The Joy and the Pain of It

I am a mess.

We are not doing Christmas “up” this year in any big way, but there are still cookies to bake, and a tree to decorate.  I have a few presents to wrap.  And our schools are open this week, so there is substituting.  To add some distraction to Christmas itself, we’ve invited neighbors over for Christmas Eve afternoon, so I have a small get-together to plan.  And then on Christmas Day itself I am flying to my sister’s, so there is a bag to pack.

All of this is fun and do-able.  Everybody figures out how to make it work.

But I also messed up my alarm clock, so I overslept today.  And I shattered a glass while I was decorating.  And my head hurts.  And I am actually in a downright grumpy mood.

Which surprises me.

No doubt the work of grieving never ends, but it is easy to underestimate the toll it takes.   Unpacking ornaments that celebrate Molly’s childhood, or visiting with the  college students of neighbors who are home for break, or listening to some of the holiday songs that are on my iPod only because Molly liked them are on some level nurturing activities.  Warm holiday moments.  But they are also reminders of how much is gone from my life.  

Forever.

Oprah’s Favorite Things

I’ve learned a lot from Oprah Winfrey.  I value her rock-solid belief in a bountiful universe.  I am inspired by her challenge to Live Your Best Life – and I sense that there is a divine hand in her life story.  She is the right person for a lot of people at the right time, and God is in all of that somewhere.

She is also a great gift-giver.

So this year, I entered her Favorite Things Sweepstakes Giveaway.  Every day for 12 days (think “12 Days of Christmas”) I went online and typed my entry for the chance to win over 70 gifts personally selected by Oprah and others in her network. 

 

With the best of intentions I’ve perused the gifts for weeks, sure that my sister would enjoy Cat Cora’s Ugg Slippers and my neighbor (who has four kids and no income) would enjoy the indulgence of the Egg-Shaped soaps.  Another neighbor, who is facing his first Christmas without his wife of 40 years, was going to benefit from some of the food items, and I was going to keep the bags.

I admit that I was going to keep the bags.

Is that the problem?   Is that why I didn’t win?  I was really looking forward to being the sensational giver that one simply cannot be when one is substitute teaching to supplement unemployment insurance.  I was looking forward to being able to make the grand gesture.  But I also wanted a little fun for myself.

I didn’t win.  That‘s the up and down of it, and I am oddly disappointed.  I always knew the odds were nil – surely hundreds of thousands entered.  And I am going to throw the open house anyway – it will simply be more of a potluck than an extravaganza.  No gift table required.

I don’t really believe in coincidence.  I am sure that the twelve winners are exactly who the twelve winners should have been.  I just wish that one of them could have been me.

Art

I am NOT an artist.  Far from it. 

But yesterday, somewhere between finishing up a school paper, cleaning up a dinner party and answering phones for public television, I spent some time with my art supplies. 

It was a curious hour and a half or so.  I started without inspiration – beyond the fact that I wanted to do something holiday related.  Picture me with an air of frustraton paging through holiday cookbooks and children’s books in a struggle to find something I might be able to work with.  I settled on Christmas stockings. 

Great.

And then, as I spent more time with the stockings, I realized I wanted to capture loss – and the unshakeable belief I have that death does not get the last word.  And in the process, for the first time, I understood art as meditation. 

Surprising.  Not planned.

A gift.

The Family Sing

I still enjoy the holidays. 

Over Thanksgiving we had a family sing-along.  Trust me, this was a You Tube enhanced event, completley spontaneous, with no leader but lots of energy.  It stated with the best of The Lion King, moved on to Mulan, tackled a bit of Rent and ended up with hymns and church songs. 

And oh, I loved it
.

I could hear my grandmother singing “Now Thank We All Our God” from her tiny parish pew in rural Illinois.  Grandma was not a good singer, but she sure belt out the hymns!  We spent a lot of time as kids at her big house on the river and her little church was the site of both her funeral and my parents’ wedding.   So many powerful memories in one song.

I was re-living Molly singing “Seasons of Love” with other girls during a high school performance.  It was such a great moment on the stage and I remember watching and hoping that she was sensing that she was part of something big and wonderful and special.  And I also remember a vague awareness that she was really not understanding how wonderful she was.

Lion King songs brought back the day that Molly and a cousin saw Lion King on Broadway.  We went to McDonald’s before the show (high class, right?) and had great seats for the performance.  Wonderful.

There are just three generations of us alive right now.  But the whole family was there to sing – in our memories, in our hearts, in our midst. 

And that’s why I still love the holidays.   The veil is very thin at this time of year.  We can almost touch the infinite.   I will hear my grandmother’s voice; I will hang my daughter’s ornaments.  And I will celebrate that love never dies and is never ever wasted.

Thanksgiving Stillness

So here we are at Thanksgiving.   We are spending time in Plam Springs, CA with my inlaws and it is paradise for sure.   This is a new tradition for us, something we have done only since Molly died, but it is fun and sustaining and a good break.  Perfect weather.  A pool and a hot tub.  Some board games with a glass of wine.   A complete departure from our East Coast lives.

There is a lot of quiet.  That will be remedied by the end of the week  when a dozen neices and nephews are expected to descend on us.  But until then, there is beauty and stillness and an invitation to literally sink in to peace.

Maybe I will find some peace here.  Peace is different than the confidence and happiness that comes from constant motion.  Peace implies that I can be still long enough to let the cacophony of doubts and memories and confusions that always accompany quiet have their place in my heart and then leave.

So here I am.  Quiet.  Available.  Listening.  And eager to let the stillness give way to tomorrow's 5K race followed by the trip to the hot tub and a great dinner.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Nightmares

The dreams have been coming.

Hangings.  Everywhere.  I wake to them.

And then I get up and live my life.  Most of the people I interact with on a daily basis would be shocked to know that my daughter died by suicide.  At work, folks don’t know me well and for the most part I function either somewhat anonymously or at least at a reasonable level of competence.  I don’t ooze grief.

But that doesn’t mean.  For one second.  That the dreams go away.  Or that I am somehow “over” this nightmare.

Molly’s suicide is part of me.  Forever.  But I am not going to give these dreams more of my life than they have already taken.

I love the 5 year old mastering the monkey bars, the 10 year old at ease on a horse, the 14 year old with such incredible music and drama skills, and the 16 year old who chose to leave this life.  I love them all.

Part of my story is plainly horrific and emerges in sleep, but Molly is special and loved and even sacred to me.   I will not be afraid of my own memories.

Thank You, Collin!

My nephew had the choice to celebrate his birthday with a weekend in New York City, or to spend the weekend with us.  He chose to spend the weekend with us.

I don’t think that he is old enough (11) to understand how he has honored us with his choice.   For him, we are a safe place where there are plenty of video games and not too many rules or restrictions.  I don’t think we’re a service project.

I do think that Collin’s choice to spend his birthday weekend with us is a huge affirmation.  It suggests that we are good with kids – fun to be around – a choice worth making.  I know that Molly saw us that way too – I really do;  I don’t think her death was in any way about us.  But it is incredibly special to know that young people continue to look up to us, to need us, to seek us out.  Our nieces and nephews, Molly's friends, our neighbors - young people are at the heart of our healing.  And we are grateful.

So this weekend I’ll be baking a lemon birthday cake, buying some balloons, and heading to the local adventure park.  Maybe we’ll go to Dave and Buster’s.  I know we’ll play lots of wii. 

Collin has voted with his birthday in our favor, and I can’t wait to make it a special and fun occasion for all of us.