I am like a kangaroo sloth. Hiding a tiny baby marsupial the size of an olive. Moving so slowly. Like I am covered in heavy, wet, draped wool. I can't catch my breath, even though I have barely moved. Everything is still. In some other dimension, another me is running up a hill, all day. And I feel her energy slipping constantly, I have to sit down, I am winded. Then she is dancing with a partner I can't see. It takes my
breath away, I am dizzy, I am queasy, the dance must be too fast. And
all I can do is lie down and close my eyes. Or read someone else's story, to distract me from the dancing. She and I are linked together with spider web thin, invisible strings, bridging our lives. She is wildly moving, determined and powerful. While I am linked to her, my body does not belong to me. It belongs to something else. It's slipped into the big pool. The collective. The everything. It will live there for a while. Until this tiny body growing inside of mine has gotten all it needs from me. Then this new person and I will give each other a little bow and the tags come off. Then my body will be exclusively mine again and I can wrap my bat wings tightly around myself and exhale deeply. Mine, mine, mine. And hang upside down just for a few minutes.
For now, I am strapped into a ride. The things I feel have little to do with what I am doing. The mystery is whole and complete. The ride has begun. I cannot get off mid-ride. I will have to
wait, for a long while. I do not know what is in store.
At first I panicked. I fumbled at the seat belt, wondering how it had gotten fastened so tight, so quickly. I had been standing in line for so long, not quite sure I wanted to go on the ride at all. Suddenly, there I was and I could feel the car jerk forward and start to move slowly on it's track, click, click, click. This is it. I am on. I am not getting off. Maybe I can still do what I was doing before I got on this ride. I can try. I tried. I couldn't. I settled into the ride. My elbow found a spot to rest on the side of the car, my face rested in my hand, I looked around. Not much to see.
The ride is jerky and slow. So slow. You would think it was just me on the ride. A one woman car. But it is not. It is me and the whole world. It is me with everything. It is me in the everything. My me-ness is insignificant. I belong to something else. The ride has taken me. Whisked me away, snatched me up, grabbed me with a hook from the side of the stage and pulled me off scene. Then plopped me into the slow car. The sloth mobile of sharing. To ride and ride.
When it is done... let us not think of the end of the ride. Out beyond the end, there is a chance, there is the possibility of amazing and happy things. Someone waits for me there. Someone who has been waiting a long while for their own ride to begin. A ride they desperately wanted to get on. THE ride. The one we all wanted to get on. One I would not trade for anything. One I wish would go on forever.
I guess, to give someone that chance, is worth whatever I have to do to get them there. To get them here. To bring that wishing, wanting, someone home. Where they want to be. And when they get here, I will be glad. And I will say, "Put your arms up when we go down the big hills. It's more fun that way."
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
Winter's nose.
Winter's so nosy. Sticking it's nose into every last thing. It slips in your doors without asking, peeks through your windows, finds the smallest seam, and welcomes itself into your room. It wants to see what you smell like, what your toes are up to.
Look out the window, all you see is Winter. Even the wooden fence looks cold. Every little thing braces itself, contracted and still, tolerating Winter's scrutiny.
Oblivious to the wake it leaves where it wanders. Someone at a party who is talking too loud, tossing inappropriate stories around the room, like little ice grenades. The rest of us glance at each other and shiver through our layers of silk, wool, fleece and fur.
We become like animals hiding in our dens, waiting. Stretching out a pale, bare hand to see, how cold it is. It is still very cold. We tuck our hands back under the blankets, pull them up to our chins, burrow deeper in. What month is this? What month comes next? The next month is cold too. Surely, not as cold as this one. I think this is the coldest. Then what month follows... Oh it could be spring. Maybe Spring will come when it used to, at Easter. I will eat the forsythia when it blooms. In hopes that the soft yellow bloom will replenish something I lost. Something Winter borrowed without asking, took for itself, used up and left somewhere else. I don't know exactly what it is but I can feel it's absence. I check my pockets, pat myself down, pat the table, it was here a minute ago. Distracted by the cold fingers running through my hair. I swat them away. What was I looking for? Maybe a hat. Where is my hat? I turn the thermostat up two degrees.
My radiators keep up a steady, sweaty river dance in the corners. Tapping, clanking, hissing and snapping. A little hot rivulet of water runs up and out through a steaming metal anchor in the floor. It puddles on the floor. Surprised by it's warmth as I wipe it up with a towel. Like blood from a fresh wound. You cannot fight winter, stay in the pipes where you belong. It will be over, eventually. We just have to wait. Move your attention to the sunlight. Look. Look here.
The sun is like a mother's hand, smoothing your brow. You're okay, she says. She smiles. I am here. It's only winter. I can still hear some birds song, can you? She pokes her fingers through the crystals in the window and rainbows scatter around the room.
Inside, color reigns. Flowers stand tall on the table. Brightly patterned fabric, pillowed couch, blankets, piles of toys. We'll wait it out. Classical music plays, a sweet smell of banana pancakes hangs in the air for a few moments longer. We wade through the cold air on the floor. Where are my slippers? What else can we cook? We can leave the oven on and huddle in front of it. What's for lunch, Winter asks? I don't remember inviting you, Winter. Why don't you go into town and pick something up? We'll wait here.
Look out the window, all you see is Winter. Even the wooden fence looks cold. Every little thing braces itself, contracted and still, tolerating Winter's scrutiny.
Oblivious to the wake it leaves where it wanders. Someone at a party who is talking too loud, tossing inappropriate stories around the room, like little ice grenades. The rest of us glance at each other and shiver through our layers of silk, wool, fleece and fur.
We become like animals hiding in our dens, waiting. Stretching out a pale, bare hand to see, how cold it is. It is still very cold. We tuck our hands back under the blankets, pull them up to our chins, burrow deeper in. What month is this? What month comes next? The next month is cold too. Surely, not as cold as this one. I think this is the coldest. Then what month follows... Oh it could be spring. Maybe Spring will come when it used to, at Easter. I will eat the forsythia when it blooms. In hopes that the soft yellow bloom will replenish something I lost. Something Winter borrowed without asking, took for itself, used up and left somewhere else. I don't know exactly what it is but I can feel it's absence. I check my pockets, pat myself down, pat the table, it was here a minute ago. Distracted by the cold fingers running through my hair. I swat them away. What was I looking for? Maybe a hat. Where is my hat? I turn the thermostat up two degrees.
My radiators keep up a steady, sweaty river dance in the corners. Tapping, clanking, hissing and snapping. A little hot rivulet of water runs up and out through a steaming metal anchor in the floor. It puddles on the floor. Surprised by it's warmth as I wipe it up with a towel. Like blood from a fresh wound. You cannot fight winter, stay in the pipes where you belong. It will be over, eventually. We just have to wait. Move your attention to the sunlight. Look. Look here.
The sun is like a mother's hand, smoothing your brow. You're okay, she says. She smiles. I am here. It's only winter. I can still hear some birds song, can you? She pokes her fingers through the crystals in the window and rainbows scatter around the room.
Inside, color reigns. Flowers stand tall on the table. Brightly patterned fabric, pillowed couch, blankets, piles of toys. We'll wait it out. Classical music plays, a sweet smell of banana pancakes hangs in the air for a few moments longer. We wade through the cold air on the floor. Where are my slippers? What else can we cook? We can leave the oven on and huddle in front of it. What's for lunch, Winter asks? I don't remember inviting you, Winter. Why don't you go into town and pick something up? We'll wait here.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Tidying
I have been reading a book called The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing by Marie Kondo. I saw it on a table at Barnes and Noble and felt like I needed it. It is a very easy, uncluttered sort of a read. Very simple, very organized, a nice sized book that feels good in my hands.
My home is not super cluttered. I don't think I'm a hoarder or anything like that. But, I know I have too much stuff. I have room for the stuff, which is part of the problem. Sort of. I have a small attic space and I have a pretty big unfinished basement that is sort of like the Hades of the house. Things get thrown down there and they pile up, they spill over, they spread out, they get dusty and then moldy. Those are mostly things we "might need". Sort of. I don't think I actually need any of this stuff. Besides the roof and walls and all those good basic things. So much of what I have is extra. So much of it is over-abundance. I am not complaining. But I am feeling a need to let some of it go.
It is strange that part of what comes with the over-abundance is the guilt. I have so much, some people have so little, I have a hard time throwing anything away. I donate lots of things. Constantly. I fill bags with stuff and then I put them in my car. I wait until it's night time and I drive by the little town thrift stores in town and leave them outside the door. Afraid if I ask them to take my things they'll say no. I hand off my guilt to them. If they throw anything out, they are the ones who have to sleep at night knowing they added to the mountain at the dump. The dump. I've never been but I want to go. The dump in my mind is an enormous pile of wasted things that greedy thoughtless people have thrown away. Along with some normal waste. But mostly needless waste. I hate wasting things.
I have moved a bunch of times and a bunch of times, I have moved things that I thought I might need, or might do something with. Old wooden frames I inherited from an artist who owned that house in Woodstock before I did. A big old drum my grandfather bought at a yard sale and gave to me. So many tools, left behind by handymen and carpenters like bread crusts and apple cores. I collected them and put them in a drawer. So many nails and screws and hooks. So many houses, so many renovations. Thinking when I am done renovating my house, I will give all that stuff away. But that day never comes.
I grew up in a big house with my mother. When she died, I inherited all of her things and our families things. A lot of it, I was able to part with and a lot of it, I kept. When I moved from my mother's house, I moved so much. Towards the end of the move, I decided to leave a set of metal shelves in the basement and the movers actually cheered.
Some of the things I let go of, I regretted. I think when you're young and you lose someone you love and it is the first time you've ever lost anyone like that, you don't know what you will miss and what you won't. My favorite things I kept of my mother's are the mundane things. Her glasses in her glasses case, her wallet, a rolled up trident wrapper I found in her pocket.
Today, on a wave of tidying that I have begun in my house, I started to sort through my studio. So many art supplies.... sewing, all kinds of painting, oil, acrylic, watercolor, egg tempera, tempera, water based oils, enamels, collage, rug hooking, knitting, crocheting, needle felting, drawing supplies like craypas, pastels, colored pencils, markers, all kinds, erasers, sharpeners, scissors, thread, fabric, yarn, hole punchers and on and on....
In the bottom of an old tin of sewing notions, like zippers and snaps, buckles and fusion tape, I found a Chapstick. I knew right away that it was my mother's and knew that I had saved it because it was hers. I opened the cap and smelled it. It was strawberry and still smelled like a strawberry scented lip balm. A thin, white tubed Chapstick, with SPF 15 and it was used up to the bottom. Pink and small inside.
Now, this book I'm reading, it talks a lot about letting go of the past.
This part of the book is shifting something inside of me. Something that feels really uncomfortable and crumbly. Something old and dry. Like a dried brittle bouquet.
The book talks about holding each item you own and seeing how you feel. If it gives you pleasure and joy, you can keep it. If it doesn't, you should discard it. I had thought when I started to read this book, that all of the things I own, I love. That I kept these things because I do love them and care about them and it feels good to have them because they mean something to me.
She talks about throwing out old letters and old photos! And I keep thinking about all of the letters I have in my attic. Somehow I ended up with all of these notebooks that I passed back and forth with friends in high school. Why do I still have them? I think to me, these things are like little portals to another time in my life. I don't know why I have an impulse to hold onto times in my life that are gone. To hold onto who I was then. There's no other way to go back there. I miss those times. I do. I feel like I have had a lot of loss and the only thing I have left of those people I lost are actual things. Maybe holding onto those things doesn't make me any closer to that time. I am not sure.
I have noticed that when I think about the things that I am keeping because "I can't just get rid of them" because they have some sentimental value, it is not with joy. It is with some heart ache. And maybe, just maybe, if I let go of those things, I will let go of some of that heart ache. Terrifying really. It is pretty risky. I am not sure. But I am working on being willing and seeing how that feels.
I held my mother's 19 year old lip balm in my hands and I knew she had held it. She had bought it, she had carried it around in her pocketbook or had it by her bed or in her pocket. She applied it to her lips and her lips smelled like strawberries. It was hers. And sadly, that is the closest I get to going back in time, to being near her.
And I threw it away. I thought, well, it's just 19 year old lip balm. It doesn't actually bring me closer to my mom. I did not even remember that I had it, I will not miss it. I have other things of hers that are better than old lip balm. It's okay to throw it out.
That was six hours ago. For a few hours I have been thinking about that lip balm and wishing I had kept it. How could I just throw that out? Isn't it something? Isn't it still better than nothing? I felt pangs of regret. I mulled it over. Already in the garbage. I'm not going through the garbage to get a 19 year old lip balm. I won't.
And just now I remembered the garbage bag I put it in was actually right here. And the only other thing in it was some old sweater sleeves. Yes, old sweater sleeves. Just the sleeves. So I took the lip balm out. And now it is on my desk. I thought if I had saved it, I would have put it with her old wallet and that would be okay. To have a little collection all together of her things. That would feel alright for now. But now, with it back in my hands, my heart feels heavy.
I guess one will be more painful than the other, the burden of keeping these things verses the letting them go. I am not sure which is worse. I think about what it would feel like to have none of these things. Would I feel freed or would I feel more lost? These objects are like little anchors. If I let them all go, I will float off and maybe that will be for the best. Maybe it will set me free to go to new places and move forward. Maybe being anchored is not the best thing. Or maybe I will be like an astronaut untethered in out space forever. With no lip balm.
I suppose, my current life is full of it's own anchors and foot holds. If I were a friend of mine, I would say, "Let it all go! You'll be free! Who knows how these things hold you back and the only way to find out is to let them go. Be fearless."
You be fearless. I'm keeping my dead mother's old lip balm another day.
But still, everything in my house looks different to me now. I am aware of how uncomfortable these things feel when I think about them or see them. Maybe it is just a matter of time before I am really sure that discarding these things is fine and feels just right. I count this new view I have of my belongings as huge progress. Quite astonishing to me, actually.
It is one thing to have your own history but to carry your parents and grandparents history is a lot. It just is. Do you know, I have my grandmother's journals AND my mother's journals AND my journals? And I have thought, how great is that? I should DO something with these journals. Edit and combine them. Match up the days and have all three entries together, at the same age or the same date. Make it a novel. They are all sitting in boxes. How do you get rid of something like that? I don't know. That's why I haven't. Doesn't seem right.
Do you know what else? I have my mother's brass bed frame. A bed frame that my parents bought when they were married and young at a place in Long Island. I think it was in Valley Stream. A place that you could sit and have tea and also buy antiques. If I thought about it long enough, I am sure I would come up with the name of the place. Tiffinannie's. That didn't take long.
Full sized bed, which explains the divorce if you ask me. I could never sleep in a bed smaller than a King with anyone. I was conceived in this bed and also, my mother died in this bed. So I have it. Where is it? The only place it would fit where it wouldn't get ruined; lying flat, under my own king sized bed. I have thought if I get rid of it, I would regret it. And I just might. But, I have just started to think, maybe it is time. I do not feel joy when I think of that bed, under my own bed. I would like to have empty space under my bed. Maybe it is time.
I have so many letters from old boyfriends. I was so loved. So nice. Maybe I will mail them all back to my old boyfriends. So they can remember how much they loved me. In case they forgot.
It is time to let some of those sandbags go. Maybe a little at a time is fine. I do want to feel lighter. I don't want anything I don't love. I am finding the whole process sort of fascinating. I am impressed, surprised, confused, excited and scared.
I am so curious to see how it will unfold. And what will be left behind.
My home is not super cluttered. I don't think I'm a hoarder or anything like that. But, I know I have too much stuff. I have room for the stuff, which is part of the problem. Sort of. I have a small attic space and I have a pretty big unfinished basement that is sort of like the Hades of the house. Things get thrown down there and they pile up, they spill over, they spread out, they get dusty and then moldy. Those are mostly things we "might need". Sort of. I don't think I actually need any of this stuff. Besides the roof and walls and all those good basic things. So much of what I have is extra. So much of it is over-abundance. I am not complaining. But I am feeling a need to let some of it go.
It is strange that part of what comes with the over-abundance is the guilt. I have so much, some people have so little, I have a hard time throwing anything away. I donate lots of things. Constantly. I fill bags with stuff and then I put them in my car. I wait until it's night time and I drive by the little town thrift stores in town and leave them outside the door. Afraid if I ask them to take my things they'll say no. I hand off my guilt to them. If they throw anything out, they are the ones who have to sleep at night knowing they added to the mountain at the dump. The dump. I've never been but I want to go. The dump in my mind is an enormous pile of wasted things that greedy thoughtless people have thrown away. Along with some normal waste. But mostly needless waste. I hate wasting things.
I have moved a bunch of times and a bunch of times, I have moved things that I thought I might need, or might do something with. Old wooden frames I inherited from an artist who owned that house in Woodstock before I did. A big old drum my grandfather bought at a yard sale and gave to me. So many tools, left behind by handymen and carpenters like bread crusts and apple cores. I collected them and put them in a drawer. So many nails and screws and hooks. So many houses, so many renovations. Thinking when I am done renovating my house, I will give all that stuff away. But that day never comes.
I grew up in a big house with my mother. When she died, I inherited all of her things and our families things. A lot of it, I was able to part with and a lot of it, I kept. When I moved from my mother's house, I moved so much. Towards the end of the move, I decided to leave a set of metal shelves in the basement and the movers actually cheered.
Some of the things I let go of, I regretted. I think when you're young and you lose someone you love and it is the first time you've ever lost anyone like that, you don't know what you will miss and what you won't. My favorite things I kept of my mother's are the mundane things. Her glasses in her glasses case, her wallet, a rolled up trident wrapper I found in her pocket.
Today, on a wave of tidying that I have begun in my house, I started to sort through my studio. So many art supplies.... sewing, all kinds of painting, oil, acrylic, watercolor, egg tempera, tempera, water based oils, enamels, collage, rug hooking, knitting, crocheting, needle felting, drawing supplies like craypas, pastels, colored pencils, markers, all kinds, erasers, sharpeners, scissors, thread, fabric, yarn, hole punchers and on and on....
In the bottom of an old tin of sewing notions, like zippers and snaps, buckles and fusion tape, I found a Chapstick. I knew right away that it was my mother's and knew that I had saved it because it was hers. I opened the cap and smelled it. It was strawberry and still smelled like a strawberry scented lip balm. A thin, white tubed Chapstick, with SPF 15 and it was used up to the bottom. Pink and small inside.
Now, this book I'm reading, it talks a lot about letting go of the past.
This part of the book is shifting something inside of me. Something that feels really uncomfortable and crumbly. Something old and dry. Like a dried brittle bouquet.
The book talks about holding each item you own and seeing how you feel. If it gives you pleasure and joy, you can keep it. If it doesn't, you should discard it. I had thought when I started to read this book, that all of the things I own, I love. That I kept these things because I do love them and care about them and it feels good to have them because they mean something to me.
She talks about throwing out old letters and old photos! And I keep thinking about all of the letters I have in my attic. Somehow I ended up with all of these notebooks that I passed back and forth with friends in high school. Why do I still have them? I think to me, these things are like little portals to another time in my life. I don't know why I have an impulse to hold onto times in my life that are gone. To hold onto who I was then. There's no other way to go back there. I miss those times. I do. I feel like I have had a lot of loss and the only thing I have left of those people I lost are actual things. Maybe holding onto those things doesn't make me any closer to that time. I am not sure.
I have noticed that when I think about the things that I am keeping because "I can't just get rid of them" because they have some sentimental value, it is not with joy. It is with some heart ache. And maybe, just maybe, if I let go of those things, I will let go of some of that heart ache. Terrifying really. It is pretty risky. I am not sure. But I am working on being willing and seeing how that feels.
I held my mother's 19 year old lip balm in my hands and I knew she had held it. She had bought it, she had carried it around in her pocketbook or had it by her bed or in her pocket. She applied it to her lips and her lips smelled like strawberries. It was hers. And sadly, that is the closest I get to going back in time, to being near her.
And I threw it away. I thought, well, it's just 19 year old lip balm. It doesn't actually bring me closer to my mom. I did not even remember that I had it, I will not miss it. I have other things of hers that are better than old lip balm. It's okay to throw it out.
That was six hours ago. For a few hours I have been thinking about that lip balm and wishing I had kept it. How could I just throw that out? Isn't it something? Isn't it still better than nothing? I felt pangs of regret. I mulled it over. Already in the garbage. I'm not going through the garbage to get a 19 year old lip balm. I won't.
And just now I remembered the garbage bag I put it in was actually right here. And the only other thing in it was some old sweater sleeves. Yes, old sweater sleeves. Just the sleeves. So I took the lip balm out. And now it is on my desk. I thought if I had saved it, I would have put it with her old wallet and that would be okay. To have a little collection all together of her things. That would feel alright for now. But now, with it back in my hands, my heart feels heavy.
I guess one will be more painful than the other, the burden of keeping these things verses the letting them go. I am not sure which is worse. I think about what it would feel like to have none of these things. Would I feel freed or would I feel more lost? These objects are like little anchors. If I let them all go, I will float off and maybe that will be for the best. Maybe it will set me free to go to new places and move forward. Maybe being anchored is not the best thing. Or maybe I will be like an astronaut untethered in out space forever. With no lip balm.
I suppose, my current life is full of it's own anchors and foot holds. If I were a friend of mine, I would say, "Let it all go! You'll be free! Who knows how these things hold you back and the only way to find out is to let them go. Be fearless."
You be fearless. I'm keeping my dead mother's old lip balm another day.
But still, everything in my house looks different to me now. I am aware of how uncomfortable these things feel when I think about them or see them. Maybe it is just a matter of time before I am really sure that discarding these things is fine and feels just right. I count this new view I have of my belongings as huge progress. Quite astonishing to me, actually.
It is one thing to have your own history but to carry your parents and grandparents history is a lot. It just is. Do you know, I have my grandmother's journals AND my mother's journals AND my journals? And I have thought, how great is that? I should DO something with these journals. Edit and combine them. Match up the days and have all three entries together, at the same age or the same date. Make it a novel. They are all sitting in boxes. How do you get rid of something like that? I don't know. That's why I haven't. Doesn't seem right.
Do you know what else? I have my mother's brass bed frame. A bed frame that my parents bought when they were married and young at a place in Long Island. I think it was in Valley Stream. A place that you could sit and have tea and also buy antiques. If I thought about it long enough, I am sure I would come up with the name of the place. Tiffinannie's. That didn't take long.
Full sized bed, which explains the divorce if you ask me. I could never sleep in a bed smaller than a King with anyone. I was conceived in this bed and also, my mother died in this bed. So I have it. Where is it? The only place it would fit where it wouldn't get ruined; lying flat, under my own king sized bed. I have thought if I get rid of it, I would regret it. And I just might. But, I have just started to think, maybe it is time. I do not feel joy when I think of that bed, under my own bed. I would like to have empty space under my bed. Maybe it is time.
I have so many letters from old boyfriends. I was so loved. So nice. Maybe I will mail them all back to my old boyfriends. So they can remember how much they loved me. In case they forgot.
It is time to let some of those sandbags go. Maybe a little at a time is fine. I do want to feel lighter. I don't want anything I don't love. I am finding the whole process sort of fascinating. I am impressed, surprised, confused, excited and scared.
I am so curious to see how it will unfold. And what will be left behind.
Friday, December 19, 2014
My dog.
I am sitting on my kitchen floor, on Spidey's hang out. Spidey is my old dog and his hang out is two 3' x 5' rugs pushed together and covered with a sheet with his dog bed that's wrapped in a contractor bag and duct tape, with a zipper furry cover, a water proof crib mattress cover and a towel on top. A dog equivalent to the hospital bed in your living room for your elderly family member.
Wheaten's are supposed to live to be about 12 or 13, so his 14 years is a long time. This year he got suddenly old, slow and messy.
An hour from now, a vet is coming to the house to euthanize him. Joseph and I will be with him and he'll be in his home, on his bed. When we pick our five year old son up from kindergarten, we'll walk him home and then tell him that our old dog has died. We've talked about it a lot. I've tried to prepare him for the day I knew was getting closer. He talks about how sad he'll be. I talk about how Spidey will be free of his body and his spirit will be like a puppy again and he will be so happy.
I have been telling Spidey we are going to free him of his body. I have been asking my mom to meet him on the other side and my grandmother too. I'm imagining them walking up to Spidey and welcoming him with hugs, rubbing his ears, saying hello. Showing him how he can still see us even though we can't see him.
I wonder if I will hear his ghost feet walking in the house at night.
I wonder if our little boy will be okay with it all. We'll have Spidey in the house until Desmond is home from school. Joseph has dug a hole in the yard. We'll bury him all together, the three of us. I have a pink sheet picked out to wrap him in and I think I will write some love notes to Spidey on the sheet with marker. We have candles lit. We have flowers. I am terrified.
I am scared I am making the wrong decision. I hate that he is still alive and that I am making a decision to end his life.
He can still get around, although he is very wobbly on his feet and if he falls in the right way on the hard floors, he can't get himself up because he slips. He ends up like a fish out of water, flopping around until someone comes to pick him up. He can barely see. He walks into walls and doors and doesn't always see what's happening. He can hardly hear anything, he doesn't react when I walk into a room or when I call his name. He can't find things with his nose very well anymore. But he still likes food. And he loves to be pet and hugged and kissed. He has lost control over his bowels and for what seems like the better part of the last year we have been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning up after him, daily, now several times a day. I always said I was okay until he started peeing all over the place, which has begun now too.
I don't know. He is old, he is wobbly, is he in pain? Probably. He is skin and bones. And fur. His skin allergies are bad, he is scabby and probably itchy. That used to happen in the summer time but it's still happening now. He has chronic eye infections and one ear that is prone to infection as well. Some days he has a sty on his eye that bleeds. Some days, the growth on his lip bleeds.
But he is always happy to see us. Always looking for his food. Always grateful for attention. He has been a super sweet, over sized lap dog.
I feel guilty for not having been a better dog parent. I should have walked him more. Taken him more places. We used to take him on hikes and swimming. Then we had Desmond. It was so hard for me to walk the two of them together, I didn't do it enough. I think Spidey had 9 decent years and then 5 years just hanging out. Tolerating Desmond's rough attempts at play or torture.
Spidey drives me crazy. He has a way of blocking my path as you move through the house. Getting in step with me and then stepping right in front of me and stopping so I almost fall over him. He has peed and pooped on everything this past year. He didn't like other dogs after he had a fight with a dog at a friend's house. The dog was a black Portuguese water dog. For a while, Spidey was aggressive towards black dogs and was pretty racist, than it was all dogs. He is the kind of dog that would not run away but he might wander off if you're not watching. He loves kids, he loves all people. He barks like crazy at the mailman though, even though they always give him cookies, or maybe because they do. He loves a ride in the car and sticking his head out the window to feel the wind. He used to know peoples names. We used to go to Long Island together to visit our friends a lot and I would say, "Where's Maureen?!" and he would look at Maureen and jump up and put his paws in her lap and kiss her. He new a lot of names.
He was born on August 19th of 2000 and I bought him for myself as a birthday gift when I turned 26. I found him a few days before but waited to pick him up on my birthday, Nov 19. He was 3 months old and was a brown and black bear cub. So cottony soft and fluffy and for a few days he seemed sad. But he warmed up to living with me in Long Beach, Long Island and we would go for walks on the beach, even in the snow. When I gave him his first hair cut, all of the baby brown fur cut away to a creamy white fur and he was a new dog! I put a red bandanna on him. He was so handsome.
I thought, when I got him, I was going to take him cross country with me in an RV. But I chickened out and moved to the Hudson Valley instead and here we still are.
This is hard. This is so hard. This is much harder than I thought it would be. It's been so difficult to care for him this year and after I had Desmond he really went from being more like a person in my mind to being more like a dog. I thought this would be easier. But it is just terribly sad.
I had a pug that I got when I was 12. I had him put down when I was 24. I lived alone, he was my dog, I made the decision and I took him to the vet by myself and it was not horrible. It was sad but it was okay. This feels much harder. I think it's because there are more people involved. Joseph and Desmond. Joseph loves this dog as much as I do and Desmond hasn't known life without him, even though I don't know how much he has added to his life other than being a constant furry presence. One that made Desmond whine and cry if his breath or his farts were too stinky or if he was in the way of his games or sitting on his toys. We had to keep Spidey away from Desmond when he was a newborn and Desmond away from Spidey because he was too old for rough-housing. They have co-existed and tolerated each other but still, Desmond loves Spidey. And I think, Desmond worries about death. He knows my mother died and that it is sad for me. My uncle just died this Fall. Another woman he knew died this past year. I think he worries about me dying. He is always asking me if I'm young. Reassuring himself that I am not old and dying. Not yet. I tell him I am young. I think I am. I hope I live to be very old.
The vet is coming soon.
After she puts the dog down, he will be here with us until school is out. What will we do with him? Keep him in the kitchen? Wrap him in a blanket and put him outside? What will I do with myself? How do you wait for your kid to come home from school so that you can tell him our dog has died and now it is time to bury him? How will we bury him? What will it feel like? What will it feel like tomorrow? What will it feel like this summer, walking over his buried body in the ground?
I feel scared. And anxious. I want it to be tomorrow already.
I will miss Spidey's warm furry body and face, his cataract eyes, his smelly old dog kisses.
Powers that be, give me strength to walk through this day for Spidey, for myself, for Joseph and for Desmond. Let me get to the other side with some sort of grace and ease. I am going to try to remind myself to just float with the current today. I don't like this. Not at all.
Wheaten's are supposed to live to be about 12 or 13, so his 14 years is a long time. This year he got suddenly old, slow and messy.
An hour from now, a vet is coming to the house to euthanize him. Joseph and I will be with him and he'll be in his home, on his bed. When we pick our five year old son up from kindergarten, we'll walk him home and then tell him that our old dog has died. We've talked about it a lot. I've tried to prepare him for the day I knew was getting closer. He talks about how sad he'll be. I talk about how Spidey will be free of his body and his spirit will be like a puppy again and he will be so happy.
I have been telling Spidey we are going to free him of his body. I have been asking my mom to meet him on the other side and my grandmother too. I'm imagining them walking up to Spidey and welcoming him with hugs, rubbing his ears, saying hello. Showing him how he can still see us even though we can't see him.
I wonder if I will hear his ghost feet walking in the house at night.
I wonder if our little boy will be okay with it all. We'll have Spidey in the house until Desmond is home from school. Joseph has dug a hole in the yard. We'll bury him all together, the three of us. I have a pink sheet picked out to wrap him in and I think I will write some love notes to Spidey on the sheet with marker. We have candles lit. We have flowers. I am terrified.
I am scared I am making the wrong decision. I hate that he is still alive and that I am making a decision to end his life.
He can still get around, although he is very wobbly on his feet and if he falls in the right way on the hard floors, he can't get himself up because he slips. He ends up like a fish out of water, flopping around until someone comes to pick him up. He can barely see. He walks into walls and doors and doesn't always see what's happening. He can hardly hear anything, he doesn't react when I walk into a room or when I call his name. He can't find things with his nose very well anymore. But he still likes food. And he loves to be pet and hugged and kissed. He has lost control over his bowels and for what seems like the better part of the last year we have been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning up after him, daily, now several times a day. I always said I was okay until he started peeing all over the place, which has begun now too.
I don't know. He is old, he is wobbly, is he in pain? Probably. He is skin and bones. And fur. His skin allergies are bad, he is scabby and probably itchy. That used to happen in the summer time but it's still happening now. He has chronic eye infections and one ear that is prone to infection as well. Some days he has a sty on his eye that bleeds. Some days, the growth on his lip bleeds.
But he is always happy to see us. Always looking for his food. Always grateful for attention. He has been a super sweet, over sized lap dog.
I feel guilty for not having been a better dog parent. I should have walked him more. Taken him more places. We used to take him on hikes and swimming. Then we had Desmond. It was so hard for me to walk the two of them together, I didn't do it enough. I think Spidey had 9 decent years and then 5 years just hanging out. Tolerating Desmond's rough attempts at play or torture.
Spidey drives me crazy. He has a way of blocking my path as you move through the house. Getting in step with me and then stepping right in front of me and stopping so I almost fall over him. He has peed and pooped on everything this past year. He didn't like other dogs after he had a fight with a dog at a friend's house. The dog was a black Portuguese water dog. For a while, Spidey was aggressive towards black dogs and was pretty racist, than it was all dogs. He is the kind of dog that would not run away but he might wander off if you're not watching. He loves kids, he loves all people. He barks like crazy at the mailman though, even though they always give him cookies, or maybe because they do. He loves a ride in the car and sticking his head out the window to feel the wind. He used to know peoples names. We used to go to Long Island together to visit our friends a lot and I would say, "Where's Maureen?!" and he would look at Maureen and jump up and put his paws in her lap and kiss her. He new a lot of names.
He was born on August 19th of 2000 and I bought him for myself as a birthday gift when I turned 26. I found him a few days before but waited to pick him up on my birthday, Nov 19. He was 3 months old and was a brown and black bear cub. So cottony soft and fluffy and for a few days he seemed sad. But he warmed up to living with me in Long Beach, Long Island and we would go for walks on the beach, even in the snow. When I gave him his first hair cut, all of the baby brown fur cut away to a creamy white fur and he was a new dog! I put a red bandanna on him. He was so handsome.
I thought, when I got him, I was going to take him cross country with me in an RV. But I chickened out and moved to the Hudson Valley instead and here we still are.
This is hard. This is so hard. This is much harder than I thought it would be. It's been so difficult to care for him this year and after I had Desmond he really went from being more like a person in my mind to being more like a dog. I thought this would be easier. But it is just terribly sad.
I had a pug that I got when I was 12. I had him put down when I was 24. I lived alone, he was my dog, I made the decision and I took him to the vet by myself and it was not horrible. It was sad but it was okay. This feels much harder. I think it's because there are more people involved. Joseph and Desmond. Joseph loves this dog as much as I do and Desmond hasn't known life without him, even though I don't know how much he has added to his life other than being a constant furry presence. One that made Desmond whine and cry if his breath or his farts were too stinky or if he was in the way of his games or sitting on his toys. We had to keep Spidey away from Desmond when he was a newborn and Desmond away from Spidey because he was too old for rough-housing. They have co-existed and tolerated each other but still, Desmond loves Spidey. And I think, Desmond worries about death. He knows my mother died and that it is sad for me. My uncle just died this Fall. Another woman he knew died this past year. I think he worries about me dying. He is always asking me if I'm young. Reassuring himself that I am not old and dying. Not yet. I tell him I am young. I think I am. I hope I live to be very old.
The vet is coming soon.
After she puts the dog down, he will be here with us until school is out. What will we do with him? Keep him in the kitchen? Wrap him in a blanket and put him outside? What will I do with myself? How do you wait for your kid to come home from school so that you can tell him our dog has died and now it is time to bury him? How will we bury him? What will it feel like? What will it feel like tomorrow? What will it feel like this summer, walking over his buried body in the ground?
I feel scared. And anxious. I want it to be tomorrow already.
I will miss Spidey's warm furry body and face, his cataract eyes, his smelly old dog kisses.
Powers that be, give me strength to walk through this day for Spidey, for myself, for Joseph and for Desmond. Let me get to the other side with some sort of grace and ease. I am going to try to remind myself to just float with the current today. I don't like this. Not at all.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Good art.
I just watched this video of a woman dancing around her home, draped in a sheer bit of fabric. Watch it and come back to me.
http://www.nowness.com/day/2013/11/27/3501/wild-rose
As I watched, I thought, how beautiful.... how lovely she is, how lovely the light is, how smooth that bit of sheer fabric would feel on my skin, how it would feel to dance like that, almost like a child, with no insecurity, just in the pleasure and appreciation of my body, of the fabric, of the light and the air.
I also thought, how self indulgent, she's too proud, she's being too provocative, people won't like it. Men will like it, women will not like it. Someone, I would say, some collective, has taught me to think that way. Has taught me to judge myself, to find my faults, to be ashamed of them, to hide them away. Not to be proud, or celebrate myself. To keep pleasure private. Especially the pleasure of celebrating my self. And to judge other women in the same way.
I love that this made me think so much. It was filmed and I suppose edited by a woman. And I am glad these two women took the time to play. To make this little film. Like a window to gaze through. Just a few moments, both strange and lovely.
It made me think about how I have cinched in my spirit over the years. How I have chipped away at rough edges and fluffed up the parts of me that I thought you'd like better. I have a sculpted personality now. I guess it is always in progress but so much has been done already. So many bits of me have been shaped. I imagine it is the same for all of us. We are taught how to behave. To sing quietly, to sit still, to be modest, to be humble, to be civilized. To go to sleep when everyone else goes to sleep at the sleep-over and not keep laughing deliriously. Because those girls won't talk to you again if you do. To wear what everyone else is wearing. Not to ask the wrong questions or say the wrong thing. Or misbehave.
I was disappointed that I cringed at all at that film. Why? Why should I? It's nonsense. Any cringe I felt was put there by someone else. I think it was lovely. And why not. Why shouldn't she (we) be lovely and proud and share those moments. Just like a child saying, "Look at me!" With my child, I respond, "Yes! Look at you! You are so wonderful!" Because he is. And I am. And you are. And everyone else can just get over it.
And that's good art.
http://www.nowness.com/day/2013/11/27/3501/wild-rose
As I watched, I thought, how beautiful.... how lovely she is, how lovely the light is, how smooth that bit of sheer fabric would feel on my skin, how it would feel to dance like that, almost like a child, with no insecurity, just in the pleasure and appreciation of my body, of the fabric, of the light and the air.
I also thought, how self indulgent, she's too proud, she's being too provocative, people won't like it. Men will like it, women will not like it. Someone, I would say, some collective, has taught me to think that way. Has taught me to judge myself, to find my faults, to be ashamed of them, to hide them away. Not to be proud, or celebrate myself. To keep pleasure private. Especially the pleasure of celebrating my self. And to judge other women in the same way.
I love that this made me think so much. It was filmed and I suppose edited by a woman. And I am glad these two women took the time to play. To make this little film. Like a window to gaze through. Just a few moments, both strange and lovely.
It made me think about how I have cinched in my spirit over the years. How I have chipped away at rough edges and fluffed up the parts of me that I thought you'd like better. I have a sculpted personality now. I guess it is always in progress but so much has been done already. So many bits of me have been shaped. I imagine it is the same for all of us. We are taught how to behave. To sing quietly, to sit still, to be modest, to be humble, to be civilized. To go to sleep when everyone else goes to sleep at the sleep-over and not keep laughing deliriously. Because those girls won't talk to you again if you do. To wear what everyone else is wearing. Not to ask the wrong questions or say the wrong thing. Or misbehave.
I was disappointed that I cringed at all at that film. Why? Why should I? It's nonsense. Any cringe I felt was put there by someone else. I think it was lovely. And why not. Why shouldn't she (we) be lovely and proud and share those moments. Just like a child saying, "Look at me!" With my child, I respond, "Yes! Look at you! You are so wonderful!" Because he is. And I am. And you are. And everyone else can just get over it.
And that's good art.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Desicions
I was thinking today, about how I've done a lot of accepting in my life. Which is a good thing. I don't mean settling. I mean accepting things that have already happened or people in my life for being who they are, no more, no less. I can look back and say, yes, that happened, it's okay. So and so will always be so and so and no-one else. And from all the things I have had to work to accept, I have learned something and grown in some way.
I have tried to make decisions along the way, as we all do, that will make us happy in the end. Like a game of Othello, move by move, I am trying to flip the chips on the board, white or black. Flip them all over to happy, or as many as I can. And I get nervous that I will not make the right moves. Especially as I get older, as the game goes on, I have less time and less moves I can make. The board is filling up. I am afraid I will end up with more sad chips face-up than happy. For now, I feel like I am doing well, but seem to be at a pivotal point. I want to make a big decision. One that could flip a lot of chips one way or the other.
I was thinking about how I have gotten good at accepting things that are done but could use some work on accepting the risk involved in making choices for the future. Especially big ones. I wish someone would tell me what to do. I wish my mother were alive so I could ask her what she thinks. I wish I had a crystal ball I could gaze into and see all outcomes and choose the best one.
It is hard to want a lot of things, to be afraid of most of them and having to choose only a few.
Next year Desmond goes to kindergarten. From 9 am to 3 pm, I will be free, five days a week. This, my friends, is an opportunity. What will I do with this opportunity? This is the question.
I could keep doing what I've been doing, outside of mothering. Work on house projects, art projects, writing projects and other projects more wholeheartedly. That sounds really good. I could also give myself a little time to re-coup. Take a breather. Take some time to think about making a big change or continuing on as I have been. This seems like the safest bet. The gentlest and the easiest.
I have been thinking about a Master's Degree in Social Work. To be a therapist down the line. To go to school and get a "real" job and work with other adults in the adult world. To be helpful, to be useful outside of my home. To be able to say at a party when someone asks, "What do you do?" "Oh, I work at such and such a place, with such and such people and I do such and such." Actually, I should just start saying exactly that at parties. Can I get a Master's in Such and Such? Because I would be really good at that.
I have often thought of being a therapist, doing some sort social work. I think I would enjoy it. But I might not. No guarantees. So, that's risky. Also, it costs money! Oh, and time! Money and time. Valuable things. It would take years. But it could happen.
Another major big, and even more life-altering option is having another baby. I must be mad. I can only think to blame my cave-woman brain for this. Some biological clock that should have run out of batteries by now. Why do you torment me? Should I have a second child? Will I go insane? Will I be a terrible, mean, depressed mother if I do this? What if the second child is autistic? What if we have another child and then we all get cancer from GMOs at the same time? What kind of world is this? What if the two kids hate each other? What if they fight all the time? Would he be mean to a little sibling? Would I resent him for it? What if I love the second one more? Or less? What if my boobs end up 6" lower than they are now? What if my body can't bounce back after being stretched so far a second time? What if I age even more rapidly than the president with a second child? Will my puffy eyes become even more pronounced? Like two big croissants on my face? Puffy and wrinkly and flaky.... like chocolate croissants with the dark circles. I'll have chocolate croissant eyes. What if something happens to Desmond, shouldn't I have a back-up kid? Would a sibling make Desmond a better person? Would it be fun? Would it be too hard? Would it be easier? Am I too old?
It would be harder to travel. More expensive in every way. We could do more for and with Desmond if it is just him. But I'd have a better chance of my children keeping in touch with me, right? Maybe at least one would. Maybe one would take care of me in my old age. Because I will be old pretty soon. Or dead. My mother died when she was 48. What if I die young? Do I want to leave two children behind instead of one? Would that be better or worse? If I were 48 when I died, a baby I have now would only be 10 years old. That won't happen though. That won't happen.
With Desmond I knew I wanted to be a mom, there was not much else to think about. I was so curious about being pregnant, giving birth, nursing, caring for a baby, raising a child, creating a family. I had no idea each of these things were going to be such hard work. And so painful. Sleep training was beyond challenging. Doing all of that again, knowing what I would be in for would be a very different thing. I would have to be crazy, I think. I feel like I'd be scared the whole time. That wouldn't be good. Still, I am considering it. I would do things differently if I did it again. I would not eat EVERYTHING I wanted to this time while I was pregnant. I would give birth in a hospital, so I could have some drugs. Not much I could do different nursing but at least I know what pump works now. Sigh.
It's exhausting just thinking about it. I am afraid. I don't want to do any of that. But there is a nagging feeling that someone is missing in the house. Someone is tugging at me.
I don't want to stay home another five years. I don't want to put a baby in child-care either. Maybe I could go to school part time? Is that even possible?
So, I sit in front of this Othello game of life. And I stare at the board. I am not sure what move to make. It may seem like I am over-analyzing this. But, I guess I feel like I should think about it. You know, before I make a human. Or decide not to. Send a "request denied" back into the ether. Sorry, baby in waiting, or cave-woman brain, or biological clock. Mamma wants a pay-check.
I have tried to make decisions along the way, as we all do, that will make us happy in the end. Like a game of Othello, move by move, I am trying to flip the chips on the board, white or black. Flip them all over to happy, or as many as I can. And I get nervous that I will not make the right moves. Especially as I get older, as the game goes on, I have less time and less moves I can make. The board is filling up. I am afraid I will end up with more sad chips face-up than happy. For now, I feel like I am doing well, but seem to be at a pivotal point. I want to make a big decision. One that could flip a lot of chips one way or the other.
I was thinking about how I have gotten good at accepting things that are done but could use some work on accepting the risk involved in making choices for the future. Especially big ones. I wish someone would tell me what to do. I wish my mother were alive so I could ask her what she thinks. I wish I had a crystal ball I could gaze into and see all outcomes and choose the best one.
It is hard to want a lot of things, to be afraid of most of them and having to choose only a few.
Next year Desmond goes to kindergarten. From 9 am to 3 pm, I will be free, five days a week. This, my friends, is an opportunity. What will I do with this opportunity? This is the question.
I could keep doing what I've been doing, outside of mothering. Work on house projects, art projects, writing projects and other projects more wholeheartedly. That sounds really good. I could also give myself a little time to re-coup. Take a breather. Take some time to think about making a big change or continuing on as I have been. This seems like the safest bet. The gentlest and the easiest.
I have been thinking about a Master's Degree in Social Work. To be a therapist down the line. To go to school and get a "real" job and work with other adults in the adult world. To be helpful, to be useful outside of my home. To be able to say at a party when someone asks, "What do you do?" "Oh, I work at such and such a place, with such and such people and I do such and such." Actually, I should just start saying exactly that at parties. Can I get a Master's in Such and Such? Because I would be really good at that.
I have often thought of being a therapist, doing some sort social work. I think I would enjoy it. But I might not. No guarantees. So, that's risky. Also, it costs money! Oh, and time! Money and time. Valuable things. It would take years. But it could happen.
Another major big, and even more life-altering option is having another baby. I must be mad. I can only think to blame my cave-woman brain for this. Some biological clock that should have run out of batteries by now. Why do you torment me? Should I have a second child? Will I go insane? Will I be a terrible, mean, depressed mother if I do this? What if the second child is autistic? What if we have another child and then we all get cancer from GMOs at the same time? What kind of world is this? What if the two kids hate each other? What if they fight all the time? Would he be mean to a little sibling? Would I resent him for it? What if I love the second one more? Or less? What if my boobs end up 6" lower than they are now? What if my body can't bounce back after being stretched so far a second time? What if I age even more rapidly than the president with a second child? Will my puffy eyes become even more pronounced? Like two big croissants on my face? Puffy and wrinkly and flaky.... like chocolate croissants with the dark circles. I'll have chocolate croissant eyes. What if something happens to Desmond, shouldn't I have a back-up kid? Would a sibling make Desmond a better person? Would it be fun? Would it be too hard? Would it be easier? Am I too old?
It would be harder to travel. More expensive in every way. We could do more for and with Desmond if it is just him. But I'd have a better chance of my children keeping in touch with me, right? Maybe at least one would. Maybe one would take care of me in my old age. Because I will be old pretty soon. Or dead. My mother died when she was 48. What if I die young? Do I want to leave two children behind instead of one? Would that be better or worse? If I were 48 when I died, a baby I have now would only be 10 years old. That won't happen though. That won't happen.
With Desmond I knew I wanted to be a mom, there was not much else to think about. I was so curious about being pregnant, giving birth, nursing, caring for a baby, raising a child, creating a family. I had no idea each of these things were going to be such hard work. And so painful. Sleep training was beyond challenging. Doing all of that again, knowing what I would be in for would be a very different thing. I would have to be crazy, I think. I feel like I'd be scared the whole time. That wouldn't be good. Still, I am considering it. I would do things differently if I did it again. I would not eat EVERYTHING I wanted to this time while I was pregnant. I would give birth in a hospital, so I could have some drugs. Not much I could do different nursing but at least I know what pump works now. Sigh.
It's exhausting just thinking about it. I am afraid. I don't want to do any of that. But there is a nagging feeling that someone is missing in the house. Someone is tugging at me.
I don't want to stay home another five years. I don't want to put a baby in child-care either. Maybe I could go to school part time? Is that even possible?
So, I sit in front of this Othello game of life. And I stare at the board. I am not sure what move to make. It may seem like I am over-analyzing this. But, I guess I feel like I should think about it. You know, before I make a human. Or decide not to. Send a "request denied" back into the ether. Sorry, baby in waiting, or cave-woman brain, or biological clock. Mamma wants a pay-check.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Touch
You know, it's funny. So many things are funny. I have had an urge to write so many times this past week. About all the things that are funny. And strange. And confusing.
I had an interesting day today. I kept my cool in a way I have not been able to before with my four year old. For almost two hours, I stayed calm while he flailed around, feeling his way through his life, through his experience, his day, his emotions. Directing his frustration at me. And I stood like a polished marble wall, let is all slide right off. Instead of like the velcro ball I can be so often, holding onto his fit. Or like a spider web, catching his tantrum and holding it up. At the same time, I was able to love him and be patient and walk through it beside him and we both came out the other end, calm and exhausted. I lay next to him in his bed as he settled himself for a nap. Moving my hand over his hair, remembering the way my mom used to move her hand over my hair, so gently. Placing my hand on his little shoulder. Sending him love and healing thoughts through my palms. Then we both slept.
I read somewhere recently, something about how a hug can express things we cannot say. I felt today, when I was hugging my husband, like my heart was speaking to his heart. I have a feeling that my heart has been very careful since my mom died. When I was in college, I had a boyfriend. We used to stare into each others eyes. Just very much in love, looking into each others eyes, smiling, for minutes at a time, quietly being in love and settling into each other. For some reason, that memory of that feeling stands out to me as a feeling of abandon. Being in love. That falling feeling, the falling in love, letting yourself fall and drifting, following it completely.
After my mom died, that boyfriend and I broke up. And I don't think I ever looked at anyone that way again. It is only recently in my life, that I have been able to spend time gazing into my husband's eyes, before I have to look away. I think after my mom died, I suddenly understood something. There are no guarantees and everything ends. You can love someone but you should also be prepared to lose them. And I think, I lost the desire to lose myself in love that way. I sort of ended up loving in a way that was a bit guarded. A careful kind of love.
But every once in a while, that veil slips away. Today, holding onto my husband, I felt a great, full, whole sort of love, including the conscious awareness that someday he will be gone. I felt the great sadness of missing him in his future absence. A wild and clutching sort of "don't leave me" feeling, welling up and taking hold of me and in turn, him. My heart reached out and held onto his for dear life. I don't know. The funny thing is, it doesn't sound like a good feeling, but it felt honest. It felt like the truth and I felt grateful for the feeling and for this person in my life. Love is a scary thing sometimes. Because it feels so important, and necessary, and big, and at the same time, so fragile.
Later, we stood in the kitchen and talked about that hug. I told him, I had felt sad that some day he would be gone. He smiled at me and said he was not going anywhere. That's what my mom said, I told him. Before she died, when she knew she was dying, I told her how much I would miss her and that I didn't want her to go. She said, "Where would I go?" And maybe she is still here, beside me. But her physical presence is what my heart and my body misses. Two of my husband's fingertips rested on my hand as he spoke to me, grinning about his immortal self. I could weep thinking of those two fingertips not existing anymore. But this is life. Life ends. And until you experience losing someone you love, it may seem.... like a light and airy idea. But oh, the body, and all of the love it holds, the energy it radiates, the way a body feels, it's warm skin, it's soft hair, the lines and creases, the moles and freckles, the tiny hairs, the fuzz, the eyes, the teeth, their breath, their hair, their scent, the weight of them, the gravity, their feet planted on the earth, their hand in your hand, their voice, their laughter, their fingertips on your hand.... these things are golden, precious in every way. And when they are gone, they are gone. The love I feel, includes the knowledge of how fleeting these things are. How temporary. How lovely. How missed they will be. And my heart is bigger for it. I love you now. I miss you already. I am grateful for this moment of feeling you here with me and at the same time, a little sad that it will be gone some day.
I was driving in my car tonight, by myself, listening to a David Sedaris audio book. I laughed out loud and it sounded so much like my mother's laugh. But it wasn't her laugh, it was mine. Still, things like that can take my breath away and make my heart skip a beat. Maybe a little bit of my mother lives in my laugh. Certainly some of my mother lives on in me, in my body. It's funny. And sad at the same time. And I suppose some of my mom, and me, and my husband live on in my little boy. I hope they both outlive me. I hope we all grow to be very old. And I hope, by the time I die, I am less attached to this physical world and it's warm bodies. And it's ice cream. And pizza. I already miss pizza.
I had an interesting day today. I kept my cool in a way I have not been able to before with my four year old. For almost two hours, I stayed calm while he flailed around, feeling his way through his life, through his experience, his day, his emotions. Directing his frustration at me. And I stood like a polished marble wall, let is all slide right off. Instead of like the velcro ball I can be so often, holding onto his fit. Or like a spider web, catching his tantrum and holding it up. At the same time, I was able to love him and be patient and walk through it beside him and we both came out the other end, calm and exhausted. I lay next to him in his bed as he settled himself for a nap. Moving my hand over his hair, remembering the way my mom used to move her hand over my hair, so gently. Placing my hand on his little shoulder. Sending him love and healing thoughts through my palms. Then we both slept.
I read somewhere recently, something about how a hug can express things we cannot say. I felt today, when I was hugging my husband, like my heart was speaking to his heart. I have a feeling that my heart has been very careful since my mom died. When I was in college, I had a boyfriend. We used to stare into each others eyes. Just very much in love, looking into each others eyes, smiling, for minutes at a time, quietly being in love and settling into each other. For some reason, that memory of that feeling stands out to me as a feeling of abandon. Being in love. That falling feeling, the falling in love, letting yourself fall and drifting, following it completely.
After my mom died, that boyfriend and I broke up. And I don't think I ever looked at anyone that way again. It is only recently in my life, that I have been able to spend time gazing into my husband's eyes, before I have to look away. I think after my mom died, I suddenly understood something. There are no guarantees and everything ends. You can love someone but you should also be prepared to lose them. And I think, I lost the desire to lose myself in love that way. I sort of ended up loving in a way that was a bit guarded. A careful kind of love.
But every once in a while, that veil slips away. Today, holding onto my husband, I felt a great, full, whole sort of love, including the conscious awareness that someday he will be gone. I felt the great sadness of missing him in his future absence. A wild and clutching sort of "don't leave me" feeling, welling up and taking hold of me and in turn, him. My heart reached out and held onto his for dear life. I don't know. The funny thing is, it doesn't sound like a good feeling, but it felt honest. It felt like the truth and I felt grateful for the feeling and for this person in my life. Love is a scary thing sometimes. Because it feels so important, and necessary, and big, and at the same time, so fragile.
Later, we stood in the kitchen and talked about that hug. I told him, I had felt sad that some day he would be gone. He smiled at me and said he was not going anywhere. That's what my mom said, I told him. Before she died, when she knew she was dying, I told her how much I would miss her and that I didn't want her to go. She said, "Where would I go?" And maybe she is still here, beside me. But her physical presence is what my heart and my body misses. Two of my husband's fingertips rested on my hand as he spoke to me, grinning about his immortal self. I could weep thinking of those two fingertips not existing anymore. But this is life. Life ends. And until you experience losing someone you love, it may seem.... like a light and airy idea. But oh, the body, and all of the love it holds, the energy it radiates, the way a body feels, it's warm skin, it's soft hair, the lines and creases, the moles and freckles, the tiny hairs, the fuzz, the eyes, the teeth, their breath, their hair, their scent, the weight of them, the gravity, their feet planted on the earth, their hand in your hand, their voice, their laughter, their fingertips on your hand.... these things are golden, precious in every way. And when they are gone, they are gone. The love I feel, includes the knowledge of how fleeting these things are. How temporary. How lovely. How missed they will be. And my heart is bigger for it. I love you now. I miss you already. I am grateful for this moment of feeling you here with me and at the same time, a little sad that it will be gone some day.
I was driving in my car tonight, by myself, listening to a David Sedaris audio book. I laughed out loud and it sounded so much like my mother's laugh. But it wasn't her laugh, it was mine. Still, things like that can take my breath away and make my heart skip a beat. Maybe a little bit of my mother lives in my laugh. Certainly some of my mother lives on in me, in my body. It's funny. And sad at the same time. And I suppose some of my mom, and me, and my husband live on in my little boy. I hope they both outlive me. I hope we all grow to be very old. And I hope, by the time I die, I am less attached to this physical world and it's warm bodies. And it's ice cream. And pizza. I already miss pizza.
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