"And when the event, the big change in your life, is simply an insight--isn't that a strange thing? That absolutely nothing changes except that you see things differently and you're less fearful and less anxious and generally stronger as a result: isn't it amazing that a completely invisible thing in your head can feel realer than anything you've experienced before? You see things more clearly and you know that you're seeing them more clearly. And it comes to you that this is what it means to love life, this is all anybody who talks seriously about God is ever talking about. Moments like this."
--Jonathan Franzen, The Corrections
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
And the Moral of the Story Is...
It's the little things.
It's the little things that can get to you.
Today, for example: I was at Useless Retail Job. I recently decided that if they are going to schedule me by myself for my entire eight-hour shift, just to save money, I would do the barest minimum of work required of me. Normally, I look for extra work, I volunteer, I organize and straighten things and am generally a Retail Heroine. But not today. I decided to do a crossword puzzle while waiting for customers to walk by or the phone to ring. Ha! My little rebellion.
Anyways--I'm doing a crossword, and I come across a clue, 33 Down: "'Slow and steady wins the race,' for one." It's five letters, and at first I think, proverb? No, too long. Adage? But the letters don't fit. Eventually I realize it's "Moral," as in "the moral of the story is."
I suddenly had a flashback moment from my childhood. I remembered that my dad used to tell me a story before tucking me into bed when I was little. I have memories, from later years, of him coming home from work after I already went to bed. The sound of the garage door always woke me up. But maybe, back when we were young enough to want him to tuck us in, he always came home in time.
My very favorite of the stories he used to tell me were The Ugly Duckling and a story about a Donkey. I don't remember the second one well--I think it involved, like The Ugly Duckling, a donkey who had been raised among racehorses and always felt bad about himself because he wasn't as fast as the other horses. Then one day the farmer needed something that only the donkey could do--pull things? What are donkeys good at, anyways? And the donkey learned he wasn't a racehorse but he was still important and he had his own special skills.
But here comes the part I loved the most: at the end of the story, each night, I would gleefully chant the conclusion along with my dad, "And the moral of the story is: don't judge a book by its cover!" I loved this moral, I think, mostly because it mentioned books. And because I always felt like the Ugly Duckling, with my red hair and my lack of interest in either sports or makeup. But it was okay, I knew, because Dad's nightly story taught me that I was actually a beautiful swan. And that you should definitely, never ever judge a book by its cover.
Most of my strong memories of my Dad are recent: my graduation, his "professor" voice, our trip to Maine, Dad at work in his study. Dad riding his bike or talking about medicine or listening to the Reds game on the radio. Or working in the yard. On the flip side of these memories, regretfully, I see myself sailing along past him, in a big hurry to watch tv or text someone.
When you lose someone suddenly, or even if it isn't sudden, sometimes you can feel like they are fading away into the mists of time. You can feel like every step forward is a step away from them. You can feel like every memory you have is just a missed opportunity to say the things that matter.
Every once in a while, though, you are gifted with a strong, pure memory from long ago, like The Moral of the Story Is. I'd forgotten about it. I'd forgotten those nighttime moments. The shiver of joy I'd get from an emotionally satisfying story (It's still the same, today.) The moment of anticipation--"is it time to say And The Moral of the Story Is yet?" Then the satisfaction of another story and another day neatly wrapped up and concluded. After that, I could slip off peacefully into my childish dreams.
It's the little things that can get to you.
Today, for example: I was at Useless Retail Job. I recently decided that if they are going to schedule me by myself for my entire eight-hour shift, just to save money, I would do the barest minimum of work required of me. Normally, I look for extra work, I volunteer, I organize and straighten things and am generally a Retail Heroine. But not today. I decided to do a crossword puzzle while waiting for customers to walk by or the phone to ring. Ha! My little rebellion.
Anyways--I'm doing a crossword, and I come across a clue, 33 Down: "'Slow and steady wins the race,' for one." It's five letters, and at first I think, proverb? No, too long. Adage? But the letters don't fit. Eventually I realize it's "Moral," as in "the moral of the story is."
I suddenly had a flashback moment from my childhood. I remembered that my dad used to tell me a story before tucking me into bed when I was little. I have memories, from later years, of him coming home from work after I already went to bed. The sound of the garage door always woke me up. But maybe, back when we were young enough to want him to tuck us in, he always came home in time.
My very favorite of the stories he used to tell me were The Ugly Duckling and a story about a Donkey. I don't remember the second one well--I think it involved, like The Ugly Duckling, a donkey who had been raised among racehorses and always felt bad about himself because he wasn't as fast as the other horses. Then one day the farmer needed something that only the donkey could do--pull things? What are donkeys good at, anyways? And the donkey learned he wasn't a racehorse but he was still important and he had his own special skills.But here comes the part I loved the most: at the end of the story, each night, I would gleefully chant the conclusion along with my dad, "And the moral of the story is: don't judge a book by its cover!" I loved this moral, I think, mostly because it mentioned books. And because I always felt like the Ugly Duckling, with my red hair and my lack of interest in either sports or makeup. But it was okay, I knew, because Dad's nightly story taught me that I was actually a beautiful swan. And that you should definitely, never ever judge a book by its cover.
Most of my strong memories of my Dad are recent: my graduation, his "professor" voice, our trip to Maine, Dad at work in his study. Dad riding his bike or talking about medicine or listening to the Reds game on the radio. Or working in the yard. On the flip side of these memories, regretfully, I see myself sailing along past him, in a big hurry to watch tv or text someone.
When you lose someone suddenly, or even if it isn't sudden, sometimes you can feel like they are fading away into the mists of time. You can feel like every step forward is a step away from them. You can feel like every memory you have is just a missed opportunity to say the things that matter.
Every once in a while, though, you are gifted with a strong, pure memory from long ago, like The Moral of the Story Is. I'd forgotten about it. I'd forgotten those nighttime moments. The shiver of joy I'd get from an emotionally satisfying story (It's still the same, today.) The moment of anticipation--"is it time to say And The Moral of the Story Is yet?" Then the satisfaction of another story and another day neatly wrapped up and concluded. After that, I could slip off peacefully into my childish dreams.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
a moment of magical thinking
Earlier today I had this brief moment of simple joy. It wasn't sparked by one thing in particular--just some combination of the sunshine, my passion iced tea, the song on the radio, the feeling of driving a brand new car. It was one of those moments where the point is that you aren't happy for any reason, you just are. Almost instantly I teared up. But let me explain: I didn't (I don't) feel guilty for being happy. I didn't suddenly remember why I ought to be sad.
Instead, I was moved by the fact that I felt such a good, pure happiness; a joy that wells up from deep contentment. I thought of how I'd been to the cemetery for the first time today, and it was okay. I thought about how my dad would (does) (will always) want me to be happy. And that I can be, and that I will be.
Visions and Interpretations
Today my mom and I went to the cemetery to pick out the headstone for Dad's grave. Sometimes, I don't have the words, so others' will have to do.
Visions and Interpretations by Li-Young Lee
Because this graveyard is a hill,
I must climb up to see my dead,
stopping once midway to rest
beside this tree.
It was here, between the anticipation
of exhaustion, and exhaustion,
between vale and peak,
my father came down to me
and we climbed arm in arm to the top.
He cradled the bouquet I'd brought,
and I, like a good son, never mentioned his grave,
erect like a door behind him.
And it was here, one summer day, I sat down
to read an old book. When I looked up
from the noon-lit page, I saw a vision
of a world about to come,
and a world about to go.
Truth is, I've not seen my father
since he died, and, no, the dead
do not walk arm in arm with me.
If I carry flowers to them, I do so without their help,
the blossoms not always bright, torch-like,
but often heavy as sodden newspaper.
Truth is, I came here with my son one day,
and we rested against this tree,
and I fell asleep, and dreamed
a dream which, upon my boy waking me, I told.
Neither of us understood.
Then we went up.
Even this is not accurate.
let me begin again:
Between two griefs, a tree.
Between my hands, white chrysanthemums, yellow chrysanthemums.
The old book I finished reading
I've since read again and again.
And what was far grows near,
and what is near grows more dear,
and all of my visions and interpretations
depend on what I see,
and between my eyes is always
the rain, the migrant rain.
Visions and Interpretations by Li-Young Lee
Because this graveyard is a hill,
I must climb up to see my dead,
stopping once midway to rest
beside this tree.
It was here, between the anticipation
of exhaustion, and exhaustion,
between vale and peak,
my father came down to me
and we climbed arm in arm to the top.
He cradled the bouquet I'd brought,
and I, like a good son, never mentioned his grave,
erect like a door behind him.
And it was here, one summer day, I sat down
to read an old book. When I looked up
from the noon-lit page, I saw a vision
of a world about to come,
and a world about to go.
Truth is, I've not seen my father
since he died, and, no, the dead
do not walk arm in arm with me.
If I carry flowers to them, I do so without their help,
the blossoms not always bright, torch-like,
but often heavy as sodden newspaper.
Truth is, I came here with my son one day,
and we rested against this tree,
and I fell asleep, and dreamed
a dream which, upon my boy waking me, I told.
Neither of us understood.
Then we went up.
Even this is not accurate.
let me begin again:
Between two griefs, a tree.
Between my hands, white chrysanthemums, yellow chrysanthemums.
The old book I finished reading
I've since read again and again.
And what was far grows near,
and what is near grows more dear,
and all of my visions and interpretations
depend on what I see,
and between my eyes is always
the rain, the migrant rain.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Truth About Forever
"That was the thing. You just never knew. Forever was so many different things. It was always changing, it was what everything was really about. It was twenty minutes, or a hundred years, or just this instant, or any instant I wished would last and last. But there was only one truth about forever that really mattered, and that was this: it was happening. Right then, as I ran with Wes into that bright sun, and every moment afterwards. Look, there. Now. Now. Now."
--Sarah Dessen, The Truth About Forever
I haven't written anything in a while.
I've been busy, certainly. Since I graduated last May my life has seemed so incredibly slow--blank hours at work, blank hours at home. I fill up them up the best I can with little projects or tv shows or books. Or sleep. Yet lately things have been speeding up again; my life rushing ahead at a breakneck pace. Weekends in Bourbonnais, parties and dinners and meetings, rehearsals and performances, work.
A few weeks ago, I started feeling that I was emerging from a fog I didn't even realize I was in. I started feeling stronger, more myself, more aware. I have more good days than bad days. I can say to strangers, "My dad passed away last year," without choking on the words. I'm eager to get news about my grad school applications. Before, I avoided thinking about moving or choosing a graduate school in concrete terms. I simply could not imagine what my life might look or feel like. I couldn't bear it.
It felt like waking up from a dream that was so real I thought I was already awake. It's not that I think I'm past grief, as if grief is just a veil laid down over my real self, intact but covered up for the moment. Grief, when it's true, never goes away. It becomes a part of you. The pain, the truth, the love, the loss--everything you learn when someone you love so dearly leaves you--alter you irrevocably. There is no "old me" to get back to.
I know that sounds depressing. And in some ways, it is. Old Me had such a beautiful sense of security--Mom and Dad would always be there to help me, to be proud of me, to encourage me. New Me knows that people can't be there forever, even if they want to be. New Me knows she has to figure some things out on her own. New Me knows the depths of sadness, its shades and varieties: melancholy and despair and nostalgia.
But in other ways, it's not so depressing at all. It's a more complex life, where joy and sadness can get tangled together, but I feel that it is ultimately a rich life. I see things and feel things so much more intensely, now. I appreciate relationships and moments in a way I never did before. I've learned (just recently, really) that I can move forward with my life, even though it'll be so much harder than I expected. I wish with my whole heart that I could have learned these things without having to lose him. But that's not how life works.
So, like I said at first, it seems that my life is filling out again. I got accepted to the Masters in Literature program at UC, my dad's alma mater. They loved my paper on Midnight's Children; they thought my writing was insightful and my qualifications impressive. (Whoa. I know.) The University offered me a full-tuition scholarship, along with a job as a Teaching Assistant. So I'd effectively get my MA for free.....no student loans. At all. I spent a few days last weekend meeting current students and professors at the university, and I had a really great time. I mean, really. I don't know yet if it's my final decision, because I am still waiting to hear from several universities. But I kept on having this feeling of rightness that weekend. And more importantly, of excitement and anticipation about the next few years. I can honestly say I have not once felt those emotions since Dad died. It was all so sudden, so traumatic...I felt like my life ended in that hospital room, too. For a long time, I wondered whether I'd ever get it back.
But I think I'm (getting close to the point where I'm) ready to move forward with my life. To pursue my dreams, to embrace change and be a grownup. To let myself experience new things and grow, even though I'll always be aware that Dad isn't here. Even though there will always be a gap. Even though I'll just be adding to the list of Things My Dad Will Never Know About Me. It won't be easy, but it'll be worth it.
--Sarah Dessen, The Truth About Forever
I haven't written anything in a while.
I've been busy, certainly. Since I graduated last May my life has seemed so incredibly slow--blank hours at work, blank hours at home. I fill up them up the best I can with little projects or tv shows or books. Or sleep. Yet lately things have been speeding up again; my life rushing ahead at a breakneck pace. Weekends in Bourbonnais, parties and dinners and meetings, rehearsals and performances, work.
A few weeks ago, I started feeling that I was emerging from a fog I didn't even realize I was in. I started feeling stronger, more myself, more aware. I have more good days than bad days. I can say to strangers, "My dad passed away last year," without choking on the words. I'm eager to get news about my grad school applications. Before, I avoided thinking about moving or choosing a graduate school in concrete terms. I simply could not imagine what my life might look or feel like. I couldn't bear it.
It felt like waking up from a dream that was so real I thought I was already awake. It's not that I think I'm past grief, as if grief is just a veil laid down over my real self, intact but covered up for the moment. Grief, when it's true, never goes away. It becomes a part of you. The pain, the truth, the love, the loss--everything you learn when someone you love so dearly leaves you--alter you irrevocably. There is no "old me" to get back to.
I know that sounds depressing. And in some ways, it is. Old Me had such a beautiful sense of security--Mom and Dad would always be there to help me, to be proud of me, to encourage me. New Me knows that people can't be there forever, even if they want to be. New Me knows she has to figure some things out on her own. New Me knows the depths of sadness, its shades and varieties: melancholy and despair and nostalgia.
But in other ways, it's not so depressing at all. It's a more complex life, where joy and sadness can get tangled together, but I feel that it is ultimately a rich life. I see things and feel things so much more intensely, now. I appreciate relationships and moments in a way I never did before. I've learned (just recently, really) that I can move forward with my life, even though it'll be so much harder than I expected. I wish with my whole heart that I could have learned these things without having to lose him. But that's not how life works.
So, like I said at first, it seems that my life is filling out again. I got accepted to the Masters in Literature program at UC, my dad's alma mater. They loved my paper on Midnight's Children; they thought my writing was insightful and my qualifications impressive. (Whoa. I know.) The University offered me a full-tuition scholarship, along with a job as a Teaching Assistant. So I'd effectively get my MA for free.....no student loans. At all. I spent a few days last weekend meeting current students and professors at the university, and I had a really great time. I mean, really. I don't know yet if it's my final decision, because I am still waiting to hear from several universities. But I kept on having this feeling of rightness that weekend. And more importantly, of excitement and anticipation about the next few years. I can honestly say I have not once felt those emotions since Dad died. It was all so sudden, so traumatic...I felt like my life ended in that hospital room, too. For a long time, I wondered whether I'd ever get it back.
But I think I'm (getting close to the point where I'm) ready to move forward with my life. To pursue my dreams, to embrace change and be a grownup. To let myself experience new things and grow, even though I'll always be aware that Dad isn't here. Even though there will always be a gap. Even though I'll just be adding to the list of Things My Dad Will Never Know About Me. It won't be easy, but it'll be worth it.
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