So Olivia's off on a trip with the church youth group this week and that means I've got all the time in the world to write to you. I KNOW. I usually hear people who anticipate a house with no kids talk about how great it's gonna be, but mostly all I'm experiencing is a whole lot of quiet. I don't mind quiet. I don't mind time with a book or eating alone. I don't even mind seeing movies by myself. It's raining here so that's kind of nice too.
Yesterday I spent a lot of time online and when I have time I'll read just about anything - anything that's not just some person spewing nonsensical hatred all around and there's a lot of that, believe you me. I do a lot of searching and lately I don't see that much worth sharing on the internet. There's only so many cat videos. I did see a funny dog one where the dog keeps closing the door on his owner so he doesn't have to take a bath. Not funny enough to share, but amusing. I spent a little time reading about North Korea. There's some shocking stuff. Then I found this hour long presentation by this kid in a Kansas church about the Bible in regard to homosexuality and since I love some gay people and I love Jesus and also I had an hour (I have LOTS of hours!) I watched it, and I have to tell you this nervous, courageous and faithful young man makes a very compelling, faith-based and intelligent argument for rejecting the traditional misreading of scripture in relation to homosexuality. Here's the link to the article, the short highlight video and the full one: Matthew Vines Bible and Homosexuality Debate. At least it's a fuller argument than the one I usually have towards anti-gay talk, which is "Love one another."
Then I got wrapped up in those Dateline kind of programs where you don't know who the murderer is until the very end. After that, I went outside, removed the spare key from the hiding spot because according to Dateline, anyone can come in and kill you while you sleep in your house, and went to bed to the sound of a whole lot of rain falling on my tin roof.
So in the two full days of being all by myself I've stripped all the beds, flipped the mattresses, done some laundry, eaten fish tacos, started and rejected two books, sat in the sun and called Kenny. I guess really that's not that different than my list of activities would be if Olivia were still here now that I think of it. I better get on doing something fascinating, enviable and blogworthy before she returns.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
A year is not very long
So next week marks a year since the death of my friend Brad. If I'm frank with you, I will tell you that I don't feel any better about it 360+ days later than I did the day his sister called to tell me he'd been found dead in North Dakota. I know I'm the first person to tell you that the world keeps turning and I know that it's true, and that it's spinning brings relief after a while if you'll let it. I'll let it work on me, but don't you think that all grieving people think that it's a betrayal to let the intensity of pain fade? Scars are duller than open wounds and four seasons is just not very long when it comes to healing.
Recently I read the phrase "resurrect by recitation" to describe that frantic task, the collecting of memories and evidence of existence that all those who grieve perform. I spent the initial few weeks doing that. I dug out every scrap of paper and gift of handwriting that I could find and replayed his happy voice mail at least 200 times. What I have amounts to 3 blue mercury glass candlesticks, one book (Swamplandia which really is a good read), a Tiffany ice bucket he thought for some reason that I must have, some pictures, a few cards and a student newspaper article which he authored. It would all fit in the Tiffany blue box probably.
Collection complete, I told everyone who would listen all the best parts of my friend. This year I thought a lot about what any of us might have done or said that would have bought a few more days at least with my funniest, smartest, friend, the one who read presidential biographies, took me to my first Gay Pride parade and imitated Thurston Howell III from Gilligan's Island in a swim shirt 3 sizes too small when we went sailing. I unearthed memories from college, wrote emails to his nieces and sister about them, might have engaged in some criminal breaking and entering to understand the situation better and then played Tim Chaisson's tune "The Healing" on repeat in my car whenever the waves of grief hit me until I was all cried out.
Mostly, and very importantly, I spent a lot of time blaming. I blamed anyone - from all the people who injured my darling friend in even the slightest of ways to the one closest to him who caused him to feel abandoned and rejected after years of selfless support and encouragement. I blamed drugs and alcohol and the devil called Addiction. I blamed a cultural intolerance for homosexuality. No person was spared from blame. I blamed myself for not being enough, for not seeing things clearly, for not being there when he needed to be rescued. My fury was a hot venom I spewed on anyone who could suffer through a conversation with a devastated, left behind person and I knew it. But it felt good. It felt better sometimes than getting better would have.
I know the way that I write sometimes sounds like I know more than other people about how to live well, but if you absorb nothing else, hear me when I say I have no better idea about how to move through loss than anyone else. I'm willing though, to show you my despair (as Mary Oliver would say) in hopes that you could show me yours when you need to. And maybe it will help somehow to do this together.
It's possible that my own despair had reached it's limits when I finally dreamed of my friend Brad. I'd spent days in an untethered sort of state with the phrase, "where are you where are you where are you" running through my mind and maybe my subconscious synapses finally decided to relieve me or maybe something more ethereal occurred - whatever the source, I'm grateful. The only way to describe my state on that night is to say that the weight of Brad's absence in my dream was an unbearable and writhing agony, an hours long wrestling with despair in the darkness. This heaviness of loss sat on my chest and my keening took all of my breath until he simply appeared in his red, cashmere sweater. Smiling, with no trace of the anxiety and discomfort he'd lived with all the years I'd known him, he opened his arms and held me as I wept. He didn't speak, but his embrace warmed me with the assurance that he was near, safe, and finally at peace and that I would be okay soon enough. I could still feel the warmth of his sweater when I awoke. I've seen a new day about 300 more times since that dream and I still hate that he's gone, but that assurance I felt was as real as my misery and as true as my friendship with him and since then I've had no other inclination but to sit and wait as many seasons as it takes for the healing.
Recently I read the phrase "resurrect by recitation" to describe that frantic task, the collecting of memories and evidence of existence that all those who grieve perform. I spent the initial few weeks doing that. I dug out every scrap of paper and gift of handwriting that I could find and replayed his happy voice mail at least 200 times. What I have amounts to 3 blue mercury glass candlesticks, one book (Swamplandia which really is a good read), a Tiffany ice bucket he thought for some reason that I must have, some pictures, a few cards and a student newspaper article which he authored. It would all fit in the Tiffany blue box probably.
Collection complete, I told everyone who would listen all the best parts of my friend. This year I thought a lot about what any of us might have done or said that would have bought a few more days at least with my funniest, smartest, friend, the one who read presidential biographies, took me to my first Gay Pride parade and imitated Thurston Howell III from Gilligan's Island in a swim shirt 3 sizes too small when we went sailing. I unearthed memories from college, wrote emails to his nieces and sister about them, might have engaged in some criminal breaking and entering to understand the situation better and then played Tim Chaisson's tune "The Healing" on repeat in my car whenever the waves of grief hit me until I was all cried out.
Mostly, and very importantly, I spent a lot of time blaming. I blamed anyone - from all the people who injured my darling friend in even the slightest of ways to the one closest to him who caused him to feel abandoned and rejected after years of selfless support and encouragement. I blamed drugs and alcohol and the devil called Addiction. I blamed a cultural intolerance for homosexuality. No person was spared from blame. I blamed myself for not being enough, for not seeing things clearly, for not being there when he needed to be rescued. My fury was a hot venom I spewed on anyone who could suffer through a conversation with a devastated, left behind person and I knew it. But it felt good. It felt better sometimes than getting better would have.
I know the way that I write sometimes sounds like I know more than other people about how to live well, but if you absorb nothing else, hear me when I say I have no better idea about how to move through loss than anyone else. I'm willing though, to show you my despair (as Mary Oliver would say) in hopes that you could show me yours when you need to. And maybe it will help somehow to do this together.
It's possible that my own despair had reached it's limits when I finally dreamed of my friend Brad. I'd spent days in an untethered sort of state with the phrase, "where are you where are you where are you" running through my mind and maybe my subconscious synapses finally decided to relieve me or maybe something more ethereal occurred - whatever the source, I'm grateful. The only way to describe my state on that night is to say that the weight of Brad's absence in my dream was an unbearable and writhing agony, an hours long wrestling with despair in the darkness. This heaviness of loss sat on my chest and my keening took all of my breath until he simply appeared in his red, cashmere sweater. Smiling, with no trace of the anxiety and discomfort he'd lived with all the years I'd known him, he opened his arms and held me as I wept. He didn't speak, but his embrace warmed me with the assurance that he was near, safe, and finally at peace and that I would be okay soon enough. I could still feel the warmth of his sweater when I awoke. I've seen a new day about 300 more times since that dream and I still hate that he's gone, but that assurance I felt was as real as my misery and as true as my friendship with him and since then I've had no other inclination but to sit and wait as many seasons as it takes for the healing.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Fire!
Well there's nothing quite like a fire alarm at 4 in the morning to get the blood flowing. It was a false fire alarm, but the thing is that YOU DON'T KNOW THAT when it's blaring in your ear. I think I heroically jumped out of bed with a, "Wha??" and stumbled downstairs to see if Olivia was losing her mind since she couldn't hear me over the shrieking alarm. I guess they can't make those things go a little easier on a person. I mean, the point is to alarm everyone. Nothing but the best for us then. I think when they were installed we thought it was a good idea to place them outside each bedroom - that way we can all be equally tortured. The alarm panel was indicating we had a fire which is about the last thing you want to see in the woods on a bridgeless island because it will probably not be the sort of thing that gets described later as minor. When the alarm company called and said for me to verify a fire in the garage it meant I had to BRAVELY walk out in the dark to check on the supposed catastrophe. These are times when I miss Kenny. All the critters (foxes, raccoons, SNAKES FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, and now island rats the size of shovels) all roam around out there in the pre-dawn and I don't think I could have handled any more surprises, but I could at least hope that the air-horn decibel alarm had sent them running for the dunes. I'll admit that my senses were probably kind of wired, but Olivia (she was not going to be left behind) and I could neither smell nor see any fire or potential fire in the garage. It's a big responsibility to tell the dispatcher to hold off on sending the trucks, however. I expected the explosion to ignite about the time I hung up because you know I'm lucky like that. The dispatcher acted annoyed - as if I'd planned this attention seeking event and then cancelled just to ruin her shift.
Hearts pounding, Olivia and I got in my bed and huddled with our heads under the blankets so we could muffle the sound of the alarm in case it went off again. With false alarms that sometimes happens. After some restlessness she fell back into a deep breathing slumber while I sat there wide eyed and thought about how quickly you can go from peacefulness to panic, from assurance that the world is right to fearfulness that there's more you can't see coming. I think that's the kind of shift which is always accompanied by a phone call - what's the line, we're all "just one phone call from our knees"? I've had those calls, ones with the word "tumor" or "accident" that send the world off kilter and even though the normal routines of my day will eventually lull me back into thinking I know how things work, there will always be another jarring, alarm, false or not, to stun me enough to remind me exactly how few guarantees there are for two girls hiding under the covers.
Hearts pounding, Olivia and I got in my bed and huddled with our heads under the blankets so we could muffle the sound of the alarm in case it went off again. With false alarms that sometimes happens. After some restlessness she fell back into a deep breathing slumber while I sat there wide eyed and thought about how quickly you can go from peacefulness to panic, from assurance that the world is right to fearfulness that there's more you can't see coming. I think that's the kind of shift which is always accompanied by a phone call - what's the line, we're all "just one phone call from our knees"? I've had those calls, ones with the word "tumor" or "accident" that send the world off kilter and even though the normal routines of my day will eventually lull me back into thinking I know how things work, there will always be another jarring, alarm, false or not, to stun me enough to remind me exactly how few guarantees there are for two girls hiding under the covers.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Ahhh China
Discovered yet another way China baffles me in these "Anti Pervert stockings" for young women. Via Gawker, "A photo that took China's Twitter-alike Sina Weibo by storm this week claims to show the country's latest fashion trend: "Super sexy, summertime anti-pervert full-leg-of-hair stockings, essential for all young girls going out.":
Found myself laughing at the silly Chinese and then discovered that our own beloved Serena Williams echoed the same ridiculous sort of sentiment when she criticized the Steubenville rape victim by saying she "shouldn't have put herself in that position."
Perhaps a pair of ugly hair pants could dissuade young men from abusing a woman, especially an unconscious one, but since 60-70% of sexual assaults are planned, I think it isn't about the pants or the booze...
I'd articulate the very many disappointing ways that I've heard people discuss sexual assault, the very many ways that we end up blaming women for men's shameful behavior and the backwards slut shaming that makes my blood boil as a woman and as a parent, but I'm too busy putting my Serena poster in the garbage.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Morning, June 11
Just about the only time I can set aside to write to you in the morning. Every morning works pretty much the same here. Wake up when my body tells me it's time and stumble downstairs. I heat the water for tea and go around opening blinds to let the daylight in. By the time it's finished steeping I can grab my mug and head to the back porch.
I can hear frogs and what must be the 2013 invasion of cicadas, but I'm not going to investigate because they creep me out back here. Kenny says this is my porch. He has the front porch, but he doesn't care to dress it up with bottles and a brightly quilted bed like my pretty one. He doesn't even have the little string lights on his porch. Come to think of it, that's probably why people don't visit us on the front porch either.
This porch has been host to board games and charades with the kids and ice cream parties and painting supplies and a library of books and most importantly, wandering discussions of every world problem and personality disorder you can imagine. It's a great place to get out of the heat and and even better place to listen to the rain. This porch goes with a glass of wine or a mug of tea just perfectly. My presence here upsets my neighbors dogs sometimes so that's a negative, but we will all get used to each other by the end of the summer I think. Given that we are in the forest here I think it's a magic porch because I've never seen a snake on it. It's important that you don't argue with me on that.
I'm making a plan back here for the day. My friend Megan is leaving for a while so that makes us all a little blue. We've done all the things we like to do together on this visit. When we make our list of things to do for the day she always adds "eat" to the list which I appreciate because I'm thinking that too. We rode bikes, sat on the beach and weathered Tropical Storm Andrea. The wind blew a lot so she stomped around repeating, "I can't take it anymore!" and we all agreed we'd had enough of that. Yesterday we made a market run and she pushed the cart and picked out some cereal for Olivia. I didn't say it was an adventure, exactly, but it worked for us. I guess that means today's plan includes waving goodbye at the ferry because that's the way she likes it. Better get moving then.
I can hear frogs and what must be the 2013 invasion of cicadas, but I'm not going to investigate because they creep me out back here. Kenny says this is my porch. He has the front porch, but he doesn't care to dress it up with bottles and a brightly quilted bed like my pretty one. He doesn't even have the little string lights on his porch. Come to think of it, that's probably why people don't visit us on the front porch either.
This porch has been host to board games and charades with the kids and ice cream parties and painting supplies and a library of books and most importantly, wandering discussions of every world problem and personality disorder you can imagine. It's a great place to get out of the heat and and even better place to listen to the rain. This porch goes with a glass of wine or a mug of tea just perfectly. My presence here upsets my neighbors dogs sometimes so that's a negative, but we will all get used to each other by the end of the summer I think. Given that we are in the forest here I think it's a magic porch because I've never seen a snake on it. It's important that you don't argue with me on that.
I'm making a plan back here for the day. My friend Megan is leaving for a while so that makes us all a little blue. We've done all the things we like to do together on this visit. When we make our list of things to do for the day she always adds "eat" to the list which I appreciate because I'm thinking that too. We rode bikes, sat on the beach and weathered Tropical Storm Andrea. The wind blew a lot so she stomped around repeating, "I can't take it anymore!" and we all agreed we'd had enough of that. Yesterday we made a market run and she pushed the cart and picked out some cereal for Olivia. I didn't say it was an adventure, exactly, but it worked for us. I guess that means today's plan includes waving goodbye at the ferry because that's the way she likes it. Better get moving then.
 |
| Megan in Lighthouse, 2012 |
Friday, June 7, 2013
The Relocation
I've been quiet, but for good reason. The end of the school year, as any parent of a school aged child will tell you, is busier than the holiday season. We frantically bustled through the end of the year obligations and finally found ourselves fitting in the last minute hair cuts and orthodontist appointment. I made a quick trip to see my dear friend Ginger in Nashville and then turned around the very next day and drove with Kenny and Olivia the necessary 500 miles to Bald Head Island, North Carolina where we live every summer until close to the start of school. I used to be quiet about this relocation because I thought people really weren't happy for my charmed life, but the last year has taught me that my thinking was completely wrong.
I love this place. I love the beach enough to wonder why I spend more of my time away from water than near it every year. I love the lazy pace and the Spanish moss and I don't even care when sand is everywhere. It's a good day if we sleep til our bodies are ready to awaken and then survey our friends to see what the plan is. For Olivia, the plan usually involves meeting her friends on their bikes and pedaling off to some other adventure. For me, it usually involves reading, walking, visiting, eating. Invariably the day ends with ice cream - sometimes homemade, sometimes in the form of these wonderfully made local ice cream sandwiches. What could be better?
I often feel this crisis between writing about life and actually going out and living it. You know what I mean? If I am looking for things to write to you all the time, I feel like I'm missing the actual living of it. BUT, on the other hand I think this wonderful life deserves a witness or recording of it, so if I can string a few sentences along and they are pretty good reading, maybe I should. I can at least try to do a little balancing of both this summer.
Currently, we are smack dab in the middle of the year's first tropical storm, Andrea. I've heard a lot of storms on this island. and even saw the Weather Channel van at the marina once, but the wind from last night's positively howled. I woke several times in fear about a tree coming through the ceiling and then managed to slide back into sleep by reminding myself how many times the rain on this tin roof sang me safely to rest. I'm no fool about storms - I will get to safety (in the lighthouse?) if I need to, but a little wind and rain to wash the world clean feels good sometimes. It's sunny - and still windy - here this morning, but I hear more is coming this afternoon so my friend Janie says we should probably take the kids fishing early today. I'll take some pictures for you.
I love this place. I love the beach enough to wonder why I spend more of my time away from water than near it every year. I love the lazy pace and the Spanish moss and I don't even care when sand is everywhere. It's a good day if we sleep til our bodies are ready to awaken and then survey our friends to see what the plan is. For Olivia, the plan usually involves meeting her friends on their bikes and pedaling off to some other adventure. For me, it usually involves reading, walking, visiting, eating. Invariably the day ends with ice cream - sometimes homemade, sometimes in the form of these wonderfully made local ice cream sandwiches. What could be better?
I often feel this crisis between writing about life and actually going out and living it. You know what I mean? If I am looking for things to write to you all the time, I feel like I'm missing the actual living of it. BUT, on the other hand I think this wonderful life deserves a witness or recording of it, so if I can string a few sentences along and they are pretty good reading, maybe I should. I can at least try to do a little balancing of both this summer.
Currently, we are smack dab in the middle of the year's first tropical storm, Andrea. I've heard a lot of storms on this island. and even saw the Weather Channel van at the marina once, but the wind from last night's positively howled. I woke several times in fear about a tree coming through the ceiling and then managed to slide back into sleep by reminding myself how many times the rain on this tin roof sang me safely to rest. I'm no fool about storms - I will get to safety (in the lighthouse?) if I need to, but a little wind and rain to wash the world clean feels good sometimes. It's sunny - and still windy - here this morning, but I hear more is coming this afternoon so my friend Janie says we should probably take the kids fishing early today. I'll take some pictures for you.
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