A couple decades ago, I had a sleepover with a couple girlfriends. My boyfriend (now my hubby) was out of the country, so I was cramming in all the socializing that my full life of school, work, supporting myself and maintaining a long-distance relationship didn't allow me otherwise.
This particular evening, one friend had two decks of tarot cards, and we amused ourselves with readings. And she was flummoxed by the fact that no matter what my question was, the card for 'total victory' kept surfacing.
"Let's try this out on the Egyptian deck," she said. From my limited understanding, I got that it was harder to get a favorable reading from that deck. Yet somehow, the 'total victory' equivalent kept surfacing.
"Tarot loves you," she muttered as she finally put the cards away.
I never chalked it up to Tarot loving me so much as what I call my network--all the loved ones I have lost in my lifetime, some of them way too young and lost to this world too soon. And I often wonder how many times over the course of a given day, month, or year, they put some one in my path who will help me, or my boys--because we, the four of us, seem to have an abundance of good fortune when it comes to meeting good, good-hearted people.
Take Nic's track coach. Only this man could figure out a way to get the slowest kid in Region 10 to the Area Championship with the rest of his team. Last Sunday, Nic ran his first 800, only to have the heavens open up and pour rain on his last 300 m. Nic not only finished the race, he finished a full minute and 19 seconds ahead of his coach's expectations, won a medal, and advanced in that event.
It goes without saying that Nic is a full minute and change behind the rest of his contenders this Sunday. But he's still in the program.
Moreover, he joins the rest of his team at this championship.
I am just happy that he gets a full week more out of this rewarding season. And working on trying to get these successes realized on the track to translate to the rest of his life. He still battles courageously with his frustration, and hopefully the steps I am taking to help ameliorate that will help him as he transitions to middle school. (Disorientation, which happened the other night, will get its own post when I finish digesting it all. On paper, it sounds fine; throw in the Nic factor, and surprises abound. And some surprises are simply unacceptable.)
I feel sometimes like I am building something from bricks and mortar, and the last few days have had the satisfying feel of completing something. I am not sure whether it is a foundation, or a wall, or a bridge, but I feel it will be revealed to me soon enough whether I finished something, or am finishing a stage of something. But nonetheless, I am aware of the clock ticking, and that I have a ways to go before I sleep.....
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Confluence
Funerals bring their own baggage. Yesterday’s challenged me to dump mine out in plain view and re-examine three separate life events—which included yesterday’s.
ME was loved in much the same way H was loved. I am grateful to have known her, but selfishly, I felt more grateful that I wasn’t closer to her. One H-magnitude loss in my life is enough; I’m not sure I could bear another. The fact that the prognosis and progression of their respective diseases was almost identical heightened my feeling of loss— not MY loss, but the loss felt by her family. I know—firsthand—what that feels like. Knowledge can be treacherous.
As her family gathered around the casket to say goodbye, my own unfinished business blindsides me. Even the youngest said goodbye. I didn’t get that opportunity with my own father. So shielded was I from his last illness that I don’t have a definite memory of when the last time I saw him was. I have six memories or so that *might* have been the 'last time,' but I have no way of knowing which memory it is.
And H didn’t have a funeral. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking I need to call her and tell her about something. Then I remember.
Fr M, my own family present, hurried by, hugged us hello, exchanged a few words and hurried on. “What do you say? Can you say?” he asked. “I’ll leave it to God.”
He did. And he did as well as he could be expected to do. No unctuous platitudes—just a gentle urging to comfort one another the best we know how and in the ways we best can.
He did his job well.
Her hubby performed the single greatest and most courageous act I have ever witnessed; he gave exactly the eulogy his wife would have wanted. I appreciate how difficult much of what he said was for him—not just out loud, but to a church full of people. But he did it because that’s how she would have wanted it. Because he loves her that much. Brave heart. Brave soul.
Going forward, offering comfort where and when and how we can. This hard new normal will soften over time, as it does, as it has always done.
Godspeed, Me. You've done well.
ME was loved in much the same way H was loved. I am grateful to have known her, but selfishly, I felt more grateful that I wasn’t closer to her. One H-magnitude loss in my life is enough; I’m not sure I could bear another. The fact that the prognosis and progression of their respective diseases was almost identical heightened my feeling of loss— not MY loss, but the loss felt by her family. I know—firsthand—what that feels like. Knowledge can be treacherous.
As her family gathered around the casket to say goodbye, my own unfinished business blindsides me. Even the youngest said goodbye. I didn’t get that opportunity with my own father. So shielded was I from his last illness that I don’t have a definite memory of when the last time I saw him was. I have six memories or so that *might* have been the 'last time,' but I have no way of knowing which memory it is.
And H didn’t have a funeral. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking I need to call her and tell her about something. Then I remember.
Fr M, my own family present, hurried by, hugged us hello, exchanged a few words and hurried on. “What do you say? Can you say?” he asked. “I’ll leave it to God.”
He did. And he did as well as he could be expected to do. No unctuous platitudes—just a gentle urging to comfort one another the best we know how and in the ways we best can.
He did his job well.
Her hubby performed the single greatest and most courageous act I have ever witnessed; he gave exactly the eulogy his wife would have wanted. I appreciate how difficult much of what he said was for him—not just out loud, but to a church full of people. But he did it because that’s how she would have wanted it. Because he loves her that much. Brave heart. Brave soul.
Going forward, offering comfort where and when and how we can. This hard new normal will soften over time, as it does, as it has always done.
Godspeed, Me. You've done well.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Hourglass
“Beyond a certain age, a journey across the city becomes uncomfortably reflective. The addresses of the dead pile up….One day, I, too, will prompt a moment’s reflection in the passenger of a passing cab.”
Ian McEwan, in Atonement
Suddenly urgent business fills my day, although nothing has subjectively changed in the material facts and appearance of my life. My dear friend H looms large in my thoughts, and it’s no accident. Imminent loss weighs heavily on my mind and heart, and while it won’t affect me and mine directly, I’m reminded—again--how easily that could change. We live our lives, dream our dreams, and make our plans, seemingly oblivious of the knowledge that it takes so little to tear it all asunder.
I’ve been busy with errands and paperwork, casting a wary eye around, making lists, checking things off, creating new lists, spending time with my boys, eying my little one jealously, perhaps fearing the worst—but carefully leaving the naming of those fears to one side. It’s possible to know too much—fear paralyzes.
A snatch of memory haunts me: my parents’ living room full of adults, seated in a circle pray the rosary. I am not quite 7. I run from one to another, asking what they are doing (I didn’t know what it was at the time outside of a seemingly endless stream of Hail Marys), not getting an answer, and finally an older adult thrust a toy set of beads into my hands and pleaded for me to be quiet or pray.
Rosary or not, dad died about 3 months later. All prayers are answered, but you don’t always get the answer you want. Pray for peace for the dying and the living, because both need it in equal measure.
As much as possible, I want everything settled, in the event I don’t live into my 90s as the women in my family are wont to do. I realize I won’t have everything prepared, but I will do my best to have it all laid out.
I think of how much we squander in a day—how much time and energy in trivia and inanity, how much energy is channeled into holding grudges, getting even, worrying about things that, ultimately, don’t matter. Do we do these things in an effort to forfeit mortality?
If so, I can’t think of a bigger waste of everything that matters.
I am reminded—constantly—that every day, every moment, is a gift.
What will you do with your gift today?
Ian McEwan, in Atonement
Suddenly urgent business fills my day, although nothing has subjectively changed in the material facts and appearance of my life. My dear friend H looms large in my thoughts, and it’s no accident. Imminent loss weighs heavily on my mind and heart, and while it won’t affect me and mine directly, I’m reminded—again--how easily that could change. We live our lives, dream our dreams, and make our plans, seemingly oblivious of the knowledge that it takes so little to tear it all asunder.
I’ve been busy with errands and paperwork, casting a wary eye around, making lists, checking things off, creating new lists, spending time with my boys, eying my little one jealously, perhaps fearing the worst—but carefully leaving the naming of those fears to one side. It’s possible to know too much—fear paralyzes.
A snatch of memory haunts me: my parents’ living room full of adults, seated in a circle pray the rosary. I am not quite 7. I run from one to another, asking what they are doing (I didn’t know what it was at the time outside of a seemingly endless stream of Hail Marys), not getting an answer, and finally an older adult thrust a toy set of beads into my hands and pleaded for me to be quiet or pray.
Rosary or not, dad died about 3 months later. All prayers are answered, but you don’t always get the answer you want. Pray for peace for the dying and the living, because both need it in equal measure.
As much as possible, I want everything settled, in the event I don’t live into my 90s as the women in my family are wont to do. I realize I won’t have everything prepared, but I will do my best to have it all laid out.
I think of how much we squander in a day—how much time and energy in trivia and inanity, how much energy is channeled into holding grudges, getting even, worrying about things that, ultimately, don’t matter. Do we do these things in an effort to forfeit mortality?
If so, I can’t think of a bigger waste of everything that matters.
I am reminded—constantly—that every day, every moment, is a gift.
What will you do with your gift today?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Opportunities, won and lost
When I think of all the crap Nic has to put up with regarding his ongoing bullying sitch, this image will remind me of all the things his tormenters won't be.
Tuesday night, my boy took the field with 1600+ other athletes. As my brother said, he came to compete, he competed successfully, running the first leg of his heat and successfully handed off to his teammate. They finished the race, were not disqualified, and did not even finish last in their heat.
He did something not many people get the opportunity to do. He took the same field as the best runners of the last 100 years and did it in front of an audience of thousands.
How cool is that?
I love that we could actually share this experience with family, as my brother and his wife and their oldest were also there to cheer on his youngest. It's a night I'll remember for the rest of my life.
And as for Nic, he had a great time hanging with his teammates and acting, more or less, like any other kid.
The world is bigger than this town. I think he will be fine as long as he remembers that. And at the age of 11, he's already had more experience competing in big venues than I've had in my entire life.
It's all about finding opportunities and taking advantage of them.
Because this is the stuff that will keep him going, even in his darkest hours.
But I can't help thinking of the one moment of his I missed. The fifth grade was supposed to sing in a district-wide choral concert, and he successfully made it through the rehearsals, but opted out of performing.
As I drove the boys to track one afternoon, an excerpt of school children singing "What a Wonderful World" came on the radio.
"Hey, that's what we were singing at school," Nic said.
And suddenly, I choked up and my eyes filled. There is already something moving about children singing this song, but the fact that I was denied the pleasure of hearing my own child sing this hit me unexpectedly hard. I asked, carefully, trying not betray my feelings, "Don't you think I wanted to hear that?"
"Oh mom," Nic huffed. "It's embarrassing. I don't want anyone to hear me sing."
"But I want to hear it, Nic."
"Never mind, mom," Nic said dismissively. "You didn't miss anything."
Ah, Nic. But I did. But this was your decision to make. And this will be one regret in life, that I didn't push you harder on this point.
So when I hear children sing this song, I'll always hear your voice, too. As I might have heard it that night.
Tuesday night, my boy took the field with 1600+ other athletes. As my brother said, he came to compete, he competed successfully, running the first leg of his heat and successfully handed off to his teammate. They finished the race, were not disqualified, and did not even finish last in their heat.
He did something not many people get the opportunity to do. He took the same field as the best runners of the last 100 years and did it in front of an audience of thousands.
How cool is that?
I love that we could actually share this experience with family, as my brother and his wife and their oldest were also there to cheer on his youngest. It's a night I'll remember for the rest of my life.
And as for Nic, he had a great time hanging with his teammates and acting, more or less, like any other kid.
The world is bigger than this town. I think he will be fine as long as he remembers that. And at the age of 11, he's already had more experience competing in big venues than I've had in my entire life.
It's all about finding opportunities and taking advantage of them.
Because this is the stuff that will keep him going, even in his darkest hours.
But I can't help thinking of the one moment of his I missed. The fifth grade was supposed to sing in a district-wide choral concert, and he successfully made it through the rehearsals, but opted out of performing.
As I drove the boys to track one afternoon, an excerpt of school children singing "What a Wonderful World" came on the radio.
"Hey, that's what we were singing at school," Nic said.
And suddenly, I choked up and my eyes filled. There is already something moving about children singing this song, but the fact that I was denied the pleasure of hearing my own child sing this hit me unexpectedly hard. I asked, carefully, trying not betray my feelings, "Don't you think I wanted to hear that?"
"Oh mom," Nic huffed. "It's embarrassing. I don't want anyone to hear me sing."
"But I want to hear it, Nic."
"Never mind, mom," Nic said dismissively. "You didn't miss anything."
Ah, Nic. But I did. But this was your decision to make. And this will be one regret in life, that I didn't push you harder on this point.
So when I hear children sing this song, I'll always hear your voice, too. As I might have heard it that night.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Answered Prayers
Going into my staycation, much weighed on my mind and heart. Big changes lie ahead. I'm generally okay with change, to a point. But with so much uncertainty ahead, I called in the big guns...and the Big Guy.
Overall, I've come to a point in my life where I accept change as a constant. When it arrives, it's always the right size, shape, and color--even if I don't think so the moment it happens.
I've looked back enough times over enough forks in the road to see that the change always happened for the better--even if I lacked the wherewithal to get it at the time.
As I served the Holy Thursday mass, I felt a shift in the way I looked at the world, prompted by Fr C asking during the homily: "What do people see in you? What do you see in other people?"
I've thought this many times over the years, but he told a story of his own experience that resonated with me in ways I didn't expect. And continues to. He has given me much to ponder in my heart.
And during Easter Vigil, I found myself serving the mass--something that was not an option while I was in grade school--and how rewarding it was after all these years to be up there as an altar server. Hubby brought the kids to vigil mass, and they did great.
And sometime over the course of mass, peace settled on me. And a voice speaking directly to my heart said: "You can handle whatever comes. Don't you realize that I have made it so?"
I wrote two weeks ago that the poem Footprints was on my mind; my experience Saturday night validated everything I ever thought or believed.
Fr M had something to do with that, too. In his homily, he spoke of his own experiences with depression, and how he found his way through it to the other side. And I think every single person in that church was awed and touched--even hubby, present with the boys as a surprise and gift to me.
So, these thoughts and experiences I bring forward to confront my destiny and change--whatever forms these things take.
I am ready.
Overall, I've come to a point in my life where I accept change as a constant. When it arrives, it's always the right size, shape, and color--even if I don't think so the moment it happens.
I've looked back enough times over enough forks in the road to see that the change always happened for the better--even if I lacked the wherewithal to get it at the time.
As I served the Holy Thursday mass, I felt a shift in the way I looked at the world, prompted by Fr C asking during the homily: "What do people see in you? What do you see in other people?"
I've thought this many times over the years, but he told a story of his own experience that resonated with me in ways I didn't expect. And continues to. He has given me much to ponder in my heart.
And during Easter Vigil, I found myself serving the mass--something that was not an option while I was in grade school--and how rewarding it was after all these years to be up there as an altar server. Hubby brought the kids to vigil mass, and they did great.
And sometime over the course of mass, peace settled on me. And a voice speaking directly to my heart said: "You can handle whatever comes. Don't you realize that I have made it so?"
I wrote two weeks ago that the poem Footprints was on my mind; my experience Saturday night validated everything I ever thought or believed.
Fr M had something to do with that, too. In his homily, he spoke of his own experiences with depression, and how he found his way through it to the other side. And I think every single person in that church was awed and touched--even hubby, present with the boys as a surprise and gift to me.
So, these thoughts and experiences I bring forward to confront my destiny and change--whatever forms these things take.
I am ready.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Alone
I'll start and end with mass last night. It's all there.
I volunteered to serve Holy Thursday mass--the surest way to ascertain I'd get there this year. After a 25-year absence from what had been until that point in my life tradition, I'm glad I'm back.
Glad? Wrong word. Loss resonated with me on multiple levels.
At the most basic level, I see things unraveling. Since the school closed, people have fallen away from our parish. A core of us want to keep going. And we will. But I have a real sense of time--and this special little community--slipping away. Not tomorrow, not next week, or even next year, but there will be a date circled on the calendar.....
But for the present, voices filled the church in a way that doesn't (but should) happen on a Sunday--the few there filled with hope, faith, and conviction. Father C knocked the homily out of the park, in the unique way all our priests here do. Fr M, quiet, bearing witness, has stepped back.
No one says much about this. Or perhaps they do, and I don't hear it. I never hear much, actually. But I don't want to think about what closing down is going to mean, much less talk about it.
But for the present, voices fill the church in song and response. In addition to bearing the heavy cross for processions, I hold the basin while Fr C washes feet. I drop neither the cross nor the basin. I pray Hail Mary after Hail Mary for strength as I lead the procession then stand at attention while the Blessed Sacrament is placed in the repository. My arms and hands shake for a good half hour after.
There's something else; the silence from one quarter has been deafening. Nothing says disapproval any better than that. And I know better than to sulk; I've learned that people don't always need to hear what I need to say, and sometimes my need to speak and act steps over lines.
Apparently, I went over the line. Again.
So. I deal with the cold silence with equinamity. After all, on some level, I knew it was coming, and I am okay with being wrong.
Even if it cost me. Hubby calls me a martyr in his hottest moments. Sometimes, I suspect he is right.
So I turn my thoughts to the wins this week; outings and time out with the boys; the garter snake Nic and I found as we walked in the woods yesterday; the new bunk beds that the boys are enjoying; a quiet week of doing chores and catching up with one another; and best of all, Nic's invite to Penn Relays--his participation will depend on the participation of the other three runners asked, since there are no alternates. We are in. And we wait to hear whether the others are in, as well.
So, with all these things in my heart, my hands and arms still shaking, I walk home in the gathering darkness. Alone.
I volunteered to serve Holy Thursday mass--the surest way to ascertain I'd get there this year. After a 25-year absence from what had been until that point in my life tradition, I'm glad I'm back.
Glad? Wrong word. Loss resonated with me on multiple levels.
At the most basic level, I see things unraveling. Since the school closed, people have fallen away from our parish. A core of us want to keep going. And we will. But I have a real sense of time--and this special little community--slipping away. Not tomorrow, not next week, or even next year, but there will be a date circled on the calendar.....
But for the present, voices filled the church in a way that doesn't (but should) happen on a Sunday--the few there filled with hope, faith, and conviction. Father C knocked the homily out of the park, in the unique way all our priests here do. Fr M, quiet, bearing witness, has stepped back.
No one says much about this. Or perhaps they do, and I don't hear it. I never hear much, actually. But I don't want to think about what closing down is going to mean, much less talk about it.
But for the present, voices fill the church in song and response. In addition to bearing the heavy cross for processions, I hold the basin while Fr C washes feet. I drop neither the cross nor the basin. I pray Hail Mary after Hail Mary for strength as I lead the procession then stand at attention while the Blessed Sacrament is placed in the repository. My arms and hands shake for a good half hour after.
There's something else; the silence from one quarter has been deafening. Nothing says disapproval any better than that. And I know better than to sulk; I've learned that people don't always need to hear what I need to say, and sometimes my need to speak and act steps over lines.
Apparently, I went over the line. Again.
So. I deal with the cold silence with equinamity. After all, on some level, I knew it was coming, and I am okay with being wrong.
Even if it cost me. Hubby calls me a martyr in his hottest moments. Sometimes, I suspect he is right.
So I turn my thoughts to the wins this week; outings and time out with the boys; the garter snake Nic and I found as we walked in the woods yesterday; the new bunk beds that the boys are enjoying; a quiet week of doing chores and catching up with one another; and best of all, Nic's invite to Penn Relays--his participation will depend on the participation of the other three runners asked, since there are no alternates. We are in. And we wait to hear whether the others are in, as well.
So, with all these things in my heart, my hands and arms still shaking, I walk home in the gathering darkness. Alone.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Assume Competence
Very rarely is anything black and white, but sometimes that's how my kiddos see the world. And sometimes, that's the way the world sees my kiddos--Nic, in particular.
But there are two things worth mentioning: Nic broke two minutes on his 400 on Sunday, finishing a full 33 seconds faster than his race two weeks previous. True, he collapsed at the finish line, and also true, he tossed his cookies on the hill post-race, but he felt much better after and willing to take it on again.
He also has an agreement with the coach to try the 800 at the next meet. He and I need to get running. Weather has not been conducive.
I'm also waiting to hear what coach decides about the Penn Relays--with Nic, he has enough for a junior team. But he may opt to run his teammates up. As hubby reminds me, it's enough that he lets Nic run. I hear him. I do. But....
(Quiet)
The other thing worth mentioning--Hubby's niece was in a musical over the weekend. He looked at me like I had two heads when I suggested we all go.
"But the kids....?'
"Can come with us," I finished for him.
When we arrived, we surveyed the seats saved for us (third row, center). I looked around, assessed that this would PROBABLY be disruptive for everyone around us and opted to move us all to the balcony--considerably less populated, allowing the boys to be themselves without too much fuss and muss.
And (surprise) they both had a great time, enjoyed the show, and neither of them needed to be removed (although hubby hissed at me to take our younger one out at one point--I refused; he was fine).
Moral: you never know unless you try. And the kids, as it happens, CAN do live performances.
Wonders will never cease. Fortunately.
But there are two things worth mentioning: Nic broke two minutes on his 400 on Sunday, finishing a full 33 seconds faster than his race two weeks previous. True, he collapsed at the finish line, and also true, he tossed his cookies on the hill post-race, but he felt much better after and willing to take it on again.
He also has an agreement with the coach to try the 800 at the next meet. He and I need to get running. Weather has not been conducive.
I'm also waiting to hear what coach decides about the Penn Relays--with Nic, he has enough for a junior team. But he may opt to run his teammates up. As hubby reminds me, it's enough that he lets Nic run. I hear him. I do. But....
(Quiet)
The other thing worth mentioning--Hubby's niece was in a musical over the weekend. He looked at me like I had two heads when I suggested we all go.
"But the kids....?'
"Can come with us," I finished for him.
When we arrived, we surveyed the seats saved for us (third row, center). I looked around, assessed that this would PROBABLY be disruptive for everyone around us and opted to move us all to the balcony--considerably less populated, allowing the boys to be themselves without too much fuss and muss.
And (surprise) they both had a great time, enjoyed the show, and neither of them needed to be removed (although hubby hissed at me to take our younger one out at one point--I refused; he was fine).
Moral: you never know unless you try. And the kids, as it happens, CAN do live performances.
Wonders will never cease. Fortunately.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
