An Anniversary...of sorts

Seven years ago today my mom died. I don't think I have any words for this. In many ways it is heartbreaking to me that we learn to go on. I remember how lost I was, how completely bereft after she died. For the longest time I felt the loss acutely. She was simply not there. It was shocking. Yet somehow over time I absorbed that loss, and it's as if the vacuum that she left has become a part of me, just as surely as she is a part of me.

I was going to post a poem that I wrote before she died. It's called The Diagnosis. I cannot. It's such a short poem, and in so few words it's just...devastating. Too much truth or something. So I'll post this one instead. I wrote it on Thanksgiving Day, two months after she died. Seven years later I still think it captures those days perfectly.


Thanksgiving

your veins ran to crimson
your bruises to mulberry
your skin to honey
before autumn even arrived

my eyes I could not lift
suspended
I was transfixed
upon the unexpected
passage of your seasons

so I drank your honey skin
warmed myself
at the bedside of your illumination
tenderly held
your stained and thinning hands
in September, thanksgiving was upon me

now winter is nearly here
but your autumn haunts me still
the hushed morning
a Saturday
when your last leaves blew away

A Poem

I thought that poems had left me. It's been years since one has come to me, which is how it works for me. I've contemplated this lately...whether I could sit down and write one without a dose of inspiration. Poems arrived almost unbidden for years, and they practically hunted me down after my mother died, begging to be written. But for a few years now, there's been...nothing. Until the other evening when a butterfly flitted through the yard while we were all outside playing wiffle ball. The butterfly was a lovely pale lemon color, and it seemed so out of place, in an evening that seemed to herald fall.

Here it is, without a title:

The leaves yellowing at their fringes
The incessant chorus of crickets
And the evening’s brisk breeze
Remind me that summer is
Waning toward darker evenings
And November’s biting wind

The falling leaves, the relinquishing
A memory struggling to surface
Interrupted by you, butterfly,
Your flight a dance of dappled light
Cinderella
Waltzing through my yard


I'm not completely satisfied with this. It's awkward or something...and perhaps doesn't say all that I'd like it to. But that little lemony butterfly has been nagging me for a poem, and I had to write something to get started.

Oreos and Microchips

Yesterday afternoon, sometime after I'd consumed my millionth Oreo, I realized I might be a tad depressed. Not really sure why; my life doesn't leave me much time for self-reflection. Perhaps I'm depressed because I'm avoiding writing, though the overwhelming nature of life right now means it doesn't feel like avoidance at all. It feels like survival, and I don't see that changing. I keep waiting for some extreme sense of drivenness to take over. Regardless, yesterday I began thinking that perhaps I could be implanted with a microchip and when I go into the store to buy Oreos, I would be unable to complete the transaction. Perhaps they'd scan my hand and the check-out person would say with disdain, "Sorry, you're not allowed to buy Oreos," and she'd quicky snatch them away. Not much of a plan, but when depression is setting in and self-control is lacking, it seems potentially helpful.

The Problem of Pain — When You're Eleven

The other night I had one of the most difficult conversations I've ever had with one of my boys. Son2, in addition to the migraines, has been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately. On Monday night he was...near despair. He's not the most optimistic fellow...and why would he be? But he'd had a terrible night's sleep on Sunday, and he was convinced he was in for more of the same. When he is like this, there is no reasoning with him. So this conversation about sleep led into one that was much more intense, and, frankly, disconcerting. Son2 wanted to know why he is the only one in our family who suffers. Hmmm. I tried to point out the things that his brothers deal with, and at the same time acknowledge his pain and the fact that he does seem to have more to handle than his brothers do. I know he feels like their lives are so much easier, so much more...blessed. Both are athletic, and popular. Both are sort of quintessential...boys. Son2's gifts are different, and amazing. But that's not what we're talking about. He agreed with me that he would not want someone else to have to deal with the pain that he does, but I could also tell that, honestly, part of him felt like it would be a-okay if his brothers were living his life and he was living theirs. I understand.

But still he wanted to know, why me? I admitted I do not know, that I only know that God is the only one who can take our pain and losses and bring good. That this is a miracle, and God can do that miracle for him. Then, of course, he wanted to know what good could possibly come from his pain, his trials. I said it would likely be a long time before we would know that answer. I said that great art most often springs from those broken places in our hearts, and that any art he makes in the future -- writing, music, sculpture, film -- would all be richer and deeper because of this. I also explained that only people who have suffered can truly comfort those who are suffering. That comfort is a work that Jesus does and that we can work with Jesus to comfort those who need it, to be with them in their pain. But still...he wanted to know, why me? Why am I the only one?

And so I had no choice but to let him know that he doesn't know ways that his dad and I may have suffered in our own lives as children. I said I could not tell him the things that I had been through as a child, that it wasn't right for him to know that now, that it is too sad, but to trust me that I had known deep pain at his age but that, unlike him, I was very alone, with no one to talk with about it, but that it is okay now and that somehow God saw me through those years. As soon as I started to explain this to him, my voice broke and I began to cry, and he jumped up and said, "Oh mom..." with such...compassion and understanding...and then he began to sob, and he put his arms around me.

I explained that all that pain I experienced and more pain and losses since have made me able to be with people who are suffering. And then I said, "Do you see? You're eleven, and you already can do this. You just did it." And he saw it, though he has no idea how rare it is.

That night, fortunately, he slept. And I did too, though that conversation left me drained and a bit worried about what adolescence may hold.

At the brink

Here I am, five days into homeschooling, and I feel on the brink of insanity. I remember now why I didn't have more children. It's that need for some level of personal space...and, introvert that I am, that's important to me. It's not that the homeschooling aspect of things isn't going well; it is. It's the constant togetherness. This other person is here all day, and he's a child, and he needs me. And we've been dealing with an explosion of migraines since the first of August and he's having all kinds of trouble sleeping — problems falling asleep, problems staying asleep, nightmares, etc., etc. It is awful for him, but the ugly truth is that it is also awful for me. I don't want to deal. I just don't. And so there it is. I'm such a nice mommy.

The Pets

Why do we love our pets so much? What is that? We were recently away in New Hampshire, just the boys and I, as the husband had too much work to do. I missed the pets desperately. When I came home, Checkers spent the next day folded up next to me on the bed while I worked. Every once in a while she would look up at me through her tired, half-closed eyes and begin to purr. We were a picture of contentment. It frightens me that I now understand how someone ends up in a house full of forty cats. Or eighty. I am hoping I don't let this happen to me.

And the dog. I was assured that he didn't appear to be missing me too much. He was, supposedly, his regular self. But Bear was utterly overjoyed at our return. Beside himself happy. The next day I was outside on the deck while some guys were finishing up some work on it (a project that someone else started last summer), and when I was introduced to one of them, Bear rushed to my defense as the guy came toward me to shake my hand. Bear charged up onto the deck with his terrifying bark, telling the guy to back off. Obviously I wasn't in any danger, but, honestly, that made me love Bear even more. I mean, Bear knew the guy; he'd been there while we were away. But somehow he knew that I didn't know the guy, and I guess he wanted to put the fellow in his place. Or something. But this is something I love about Bear, that protective instinct.

I think a lot about animals. They figure into the book I'm trying to write, and somehow in that story I really want to express some of my thoughts and feelings about the relationship between humans and animals. But I often find myself wondering about animals' emotions. How do they feel about us? What do they think? What do we mean to them?

Reading and Writing (not!)

I recently finished Unaccustomed Earth, a collection of stories by Jumpha Lahiri. Everything about it was perfect. She's one of those writers who I wish was much further along in her career because I'd like there to be a great backlog of books to read. Oh well. I''ll just have to wait a year or two or three for the next one.

I love to discover great writers I haven't read before. I think sometimes that reading can be a bit like gorging yourself -- but mostly without the guilt, unless you're reading when you should be working. And when you find a writer and discover you adore their writing, then it's so much fun to go back and read all their books. That way you can avoid that slightly depressed feeling that can come after you finish a truly great book. Of course, only true reading geeks know just what that feels like.

I've been trying to read some children's/YA fantasy lately -- something, anything to sort of inspire me to get back to the work of writing -- but it's just not working. I can't get into anything. It feels like work and not joy. And I am not writing. I think I sort of surrendered the summer. A lot of work to do. And just the work of summer -- helping the boys have a good one, that is. And the lack of a stable routine. But who am I kidding? The school year, which starts in two weeks, is going to be tricky too. Working. Homeschooling. The demands of school and sports and all the back and forth. And somehow, some way, I must set aside a time to write each day, otherwise this whole thing will just go down the drain. And it would be so easy to let that happen. I'm busy enough to pretend that would be no big deal.

Perhaps I should drown my sorrows in a good book. Suggestions anyone?