewhere. I tend to pick up strays, and I've learned that a sweet, gentle homeless person is sweet and gentle until you get them in the car, when they become tenaciously resistant to getting Out of the car. Instead, I offered him the umbrella I had in my car, because he said he had to walk across town to meet his girlfriend. He said, "that's so kind of you. In return, I will sing you a song about your dog. I am really good at songs. I can make them up instantly." He told me that he would have a song by the time I came back from the car.
I came back. Handed him the umbrella. Left my rain-averse dog in the car. The man was standing inside the shelter. I was outside in the rain. He said, "so okay, tell me about your dog. What do you love? What makes him special to you and your husband?" I stopped. I stared at our dog, standing on the driver's seat, looking at me. I started to cry. The man said quietly, "Oh. We are sharing a moment here. Okay. You don't have to say anything. No. Tell me what it is about your dog." I didn't even think. I just blurted. "He is who is left. My husband died. And it is his birthday today."
The homeless man was quiet. He turned away, he turned back. He put his hand on my shoulder, "I mean this is all honesty: god bless you." He continued to say, crying now himself, "I am trainwrecked. How long has it been? How long ago?" He asked for Matt's name. He said, "Okay. I will mention the pup in your song, but this one is for Matthew. This song is for him, and for his wife."
He stood there, composing himself, steadying himself. He pulled a harmonica out of his bag. He started wailing away. Then his voice, clear and loud, as thunder started rumbling at the tree line, and the winds picked up. Man, he had an incredible voice, a raspy, blues voice. He sang a song for my love, directed to the clouds, to the heavens. He spoke for me. "Matthew, thank you for your life. Thank you for the love you brought to me. Thank you for being here. I know you are gone, but you are not. I know you wipe the tears from my face while I sleep. I know you are here, and you're gone. You are holding me, I know you are. You are gone, and you're not. Remember all the trips, and the days in the sun? We had such a good life, I will always be your wife. It is so hard for me here, but I will not go out, I will not let my light go out. I will try. The puppy and I will try. I am out here in the rain with him, for you. Thank you thank you for your life. I will always be your wife. This is hard and I love you, and I know you are free. I know I will be with you again. This life may be long, but I will see you. I will see you soon."
He sent up his words for me, words I could not sing, and I whispered, "Happy birthday babe. Happy birthday."
There were several verses. The song wiped him out. After he was finished, he told me that his best friend drowned 8 weeks ago. I'd read that story - "transient man found in the water off the docks." I had not, and did not, tell him how matt died. He talked about the shock, and how he found himself losing time, blanking out. He asked me to keep him, and his dear friend, in my prayers, and he would keep Matt and me in his. Then, taking the pause in the rain as his opportunity, he walked off for his morning coffee. I sat in the car with our dog, and sobbed.
Happy birthday, babe. Can you believe that man's voice?!
66 weeks ago today.
I didn't get to make cake until Friday, Matt's birthday. I didn't mean it to be that day, but it was.
It was pouring. The dog did not want to go out. We drove the tiny eighth of a mile to the dog park instead of walking, because it was so windy and he hates to get his feet wet in puddles. A man opened the gate for us, a very sweet man, who had apparently spent the night in the shelter at the dog park. He talked to me about his dogs, how much he loved them, how he was with them when they died. He asked about our dog, and I told him how Matt had crouched down in front of his kennel at the shelter and told me, "he's the only dog in here." I told him how we wanted an older dog, in order to give him a good last few years. The man said how important and kind that was, how special it was to adopt a creature knowing you are facing the end sooner than you'd like. He said, "you and your husband are good people." During all this, I managed to not cry at all. I was, however, trying to talk myself out of offering him a ride somewhere. I tend to pick up strays, and I've learned that a sweet, gentle homeless person is sweet and gentle until you get them in the car, when they become tenaciously resistant to getting Out of the car. Instead, I offered him the umbrella I had in my car, because he said he had to walk across town to meet his girlfriend. He said, "that's so kind of you. In return, I will sing you a song about your dog. I am really good at songs. I can make them up instantly." He told me that he would have a song by the time I came back from the car.
I came back. Handed him the umbrella. Left my rain-averse dog in the car. The man was standing inside the shelter. I was outside in the rain. He said, "so okay, tell me about your dog. What do you love? What makes him special to you and your husband?" I stopped. I stared at our dog, standing on the driver's seat, looking at me. I started to cry. The man said quietly, "Oh. We are sharing a moment here. Okay. You don't have to say anything. No. Tell me what it is about your dog." I didn't even think. I just blurted. "He is who is left. My husband died. And it is his birthday today."
The homeless man was quiet. He turned away, he turned back. He put his hand on my shoulder, "I mean this is all honesty: god bless you." He continued to say, crying now himself, "I am trainwrecked. How long has it been? How long ago?" He asked for Matt's name. He said, "Okay. I will mention the pup in your song, but this one is for Matthew. This song is for him, and for his wife."
He stood there, composing himself, steadying himself. He pulled a harmonica out of his bag. He started wailing away. Then his voice, clear and loud, as thunder started rumbling at the tree line, and the winds picked up. Man, he had an incredible voice, a raspy, blues voice. He sang a song for my love, directed to the clouds, to the heavens. He spoke for me. "Matthew, thank you for your life. Thank you for the love you brought to me. Thank you for being here. I know you are gone, but you are not. I know you wipe the tears from my face while I sleep. I know you are here, and you're gone. You are holding me, I know you are. You are gone, and you're not. Remember all the trips, and the days in the sun? We had such a good life, I will always be your wife. It is so hard for me here, but I will not go out, I will not let my light go out. I will try. The puppy and I will try. I am out here in the rain with him, for you. Thank you thank you for your life. I will always be your wife. This is hard and I love you, and I know you are free. I know I will be with you again. This life may be long, but I will see you. I will see you soon."
He sent up his words for me, words I could not sing, and I whispered, "Happy birthday babe. Happy birthday."
There were several verses. The song wiped him out. After he was finished, he told me that his best friend drowned 8 weeks ago. I'd read that story - "transient man found in the water off the docks." I had not, and did not, tell him how matt died. He talked about the shock, and how he found himself losing time, blanking out. He asked me to keep him, and his dear friend, in my prayers, and he would keep Matt and me in his. Then, taking the pause in the rain as his opportunity, he walked off for his morning coffee. I sat in the car with our dog, and sobbed.
Happy birthday, babe. Can you believe that man's voice?!
66 weeks ago today.
Friday, August 20, 2010
odd morning (though, for me, not really)
bo and I were at the beach. I was picking up precisely carved heart rocks. buff young man came onto the beach, and I noticed, because I am always noticing how no one is built like matt, and looking for flashes of his musculature in anyone elses'. Laughing with and to matt about all this, how if anyone looked, they'd think I was checking the guy out, but in truth, I was checking matt out, via this other physical form. The young man laid down on his towel and read his book. bo chased the ball, and I picked up rocks. A little later, the man smiled at me, and I don't even remember now what he said, but it turned into him asking me something, and I then asked what he was reading - the bible (a military field copy, at that). Interesting.
Then he asked, "would you like some company? Would you like to talk a bit?" And I was cracking up inside, this inside joke between matt and I in that moment. I crouched down next to the guy, and he said: "What is love?" Seriously. I told him I had no answer to that. He then went on for a very long time about love, mostly giving examples of what it isn't, trying to teach about what love really is. He did have a couple of good things to say, hidden in there. The whole time, I am having a conversation with matt about how odd this is, watching our dog swim, waiting for this kid to get to his point. His whole - speech - really had nothing to do with love as I know it, and I kept waiting for him to notice he wasn't exactly reaching his audience! I know he meant it all to connect with god and truth and all, but his message got a little lost. He was enthusiastic, and I'm a good listener, so he went on. Anyway. I was getting both bored and restless, and so was boris - used to having my undivided attention, and not getting it.
I stood up. The young man stood up, and said, "so are you married?" I told him. He barely touched my shoulder - and didn't say anything. He wasn't uncomfortable, just quiet. Then he spoke a little bit about being in Iraq, and what he had seen. Then, he touched my arm again to turn me towards him, and gave me this fierce, incredible hug. Calm, strong, completely rooted, solid. Holy cow. In that moment, I just felt how fiercely matt would hold on to me, how solid, in those beautiful, powerful arms. How fiercely he would hold on to me RIGHT NOW if he could. And I was laughing and crying (inside myself, not on this stranger) and saying to matt - "you found a way, didn't you. You found a way, this morning, to hold on to me." The kid would NOT let go. I went to shift away, and he held on, and said, "I will stand here as long as you need." Oh my god, how much I wanted to stay there, to pretend it was him, to be held on to.
However, boris does not stand around, and the kid is not matt. I let go. The kid started talking about war again, said just a little about god, and about jesus, quoting one of my favorite bible passages (disclaimer - one of the few I actually know). Nice. Precise stuff, this. Anyway, I also had a pretty good guess by now the kid was also hitting on me, but what the heck. He offered to walk with us on our morning loop around the parking lot, and his hitting on got more clear. Like the "long con" - working up to it. He shared quite a bit about himself - oh, such a young kid with a lot of young kid... stuff, and I was quite ready to go when we got back to the parking lot.
That was my morning. I have really wanted something too-precise-to-be-random to happen again, outside of myself, out in this physical world, something I could not possibly have created or conjured. Random invitations to talk about love, and being fiercely, fiercely held on to - not a fair trade at all, but so very very nice. A bit weird to tell - I don't have a sense yet of what I want to share and don't, but these - tangible evidences of love touching down and being close - I like to hear them myself.
Then he asked, "would you like some company? Would you like to talk a bit?" And I was cracking up inside, this inside joke between matt and I in that moment. I crouched down next to the guy, and he said: "What is love?" Seriously. I told him I had no answer to that. He then went on for a very long time about love, mostly giving examples of what it isn't, trying to teach about what love really is. He did have a couple of good things to say, hidden in there. The whole time, I am having a conversation with matt about how odd this is, watching our dog swim, waiting for this kid to get to his point. His whole - speech - really had nothing to do with love as I know it, and I kept waiting for him to notice he wasn't exactly reaching his audience! I know he meant it all to connect with god and truth and all, but his message got a little lost. He was enthusiastic, and I'm a good listener, so he went on. Anyway. I was getting both bored and restless, and so was boris - used to having my undivided attention, and not getting it.
I stood up. The young man stood up, and said, "so are you married?" I told him. He barely touched my shoulder - and didn't say anything. He wasn't uncomfortable, just quiet. Then he spoke a little bit about being in Iraq, and what he had seen. Then, he touched my arm again to turn me towards him, and gave me this fierce, incredible hug. Calm, strong, completely rooted, solid. Holy cow. In that moment, I just felt how fiercely matt would hold on to me, how solid, in those beautiful, powerful arms. How fiercely he would hold on to me RIGHT NOW if he could. And I was laughing and crying (inside myself, not on this stranger) and saying to matt - "you found a way, didn't you. You found a way, this morning, to hold on to me." The kid would NOT let go. I went to shift away, and he held on, and said, "I will stand here as long as you need." Oh my god, how much I wanted to stay there, to pretend it was him, to be held on to.
However, boris does not stand around, and the kid is not matt. I let go. The kid started talking about war again, said just a little about god, and about jesus, quoting one of my favorite bible passages (disclaimer - one of the few I actually know). Nice. Precise stuff, this. Anyway, I also had a pretty good guess by now the kid was also hitting on me, but what the heck. He offered to walk with us on our morning loop around the parking lot, and his hitting on got more clear. Like the "long con" - working up to it. He shared quite a bit about himself - oh, such a young kid with a lot of young kid... stuff, and I was quite ready to go when we got back to the parking lot.
That was my morning. I have really wanted something too-precise-to-be-random to happen again, outside of myself, out in this physical world, something I could not possibly have created or conjured. Random invitations to talk about love, and being fiercely, fiercely held on to - not a fair trade at all, but so very very nice. A bit weird to tell - I don't have a sense yet of what I want to share and don't, but these - tangible evidences of love touching down and being close - I like to hear them myself.
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