Life is not life, unless it has love

 

So often in life we aspire to do what is the proper thing yet, despite our intentions, we get it wrong  because our fears and insecurity skew our perception and cloud our judgement.  We will be humbled by truth if we are brave enough to see it.  Reality can be harsh and cruel and our courage often fails us, preventing us from being able to view  life as it truly is, raw and naked in its agony and suffering yet splendid and glorious in each breath bestowed to us.  If we feel no pain then we have failed to love.  If we fail to love we have failed to live.

“Ignorance and bungling with love are better than wisdom and skill without it.” –  Henry David Thoreau

 

A Great Big Plate of Empathy

About two months ago I volunteered to co-facilitate a grief support group for people suffering from loss.  The group is geared towards the elderly and is sponsored by my church, although it’s not necessary to be Catholic to attend.  Tomorrow is the first meeting that I am scheduled to attend.  I find the timing of it less than coincidental considering the fact that in the two months since I first volunteered  I’ve experienced grief from death myself.  My intention in volunteering was simple, I just want to become the type of person who carries a  reassuring presence, not because I have any magical answers or because I might find the right thing to say, but perhaps I can instead sit and with hold my words and be a quiet listener who doesn’t have to fix things, who simply sits and keeps them company while the journey through their pain.   We can not always join people when their hearts hurt, but a lot can be said for staying by their side, holding their hand a bit, and just not turning away.   So, naturally, just when I was worried that I  had nothing worthwhile to contribute to this group and just when I  thought myself naively arrogant for even considering to volunteer,  life handed me a great big plate of empathy and compassion through my experience of grief and bereavement through June’s death.

The sense of satisfaction and fulfillment that I experiences from exchanges of  pure and honest emotion make this seem a self-indulgent thing to do.  It is important that the group members receive the proper respect and dignity to honor their pain, I worry that I will fail.   It seems to me that if ever there were a subject that allowed people to publicly show their vulnerability and pain, it would be due to grief and loss.  Perhaps my volunteering is self-serving in that I hope to experience something genuine and sincere, yet something entirely unrelated to me.  I simply want to sit and watch and learn about the way people survive in spite of heart-break and pain.  Perhaps that makes me voyeuristic and yet I somehow hope that my presence and interest will lighten their burden of angst, even just a bit.

Yesterday’s Complextions: Reflextions of Complicated Emotions

My husband’s grandmother was waiting for us as we pulled up to the car port of her senior living community.  Still pretty spry for her 90+ year old body she is always elegantly adorned in sharp contrast with the family matriarch who quietly lies dying in her home twenty minutes to the south.  Dressed in a vibrant purple blouse with white capris, her matching purse hung over the front of her walker as she quickly made her way to the car, seeming chipper and thankful for company and the opportunity to go on an outing.  As we drove away my eyes turned back to towards the funeral home across the street, cars filled the parking lot and people filed out.  I found it eerily symbolic of the reason for our trip.

As we drove the same road I had traveled just last week after June’s funeral, grandma told us stories from her youth, explaining that before her family moved into town she had to trim the lantern wicks every single day to keep them from smoking and soiling the house.  She described the way that she ran from room to room turning switches on and off and flushing the toilet when they moved into their home in the town that had electricity and indoor plumbing.  She reminisced about the covered wagon rides that served as the school bus in the olden days and the way they were so bumpy from the rocks in the dirt roads.   She said that in the winter the bed of the wagon was lined with hay meant to insulate your feet from the frigid air while the wheels were replaced with  wooden skis allowing the wagon to glide along swiftly in the fallen snow.  She made meme giggle when she let out an uncharacteristic “God Damn It” as she  described the “school bus driver” and the way he’d swear at the kids and wen she told the story of how she and her siblings tipped over an outhouse one year as a Halloween prank, forfeiting their ability to celebrate it again for several years.  I enjoyed the drive, savoring each words of her stories, both for my children to hear, but also for the appreciation of the life and experiences she was willing to share.

We were headed to a family gathering for her daughter, my husband’s Aunt Bev who, several months ago was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer.  The cancer has already spread to several other spots and she is scheduled for a surgery this week.  As we drove I wondered what it was like for this woman, who is approaching a century of life to be traveling to a gathering of love and support that really was much more likely a final good bye for her child.

As we approached the town and crossed over a marsh like part of the mountain river, my mind retraced the many times I’d traveled this route as a child with my parents to visit my own grandmother.   Visiting this town is often a painful reminder of the absence of my parents and family in my own life and the reasons for that current void.   While most days I can busy myself with my current life and focus on the good things that I have, the aching echoes of the past were in the forefront of my conscience, creating a feeling of tension and anxiety to trickle through my veins.  Memories flooded into me and I struggled to keep from screaming out in rage before arriving at the fire hall that was our destination.

“BINGO!’  we all yelled, instead of “surprise” because Aunt Bev’s love of bingo made it the perfect decoy reason for her to enter hall where a crowd of several dozen people waited in eager anticipation for her arrival.   The moment she entered the room her face turned crimson and a wave of emotion and tears spilled out of her as she realized her closest family and friends had gathered here for her.  I watched as her daughters struggled not to cry as they embraced her and sat across from her husband, who in his own gruff way, was undoubtedly touched by that moment, struggling with the awkwardness of trying to be stoic but yet knowing his wife was dying.  I had to fight back my own swell of emotions as  I watched as her mother embrace he in a large and uncharacteristically genuine hug, smiling, sharing her affection.  I wondered what Grandma was thinking and feeling knowing that could be one of the last chances she got to touch and hold her daughter.   The moment was beautiful in its morbid poignancy.

I had never been at the fire hall before but I knew that some where on the walls hung some sort of reference to my own grandfather, Henry Smith.  Dying in the late 1950’s, I never got to meet him, but I’ve often heard stories that he was a kind and respectable man who perished while fighting a fire during the time he was the fire chief.  I struggle to explain why this felt so profound to me, except to say that my family heritage is so clouded by embarrassment and shame. Grandpa’s life and his death has always felt like the bright and shining bit of hope that I could some how rise above the shadows of the violence and madness that have been bequeathed to me.  I gradually made my way around the room scouring the plaques until I found the one that said “Past Fire Chiefs” and there it was.  Engraved upon a simple tag  it  read “Henry Smith: 1957-1959.”   A brief two years was all he had until his life had ended.  Then I made my way to a corner in the back of the room where there hung a 1957 photo with portraits of each fire man.   It was not long before I found him because I knew what I was looking for, as the same portrait hangs on the wall of my mother’s home.  I stood and stared at it for a few moments, trying to figure out what emotion I was feeling when I realized that I have his nose.   Perhaps the significance of the realization would be more apparent if I shared the fact that my husband has often said that the first thing he noticed about me when we met decades ago, was my “cute little nose that just barely stuck out beneath my ski goggles.”  My husband who spent the entire drive to the fire hall grimacing in pain, hardly speaking a word, and radiating his hurt and anger as he struggled to contain his emotions all present because of things I’ve done.

I felt  and feel so alone as my brain struggles to comprehend all the emotions that swirled around and in me yesterday.  I was reminded of my grief for June as I drove the same road that I had after her funeral the week before for the purpose of greeting an Aunt who is dying of cancer, while transporting her mother, knowing the woman may never see her child again, while desperately wanting my children to remember fondly their interactions with their Great Grandmother before she dies herself because I never had a chance like that because my childhood was traumatic and abusive , while watching as my husband struggle with some intense emotional pain that is entirely my fault, while driving to my mother’s home town, where I was reminded of the fact that I’ve been estranged from my family for several months because of their insanity and abuse which leaves me with a constant void that just simply always aches,  to enter a fire hall where a picture of my grandfather, who I never met, and who I’ve always thought was my only link to sanity, hung on the wall when I realize that I look like him.

I so badly wanted to reach out to my grandfather, to find some shred of hope and dignity to cherish, but grasping for it felt like I needed to reach across a blazing fire and that there was no way to reach it without getting burnt.   I feel so desperate for some sort of connection to fill the void within me for the days where the ache of absence of my family hurts more than the damage from their madness. I am just confused by all of this and am frozen in this moment because of the complexity of this.

I Greeted Death Today – Part 5 – The Funeral

Dear Heart.  That is what June used to call me.  My eyes swell with tears. My lip trembles.   Some large object protruding from the middle of my throat obstructs my air way as a large weight bears down upon my chest constricting my ability to breathe.  Tears gently journey down my face, flowing over my lips toward my chin.  Slowly. One by one, lightly tickling my cheek.  Dear Heart.  She really believed it.

I found myself retrieving the image of her dead and deflated corpse, agitated with myself because that image comes to mind more quickly than our last embrace.   I want to be angry and blame her family for having an open casket as I regret having seen her dead body because my memory of her from just three weeks prior was one in which she glowed and was so much more vibrant.  But yet I accept and understand that others who loved her needed the chance to view her “one last time.”

As I drove to her funeral, a week ago today, it was a warm and sunny morning with a light summer breeze. I was nervous because I have only attended a few funerals and never alone before.  The church was on the main street of a small village, in the middle of a steep and winding hill. I pulled my car to a parking spot towards the bottom of the hill, maneuvering it along the curb and making sure to engage the emergency brake due to the steep descent  just as several of June’s sons walk past, slowly ascending the hill preparing for their final good-bye.  They smiled and waved as they strode past, their friendly gesture soothing my agitated nerves.  As I walked up the hill myself, I cursed my stupid shoes.  They were the only sandal type summer  shoe that I could find to match my skirt and top.  Angry at my self for feeling vain and insecure about my appearance as I attended a funeral.  Why it mattered how I appeared is simply a reflection the degree of insecure anxiety that i felt that day, so I swore at myself as well. With each step up the steep hill, I felt the back strap shift down and to the right, requiring  me to crunch my toes, walking with an awkward gait in order to keep my shoe from flying off causing my insecurity kicked into high gear.  I wanted so badly to enter the church with a solemn reverence for June and the holiness of mass.  But instead, as I envisioned my shoe flying off my foot or my heel sticking into a crack throwing me off balance, I imagined myself falling in some unintentionally, yet all together familiar, dramatic scene.

Arriving at the church, June’s family was gathered outside.  I didn’t know why everyone was standing there instead of going in.  Nor did I realize that all of the “non-family” members were already inside.  Uncertain of what to do, and not knowing anyone well enough to walk up and start a conversation, I stood half panicked, afraid to make a fool of myself, frozen by my fear.   It was only a moment or two before a short stout woman, with cropped sandy brown hair and a face that reminded me of  bull-dog crossed with a cat-fish (I know that’s terrible to say, but she had a very large mouth and a flattened nose and it was instantly what I thought and I can think of no more gentle or kinder way to describe her) called for the family to follow her in.  As I watched the group gather and the pall bearers stand to the side,  I realized I was the only “non family” member there.   My mind raced “what do I do? What do I do?”   So I stood aside and waited for the family to enter in, and then I saw the girlfriends of the grandsons fumbling around, uncertain of whether they should enter with the rest as well.  As the family filtered pasted I slowly brought up the rear, entering the church, relieved to see a small crowd of others scattered throughout the pews.

To left  of the door way stood the priest in a plain white vestment.   It was the first time I had ever been to that church before, so I turned to look and see who the priest was and I felt a wave of disappointment and had to suppress an “Ugh,” although a groan still escaped.  I recognized him as a priest who has never found my favor.  I can’t say exactly why, except that he has this air about him that contradicts the holiness of priests, a bit of arrogance combined with eccentricity, not to mention rampant rumors that make you question the sincerity of his devotion to his faith. I’ve never found his sermons profound or inspiring and felt my heart sink that this is who June had to bless her spirit off to heaven.   It seemed so wrong that I felt a surge of anger as I walked into the church as he took his right hand and ran it through his somewhat long hair that flopped over the left side of his face, styled in a way that reminded me of spoiled rich kids who wore pink polo shirts with the collars up and snorted cocaine during the 1990’s while watching Miami Vice.  As he brushed his hair out of his eyes, he flicked his head in an unconscious way that appeared to me as if it were in slow motion, and I was reminded of a scene from the movie Shrek when Prince Charming flipped his golden hair.

The church is an old, rural country one, with antiquated carpeting, some brown and mustard blend with simple wooden pews the color of dark chocolate.  It was humble and modest from poverty as opposed to intentional piousness.  I made my way to the middle of the church and selected a seat along the aisle.  As I sat I turned around, looking at the small crowd.  My heart sank as I failed to recognize the faces.  None of my other co-workers were in attendance.  There were no members of the other volunteer boards that she was a member of.  I didn’t see a single one of her neighbors that I met the day I visited her.   A sadness burdened me.   All the lives that she touched, the time and love she gave, and so few people had shown up to thank and honor her.  I sat contemplating those thoughts, trying to make sense of my anger and my sadness, in silence that was only broken by the mechanical sound of an oxygen tank, with its steady “psssss” followed by a “shhhhh” as it kept the elderly woman sitting next to me alive.  The machine kept time throughout the mass like a metronome pacing the rhythm of life.  I couldn’t help but wonder what she thought attending a funeral as her own life slowly fades away.

As we rose for the opening hymn I found my voice and sang, a bit more loud and clearly then I normally do, because the pain and sadness of June’s death simply poured out of me.  I could feel the presence of the ensemble walking down the aisle before I could see them from my periphery.  I continued to sing, raspy, horse, out of tune, my voice cracking on occasion, until the casket reached.  My throat felt suddenly dry and ached and my breath was hard to find.   The sadness that had been surging from within my heart suddenly felt as if it were from outside of me, like a bucket of water  being poured over me, drenching me completely.  I began to cry, an endless, uncontrollable stream of tears, that re-emerge even as I write.  The flow of the mass felt disjointed and strained, perhaps because of the mixture of those in attendance, with few people familiar with the rituals of mass.  I observed June’s family and it was quickly evident that they were not church goers.  I found myself rising often before the rest of the crowd, standing alone until others realized it was what they should do as well, selfishly triggering my insecurity and robbing me from a sense of peace and comfort that mass usually brings.  I was thankful for the familiar pattern and structure to funeral mass, as the unconsciousness of forming the sign of the cross and repetition of the routine response “And with your spirit” cradled my sadness and carried me through the formal and final farewell to June.  Half way through the mass I understood that funerals are designed for those of us still living, not for the departed.  I had always thought that funerals were meant to bless the soul of the departed and never found the comfort in a funeral mass until that moment.   As the congregation sang the repetition of “Alleluia” while the priest carried the book that contains the Gospel just before it’s read, I felt an electrical moment where I realized that our voices joined in unison together rising to heaven, calling out to God, announcing June’s arrival at his glorious gates.

There was no eulogy for June, to which I was relieved yet disappointed.  I would have been saddened if it was not fitting of the woman I knew, yet still its absence was burdensome too.  The priest spoke of death the afterlife and attempted to revere her life with what I perceived to be a feigned dignity.  Grimacing in agitation, I had to firmly grab the pew to steady myself and suppress the urge to bull rush and tackle the priest  when he made the statement that she wasn’t “as active in the Church as perhaps we would have liked” made in a tone of t his feigned compassion that was really him passing judgement.   June was loving and compassionate, she volunteered for others, she was the type of person who inspired kindness.  It was already evident from the conglomeration of people attending the funeral that she did not attend mass regularly, there was no need to make statements that were critical of her.  I found him pompous and opportunistic as if he tried to evangelize in attempt to frighten others into attend mass themselves or forever risk their afterlife.  I  still felt a surge of outrage, why did he need to say it?  Cursed with demons of madness, terrorized by the aggression of an assaultive psychotic sister, a mother that died when she was only 9, an abusive grandmother… who was in her life to teach her of the love of Christ?  He dared to judge her without knowing a thing about the pain she endured.

I must pause and take a deep breath and remind myself that priests are only human, flawed and imperfect they do the best they can, but I still think June deserved better.   I declined the invitation to join the family after the funeral at the restaurant down the road.  Her son invited me to join them to “celebrate her life, eat and have a drink.”  I had no desire to wash away my pain.  I didn’t want to numb it with alcohol or food.  I simply wanted to feel and explore it.  I spent the day feeling disconnected and distant, sad and lonely at the time wondering what was wrong with me and not connecting the dots.  After the funeral I had joined my children and some family in the wooded mountains, by a scenic lake, which is normally my favorite type of place to be.  I felt no contentment, no familiar peace and it isn’t until now that I realize, I was simply grieving.  As I forgive myself for feeling sad last week, I can feel her presence looking over me, smiling and saying “Leigh…now you begin to understand.”

Searching for Place Beyond the Rainbow

I am searching, but I don’t know what it is that I am seeking.  It seems as though I am always chasing rainbows, even if only in the hope that I will find that somewhere just beyond, praying that upon arrival it will be familiar and I will instinctively know I have found the place where I belong.  I imagine that once I find it,  my feet will land on solid ground and life will feel real.

Often I feel as if I am suffocating, as if this spirit within me has expanded past the confines of my physical body, like there is some pulsating force that is bursting at the seams, aching to get out and roam free.  Much like the way it feels when you remove a pair of uncomfortable shoes and walk barefoot in the sand, freeing them, letting  your toes expand and stretch, breathing deeply as the warm sand gently gives way to their weight, massaging and embracing them tenderly, softening and soothing them instead of constricting and containing them and causing aches and pain.  I seek to find my way some how by straddling this tangible and physical world that is so concrete and apparent, tethering me down like a needed anchor and the weightless external realm that is just beyond the limits of my ordinary sight, who’s  expansiveness is confined only by the vastness of my sightless vision, where there is no gravity allowing me float away.  The dissonance is painful, living in two worlds.  I spend so much time retreating inward to avoid pain and discomfort, but yet the door way in is really an exit so someplace else, some place larger.  I perceive the dimensions and multiple layers of the world around me, as if there were several three dimensional cubed grids stacked on top of each other. The images I envision through my mind’s eye are both vibrant and crisp yet fluid and vaporous, always teasing and taunting my emotions through the notion of a peaceful, soothing realm that tantalizes my mind with the hopes that alternative realm and lives exist. And that I can touch them by just extending my hand, allowing me to feel their air, their weight and coolness, the same way I can feel the wetness when I break the surface of a clear pool of water and reach for the bottom, diving deep enough that I eventually find some solid ground.

I hear my pragmatic, rational voice speak, “For crying out loud Leigh, you are talking crazy again,” the chastisement causing me to shrink within myself, but then it is answered by the dissociative, creative, imaginative self  who replies “Am I? Perhaps… maybe… but then again….. whooo aaaam Iiiii?”  with a tone and rhythm that sounds more like the hookah smoking caterpillar from Alice In  Wonderland than anything I perceive myself to be.   Every thing feeling so real and yet elusive, consistent yet conflicting…never the right size. Too large to fit through the first door but too small to reach the key.  I am constantly expanding and contracting instead of simply being whoever I’m meant to be.  Yet now  I wonder, if like Alice in her Wonderland or Dorothy while in Oz,  I should seek my authentic and original self and if I find it will I feel at home no matter where I am?

Mothering a Sensitive Son

At age 6 my son is more a little grown up than child at times.  Yesterday as he picked out his new sneakers for school this fall he carefully compared the prices choosing the more affordable pair even though he preferred the ones that were colored green.  Given complete control of the situation and allowed the chance to choose any sneaker that he wanted, he made the practical choice.  I wouldn’t have ever done that as a child. Instead of listening to music on the radio he prefers the news.  One night, like usual, when I went up to tuck him in bed he had talk radio on, but a different station than normal.  He laid in bed on his back, his hands folded under his head and said “Mom, they are talking funny.”  I replied “because they are speaking in French.  Would you like me to change it?”  “No, it’s fine.” And he just laid there, listening until he fell asleep.  He’s done things like that for a few years now. Last night as we were driving home from a neighboring city he seemed a little more forlorn and withdrawn than is normal so I asked if he wanted to listen to the news on the radio and he let out a yelp of joy “Yeah! The news!” I’m not sure why his sister didn’t protest because she typically prefers the Top 40’s but she must have picked up on his sadness and decided to consent and placate to him as well.   As he grows I am beginning to see these patterns of sullenness emerge more frequently. It’s painful to recognize the familiarity in the way with which he isolates himself from his peers, hangs his head low and sits sad and forlorn because I remember doing the same thing as a child. I’ve heard him profess that some times he hates his life, that he always gets kids in trouble, that his life is not good.  I sit back and look at our house, look at his toys, the pool and the yard, we’ve done the DisneyWorld Vacation, he skis and has any video game that he wants.  He makes his bed, gets help for reading, and knows how to care for the dogs getting a quarter each time he feeds either one.  I scroll through my mental parent checklist: 1.) tell him you love him all the time, even when you are mad  (check) 2.) tell him you are always proud to be his mom, even when he makes mistakes (check) 3.) Make sure he has proper nutrition balanced with sweets and fun little treats (check) 4.) teach him responsibility by helping with chores (check)….there are a few more items, but every one I can think of I check off that it’s something I try to provide.  It is far more difficult to refrain from checking off my list of things I’ve done wrong, it’s hard not to blame myself when I see my child so sad.
Having walked the path of depression my entire life I fear that he will be cursed with my genetics just as he has  inherited my sensitivity and birthmark.   I always appreciated  that he has one that matches mine, almost the identical shape, but more faded and in a different spot because it made me feel more connected to him.  But now that feels like a knife to the heart when I watched him cover it with his hands in an attempt to hide when his uncle noticed it for the first time a few weeks ago.

I wonder if all parents worry about how they are doing raising their children and whether the degree to which I worry is actually normal or not. I wonder if there are parents that end up having healthy, loving, lasting, close relationships with their children and if so, how do they do it? Some days I am convinced that because I was dealt the hand of dysfunction that I will unintentionally instill it within my children, and to some degree I have already by creating discord and disharmony in my marriage. As I watch families I admire struggle with personality clashes that threaten to sever parent child relationships I wonder if there is any hope for me to get things right with my children.  I think  the odds are against me.

I know an elderly couple whom I respect greatly, both loving and kind professionals, depression era survivors, overcoming life’s endless challenges they raised a child who had bi-polar disorder during a time that little was known about it when the side effects of medications made functioning just as difficult as the disease itself. While he was in his twenties they lost their battle to the disease as he took his own life. I think about what that must have been like for them, the horror of losing their son that way. The feeling that you’ve failed in the worst way as a parent exacerbated by the ripple effects of those family dynamics that still echo today as they describe on going challenges that they face with their other two sons because of the focus they placed on the “troubled child.” They’ve told me the think they failed as parents to their healthy children because they didn’t attend to them enough.   They day we had this conversation I had felt that my world had been turned upon its head because I had no idea that they had gone through so much and felt that if they got things wrong, then surely I am doomed myself. As I watch the adult son of another couple rage against the flaws of his father I am so disheartened and discouraged, what chance have I got to get this right?  If people I admire and turn to for guidance and advice are challenged to rear sensitive sons how will I ever protect and buffer my child?  My heart is laden with sadness and fear.

Thinking about these things yesterday, I sat with my arm around my son at dinner.  Giving him a kiss on the cheek I pulled him close and whispered in his ear and asked “Do I tell you I’m proud of you enough?”  His reply was  “not really”  like a dagger through the heart.  There is a part of me that questions his answer, “could he be saying that just for attention?” “could that only be the way he feels in this moment” “what does he mean, I tell him I love him probably every day and that I am proud of him at least once a week!”  But then I realize maybe none of those things matter in this moment, it’s how he feels and maybe I should just honor it.

How do we know we are getting it right until something happens and we realize that we actually got it wrong but by then it is too late.

Spiritual Drought

We are experiencing a significant drought.  Crops are stunted.  Farmers don’t have water for their cattle and the grass that is usually green and lush is now brown, dry and brittle.  It is a situation that seems to reflect my spiritual life at the moment.  Over the course of the last several weeks I have felt a sense of a spiritual “lacking.”   When I depart after Mass I feel unquenched.  I am thirsting  for some spiritual nourishment and feel its depletion deep in the marrow of my bones.  As I look at the brown, parched earth around me, I wonder if  maybe instead of blaming myself for failing to be a “Good Catholic” I should consider that there exists an alternative cause for this spiritual drought.  In my world of idealistic and perfectionistic expectations, every problem or failure is directly and indirectly a result of my action and in the universe of me, self-blame is the sun that I orbit around.  But yet, despite the gravitational pull of the self blame that continuously moves me closer towards self-centeredness, I am somehow aware that this longing and lacking is not entirely my fault.  I began to notice the absence of Holy days and perused the calendar of the Liturgical year and realized that my circumstance is more analogous to postpartum depression after experiencing the ripe and fertile  seasons of Advent, Lent and Easter.  The highly electrical and profound gospel readings are plentiful and always conducive to contemplation.   I realize I’ve been inflicted with the noticeable mundaneness of  the Ordinary times.  Compound this with the fact that this is the time that priests take vacations.  So, not only is the content of the readings more common without a flair for the dramatic, but the eloquent speakers who have the ability to pull in even the most stubborn of congregants, go away on holiday and are often replaced by priests who have long since passed their primes and offer sermons that have surpassed their expiration date. Last Friday was a good example,  the first reading was about Hezekiah falling mortally ill, but following the message of the prophet Isaiah, he was healed and granted 15 more years.  There was great potential for a sermon there.  Even the second reading held promise, but instead the homily was on the evil of birth control.  As the priest spoke I felt my discouragement, that “spiritual thirst” gone unquenched yet again.  I looked around the chapel as the priest lectured on the absence of Godliness in contraception and I’m quite certain I was the only person in the room of child-bearing years.  It was me and the elderly blue haired widows.  Since I had a hysterectomy over three years contraception is a moot point,  and I was pretty certain that the elderly women adjacent me weren’t really concerned about the use of contraception either, although, if I’m wrong it would make for an interesting conversation.   I sat there disappointed wondering what about Hezekiah. Wondering what he did with the 15 years that he was granted?  Wondering about the other blessings did Isaiah commanded to be designated as a prophet?     I sat in Mass wondering why I went, feeling as though I had wasted my time.  It was a struggle to remind myself that not every sermon can be a great feast of spiritual knowledge.  I had to remind that it is important to simply attend and participate in the time-honored rituals that are woven throughout the structure of the mass.

As I reflected on my craving  for the Passion in Lent or the eager anticipation in Advent,  my thinking became clear.  Not every day and every season can be ripe with passion, excitement, or profound significance  because life consists of every day moments, common and ordinary.  After the crucifixion of Christ and the tyranny of the Pontus Pilate, citizens and worshipers of Christ must have felt this spiritual drought as well.  There was a period of time where there were no phenomenal events, where their devotion and commitment to their faith was challenged by simply the need to remain faithful to their beliefs.  I am reminded that it is so much easier to attend mass each week when we experience something profound, that while it is important to honor Holy days it is actually easier to do so because they are there and sometimes magnificent.  I am reminded that the teachings and lectures of Ordinary times seem, well, sometimes just drab than at Christmas, making it so much more difficult to remain disciplined and practice our faith during these Ordinary times.

Perhaps Ordinary times are meant for self-reflection in their unremarkableness. Maybe this absence of sensationalism is meant to help us quiet our minds and simply rest, allowing our spirit to strengthen,  like the marathon runner who trains every day, gearing up for the race season.  Their training days lack the endorphins and adrenalin elicited by the excitement and anticipation of the big race, which sometimes makes it difficult to find the motivation to practice, but if they don’t they will fail to develop the daily skills that will give them endurance and strength when needed to complete their marathon.  Lately it feels like the best I can do is simply show up as my heart does not really feeling committed to being at mass.

Then, this evening as I was working in my flower garden, I realized that our drought has made it easy to remove the weeds.  The earth was so dry that it turned to dust, allowing me to fully remove roots that would normally cling to the earth, snapping at their stems and leaves before breaking free from the encasements of soil.  Pulling them out of the ground was effortlessly.  And  how deceptive the weeds were.  They appeared so lush and full, in numbers far greater and more powerful  then the delicate flowers they choked out.  But as I removed them one by one, I realized that what I thought was a group of weed usually was only one burdensome plant and that once removed the aesthetic beauty of flowers quickly magnified.

Our spiritual life is like that as well.  During a spiritual dry spell it may, at first, seem easy to ignore the weeds and allow them to grow as we  fail to attend to our practice,  But quickly, our lives become  over run by things that choke and overwhelm us, making it hard to know where to begin again.  But perhaps it is in these very moments where we commit to our faith and practice even though things seem so common place, that our growth is most apparent. Because continuing to practicing in times where there is no major crisis or special holiday makes it easier for us to prune and remove our spiritual weeds, strengthening us each day.

I Greeted Death Today – Part 4 – The Wake

The wake was delayed until her youngest son could return home.   Separated by the distance of several time zones, he has been unable to travel,  so June’s family held off on the wake, mass, and burial until now.  I left work some what early today in order to attend the calling hours because I figured there would be a smaller crowd at 4:00 than there would be later this evening.  Since I was nervous about how I was going to feel and react. Candidly, I’m a wake fledgling. Over the course of my life I’ve only been to about a half-dozen calling hours before,so  it seemed like a wise decision to go early on.  As I left my office and stepped into the elevator to descend to the parking lot, I felt the tears already forming and the knot in my throat tighten and expand.  I had an hour drive south before I reached the funeral home and I knew it would feel a much longer drive if my emotions completely let loose.  In order to comfort my spinning emotions and to sooth my skittish mind, I turned on some calming music, with the volume loud enough that I could feel the rhythm vibrate into my chest.  And I drove, trance like, tears streaming, music blaring, heart beating, and sadness falling.

As I drew closer to the funeral home I felt that familiar anxiety kick in.  It is the source of that self-deprecating voice that tells me to worry and be hyper-vigilant, that makes me self-conscious and easily embarrassed and convinces me to believe that my emotions are so important that it is okay to ignore the thoughts and feelings of anyone else in the room near me because what I feel is just that much of a crisis.  I think that this voice is anorexia’s first cousins, but I’m not certain because they are rather vague and evasive when I question either of them about it.  That anxious voice told me that I didn’t know any one, that I didn’t know proper wake etiquette or courteous behavior, that I was going to make a fool of myself or say the wrong thing, or be insensitive and that really everyone would just be better off if I avoided going all together.  None of her family knew I was coming, I could just not go and my absence would go unnoticed.  But then my rational thought and mind kicked in and I realized what a cowardly thing it would be if I didn’t go.  I reminded myself that I mattered enough to June that she asked that I be on the top of the list of people to call and be notified of her death, it would be a grievous dishonor if I failed to attend.   That realization was so foreign to me.  June believed in me.  I can not deny it.  She wanted me to know it and believe in myself.  And so it was for her that I pushed my anxiety and fear aside and mustered the strength to walk in the funeral home.

Upon entering there was a small group of people in the foyer whom I’ve never seen before, I smiled meekly and simply walked past, making sure to sign my name legibly in the registration book just in case I somehow decided to exit, tail between my legs before anyone noticed me.  I had purchased a sympathy and mass card but haven’t been to enough calling hours to know if I should have brought it in with me or not.   I had it, unsigned, in my attaché case in my car as I saw the basket of cards on the table containing many others just like it.  I started to panic, what should I do?  Should I quickly depart, get the card and return?  I hadn’t spoken to any one yet, I’d only met one of her four son’s many years ago, so no one would recognize me if I slipped out and came right back.   I froze as stiff with panic as June was with death. I decided I’d just send the card later and that being there in spite of my anxiety was accomplishment enough for the moment.  I began to look over the collage of pictures on the table next to the casket and felt my cheeks moisten with tears as I could not keep myself from crying.  Slowly at first, I naively thought I could suppress it. Wiping my tears discretely, I surveyed the room. No one else was crying…just simply me, adding to my sense of anxiety.  As I looked over the photos and saw images of her portraying her joyous energy,  I turned to my left and saw lying still in her coffin, grey and lifeless, dull and lacking her usual glow.  I didn’t want to look at her.  I didn’t want to remember her that way.  I closed my eyes and envisioned her as she was just three weeks ago as she smiled and embraced me, still so full of life.  My gaze returned to the photo collage and I saw the caption “Sit Down, Shut Up, and Do As You’re Told!”   Oh…sigh… the number of times she said that too me!  My tears turned to a sad and heart-broken laughter as I envisioned her finger-pointing and wagging at me.  The procession in front of the casket cleared so I slowly knelt in front of where she lay. Quietly observing her lifeless body, she lay flat, sunken.  Her stiffened and rigid fingers clasped a rosary, no blood pumping through their veins as I envisioned the similar scene as she described the death of her husband.  As I knelt before her  I noticed her floral jacket and the NY Yankees ball caps lying beside her.  I remembered fondly her baseball talk and smiled as I saw that her earrings were baseballs too.  I wondered if she had chosen the outfit or whether it was done posthumously.  I whispered a “Hail Mary,” followed by a rapid “Our Father” fighting to keep my emotions suppressed, but the effort was in vain.   With my tears streaming down my face I opened my eyes, fully prepared to whisper the dreaded goodbye.  I wanted to choose my words wisely and started out with a deep sigh and thought to myself  ” June…” and then I paused to make sure I could remember all the things I wanted to say, to thank her, to tell her how very much she meant to me, to tell her I wish her peace…but here’s what came out instead:

“June, this is ridiculous, I am not about to say good-by to your dead body.  Look at that, it doesn’t even look anything like you.  It’s as if your body is a deflated inner-tube now that your spirit isn’t in it. Why the heck would I say good-bye to your dead body when I know you still exist and are standing beside it.  Why would I tell your dead body all the things that I think and I feel when I can come visit you at your grave site and when I know you will be keeping an eye on me any way?”  Then I had a vision of the blue summer sky as I drove across the hill by the windmills the other day and I remembered awareness that she still exists in the air that I breathe.  So I stood up, wiped my tears and prepared myself to greet her family and offer my condolences.

The first person that I came to was a man in his fifties, tanned with short brown hair and one of those mustaches that looks like a fuzzy bear caterpillar.  He extended his hand to shake mine and gave me a quizzical look as he saw my tear streaked cheeks, glassy and reddened eyes.  I didn’t know what to say so I simply asked “Who are you?” and he replied “I am Peter.”  Oh I thought, the one I’ve been speaking to on the telephone, the one who called me to tell me she died.  I meekly said “Hello Peter, I am Leigh.”  His face softened and he extended his arms, grasping me in a firm hug, “Mom spoke so highly of you often, she thought the world of you.”   And the dikes broke and my tears started falling heavily enough that they cascaded off of my face and landed on the floor beneath me.  My head beaded with sweat and I felt the heat of my emotions rise as I fought to hold them in, but instead they began to seep out of my pores as the blood rushed to my skin and made me appear flushed.  I was silenced by the pain and awkwardness of the moment.  The awareness that I was sharing in heart-felt grief with a stranger, joined in some cosmic way by our shared love of an elderly woman.  He introduced me to his son and we spoke briefly about June and how quickly her death came.  I commented on the quote on the pictures and told them how it had brought a smile to my face and giggled as I reminisced of her affection for flipping the bird to people just to emphasize her point.  I moved on down the receiving line and introduced myself one by one to each of her three remaining sons, all who graciously introduced me to their family repeating the same words as Peter.  “It is a pleasure to meet you Leigh, Mom spoke so highly of you, she thought the world of you.”  They knew of  my jobs and the projects I’d headed, they knew of my tenacious spirit and seemed to value the opportunity to finally meet me.  Each time their kind words took me by surprise and caused another wave of tears to emerge. By the time I reached the end of the line the emotional fatigue had set in.  Here I was, in an intentional effort to pay my respect to a wonderful woman, to offer condolences and support to her family and instead they were giving and nurturing me.

As I write this I grieve so deeply for failing to realize most of this sooner.  I  am ashamed that I had never understood how much June had valued and respected me, and yet that was the very thing I loved so dearly about her.  I loved the way her face would always light up and her lips would form a wide and gracious smile, the way she’d tip her head back and look down her nose while squinting her eyes and pointing her finger then embracing me in a welcoming hug.  She had always managed to make me feel special when I was in her company.  As I drove home I thought about how much I will miss her greetings and how foolish I’ve been.  I always dismissed her favor and her compliments thinking that she really didn’t know me, that she just saw my facade and my superficial image and that she couldn’t truly value me.  But she had over come her own mental demons, fighting depression and psychosis at times.  She’d raised four boys, one they call doctor, and half a dozen grand children.  She’d gotten her college degree as an adult and watched her husband slowly die.  She’d dedicated her life to helping others and yet she truly valued me.  Instead of appreciating her loving kindness I arrogantly doubted and dismissed the value of it and now it’s too late and is gone forever.

If I accomplished any thing this evening I hope at the least I have honored her and  validated her generous spirit and  conveyed to her sons that she has touched my life and that I even if I didn’t know it at the time, I did learn to truly love her.

Country Folk

I remember watching the movie “Charlotte’s  Web” every year while in elementary school.  I never grew board of  it, perhaps because it was a break from the monotony of the regular classroom lectures, or maybe it was due to  the eager anticipation and jubilus laughter that always erupted when a strange face or image quickly flashed across the screen as the movie projector beeped, capturing our attention as it alerted us that the movie was about to begin…10…9…8…7…6…a face! Yahoo! that was what we had been waiting for!  There was always an outbreak of laughter as a class room full of young children found the mistake or intentional placement of something other than a black and white number in the movie film absolutely hysterical.  Or maybe I enjoyed the movie because of  the small serving of popcorn that we occasionally received.  Or maybe it was the story itself, the portrayal of life on a farm, the excitement of a county fair, and just something magnificent about a talking pig and a spider that loved him as much as if she were his own mother.  Even children grasp the sadness of Charlotte’s death and the beauty in her children’s births.  What ever it was, I loved the movie, but I never anticipated that my life would emulate it in any way, and yet, in some ways, it has.

I grew up in a small city and would have never speculated that the life depicted in that children’s story was an accurate reflection of life in a rural community.  I never conceived the notion that the movie (and book) accurately  portrayed the important role of the county fair in the lives of farm children and families.  But it does and the county fair and parade is the premiere event in this county of only a f ew tens of thousands of people.  Everything in the community slows down for the fair.   Local and family owned businesses close for the entire week and notify their patrons through a simple hand written note posted on the door “Closed for the Fair.  See you there!”  Traffic traveling through the county in attempts to move shipments to and from the larger cities that border the north and south are rerouted and detoured as the single highway running through the center of the county closes for hours as the parade marches down its few blocks by the fair grounds. Patrons place lawn chairs on the side of the road hours before the parade begins ensuring they will retain their favorite spot to sit and watch.  The procession usually lasts over two hours.  That’s correct, I said we have a 2-2 1/2 hour parade.  Once I even watched a spider spin a silken web between the arms of two lawn chairs as the steel drum, bugle corps, high school and military bands stepped in beat, as fire trucks sounded their sirens while firemen sprayed fountains of candy into the crowd.  Trucks and tractors, floats and politicians, and the occasional dairy princess and local priest stroll past.  It is, undeniably, the event of the year in this predominantly farming community.  The air is filled with the electric sound of children’s excitement and laughter, greetings of old friends and relatives, music, and balloons that have managed to escape the tight grips of children, all drifting up and away in the sky.  A cornucopia of treasures  fly through the air as parade participants throw large hand full of loot into the crowd.  Children squeal in delight and scurry to gather the goodies the way a flock of seagulls descend upon a McDonald’s parking lot when you drop a single french fry.  Their satchels become loaded with trinkets, cookies, crackers, candies, toys, and even an  ice pop or two, becoming more full and plentiful than the stash collected on  Halloween.    I chuckled to myself as I sat three rows back, finding humor in the idea that the political candidates running  for senate and congress have enhanced their entourage by towing  jazz bands behind their trucks and cars.  I can just imagine the brain storming session that prompted that “original” idea,  only to have it  become replicated by each candidate making them appear more like a herd of cattle than an independent leader.  Even sitting that far back, I still had to duck and dodge as packet of cookies, followed by a bag of crackers and a few Tootsie rolls barely missed striking me square in the face as parade participants enjoy the chance to catch unsuspecting spectators off guard with their best attempts of little league quality pitches.  The scene reminds me of a feeding frenzy where a school of small fish make a run for the ocean and large masses of predatory fish and animals simply block their paths, swimming or standing with their mouths wide open waiting for their reward to just land in their mouth without even having to move.

If you are not a local then it is hard to understand why anyone would sit for two hours  and watch unadorned four wheelers and tractors drive past.  But if you are the 7 year old boy who gets to watch your older brother drive the John Deere articulating tractor, with his beautiful girlfriend sitting at his side, it becomes the highlight of your year.  Even my children at the age of 6 wave frantically as their friends, families, teachers, and teenage beauty pageant winners go past, each child squealing with excitement each time they recognize someone they know.  Everyone becomes a celebrity in their own right, whether you are a spectator in crowd or riding a float in the parade.  While having  the largest or shiniest truck, or the marching band with the whitest gloves and sharpest steps, brings some bragging rights, the parade is about more than that.  It is about the coming together of a community.  It is about the family run business that has sponsored a float for generations, or the county legislator who is also a volunteer fire fighter and displays his genuineness by marching with those brave men instead of  his political party, it is about the farm families who are the back bone of our community, growing the harvest we all share in.  It is about the fact that many local families have roots that stretch back for centuries and somehow, almost everyone is either a cousin or aunt, or neighbor.

Attending and participating in the parade and fair has become a time honored tradition, a  rite of passage in the lives of these country children and I sit back and smile appreciating the power it has to keep families connected as children who have long since grown return each year, flying in from all over the country with children of their own.   Fresh air children come in from the cities and other countries, spending the summers barefoot and cooling off in the country creeks and streams and become a part of something bigger just by their observations of this event as the community shares in its pride and celebrates  its  local identity.  While many people simply roll their eyes as if the event were foolish, I appreciate the insight that sometimes knowing who you are is hard to do and when you get it figured out, you shouldn’t be ashamed of it.  Not everyone can appreciate the communities identity, but it is inspiring to see people so prominently declare “hey, here I am, this is what we do, love it or leave it, this is what it is.”  I envy that and wish I had the courage to do it myself.

Perhaps Love

I am inherently a selfish person.  I don’t mean to be.  I am ashamed to admit it.  But somewhere in my childhood I learned that I needed to put myself first in order to survive.  I am trying to unlearn that, but it has become hard wired.   I look back on the experiences that caused this natural instinct to evolve and realize that I have fine tuned over the decades of my life.  It is with a heavy heart and great sadness that I recognize the degree to which I have missed out on feeling loved and of truly loving others.   I understood very little about it’s true  power and entirely missed the notion that it can be constant, that out of sight does not mean out of mind.   Perhaps love…perhaps it does exist and lasts forever. I am still learning but am thankful for the fact that another truly loves me enough to step outside of himself enough to try to forgive me even when I may not be worthy of it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgaTQ5-XfMM