Recently our local public radio station held its annual (generally interminable) fall fundraising campaign, complete with those wonderful "thank you gifts" to entice people to part with their hard-earned cash. People in the upper echelon of contributors qualified for a snazzy little device called The Bass Egg that purportedly turns any surface it's set upon into a speaker.
The Bass Egg works by sending vibrations into the surface it's set upon, causing it to resonate and produce sound. I have always loved fall for its soul-popping beauty. But this year especially I find myself responding on a whole other level. At one point I used to teach Sunday School, and I remember doing research on the topic of Halloween/All Saints Day and learning about the very deep roots of these celebrations. I was especially struck by the ancient belief that during this time of year the veil between our world and the spirit world is thinner, allowing for easier passage between the two. What a beautiful idea, really. I've been enjoying the temperate weather, colorful foliage, and clear blue skies of the season, but my mind kept returning to that thinning veil. It sent out a vibration that resonated within my spirit.
This year has been another year of loss for people I know and love. My own father passed not long after the new year, and friends of mine have been walking the same difficult path. And there have been the especially painful too-early exits of spouses and children within my social sphere. Situations in which there are no good words to say, except "I'm sorry."
This year I'm taking comfort in ancient belief and feel blessed to be part of a church tradition that has adopted it and sanctified it and made it their own. In my quick Google search to verify that my recollections of the season were indeed correct, I found that the church had even given these days a lovely name, Allhallowtide, encompassing All Hallows Eve, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day. Setting aside a time to remember and celebrate our loved ones, to even feel them walking amongst us again, is a beautiful thing. The Mexicans have it right celebrating Dias de Los Muertos. It's a tradition we'd all do well to embrace.
This year I felt the need to mark this bittersweet occasion, and that small, still voice within gave me the idea. I chose to visit the grave of my favorite local saint, a person I loved deeply (not romantically) during life who remains special to me after death.
Normally I'm not really big on visiting graves. It's not that I find it spooky, morbid, or particularly depressing. It's just that I generally don't find that the person I loved and remember is there. I have sat at this particular grave before and frankly, it felt kind of awkward. Like knocking on someone's door when they are clearly not home. No connection.
This time, though, was different. Maybe it was because of Allhallowtide. Maybe because circumstances had conspired to bring me in close contact with his family and mutual friends. I followed the leading that told me to go get some ice cream and visit my old friend.
The ice cream was significant because he loved it in life. And it had to be good ice cream. The artisan shop in town was closed so I had to settle for Ben & Jerry's. I chose peanut butter cup because my friend was no plain vanilla guy. He would appreciate the big rich chunks of candy. I cleared the leaves off of his monument which, conveniently enough, happens to be a stone bench. I sat down and dug into my pint.
It occurred to me later that I must have cut quite a figure. I'd come straight from work so I was still dressed in my all black waitressing clothes, my hair is currently a vivid purple, and I was sitting on a grave calmly eating ice cream. It may have all looked quite blasphemous, but what I was experiencing was really quite spiritual.
The weather this fall has been amazingly gentle and warm. There haven't been storms or gales to knock all the leaves off the trees so there is still a surprising amount of color. And my favorite trees, the oaks, are in full display in their burgundy, harvest gold, and cappuccino brown. It was warm enough that I was comfortable in my t-shirt even though it was late afternoon. I watched families riding bikes and people walking their dogs enjoying the unseasonably mild weather while they could, and I just let my thoughts run to my friend. He loved days such as this. He loved natural beauty, and the feeling of the sun's warmth on his face.
The sky was perfectly clear blue. No clouds, no curtain separating this world from the next.
I thought about his family that I'd had the pleasure of spending time with just the day before. I felt how much he loved them, especially his wife. I know how pleased he would be with his daughters and the lives and families they've built for themselves. I envisioned his delight with his granddaughters, remarkable young women, whom he loved even though he did not get to meet them in person. I prayed that they all would feel his calm reassuring presence in whatever difficult times may lie ahead. I know he will be with them.
Because the bench had been a little damp I'd grabbed an unopened newspaper, still in its bag, to use as a seat cushion. As I stood up to stretch my legs a bit my eyes fell upon the paper and I smiled. It was the Cleveland paper that I'm pretty sure he read daily, especially the sports pages. He was a huge basketball fan who would have thoroughly enjoyed the Cavaliers' run at the championship. He would be a LeBron James fan, I think. I could picture us debating the impact of The Decision and whether LeBron should be welcomed back to Cleveland with open arms. I smiled at the thought.
By this time my ice cream was getting rather soft and I made a gesture I've never felt inclined to make before. I let some drip onto the ground and it felt like sharing. I traced a little heart shape. It was my way of saying I loved you, I remember you, and here is something you enjoyed. I smiled and let a few gentle tears slide from my eyes.
The seasons will march on and it won't be long before clouds, snow, and the noisy joyous confusion of Christmas close this spiritual window. We'll each be absorbed back into our respective worlds. But every year when the leaves are falling and the skies are clear I intend to take some time to acknowledge and wave to the people who are standing behind the gauzy curtain, who are waving and smiling back at us.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Monday, September 21, 2015
Why Ingrid?
Some of you may have noticed that I have a something of an obsession with Ingrid Bergman. Here is the story.
It started as a schoolgirl crush on Humphrey Bogart. This may be hard for you all to picture, but I was a peculiar teenager. My celebrity crushes in my junior high/high school years included Basil Rathbone, José Greco, and Donovan. All names that would draw blank stares from my peers. It was the early 1980's, after all.
And there was Humphrey Bogart. Not any Bogart, but the character Rick from "Casablanca". With that movie it was love at first viewing. I had the movie poster on the wall of my bedroom.
One day I was staring into my mirror, a thing that teenaged girls are wont to do. Knowing me I was probably lip-synching to the Beatles or some such thing since I apparently lack the hair/make-up gene. But while staring at the mirror I noticed the reflection of the movie poster. I could see my face, and Humphrey's, and Ingrid's...
I stared at Ingrid Bergman.
Familiar looking eyebrows... similar nose...
Was there a resemblance? I almost hated to think it. One does not normally go around thinking she looks like one of the most beautiful women in the world.
I mentioned that I was a peculiar teenager. Did I mention that I was miserable as well? That is another thing teenaged girls are prone to. I probably thought that I was fat. I had some close friends, but wasn't what I'd call popular. Boys certainly didn't notice me. I often felt like I didn't fit in. You know. Normal teen girl stuff.
I also had an issue with school. Math. Any kind of arithmetic. That all started to go wrong with me around the 5th grade while I was learning to divide fractions, and it continues to this day. I'll be going along, doing my little calculations, getting it all figured out when suddenly my brain says, "Wait a minute. What?" Then it all goes blank and I need the whole operation explained to me again.
The problem was that I was the youngest of 6 kids growing up in a small town, so all my teachers had also taught my siblings. And it just so happened that my next oldest sister is something of a math prodigy. I mean really gifted. Then I come along and I'm stumbling with the basics. Teachers didn't really know what to think. There was a certain amount of "I don't think she's really applying herself" and "What's the matter with you?"
By high school I'd largely given up. I somehow made it through 9th grade algebra. I don't remember how and I certainly don't remember algebra. The last hurdle to being finished with high school math forever was passing geometry.
My geometry teacher had, of course, taught my sister just a few years before. When he was working problems out on the blackboard she would point out his errors, and probably worked way ahead of the class. I think his attitude toward me leaned towards the "What's the matter with you?" camp. In retrospect, I can see that I must have been an amazingly frustrating student. Like I said before, I had given up in math and would sometimes sit in the back of the class reading a book. I can remember taking a test one time and being unable to answer most of the questions. But for some reason I managed to complete one of the extra credit problems. I hated the class and I'm sure he didn't know what to do with me.
So one morning I'm walking down the hall in full-on melancholy teen mode. I mean, I wouldn't have been surprised if there was an actual visible rain cloud over my head. I was just schlumping along when I passed my geometry teacher. We gave each other perfunctory nods when he stops and turns and says "Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Ingrid Bergman?"
WHAT?!?
My spirit instantly sprouted wings and I soared down the hallway, and I remained in that state for the rest of the day. It wasn't just in my head! I LOOKED LIKE A YOUNG INGRID BERGMAN!! And it certainly wasn't coming from someone who was out to flatter me, believe you me. And I can't think of any way he would have known about my fanatic love for "Casablanca".
I'd like to say that it changed my life. That I went back to geometry class, paid attention, and aced it. Truth be told I have no idea how I ever passed geometry and I have no idea how to perform most geometric calculations. My miserable math skills followed me to college.
But that's OK. I look like Ingrid Bergman.
And how are you?
It started as a schoolgirl crush on Humphrey Bogart. This may be hard for you all to picture, but I was a peculiar teenager. My celebrity crushes in my junior high/high school years included Basil Rathbone, José Greco, and Donovan. All names that would draw blank stares from my peers. It was the early 1980's, after all.
And there was Humphrey Bogart. Not any Bogart, but the character Rick from "Casablanca". With that movie it was love at first viewing. I had the movie poster on the wall of my bedroom.
One day I was staring into my mirror, a thing that teenaged girls are wont to do. Knowing me I was probably lip-synching to the Beatles or some such thing since I apparently lack the hair/make-up gene. But while staring at the mirror I noticed the reflection of the movie poster. I could see my face, and Humphrey's, and Ingrid's...
I stared at Ingrid Bergman.
Familiar looking eyebrows... similar nose...
Was there a resemblance? I almost hated to think it. One does not normally go around thinking she looks like one of the most beautiful women in the world.
I mentioned that I was a peculiar teenager. Did I mention that I was miserable as well? That is another thing teenaged girls are prone to. I probably thought that I was fat. I had some close friends, but wasn't what I'd call popular. Boys certainly didn't notice me. I often felt like I didn't fit in. You know. Normal teen girl stuff.
I also had an issue with school. Math. Any kind of arithmetic. That all started to go wrong with me around the 5th grade while I was learning to divide fractions, and it continues to this day. I'll be going along, doing my little calculations, getting it all figured out when suddenly my brain says, "Wait a minute. What?" Then it all goes blank and I need the whole operation explained to me again.
The problem was that I was the youngest of 6 kids growing up in a small town, so all my teachers had also taught my siblings. And it just so happened that my next oldest sister is something of a math prodigy. I mean really gifted. Then I come along and I'm stumbling with the basics. Teachers didn't really know what to think. There was a certain amount of "I don't think she's really applying herself" and "What's the matter with you?"
By high school I'd largely given up. I somehow made it through 9th grade algebra. I don't remember how and I certainly don't remember algebra. The last hurdle to being finished with high school math forever was passing geometry.
My geometry teacher had, of course, taught my sister just a few years before. When he was working problems out on the blackboard she would point out his errors, and probably worked way ahead of the class. I think his attitude toward me leaned towards the "What's the matter with you?" camp. In retrospect, I can see that I must have been an amazingly frustrating student. Like I said before, I had given up in math and would sometimes sit in the back of the class reading a book. I can remember taking a test one time and being unable to answer most of the questions. But for some reason I managed to complete one of the extra credit problems. I hated the class and I'm sure he didn't know what to do with me.
So one morning I'm walking down the hall in full-on melancholy teen mode. I mean, I wouldn't have been surprised if there was an actual visible rain cloud over my head. I was just schlumping along when I passed my geometry teacher. We gave each other perfunctory nods when he stops and turns and says "Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Ingrid Bergman?"
WHAT?!?
My spirit instantly sprouted wings and I soared down the hallway, and I remained in that state for the rest of the day. It wasn't just in my head! I LOOKED LIKE A YOUNG INGRID BERGMAN!! And it certainly wasn't coming from someone who was out to flatter me, believe you me. And I can't think of any way he would have known about my fanatic love for "Casablanca".
I'd like to say that it changed my life. That I went back to geometry class, paid attention, and aced it. Truth be told I have no idea how I ever passed geometry and I have no idea how to perform most geometric calculations. My miserable math skills followed me to college.
But that's OK. I look like Ingrid Bergman.
And how are you?
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
This Is Why I Love My Job
In my latest incarnation I am a waitress in a diner. I can honestly say this is not where I expected to be at this stage of my life, but I'm really trying to go with it.
[NOTE: I am changing the names of the people involved because I figure it's probably not nice to write about someone without clearing it with him or her, first.]
I work for Wendy, who co-owns the restaurant with her sister. Wendy is a shrewd businesswoman who knows her way around the food business. She is at the diner just about every day working the tables with her servers. I'm in awe of her work ethic. She's also tough to work for. Not tough as in difficult to work for, but not a warm fuzzy. This is not the place to work if you need to hear "good job" or "well done" to get by. She speaks her mind and doesn't suffer fools gladly. And there are lots of fools. Myself included, some days. OK. Many days. Most days.
But this is about what happened today.
It's summertime in a college town so it's not wildly busy. We had a few tables of folks when Susie walked in. She's a regular who usually comes in with her son as she appears to be struggling with dementia. Some months back Susie had walked into the restaurant with only a dog leash and told Wendy she'd been out walking her dog, but couldn't tell Wendy where the dog was. Wendy was able to verify that the dog was home, safe and sound, and also took the opportunity to talk to Susie's son to make sure that he knew she was out and about on her own and to express concern about how Susie was doing.
My heart sank a little bit when I saw Susie walk in by herself today as she hadn't come in by herself for quite awhile. Wendy immediately went to talk to her. It turned out that Susie had headed out for a walk and couldn't remember how to get home. But she had found the restaurant.
Wendy escorted her to a seat, brought her a pop, and told Susie that she would take her home. She still had a few tables to finish up with, but she assured Susie that she would get home.
So Susie took a seat at the counter. Sometimes she'd pull out the money she had with her and Wendy would assure her that she'd already paid (I know Wendy gave her the pop) and she could put her money away. It was taken care of. Susie would start talking about being lost and Wendy or I would remind her that she was at the restaurant, she was OK, and that we'd make sure she'd make it home.
What touches me to the core even as I write this is how calm Susie was. She knew the restaurant. She knew she was lost but she felt safe.
This story has two heroes. Just as Wendy turned to me and told me she was going to go get her car as soon as she delivered her last order, our lunch rush arrived. Not a huge crowd, but multiple tables at once so a lot for a single server to handle.
The universe works in mysterious ways. It just so happened that my husband, and all-around good guy, Tom (yes, that's his real name!), happened to be on vacation this week, and just happened to have met some former students at the diner for lunch today. This is how great a guy he is: he didn't bat an eye or hesitate a moment when I asked him to take a woman he didn't know to a home she didn't know how to find.
Wendy quickly stepped-up and gave directions to Susie's house (she didn't know the actual address), and explained that Susie would probably recognize it when she saw it.
Clearly Wendy has taken Susie home before.
And that's when I fell in love with my job.
A few days ago another regular who appears to have cognitive struggles was sitting at the counter. After she left Wendy pointed out to me the note taped to the wall that had her usual order written down in case she came in when Wendy wasn't there.
I'll admit that when I took this job I felt I was doing something less worthwhile than my last work. I mean, I'd gone from working with families in crisis (vaguely professional and more than a little bad-ass) to serving food. But as The Grateful Dead famously said "Once in awhile you can get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right". As I've done before, I've gone from serving people to serving people.
And feeling blessed that it's at a diner that offers up a side-order of grace with that lunch.
[NOTE: I am changing the names of the people involved because I figure it's probably not nice to write about someone without clearing it with him or her, first.]
I work for Wendy, who co-owns the restaurant with her sister. Wendy is a shrewd businesswoman who knows her way around the food business. She is at the diner just about every day working the tables with her servers. I'm in awe of her work ethic. She's also tough to work for. Not tough as in difficult to work for, but not a warm fuzzy. This is not the place to work if you need to hear "good job" or "well done" to get by. She speaks her mind and doesn't suffer fools gladly. And there are lots of fools. Myself included, some days. OK. Many days. Most days.
But this is about what happened today.
It's summertime in a college town so it's not wildly busy. We had a few tables of folks when Susie walked in. She's a regular who usually comes in with her son as she appears to be struggling with dementia. Some months back Susie had walked into the restaurant with only a dog leash and told Wendy she'd been out walking her dog, but couldn't tell Wendy where the dog was. Wendy was able to verify that the dog was home, safe and sound, and also took the opportunity to talk to Susie's son to make sure that he knew she was out and about on her own and to express concern about how Susie was doing.
My heart sank a little bit when I saw Susie walk in by herself today as she hadn't come in by herself for quite awhile. Wendy immediately went to talk to her. It turned out that Susie had headed out for a walk and couldn't remember how to get home. But she had found the restaurant.
Wendy escorted her to a seat, brought her a pop, and told Susie that she would take her home. She still had a few tables to finish up with, but she assured Susie that she would get home.
So Susie took a seat at the counter. Sometimes she'd pull out the money she had with her and Wendy would assure her that she'd already paid (I know Wendy gave her the pop) and she could put her money away. It was taken care of. Susie would start talking about being lost and Wendy or I would remind her that she was at the restaurant, she was OK, and that we'd make sure she'd make it home.
What touches me to the core even as I write this is how calm Susie was. She knew the restaurant. She knew she was lost but she felt safe.
This story has two heroes. Just as Wendy turned to me and told me she was going to go get her car as soon as she delivered her last order, our lunch rush arrived. Not a huge crowd, but multiple tables at once so a lot for a single server to handle.
The universe works in mysterious ways. It just so happened that my husband, and all-around good guy, Tom (yes, that's his real name!), happened to be on vacation this week, and just happened to have met some former students at the diner for lunch today. This is how great a guy he is: he didn't bat an eye or hesitate a moment when I asked him to take a woman he didn't know to a home she didn't know how to find.
Wendy quickly stepped-up and gave directions to Susie's house (she didn't know the actual address), and explained that Susie would probably recognize it when she saw it.
Clearly Wendy has taken Susie home before.
And that's when I fell in love with my job.
A few days ago another regular who appears to have cognitive struggles was sitting at the counter. After she left Wendy pointed out to me the note taped to the wall that had her usual order written down in case she came in when Wendy wasn't there.
I'll admit that when I took this job I felt I was doing something less worthwhile than my last work. I mean, I'd gone from working with families in crisis (vaguely professional and more than a little bad-ass) to serving food. But as The Grateful Dead famously said "Once in awhile you can get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right". As I've done before, I've gone from serving people to serving people.
And feeling blessed that it's at a diner that offers up a side-order of grace with that lunch.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Of Empty Nests And Phish (And Wingsuits)
It's the question that's been bouncing around in various forms since last May: "Are you ready for the empty nest?" "Looking forward to having an empty nest?" "How are you coping with the empty nest?"
(I wrote the first draft of this post in September of last year, I believe. At that time the eldest was just starting her senior year at college and the younger was just leaving for her first year. Since that time the eldest has graduated and the youngest has successfully completed her first year away. I'm glad I left this piece to marinate awhile. My feelings have grown so much bigger and richer.)
I think I'm ready to answer the question.
When the eldest daughter left for college it was certainly an adjustment, but I felt so proud of her for striking out on her own that it offset much of the sadness. She was in a different city, different state, but I knew she had family nearby. And even though she was in the big city (Chicago) her campus seemed like a sheltered oasis. I had little anxiety on her behalf and I still had her sister at home to keep me occupied.
I honestly didn't know how I was going to feel making that drive to Chicago to deliver the younger sister to a different school in a different part of the city. I sensed it would be momentous somehow, but I didn't know how I'd react. Would I cry?
The drive out was a good diversion. I tore part of the heat shield off the bottom of my car when I hit a piece of truck tire in the road, so that provided excitement. Then we listened to Beyoncé's latest album in the car while we were driving and I can honestly say I now know more about her personal life with Jay Z then I ever wanted to. And we capped the day with a lovely visit with my dearest cousin and her awesome family, so it was all good. The harder part was the next day.
But here's the thing, I felt remarkably OK. Tom met us at the dorm and we actually found places to park. (A good omen in Chicago!) It only took a couple of trips, maybe 3, to get all our daughter's stuff to her room. As we were hauling the first load, Tom turned to me and said something along the lines of how some people might say that our job as parents was over now. He left to return to Ohio, I was staying overnight to make sure Miriam was settled. Still good.
Once we'd arrived at the dorm Miriam's concentration turned to meeting the roommates and getting her space set-up. Tom had left and I was sitting in the corner trying to stay out of Miriam's way when I noticed a feeling, a rising tide of a sort of panic. When I left Chicago this time to return home I'd be leaving without her. I would be leaving her in the city. Granted, she'd still have family nearby, especially her sister, but her campus was less self-contained and much more urban than her sister's had been. Less reassuring for a mother. It was the closest I came to freaking out. I don't think it was even big enough for Miriam to have noticed.
Finally it was my turn to drive away. Sometimes I think I react to things in slow motion. It takes me awhile to process my emotions because I have to think through what just happened and how I'm feeling about it. As I left I was perfectly calm, but had that "something big just happened" feeling.
What, you may be asking yourself by now, does this have to do with Phish?
I was a relative late-comer to The Grateful Dead party, but I sorta came in on the ground floor with Phish. I spent one semester as a temporary night supervisor of The Student Union at Oberlin College, which meant overseeing Dionysus ("The 'Sco" to any self-respecting Obie), the dance club/concert venue on campus. Phish was one of the concerts that semester and I swear it was one of the last of the small shows they ever played. I've only ever seen them in arenas and outdoor pavilions since. But back then I had to tell them they couldn't keep their dog in the lounge we were using as a green room. I mean, I ACTUALLY TALKED TO THE BAND. I TOLD TREY ANASTASIO AND MIKE GORDON THAT THEY HAD TO TAKE THEIR DOG BACK OUT TO THEIR VAN. So I've always felt something of a bond with them.
As legendary storyteller Ron Thomason from The Dry Branch Fire Squad bluegrass band would say, "Told you that to tell you this..."
So I really love their music and because we are in the same age cohort I always feel I can relate to their lyrics (strange though they can be) because we are products of the same zeitgeist. We are going through the same life passages. When I first heard the song "Joy" from their album "Joy" I thought "hey, I bet Trey [lead singer, frequent songwriter] has a teenaged daughter" because the lyrics spoke to me about what I was going through with mine. (We want you to be happy/ don't live inside the gloom/ we want you to be happy/ come step outside your room...)
Turns out he'd actually written it about his late sister's struggle with cancer. Oh well.
So let me set the scene: I'm getting a late start leaving Chicago to drive home. I'm in a strange frame of mind. My eldest is a college senior this year so who knows what's coming next? My youngest is striking out on her own and isn't looking back. I'd lost my job not long before that and now was faced with the prospect of no longer being able to hide behind the "stay-at-home-mom" excuse. Who knew what was ahead for any of us?
Then I heard The Song.
When Phish releases a new album I generally listen to it over and over until I've practically absorbed it through my pores. Different songs or lyrics will grab me depending on my mood. So I'm driving along, feeling pensive, and suddenly the words coming out of the speakers are a sonic hug, speaking to my condition.
(I wrote the first draft of this post in September of last year, I believe. At that time the eldest was just starting her senior year at college and the younger was just leaving for her first year. Since that time the eldest has graduated and the youngest has successfully completed her first year away. I'm glad I left this piece to marinate awhile. My feelings have grown so much bigger and richer.)
I think I'm ready to answer the question.
When the eldest daughter left for college it was certainly an adjustment, but I felt so proud of her for striking out on her own that it offset much of the sadness. She was in a different city, different state, but I knew she had family nearby. And even though she was in the big city (Chicago) her campus seemed like a sheltered oasis. I had little anxiety on her behalf and I still had her sister at home to keep me occupied.
I honestly didn't know how I was going to feel making that drive to Chicago to deliver the younger sister to a different school in a different part of the city. I sensed it would be momentous somehow, but I didn't know how I'd react. Would I cry?
The drive out was a good diversion. I tore part of the heat shield off the bottom of my car when I hit a piece of truck tire in the road, so that provided excitement. Then we listened to Beyoncé's latest album in the car while we were driving and I can honestly say I now know more about her personal life with Jay Z then I ever wanted to. And we capped the day with a lovely visit with my dearest cousin and her awesome family, so it was all good. The harder part was the next day.
But here's the thing, I felt remarkably OK. Tom met us at the dorm and we actually found places to park. (A good omen in Chicago!) It only took a couple of trips, maybe 3, to get all our daughter's stuff to her room. As we were hauling the first load, Tom turned to me and said something along the lines of how some people might say that our job as parents was over now. He left to return to Ohio, I was staying overnight to make sure Miriam was settled. Still good.
Once we'd arrived at the dorm Miriam's concentration turned to meeting the roommates and getting her space set-up. Tom had left and I was sitting in the corner trying to stay out of Miriam's way when I noticed a feeling, a rising tide of a sort of panic. When I left Chicago this time to return home I'd be leaving without her. I would be leaving her in the city. Granted, she'd still have family nearby, especially her sister, but her campus was less self-contained and much more urban than her sister's had been. Less reassuring for a mother. It was the closest I came to freaking out. I don't think it was even big enough for Miriam to have noticed.
Finally it was my turn to drive away. Sometimes I think I react to things in slow motion. It takes me awhile to process my emotions because I have to think through what just happened and how I'm feeling about it. As I left I was perfectly calm, but had that "something big just happened" feeling.
What, you may be asking yourself by now, does this have to do with Phish?
I was a relative late-comer to The Grateful Dead party, but I sorta came in on the ground floor with Phish. I spent one semester as a temporary night supervisor of The Student Union at Oberlin College, which meant overseeing Dionysus ("The 'Sco" to any self-respecting Obie), the dance club/concert venue on campus. Phish was one of the concerts that semester and I swear it was one of the last of the small shows they ever played. I've only ever seen them in arenas and outdoor pavilions since. But back then I had to tell them they couldn't keep their dog in the lounge we were using as a green room. I mean, I ACTUALLY TALKED TO THE BAND. I TOLD TREY ANASTASIO AND MIKE GORDON THAT THEY HAD TO TAKE THEIR DOG BACK OUT TO THEIR VAN. So I've always felt something of a bond with them.
As legendary storyteller Ron Thomason from The Dry Branch Fire Squad bluegrass band would say, "Told you that to tell you this..."
So I really love their music and because we are in the same age cohort I always feel I can relate to their lyrics (strange though they can be) because we are products of the same zeitgeist. We are going through the same life passages. When I first heard the song "Joy" from their album "Joy" I thought "hey, I bet Trey [lead singer, frequent songwriter] has a teenaged daughter" because the lyrics spoke to me about what I was going through with mine. (We want you to be happy/ don't live inside the gloom/ we want you to be happy/ come step outside your room...)
Turns out he'd actually written it about his late sister's struggle with cancer. Oh well.
So let me set the scene: I'm getting a late start leaving Chicago to drive home. I'm in a strange frame of mind. My eldest is a college senior this year so who knows what's coming next? My youngest is striking out on her own and isn't looking back. I'd lost my job not long before that and now was faced with the prospect of no longer being able to hide behind the "stay-at-home-mom" excuse. Who knew what was ahead for any of us?
Then I heard The Song.
When Phish releases a new album I generally listen to it over and over until I've practically absorbed it through my pores. Different songs or lyrics will grab me depending on my mood. So I'm driving along, feeling pensive, and suddenly the words coming out of the speakers are a sonic hug, speaking to my condition.
Steal away, let's steal a car
Ok. Not those ones so much.
You'll never win a major only shooting par
Step outside, feel the sun
It's only you; be you, 'cause you're the only one
And it feels good, 'cause it feels good...
Yes. Oh yes.
All three of us were facing major transitions regarding what we wanted to do with our lives and who we wanted to be.
Nothing lasts, nothing stays
We're caught in this procession of unchanging days
What's new is old, what's old is gone
You're pushed up to the edge, so put your wingsuit on
Put your wingsuit on
(and it feels good)
I could see it in my mind's eye - the three of us standing on a precipice, holding hands, preparing to launch into our futures.
And gliding away, you fly where you choose
There's nothing to say
And nothing to lose
TO MY BELOVED AMELIA: You've always been the cautious one. This past academic year FLEW by and you reached another edge. But you put your wingsuit on and you flew! I can't tell you how proud I am. I wish I could tell you that it will never be hard. I wish I could tell you that nothing will go wrong. But I know you can do this, and, even better to me, YOU know you can do this. You are already a success because you are setting out on your own and trying to follow your dream.
TO MY DARLING MIRIAM: Fearless and headstrong, the one I've sometimes wanted to slow down a little. I wanted you to put your wingsuit on, but also make sure you'd read the directions carefully and understood how to assemble and use it before taking off. I need not have worried. It was your turn to launch and you've nailed it, displaying a level of independence and maturity I only wish I'd had at your age.
Steal away, paint the sky...
As for me, I feel I've been doing a pretty good job of moving on. This empty nest thing isn't so horrible. I can wear what I want to around the house. I like having the freedom to put nuts in my brownies or cook beef for dinner. And I've come to realize that my expectations have changed more than my actual daily life. Between school, work, softball, and her friends, Miriam wasn't home a lot during her last year in high school. So in many ways the only difference now is that I can while away an afternoon without thinking about who needs picked up when and delivered to where.
My time is back to being my own now. I don't necessarily know where I'm heading and what I'm gonna do with it, but I'm enjoying the glide. I feel like I've already accomplished something big.
We're all gonna be all right.
Time to put your wingsuit on
Time to put your wingsuit on
Time to put your wingsuit on...
("Wingsuit" from the album "Fuego". Song written by Anastasio/Fishman/Gordon/McConnell. Published by Who Is She? Music, Inc. (BMI). Yeah, like this will keep me from getting sued for copyright infringement.)
And how are you?
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
It's Like Nothing Has Changed, Only Everything
I lost my dad Tuesday, January 20th.
I've noticed that I tend to follow this up with a disclaimer, that this is not necessarily as personally devastating a loss as it is for some people. I'm the youngest of a litter of 6, so by the time I came around my parents were a little worn out by the whole parenting thing. And by the time I turned 5 the older kids were starting to hit their teen years, not to mention the fact that it was the 70's, man, and parental attention was, of necessity, generally being pulled elsewhere.
This is all said without rancor. I wouldn't call my relationship with my dad close, but it wasn't hostile, and he was definitely paterfamilias (which was transmuted into our family nickname for dad - Podder), an influential force even if not directly involved. In fact, temperamentally I think I turned out very much like him.
I really didn't know how I was going to react when the moment came. He and I didn't really talk much. Over the years Dad's natural personal reticence (he never really liked talking on the phone, for example) morphed into an insidious type of dementia that stole his emotions and behavior more than his memory, and reduced our communication even more.
I can confidently say I'm well into middle-aged hood, so I'm no stranger to loss. I've come to realize it's a very idiosyncratic thing. There's no "better" way for it to happen, just different. One summer I knew 3 different couples that lost spouses: one married 10 years, one married closer to 20, and one married over 50 years. The grief of losing someone too soon, of feeling robbed of a future, is a terrible thing. But so is the grief of losing someone who has been part of daily existence for a majority of one's life. My elderly neighbor described how she still talked to her late husband because she was just so accustomed to him being there.
So, like I said, I didn't know how I was going to feel. I live in a different state, and our interactions were not frequent, so it wasn't going to have an immediate impact on my daily routine. His health had been failing for some time. In fact, it had gotten to a point where it had become somewhat agonizing for us, his family, as well as, I imagine, for him. Towards the end there were multiple emergency room visits, a place he disliked. His condition was not fixable. He didn't like the intrusions of tests and therapy. In the end all he really wanted was to go to bed. There was a certain relief in him finally being able to go and be at rest. In peace.
But I lost a parent.
I feel like lately I've been writing a lot about Life's Big Moments, those reality bending moments of Things Will Never Be The Same. Although I'm quick to tell people that I'm doing all right, and my grief appears muted, I'm feeling the weight of this moment.
It's one of those times when life strips away the comfort of the mundane. We are pleasantly (sometimes unpleasantly) distracted by the details of day-to-day living until something catastrophic - a crime, an accident, a death - breaks in to remind us that there are no guarantees that bad things won't happen. That loss is inevitable. There is no life without death. We must learn to dance in the face of this shadow.
I'm also slowing piecing together the impact my dad had on my life. For one thing, I'm now acutely aware of how many of my recent conversations with my mom and siblings revolved around my dad, how he was doing, and how we were all coping. Now it's just us.
I'm aware of how little I really knew about the guy, his story and what made him tick. I have questions that will probably never be answered, the dementia having made sure of that years before.
But mostly I think about glaciers. Some time ago I was impressed to read a description of how glaciers move. They don't slide downhill willy-nilly like giant toboggans. Their movement is painstakingly incremental. New ice builds at the back of the glacier and the old ice at the front edge gradually melts or falls away. I see generations as being like that. I lost my grandparents right at the time I was having children of my own. I felt the nudge, my shift from being a daughter at the back of the glacier to being a parent in the middle ice. Someday I'll need to be prepared to be the matriarch, the leading edge. I'm not there yet but I feel it shifting a bit closer.
The other thing about glaciers is how huge and heavy they are, and how they completely shape the land that they move over. Mountains become rounded hills, soil and rock is scraped away and re-arranged, and the sheer weight of the ice carves a footprint into the very bedrock. That's how I imagine all those prior generations molding me. Who I am has so much to do with who they were.
Like I said, I recognize a lot of my dad in me. My sense of humor. My love of theater and seeing life as something of a performance. Intellect. An appreciation of all things English. A curious affection for trains. I'm aware that I am a legacy of who my father was.
And I'm feeling the loss.
As Larry Penn's song "Time to Go" so perfectly put it: "The whistle on the midnight train sounds sweet tonight... and every time the whistle moans it says to me 'I'll take you back to where your soul is free.'"
Enjoy your rest, Podder.
I've noticed that I tend to follow this up with a disclaimer, that this is not necessarily as personally devastating a loss as it is for some people. I'm the youngest of a litter of 6, so by the time I came around my parents were a little worn out by the whole parenting thing. And by the time I turned 5 the older kids were starting to hit their teen years, not to mention the fact that it was the 70's, man, and parental attention was, of necessity, generally being pulled elsewhere.
This is all said without rancor. I wouldn't call my relationship with my dad close, but it wasn't hostile, and he was definitely paterfamilias (which was transmuted into our family nickname for dad - Podder), an influential force even if not directly involved. In fact, temperamentally I think I turned out very much like him.
I really didn't know how I was going to react when the moment came. He and I didn't really talk much. Over the years Dad's natural personal reticence (he never really liked talking on the phone, for example) morphed into an insidious type of dementia that stole his emotions and behavior more than his memory, and reduced our communication even more.
I can confidently say I'm well into middle-aged hood, so I'm no stranger to loss. I've come to realize it's a very idiosyncratic thing. There's no "better" way for it to happen, just different. One summer I knew 3 different couples that lost spouses: one married 10 years, one married closer to 20, and one married over 50 years. The grief of losing someone too soon, of feeling robbed of a future, is a terrible thing. But so is the grief of losing someone who has been part of daily existence for a majority of one's life. My elderly neighbor described how she still talked to her late husband because she was just so accustomed to him being there.
So, like I said, I didn't know how I was going to feel. I live in a different state, and our interactions were not frequent, so it wasn't going to have an immediate impact on my daily routine. His health had been failing for some time. In fact, it had gotten to a point where it had become somewhat agonizing for us, his family, as well as, I imagine, for him. Towards the end there were multiple emergency room visits, a place he disliked. His condition was not fixable. He didn't like the intrusions of tests and therapy. In the end all he really wanted was to go to bed. There was a certain relief in him finally being able to go and be at rest. In peace.
But I lost a parent.
I feel like lately I've been writing a lot about Life's Big Moments, those reality bending moments of Things Will Never Be The Same. Although I'm quick to tell people that I'm doing all right, and my grief appears muted, I'm feeling the weight of this moment.
It's one of those times when life strips away the comfort of the mundane. We are pleasantly (sometimes unpleasantly) distracted by the details of day-to-day living until something catastrophic - a crime, an accident, a death - breaks in to remind us that there are no guarantees that bad things won't happen. That loss is inevitable. There is no life without death. We must learn to dance in the face of this shadow.
I'm also slowing piecing together the impact my dad had on my life. For one thing, I'm now acutely aware of how many of my recent conversations with my mom and siblings revolved around my dad, how he was doing, and how we were all coping. Now it's just us.
I'm aware of how little I really knew about the guy, his story and what made him tick. I have questions that will probably never be answered, the dementia having made sure of that years before.
But mostly I think about glaciers. Some time ago I was impressed to read a description of how glaciers move. They don't slide downhill willy-nilly like giant toboggans. Their movement is painstakingly incremental. New ice builds at the back of the glacier and the old ice at the front edge gradually melts or falls away. I see generations as being like that. I lost my grandparents right at the time I was having children of my own. I felt the nudge, my shift from being a daughter at the back of the glacier to being a parent in the middle ice. Someday I'll need to be prepared to be the matriarch, the leading edge. I'm not there yet but I feel it shifting a bit closer.
The other thing about glaciers is how huge and heavy they are, and how they completely shape the land that they move over. Mountains become rounded hills, soil and rock is scraped away and re-arranged, and the sheer weight of the ice carves a footprint into the very bedrock. That's how I imagine all those prior generations molding me. Who I am has so much to do with who they were.
Like I said, I recognize a lot of my dad in me. My sense of humor. My love of theater and seeing life as something of a performance. Intellect. An appreciation of all things English. A curious affection for trains. I'm aware that I am a legacy of who my father was.
And I'm feeling the loss.
As Larry Penn's song "Time to Go" so perfectly put it: "The whistle on the midnight train sounds sweet tonight... and every time the whistle moans it says to me 'I'll take you back to where your soul is free.'"
Enjoy your rest, Podder.
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