Lately I've been listening to "So Glad I'm Here" from Elizabeth Mitchell's You Are My Sunshine every morning. It's been going through my head for over a month now, and it feels like a really positive way to start the day. Because I am. Glad I'm here, that is, and I'm trying to let go of the need to hold onto the hurt.
I have been, holding onto the sadness, without even realizing I was doing it. It's like when I would swim at the pool wearing my rings. I'd come out with a hand cramp from inadvertantly clamping my fingers together for fear one would slide off and be lost. For a long, long I didn't have to hold on. The sadness was just so big and heavy it wasn't going anywhere, but now, almost four years down the road, when I stand in the light again and smile and laugh and feel as well as see the beauty around me, I find I still cling to it sometimes, holding it out to anyone, who might think it is gone. It's what prompted my bitter grumblings. It's what makes my smile dim just briefly when somebody tells me I have a beautiful family. It's what makes me prod around inside sometimes to see if something is going to bother me.
It isn't gone. It isn't going away, but I don't need to call it up. It will visit me on it's own. So right now, I'm facing the sun, seeing the light, feeling the warmth, enjoying the brightness of the world, knowing that my shadow is behind me whether I look at it or not.
I still face December with trepidation, not sure how it will hit this year, but for now I'm not revisiting four years ago. I didn't race down the road in the back of ambulance on September 11, didn't rewalk in my mind the labyrinth of halls from the ambulance entrance at Children's to a too bright room on the eighth floor on September 13. I went for a run on a cool, dry, clear day and thought perhaps I could run forever. I shopped for groceries and sorted clothes and gave Kathleen high fives for using the potty. I lived, I didn't relive.
My zinnias are still blooming, three shades of pink and a little orange. The leaves are starting to pile up. Tomatoes fill my counter waiting to be cooked down, and in a minute I will brave that late batch of mosquitos to pick green beans and see what else is ready in the garden. This is the September I love.
I am opening to the golden days and the gladness. I wish he were here, but I don't have to tell you that. I'll always wish he were here, but it doesn't stop me from being glad that I'm here, so glad I'm here enjoy these golden summer-fall days, so glad I'm here with Kathleen making up songs and Elizabeth chewing everything she can find.
***
Thanks to Kathleen and Elizabeth for bringing joy to my days and to Mandy for giving me the song and to Angie for Right Where I Am, which I keep circling back to, and for asking for questions, which prompted me to start answering my own, and to Barbara for helping me remember to notice good things and to open this space up to them, and to Liz for making me think about being open to and seeking joy, even if it made (and may make me still) grumbly. Thanks to you who come here and listen to me grumble and glow.
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Saturday, January 30, 2010
A time to dance
I was feeling sluggish and missing our daily walk, but it was frigid here today, far to cold and windy to go out. So I cranked the music, a little Rani Arbo, a little Squirrel Nut Zippers, and we danced. I danced for Kathleen and she watched and laughed, and then I scooped her up and zipped her all over the room. Brian heard the Squirrel Nuts and came down and danced with us for a song too.
Joy and laughter and delight
twirling
twirling
twirling
twirling around with Kathleen in my arms.
Mid-twirl, the memory caught me for a moment, made me miss a step.
The memory of
twirling
twirling slowly
with Henry in my arms.
Twirling to show that I can,
that there is nothing attached to him
no lines to trip on or step over.
All that in an instant. I pushed it away, wanting to stay in the vortex of pure joy of dancing with my giggly, grinning girl. So fun, so silly, so alive.
But tonight that image came back to me, the image of me with Henry, not in our living room, but in a hospital room eight floors up, overlooking busy city streets, sun streaming in the windows. There was no music, unless my excitement was audible.
Tonight the memory of twirling with my boy made me smile. It was the first time I was able to dance with him, the first time we were untethered, free to move, to go, to twirl.
Another day, I might lament that we will never dance together again, never twirl until we fall down dizzy and laughing, but not tonight.
Tonight it is simply enough that we got to dance.
Joy and laughter and delight
twirling
twirling
twirling
twirling around with Kathleen in my arms.
Mid-twirl, the memory caught me for a moment, made me miss a step.
The memory of
twirling
twirling slowly
with Henry in my arms.
Twirling to show that I can,
that there is nothing attached to him
no lines to trip on or step over.
All that in an instant. I pushed it away, wanting to stay in the vortex of pure joy of dancing with my giggly, grinning girl. So fun, so silly, so alive.
But tonight that image came back to me, the image of me with Henry, not in our living room, but in a hospital room eight floors up, overlooking busy city streets, sun streaming in the windows. There was no music, unless my excitement was audible.
Tonight the memory of twirling with my boy made me smile. It was the first time I was able to dance with him, the first time we were untethered, free to move, to go, to twirl.
Another day, I might lament that we will never dance together again, never twirl until we fall down dizzy and laughing, but not tonight.
Tonight it is simply enough that we got to dance.
Friday, January 22, 2010
And so it goes
I read these lines on another blog today:
***
In early December 2007, Henry was getting poised for discharge, and my friend Amy's dad died. Even for him, the end was too soon, but when I went to the wake, her mom told me she had been thinking about the circle of life, her husband passing and Henry on the upswing. Weeks later, when she came to Henry's funeral, all I could think was that they weren't both supposed to go, that Henry was just starting his go round.
***
I am not unsympathetic to this woman who just lost her grandmother. It is only in the last few years that I have realized my own grandmother is mortal. She is still going strong at 94. She has been slowly slowing down, but she still amazes me. In such a life, I can see the cycle as it should be, the sorrow still coming with the end, yet the knowledge that a life was fully lived.
Maybe Henry's life was fully lived. Maybe he did all he was meant to do. But I think of how much he never did, will never get to do. I think of what I will never do with him, never see him do, and it feels incomplete.
***
Death, birth, joy, sorrow.
And so it goes.
Death and birth. Joy and sorrow. A beautiful cycle so very full and intermingling. And so it goes.Ah, but it's easier to see the beauty in the cycle when the death comes at the end of a long, full life.
***
In early December 2007, Henry was getting poised for discharge, and my friend Amy's dad died. Even for him, the end was too soon, but when I went to the wake, her mom told me she had been thinking about the circle of life, her husband passing and Henry on the upswing. Weeks later, when she came to Henry's funeral, all I could think was that they weren't both supposed to go, that Henry was just starting his go round.
***
I am not unsympathetic to this woman who just lost her grandmother. It is only in the last few years that I have realized my own grandmother is mortal. She is still going strong at 94. She has been slowly slowing down, but she still amazes me. In such a life, I can see the cycle as it should be, the sorrow still coming with the end, yet the knowledge that a life was fully lived.
Maybe Henry's life was fully lived. Maybe he did all he was meant to do. But I think of how much he never did, will never get to do. I think of what I will never do with him, never see him do, and it feels incomplete.
***
Death, birth, joy, sorrow.
And so it goes.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Light in the darkness
My neighbors stopped by today to drop off their Christmas card. In it they wrote:
And this reminds me of the way I hold joy and sorrow. Joy, pure and shining, warding off the dark and still of itself. Sorrow pushed back some by the joy but still present, still surrounding. They touch each other, yet don't destroy each other.
Thank you all for being a light in my darkness especially during these last few days.
One of the mysteries of Christmas is how grace, like light, shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.This image has been walking around with me today. I see candles, small and flickering, but a beacon still in the dark.
And this reminds me of the way I hold joy and sorrow. Joy, pure and shining, warding off the dark and still of itself. Sorrow pushed back some by the joy but still present, still surrounding. They touch each other, yet don't destroy each other.
Thank you all for being a light in my darkness especially during these last few days.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
December
We are two days into December and I already I can feel it. There is a darkness to this month that has nothing to do with our winter short days. There is a weight that drags along with me.
December 17 looms ahead. It will be two years. Two years since Henry left us.
But in this darkness, my light—Kathleen turns one. Her smile dimpled, different than her brother's, adds brightness. Her laugh makes me smile—even in this dark month.
I have been holding deep sorrow and great joy together, give each its due, knowing that each can stand on its own without muddying the other, but this month tests me.
December, my time to weep and my time to laugh; my time to mourn and my time to dance.
December 17 looms ahead. It will be two years. Two years since Henry left us.
But in this darkness, my light—Kathleen turns one. Her smile dimpled, different than her brother's, adds brightness. Her laugh makes me smile—even in this dark month.
I have been holding deep sorrow and great joy together, give each its due, knowing that each can stand on its own without muddying the other, but this month tests me.
December, my time to weep and my time to laugh; my time to mourn and my time to dance.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Vacation Snapshots
We got home Sunday from a week in the White Mountains with my family. It was chaotic and fun, exhausting and wonderful. I laughed a lot, cried a little.
As I packed the car, I couldn't help remembering our vacation last summer. It was just Brian and me and a baby in my belly. There was no car seat, no stopping to give the baby a bottle, no need for diapers or stroller or Pack & Play. Last year in the car on the way to Maine, the empty backseat made me cry. This year, I kept peeking back, reaching back, making sure Kathleen was breathing okay in her new car seat even as her head lolled forward in sleep.
***
Seven adults + 5 kids five and under + one condo = utter chaos
***
I stayed up too late every night of vacation. My sisters and I, and some nights my mom, would play games: cribbage, Pictionary, 100,000 Pyramid, Farkle, Taboo . . . and we laughed. We tend to get incredibly silly when we are all together and at some point somebody says, "Stop, I'm gonna wet my pants." I remembered how a few weeks after Henry died, I visited with my family. We played games, and we laughed until we almost peed our pants. For me then, the laughter was simply a release of the stress and the sorrow. I was all cried out. The next day my back and belly hurt from the exertion. I didn't feel guilty for laughing, but I didn't feel happy either. This vacation, I laughed a lot. I laughed hard. And I felt it.
***
***
My family took Kathleen for a day so that Brian and I could go for a hike together. The mountain we chose, Mount Tremont, wasn't particularly challenging, but Brian was fighting off a summer cold, we're both out of shape, and it was convenient. And we had tried to climb it before. The last time was on snowshoes, about a month after Henry died. We lost the trail somewhere along the way and decided to turn back. I remember the mountain being cold and bleak and beautiful. I remember me being cold and numb and worn out. (There are no pictures from that winter climb. The first
pictures on my camera for 2008 are from March.)
This time all was green and wet. Mushrooms flourished. We saw frogs and snakes. It was sweaty hot. We summited. While we ate lunch, I watched a flock of dragonflies, huge ones as big as my had flitting and drooping about. And I thought of Henry and the other babies I know who have left too soon.
***
Homecoming
We got home in the early afternoon, so I didn't mind that Henry's lamp was dark. It was after the bustle of unpacking and getting Kathleen to bed, when the house was still, that I sat an missed Henry a little more. Somehow he always feels a little more missing, a little more gone when I come back from being away.
***
Despite the thread of grieving and Henry throughout these memories, it was not a sad time, mostly. The missing was always there, but not always insistent on being recognized. I enjoyed my baby girl. I loved watching her with her cousins and look forward to the fun she will have with them as she gets a little bigger.
Our first family vacation
As I packed the car, I couldn't help remembering our vacation last summer. It was just Brian and me and a baby in my belly. There was no car seat, no stopping to give the baby a bottle, no need for diapers or stroller or Pack & Play. Last year in the car on the way to Maine, the empty backseat made me cry. This year, I kept peeking back, reaching back, making sure Kathleen was breathing okay in her new car seat even as her head lolled forward in sleep.
***
Seven adults + 5 kids five and under + one condo = utter chaos
***
I stayed up too late every night of vacation. My sisters and I, and some nights my mom, would play games: cribbage, Pictionary, 100,000 Pyramid, Farkle, Taboo . . . and we laughed. We tend to get incredibly silly when we are all together and at some point somebody says, "Stop, I'm gonna wet my pants." I remembered how a few weeks after Henry died, I visited with my family. We played games, and we laughed until we almost peed our pants. For me then, the laughter was simply a release of the stress and the sorrow. I was all cried out. The next day my back and belly hurt from the exertion. I didn't feel guilty for laughing, but I didn't feel happy either. This vacation, I laughed a lot. I laughed hard. And I felt it.
***
***
My family took Kathleen for a day so that Brian and I could go for a hike together. The mountain we chose, Mount Tremont, wasn't particularly challenging, but Brian was fighting off a summer cold, we're both out of shape, and it was convenient. And we had tried to climb it before. The last time was on snowshoes, about a month after Henry died. We lost the trail somewhere along the way and decided to turn back. I remember the mountain being cold and bleak and beautiful. I remember me being cold and numb and worn out. (There are no pictures from that winter climb. The first
pictures on my camera for 2008 are from March.)This time all was green and wet. Mushrooms flourished. We saw frogs and snakes. It was sweaty hot. We summited. While we ate lunch, I watched a flock of dragonflies, huge ones as big as my had flitting and drooping about. And I thought of Henry and the other babies I know who have left too soon.
***
Homecoming
We got home in the early afternoon, so I didn't mind that Henry's lamp was dark. It was after the bustle of unpacking and getting Kathleen to bed, when the house was still, that I sat an missed Henry a little more. Somehow he always feels a little more missing, a little more gone when I come back from being away.
***
Despite the thread of grieving and Henry throughout these memories, it was not a sad time, mostly. The missing was always there, but not always insistent on being recognized. I enjoyed my baby girl. I loved watching her with her cousins and look forward to the fun she will have with them as she gets a little bigger.
Our first family vacation
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)