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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
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.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Baby Steps!
"Baby steps? Baby steps through the office? Baby steps out the door. It works! All I have to do is take one little step at a time, and I can do anything! Baby steps around the office! Baaaby steps around the office."
-Billy Murray, What About Bob?
So my little nephew Caleb recently passed his first birthday, and is just beginning to walk. He figured out standing a while ago, and at Christmas he impressed us all by zooming around the house with his new push-and-walk toy. (It looks like a green dragon and plays music incessantly. He loves it). He's getting stronger every time I see him, more confident of his steps. He's learning to walk those steps without holding someone's hand, without balancing against the sofa, without falling. Before we know it, these early days of tentative, exploratory steps will be long gone. He'll be running, dancing, jumping, and driving his parents crazy because he just won't. sit. still. He and Mommy and Daddy and all his Aunties and Uncles won't even remember the days when you could leave him in one place and come back and find him still there.
It's incredibly cliche, but I was thinking earlier about baby steps. And no, I don't generally take my life advice from What About Bob? I mean, seriously, Dr. Marvin is a total fraud. And did you see how that giant bronze bust looked suspiciously like him?
But I was thinking about how living after a great loss requires you to take baby steps. And I'm not just talking about simply focusing on the next, manageable task, as Dr. Marvin suggests--though I find myself doing that instinctively these days. Rather, the idea I hold on to is that small steps, even if they are shaky or hesitant, eventually add up. Before you realize what you've done, you're somewhere else entirely.
Life with grief is a lot like learning to walk all over again. You have to reteach yourself how to move forward. You have to rewrite your understanding of the world--and your place within it. That can mean so many things, and it's different for every person. For me, it has meant being more honest and intimate with my family members: truly saying what I mean, and saying what's on my heart, no matter how difficult it might be. It has meant learning to ask for other people's advice, and at the same time to trust my own instincts. It has meant forgiving myself for imperfection, for struggling, for weakness. It has meant becoming okay with quiet, with silence, with waiting. It has meant being open to new joys in my life, even if my dad is no longer there to share in them.
It's about small moments, and small triumphs. Things you do by yourself for the first time; things that they used to help you with. Enjoying holidays. Creating new traditions. Finding a new favorite restaurant. Filing your tax returns. Replacing smoke alarm batteries. It's about holding on to memories, but also about making room for new ones. It's about living, one step at a time.
-Billy Murray, What About Bob?
So my little nephew Caleb recently passed his first birthday, and is just beginning to walk. He figured out standing a while ago, and at Christmas he impressed us all by zooming around the house with his new push-and-walk toy. (It looks like a green dragon and plays music incessantly. He loves it). He's getting stronger every time I see him, more confident of his steps. He's learning to walk those steps without holding someone's hand, without balancing against the sofa, without falling. Before we know it, these early days of tentative, exploratory steps will be long gone. He'll be running, dancing, jumping, and driving his parents crazy because he just won't. sit. still. He and Mommy and Daddy and all his Aunties and Uncles won't even remember the days when you could leave him in one place and come back and find him still there.
It's incredibly cliche, but I was thinking earlier about baby steps. And no, I don't generally take my life advice from What About Bob? I mean, seriously, Dr. Marvin is a total fraud. And did you see how that giant bronze bust looked suspiciously like him?
But I was thinking about how living after a great loss requires you to take baby steps. And I'm not just talking about simply focusing on the next, manageable task, as Dr. Marvin suggests--though I find myself doing that instinctively these days. Rather, the idea I hold on to is that small steps, even if they are shaky or hesitant, eventually add up. Before you realize what you've done, you're somewhere else entirely.
Life with grief is a lot like learning to walk all over again. You have to reteach yourself how to move forward. You have to rewrite your understanding of the world--and your place within it. That can mean so many things, and it's different for every person. For me, it has meant being more honest and intimate with my family members: truly saying what I mean, and saying what's on my heart, no matter how difficult it might be. It has meant learning to ask for other people's advice, and at the same time to trust my own instincts. It has meant forgiving myself for imperfection, for struggling, for weakness. It has meant becoming okay with quiet, with silence, with waiting. It has meant being open to new joys in my life, even if my dad is no longer there to share in them.
It's about small moments, and small triumphs. Things you do by yourself for the first time; things that they used to help you with. Enjoying holidays. Creating new traditions. Finding a new favorite restaurant. Filing your tax returns. Replacing smoke alarm batteries. It's about holding on to memories, but also about making room for new ones. It's about living, one step at a time.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Some Much Needed Optimism
To balance out my depressing posts:
Somedays, I know I'm going to be okay. Somedays, I know I'm going to be more than okay.
That's all for today, really. It's enough.
Somedays, I know I'm going to be okay. Somedays, I know I'm going to be more than okay.
That's all for today, really. It's enough.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Lovesong
I am finding that life with grief can bring about the strangest mix of emotions. Sometimes I feel perfectly fine, even optimistic, only to suddenly feel the deepest sense of loss and fear for the future. Sometimes I can laugh at a joke and then suddenly miss my dad terribly. Sometimes in the middle of an intensely painful conversation, I feel a sense of encouragement and completion.
Most of the times, these mood shifts are bewildering--the constant ambivalence between happy and sad feels far too unstable. A while ago, I went to a party out of town with some friends. I had a wonderful evening, but on the long drive back home I became so incredibly and inexplicably sad. As we drove, we listened to Adele's new album and "Lovesong" came on, a song I'd been dreading through the first ten songs. A few days after my dad died, I was listening to Adele and I seemed to hear the words of this song for the first time. Even though I know it's actually a cover of a Cure song, and it's probably about some ex-girlfriend...it breaks my heart every time I hear it.
"However far away, I will always love you / However long I stay, I will always love you / Whatever words I say, I will always love you / I will always love you"
It reminds me of what I wanted so badly to say to my dad, that day he died. As he lay there in that hospital bed, unconscious, unhearing, unseeing. I desperately wanted to tell him--no, not just tell him, I wanted to communicate to him, "I will love you forever." Since that day those unsaid words haunt me. They echo in my head, they come to me at random moments.
So there I am, driving home from a fun party with two friends, happily discussing one's married life and the other's upcoming wedding, talking about school, work, friends...and I'm sitting in the darkened backseat, quietly crying to myself. I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd said something. I wish I hadn't waited until the friend that I was staying with went to bed so I could weep under the covers in solitude. I felt so, so alone...but I was surrounded by people who would have listened. And I know this now; I knew this then. Yet I kept it to myself.
I don't know why. I have a lot of regrets these days. Most of them are the minute, sorta cliche regrets of grief: "I wish I hadn't been so annoyed that time Dad would NOT stop talking about Maine blueberries when we were at that restaurant in Bar Harbor." or "I wish I'd asked him about his life." or "If only I'd driven to Fort Hamilton Hospital to see him in the ER instead of waiting for him to be moved to University Hospital."
But some of them are regrets for after his death: I regret how I neglect my friends. I regret how self-absorbed I've been these past few months. I regret not trying to find comfort in the Bible afterwards. Maybe that would have made a difference. I regret.
Most of the times, these mood shifts are bewildering--the constant ambivalence between happy and sad feels far too unstable. A while ago, I went to a party out of town with some friends. I had a wonderful evening, but on the long drive back home I became so incredibly and inexplicably sad. As we drove, we listened to Adele's new album and "Lovesong" came on, a song I'd been dreading through the first ten songs. A few days after my dad died, I was listening to Adele and I seemed to hear the words of this song for the first time. Even though I know it's actually a cover of a Cure song, and it's probably about some ex-girlfriend...it breaks my heart every time I hear it.
"However far away, I will always love you / However long I stay, I will always love you / Whatever words I say, I will always love you / I will always love you"
It reminds me of what I wanted so badly to say to my dad, that day he died. As he lay there in that hospital bed, unconscious, unhearing, unseeing. I desperately wanted to tell him--no, not just tell him, I wanted to communicate to him, "I will love you forever." Since that day those unsaid words haunt me. They echo in my head, they come to me at random moments.
So there I am, driving home from a fun party with two friends, happily discussing one's married life and the other's upcoming wedding, talking about school, work, friends...and I'm sitting in the darkened backseat, quietly crying to myself. I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd said something. I wish I hadn't waited until the friend that I was staying with went to bed so I could weep under the covers in solitude. I felt so, so alone...but I was surrounded by people who would have listened. And I know this now; I knew this then. Yet I kept it to myself.
I don't know why. I have a lot of regrets these days. Most of them are the minute, sorta cliche regrets of grief: "I wish I hadn't been so annoyed that time Dad would NOT stop talking about Maine blueberries when we were at that restaurant in Bar Harbor." or "I wish I'd asked him about his life." or "If only I'd driven to Fort Hamilton Hospital to see him in the ER instead of waiting for him to be moved to University Hospital."
But some of them are regrets for after his death: I regret how I neglect my friends. I regret how self-absorbed I've been these past few months. I regret not trying to find comfort in the Bible afterwards. Maybe that would have made a difference. I regret.
Here's an idea I've been trying to phrase right for the past three months. I'm not sure I've gotten it quite nailed down just yet, but here is the latest version.
Everyone always says, "Everything happens for a reason." Everyone always says, "Maybe one day we'll understand why God took your dad away so suddenly."
But here's the thing. I don't think there's a single "reason." I don't think there are multiple "reasons," either. I think he died because that is life, and bad things happen and people get sick and people die. I refuse to say to myself, "ah, these things I am learning about life, about dealing with grief, about my own strength, about the importance of family and love and friends--these are why my dad died at the peak of his life." I refuse to think, "I see now: God let my dad die so that we could learn valuable life lessons, or whatever."
No. My dad died. And the things I am learning, the painfully beautiful moments that have happened in my life since that dreadful day, are not the reason this happened. God is working in my life so that I can survive my grief. My dad's death is the reason I am learning and growing and (I hope) will ultimately be happy and strong and whole.
It's not, and never will be, the other way around.
Hmm. I think it needs some work. Three months and counting.
Everyone always says, "Everything happens for a reason." Everyone always says, "Maybe one day we'll understand why God took your dad away so suddenly."
But here's the thing. I don't think there's a single "reason." I don't think there are multiple "reasons," either. I think he died because that is life, and bad things happen and people get sick and people die. I refuse to say to myself, "ah, these things I am learning about life, about dealing with grief, about my own strength, about the importance of family and love and friends--these are why my dad died at the peak of his life." I refuse to think, "I see now: God let my dad die so that we could learn valuable life lessons, or whatever."
No. My dad died. And the things I am learning, the painfully beautiful moments that have happened in my life since that dreadful day, are not the reason this happened. God is working in my life so that I can survive my grief. My dad's death is the reason I am learning and growing and (I hope) will ultimately be happy and strong and whole.
It's not, and never will be, the other way around.
Hmm. I think it needs some work. Three months and counting.
Friday, January 20, 2012
A Chance Meeting (Or Not)
I saw an old friend from a distance at Walmart tonight. I haven't talked to this old friend in...almost two years, I think. As far as I know, our friendship ended because we grew apart, which isn't too uncommon among childhood friends. I think we started seeing the world in different ways, and unfortunately those contrasting opinions were exaggerated when we were roommates for a little while. (Also, I know it's partly because we chose to align ourselves with opposite factions in our old set of friends, back when all that drama was important to us both.)
It's natural for people to grow apart and for old friends to lose touch. It's natural to choose to spend time with people you have a stronger bond with than "we went to Sunday school together." I know this, and I feel no resentment about how we've drifted. I do feel a measure of regret, though. I was passive when I ought to have spoken, and I was unyielding and unkind when I didn't really meant to be.
But there was a time, and it doesn't feel that long ago, when we were incredibly close. We were confidants, we were allies, we were friends. We laughed so so much together; we shared music and movies and dreams. Our friendship started when we would secretly pass notes during Children's church, and it survived so much for so many years. Then, it just sort of...petered out. The unresolved nature of the end of our friendship has always left me feeling unsettled. I feel like I should fix something, but I don't know how or if it is too late.
Anyways, I saw this friend tonight at Walmart. I was standing at the jewelry counter, helping a customer with a return, and I saw this friend walk out from one of the makeup aisles and then down another. I felt a jolt of shock--I didn't even know they were in the country, much less in Fairfield--followed by total fear that this friend would see me. In general, my first instinct when I see anyone I know from my "real life" is to hide. I'm actually pretty embarrassed that I work at Walmart, with my expensive degree and high GPA and all that. But then she turned away, apparently without seeing me. I finished with the customer and walked back to the fitting room, feeling incredibly unsettled.
My coworker asked why I looked so upset, and as I tried to give the spark-notes version of the story, I realized what is really bothering me. It's not so much that we haven't talked in a couple of years. I recently ran into another old friend, also at Walmart, and it was perfectly nice. It wasn't that I was still mad about whatever I was mad about back in 2009. And it wasn't that I wished we could be close again, and I regretted the missed opportunity to reconnect. Well, not entirely.
What upset me most is that I suddenly realized how hurt I feel that this friend didn't say anything to me, or reach out in any way, after my dad died. I remember thinking, after everything happened, that she and a couple of other people would. Even though we weren't as close as we used to be. I mean, this friend knew my dad as well as I know hers; we were friends for thirteen years. I don't think minor disagreements and not being facebook friends can negate all of those years of friendship. Or how we helped each other survive high school. Or the countless deep conversations we had. Or our adventures. I still care about this friend, I still wish her well. I thought...I had hoped...that she felt the same way.
And I know, without a doubt, if the situation had been reversed I would have been there. If, God forbid, someone in her family died, I would absolutely be at the funeral. I would reach out and offer my friendship, my sympathy, my shoulders to cry on: whatever I could give. Because that's what old friends do, no matter what.
Because it is the right thing to do.
Because moments of sudden tragedy make all of those disagreements, those huge barriers, those devastating social slights, seem like nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
It's natural for people to grow apart and for old friends to lose touch. It's natural to choose to spend time with people you have a stronger bond with than "we went to Sunday school together." I know this, and I feel no resentment about how we've drifted. I do feel a measure of regret, though. I was passive when I ought to have spoken, and I was unyielding and unkind when I didn't really meant to be.
But there was a time, and it doesn't feel that long ago, when we were incredibly close. We were confidants, we were allies, we were friends. We laughed so so much together; we shared music and movies and dreams. Our friendship started when we would secretly pass notes during Children's church, and it survived so much for so many years. Then, it just sort of...petered out. The unresolved nature of the end of our friendship has always left me feeling unsettled. I feel like I should fix something, but I don't know how or if it is too late.
Anyways, I saw this friend tonight at Walmart. I was standing at the jewelry counter, helping a customer with a return, and I saw this friend walk out from one of the makeup aisles and then down another. I felt a jolt of shock--I didn't even know they were in the country, much less in Fairfield--followed by total fear that this friend would see me. In general, my first instinct when I see anyone I know from my "real life" is to hide. I'm actually pretty embarrassed that I work at Walmart, with my expensive degree and high GPA and all that. But then she turned away, apparently without seeing me. I finished with the customer and walked back to the fitting room, feeling incredibly unsettled.
My coworker asked why I looked so upset, and as I tried to give the spark-notes version of the story, I realized what is really bothering me. It's not so much that we haven't talked in a couple of years. I recently ran into another old friend, also at Walmart, and it was perfectly nice. It wasn't that I was still mad about whatever I was mad about back in 2009. And it wasn't that I wished we could be close again, and I regretted the missed opportunity to reconnect. Well, not entirely.
What upset me most is that I suddenly realized how hurt I feel that this friend didn't say anything to me, or reach out in any way, after my dad died. I remember thinking, after everything happened, that she and a couple of other people would. Even though we weren't as close as we used to be. I mean, this friend knew my dad as well as I know hers; we were friends for thirteen years. I don't think minor disagreements and not being facebook friends can negate all of those years of friendship. Or how we helped each other survive high school. Or the countless deep conversations we had. Or our adventures. I still care about this friend, I still wish her well. I thought...I had hoped...that she felt the same way.
And I know, without a doubt, if the situation had been reversed I would have been there. If, God forbid, someone in her family died, I would absolutely be at the funeral. I would reach out and offer my friendship, my sympathy, my shoulders to cry on: whatever I could give. Because that's what old friends do, no matter what.
Because it is the right thing to do.
Because moments of sudden tragedy make all of those disagreements, those huge barriers, those devastating social slights, seem like nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
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