sueeeus

in the beginning
perfect in form
smooth
adrift in the sea
CRASH!
broken shards
sharp
tossed, turned
steady onslaught
exposed
vulnerable
washed ashore
tired
worn
smooth
a new form
a thing of beauty
treasure

I’m starting to come to the realization that if only is no solution to anything at all.

The easiest trap I allow myself to fall into is the ‘if only I were thin’ trap.  If only I were thin, I would be happy.  If only I were thin, I would look good, and if I looked good, I’d feel good, because I wouldn’t have any reason not to like myself, so, I’d be happy. And besides that, if I were thin, others (say, significant others) would love me more.  Because nobody likes fat people.

I conveniently forget that there was a time when I was smokin’ hot (never thin, but I was a cutie), and even then, I still found fault with my looks and wished I could be thin.  I’ve always had something to hang ‘if only’ on.  If only I could get through school.  If only I had a reliable car.  If only I had my own house.  If only I were out of debt.  If only I had somebody who loved me.  If only I had kids.

If only.

It’s nothing but a trap.  An excuse.  A crook that distracts me from the beauty of this moment that I will never get back.  Robbing me of my very life.  Tricking me, disarming me, incapacitating me, making me not like myself, making me think I’m not worth liking.  What’s not to like?  I’m nice.  I’m caring.  I’m friendly.  I’m even half-smart about some things, and can hold a reasonable conversation (depending on the subject, that is).  So I’m not thin.  WHO CARES?  Seriously.  Who?  And if anyone besides me, then why?  Why would anyone care what I look like?  Do I care if someone is tall or short or large or small?  No.  NO!  Well, I do have a little trouble with over-cologned people in close proximity, but I have chemical sensitivity and it’s nothing personal.  I’d love it if I could wear cologne myself.  And I don’t particularly like to be around loud people, because I have noise issues.  Loud pleasant people are okay.  I just don’t stand too close so that my head doesn’t ring.

It may be time to break out the zoloft.  But first I will try some more small changes, and give them a chance.  I’ve been going to the gym four days a week.  I need to make that a part of my day, so that there’s no questioning whether or not it will happen.  It just needs to be part of my life.  And I plan to revamp the menu towards more whole foods, and less cheese and meat.  Definitely less cookies.  I’m a cookie fanatic.  And somehow, more sleep.  I put the kids to bed an hour ago, and struggled between grabbing a little bit of me time, or just joining them.

I wish I had a little more time to blog.  It’s so good to take time to collect some thoughts.  But now I hear the baby crying, so off I go.

*~*~*~*

Being the stellar mother that I am, I took just long enough to reread my post that the baby soothed himself back to sleep.  So I have a little more time.

*~*~*~*

Part of me struggles with taking any time to blog because of Gadget’s accusation that I spend all my time on the computer.  When we argue, it invariably comes up.  To which I say, I WAS PUMPING.  Because I did spend 4 hours a day strapped to the breast pump (and hence, on the computer), back when the dairy was in operation.  Since weaning, I’ve spent very little time on the computer.  (Or so I claim.)  I shouldn’t allow false accusations to make me feel guilty.  So here I am, blogging.  (He’s not here, though, otherwise, I’d have stopped at ‘If only I had kids’.)

*~*~*~*

Well hell.  I might as well come out with it.  I mustered the courage to tell Gadget that even though he was back, I realized that I wasn’t happy with ‘us’, whatever ‘we’ are, and don’t want to try to patch things together any more, because all we’ve ever done is sweep things under the carpet and not one thing between us has ever, ever been resolved.  We’re more like oil and vinegar than yin and yang.

So, he left immediately, a week ago Saturday.  And I’ve not seen or heard from him since.

I’m not letting myself manufacture any assumptions about what he’s thinking or feeling.  How can I have any real idea what’s in his head?

I will just feel more peaceful when all the turmoil is a thing of the past and we’ve settled into whatever our new lives will be.  If only this were all behind us…

*~*~*~*

A coworker’s son was died yesterday.  He was killed by a hit-and-run drunk driver.  He, the son, had been in a coma for the last few weeks, and there was much hope and things were looking promising, but when he finally came out of the coma, there was no neural response.  He drifted away yesterday.  He was 29.  It rips me up, that my friend and her family have lost a child who could have had so much life ahead of him.  It’s so, so wrong.  The order of the universe is all messed up when we lose our children.  We are supposed to go first.

*~*~*~*

It’s tragic that someone with so much potential for a beautiful life has no choice; his life was taken from him, and here I am, alive, and wasting precious moments making excuses for myself.  I’m making changes, and change is hard.  Oh GOD, change is hard.  But I owe it to myself, and it would be criminal for me not to.  It’s time to wake up and do what I can to love each and every moment that I get the privilege of living.

This time every year the waves of sorrow return.  Not only memories of my brother, thoughts of his children and how they are coping with this day and their own memories and sorrow, but also the memory of one of my dearest friends.   October used to be my favorite time of the year.  The glorious colors of the leaves on the trees.  Bright blue skies, puffy clouds, crisp cool air.

Now, when October comes, there is the exhilaration I’ve always felt with the changing of the seasons, but with it a melancholy.  Wisps of sadness for lost lives, lost loves.

It’s been four years since my brother’s sudden and tragic departure.  One year since the unexpected loss of my friend.  I think of them often.

I miss them.

~*~*~*~*~

And now for some super cuteness.  How can anybody be sad for long when they can get lost in these pools of grey-blue that go from forever to forever?  Or nibble on the deliciousness of that perfect little face.  My little boy wonder.  He’s growing so fast and is hardly a baby any more.

I feel sad.

I didn’t actually know the coworker who died, but I remember passing him in the halls and every time I’d muse that he so strikingly resembles my dad, when he was a young man.  He was a slight Asian man, eyes averted, encased in his reclusive bubble of personal space.  An eternal student, like my dad.  Only my dad is a linguist, with 14 languages under his belt and a doctorate.  My coworker collected engineering degrees, and studied music.

I feel sad for the lonely life I imagine he lived.  I don’t think he had a partner.  He had no children.  The picture on the leaflet from his memorial service was taken at work.  A shy face, a rumpled shirt, a badge lanyard around his neck.  I find this sad as well, that there would be no pictures of a social or loving nature, from family or friends.

I’m not sure why this shakes me so, other than it stirs thoughts that stir more thoughts.  My dad just turned 83, and he’s amicable to me now.  I try not to be wistful, and try to let go the wish that my parents had been more nurturing.  Even so, some wistfulness bubbles to the top once in a while.  It helps remind me to be more deliberate in nurturing my own dear ones.

And then there’s Mary.  Her world is shaken now, and I have a little notion of what she may be going through, and I tremble.  I squeeze my eyes shut and wish for her with all my might — strength and courage and peace and grace.  I send these thoughts to her.

Maybe also it’s the remnants of the recent bushfire horrors, that stir these fraught emotions within me.

So I feel sad.

I watched a video yesterday that really shook me up.  It had to do with Salma Hayek visiting Sierra Leone, where “one in five children die before reaching their fifth birthday and tetanus is a big contributor.”  A baby happened to take its last breath, just as Salma was stroking her beautiful little face.

I don’t have words to express the depths of how this makes me feel.  To see life just disappear like that.  It’s not like all the flashy mayhem we see on TV.  All that Hollywood stuff.  It’s serious.  It’s real.   It’s heart wrenching.  It’s heart numbing.

There is bloodshed the world over.  People fighting wars.  People caught up in wars, whether they want it or not.  Again, serious, real, heart wrenching, heart numbing.

But children dying.  Children.  I didn’t want to see a child die.

I don’t know how to think or what to think.  I hold my own children close and breathe deeply their warm, living scent.  My comfortable home seems criminal in comparison to the standards in which those struggling people live.

It’s all relative, though, isn’t it?  A rich man might shake his head and think, poor miserable soul, to see the conditions in which I live.  Even so.  It makes me think about what can be done for the greater good.  Obviously there’s too much for any one person to tackle.  I could donate all the money I have, and it would hardly be a drop in the bucket.  I could donate some of the money I have, and it will still be only a drop.  How much can I do?  How much should I do?  What difference can I make?  Since our immediate needs are met, should we then turn any excess over to those more in need?  Or use some to work toward our own hopes and dreams, and set some aside in case of our own rainy days?  I don’t have a complete answer to this, but prudence tells me that I should have a safety net, because that will prevent me and mine from becoming a burden to the public system, especially in these trying times.  That much I should do.  And what of the rest, of those less fortunate than me?

I like the pay it forward concept.  If everyone did something, any thing, to help someone, any one, then good happens.  We can all change lives for the better, one thing at a time.

I’ve been thinking of sponsoring some children in an under-developed nation.  There are always infomercials on about that sort of opportunity.  I would like for my children to give of their bounty to others less fortunate.  I think it will be good for them to learn to share and help others in need.  Now, to find an agency that’s legit.

When the phone rings and you hear a familiar voice, the voice of someone you love, but not the one you usually speak with, you know…

You know that voice has something serious to say that you don’t want to hear, but he has to say it, and you have to hear it.  You know.  You don’t know what to say, and you don’t know what to do, so you say I love you and you say goodbye.  And your heart feels a particular anguish for him, because you know he has more calls to make, and you know what that’s like.  You’ve been in those shoes before.

And you wonder how it could possibly be, as you go about doing the things that you must do this day, as you do every other day; feeding the family, doing the dishes, washing the bedding for the fifth time this week, soothing the crying baby, expressing the milk.

And you cry a little, and try to explain to an almost four year old the concept of loss, when he’s seen far too much movie violence to understand what’s final and what is not.

And you wonder again how it could possibly be, when you’ve just seen her, and she was as she always is, smiling, gentle, kind, warm, and full of love.  How could it possibly be?  She was the first visitor when the baby was born.  She held him in her arms.  We hugged, we looked deeply into each others’ eyes and hearts, we said I love you.

And days later, only days, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and not two months later, she is gone.  How can it possibly be?

Rest in peace, Sweet One, dear Humble Seeker.  Rest in Peace.

Today my beautiful niece turns 12. She is an amazing person, brimming with wisdom, poise, charm, kindness, intelligence, and all things good.

Not long ago, she shared something with our family that stirred us all to our innermost cores. I don’t think that she will mind that I share it here.

Hi. I lately have been really stressed; a lot has been going on. I’ve felt pain for my dad that I haven’t felt in 2 years. It has been 2 years and 7 months and I wanted to just come on and say how much we love him and miss him. I feel like since he was so connected to our message board and his computer, by writing a quick few words he will get them wherever he is, and he will experience all of the family coming together through something so simple but so vital to all of us. So here goes: “Daddy, I have missed you for almost 3 years now. There isn’t a day I don’t think about you. I am not saying that in sadness but in joy that you blessed me with enough time to create memories with you. I have decided a new path for remembering you. Instead of being sad that you left, I’m going to be happy that you were here for however amount of time you were. Although some of the memories I have with you are not necessarily great, they are still with you. I love you. I miss you. And I am sooo sorry for forgetting the promise I made you. But believe me I will get it taken care of. I know you are better. I can finally feel it. I feel like the chains keeping me down, in worry for you have been released. Finally, I know this is what you wanted. Every day our family is getting stronger, closer, and I’m happy to say that I’m not mad, disappointed, or sad anymore. You freed me. My family and my friends have just continued to help cure me. Although no one will ever replace or refill the empty space in my heart for you, there is no need to worry; I have my uncles, cousins, aunts, mom, sisters, and even brother (lol). I’m OK. Thank you. I know I couldn’t have done anything to save you now. I think I’ve felt guilty all this time. Like I had the most responsibility for you and I failed. But now I feel like there was nothing I could do, I will always remember everything. The moment when we went to T– mountain, your life changing smile, and how much you loved family. No matter what, you enjoyed visits from everyone. That is the biggest memory I have. And I’ll never let go. Your ashes will be spread in Italy, I will keep my promise. Also, I won’t forget about the Caribbean. You always said you just wanted to run away there, so I will put some of you there too. I will keep every promise I made you (except the whole Olympic thing). Well, now I have to go but I wanted to share this little conversation with everyone in the family.” I decided to write that because I want to talk about him more, I want to have an intriguing conversation on the great memories everyone had with him before I was born. I feel like talking about him more and remembering him more will make him seem more alive, more, I don’t know, just more. So I thought I would say that. Oh, and I did something I have been afraid to do: I read the message board from October 27th and behind. I read all this stuff I was too afraid to know, it definitely helped. I recommend looking back at the board to years and years ago; our family has grown and although there were some hardships, we are still as close if not closer. I thank you guys for being so helpful with pulling me out of the place where I was hiding. I am forever grateful, and so is Daddy.

And from my sister:

That’s right, Princess!
Thank you for so thoughtfully honoring your dad,
and for sharing those thoughts with the family.
In this, you have instinctively brought him to life
in our minds, in the most loving way.
To understand his love for us is yet alive,
is to understand a very empowering secret:

We are his heaven.

We can live there, inside his best giggle
and most loving intentions for his family,
and watch in wonder as all his dreams
are coming true.
The best of Six of Nine is still
very much alive.
Thank you for showing us, Princess.

And from my other sister:

Princess, when you write or speak it’s as if you’re a channel through which God speaks to us. You are a true angel and such a tremendous gift to this family. We all love you more than we could ever say. Together we’ll all remember all that was beautiful in your Dad’s life. I’m so glad you realize there is/was NOTHING you could have done to change anything, but what you CAN do is live well and be happy. Your soul has so much wisdom that must come from somewhere in the spirit realm, a place that is timeless. When you decided to be happy and thankful for the time you had, rather than be sad for time you missed, you discovered a very important truth to living a great life. Always remember that and be thankful for all the blessings that you do have. When I was feeling down at your age your Grandma used to always say, “why don’t you go count your blessings?” and it’s true. One blessing I’ll be sure to count is having you as my niece, and you’ve added a great deal of happiness to my life. I love you darling.

And they all say it better than I, but this girl of ours, she is most precious indeed, and we love her dearly, so very dearly.

Happy Birthday, Princess.

It’s been two years.

I heard somebody once say that it takes two years to get back to a sense of normalcy. Grieving is a process. A very long process.

I wish I could understand. I wish I knew what he was going through. I wish I could have intervened. I wish I could have made him better. Or at least helped him.

I will always remember him as my bright eyed boy.

I miss him.

Preparing for the trip was very difficult. There was so little time to get things together. Going through a lifetime’s accumulation of photos. Finding the sum of a person’s life is only 124 photos. Crying. Shopping for suitable ash containers. Creating a slideshow for the service. Finding the right music. Crying. Installing a DVD burner in my computer. Getting it to work. Packing up. Crying. It was emotionally and physically exhausting.
We had a display with photos and flowers.
Small boxes filled with his ashes for loved ones to take. The lavender baby blanket that all nine of us came home from the hospital in. Some letters he had written.
Ashes and flowers on the mantle.
And balloons with tiny tissue packets of ashes tied to the ends.
They were beautiful.
We released his ashes to the sky. It was a beautiful sight to behold. The winds carried him away. Up, up, and away.

When it’s my time, I hope somebody sends me off like that. Up, up, and away.

Dear Jack,
I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you last weekend. I was feeling a bit selfish and just wanted to stay in. I didn’t get out of my pyjamas all day. Or maybe all weekend, for that matter. You see, I lost my brother on October 27th. And learning to grieve is a new thing for me. Remember I mentioned it on the 29th, the last time I saw you. Remember I brought Boo in so you could see him in his Halloween costume, so it would brighten your day. It was all so fresh and I mentioned it to you, briefly. You didn’t say anything, though. Not a word. I thought perhaps you might say I’m sorry for your loss, or this must be difficult. But you said nothing at all (which kind of hurt my feelings). Maybe it was hard to hear about another losing his life, especially one so young, when you were confined to that miserable bed in that miserable nursing home, your own life slowly fading away. The aide came to feed you dinner, so we said our goodbyes. Where’s my kiss, you barked at me. It was too crowded for all of us in there. Me, Boo, the aide. I could barely reach you to lean over and kiss you. But since you put it that way… We had a nice visit, didn’t we You told me that I had rescued you. You were trapped in an airplane. You had been dreaming, you see, but I arrived in the nick of time. I’m glad I could be of assistance.

Today, I packed up Boo, even though I still don’t feel like getting out and about, but I know how much it brightens your week to have a little visit from us. And your neighbor Herman sure loves our visits too. He always asks if he can keep Boo.

I was walking towards your room and the nurse stopped me to ask who I was visiting.
My friend Jack, I said. Oh, I’m sorry, he passed away, she said.
When I asked. Last Saturday. The 5th. Around noon. He drifted away in his sleep.

So you see, you left us, on the day I was being selfish. I could have been there and held your hand while you drifted off to meet your maker. It’s the time I’m normally there. Instead, you were all alone. I’m sorry I missed you.

In a way, I’m also a bit miffed at that person you call a son, even though he’s not your son. He hardly ever visited you. He didn’t even bring you clean clothes when you needed them. The staff asked me about it and I said I didn’t know what your arrangement was, but that the so called son was responsible for your care. As far as I can see, he has done very little to reciprocate all that you have ever done for him, and I find that quite pathetic. He could have called me and let me know. He knows I’m your only friend here. I would have wanted to be by your side when they lowered your spent body into the earth. I know that every time we saw each other, we knew it might be the last time. And I’m glad you told me you weren’t afraid to go. You lived a colorful and eventful life, my friend. I’m glad to have met you.

But I’m sorry I missed you.

My friend Jack.
August 1, 1916 – November 5, 2005