“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” ― Anne Lamott
With winter nearing
With winter nearing, I remember spring:
A fickle March, before my mother died.
Her bed lay flush with window. Side by side,
We watched another snowfall—wondering
At all the forms a snowflake takes: like bone
Turned ash, like milkweed floss, like feather.
Tonight they fell in tufts that clung together,
But for a few who braved the fall alone.
Heavy, wet, yet floating. It was night,
The storm lit from beneath. (My mother’s room
Was lucky, disconcerting midnight gloom
By posing, drapes pulled wide, above the light
That advertised the doors below, where hearse
And ambulance were meant to go.) We watched
The snow in halogenic awe untouched,
Unbroken now, by dietician, nurse,
Aide, hospice worker, laundress, orderly,
Their squeaking soles no longer restless hounds
That whined and sniffed at daylit doors; their rounds
Unspooled at last. And so we lay there free.
We lay there, clumped and clinging, and we felt
That we might never die, but only melt.
I pause to think how lonesome-long I’ve felt
that snowflakes never die but merely melt.
And so with us: this small, liquescent love.
We started–aimless, frozen flecks of fluff…
You know the rest, if either does. I’ve guessed
at reasons for our muteness: coalesced–
a lukewarm puddle, now—we know we know
already what the other knows (and more).
We pre-discern the gist of sighs. Each stone
that shocks the other, ripples as our own.
You wake so early, now. I sleep so late,
abiding time till we evaporate.
Above: “Street Crossing” (1992) by the American artist George Segal (1924-2000)
Robert Pinsky’s “Genesis According to George Segal”
The Spirit brooded on the water and made
The earth, and molded us out of earth. And then
The Spirit breathed Itself into our nostrils—
And rested. What was the Spirit waiting for?
An image of Its nature, a looking glass?
Glass also made of dust, of sand and fire.
Ordinary, enigmatic, we people waiting
In the terminal. A survivor at a wire fence,
Also waiting. Behind him, a tangle of bodies
Made out of plaster, which plasterers call mud.
The apprentice hurries with a hod of mud.
Particulate sand for glass. Milled flour for bread.
What are we waiting for? The hour glass
That measures all our time in trickling dust
Is also of dust and will return to dust—
So an old poem says. Men in a bread line
Out in the dusty street are silent, waiting
At the apportioning-place of daily bread.
At an old-fashioned radio’s wooden case
A man sits listening in a wooden chair.
A woman at a butcher block waits to cut.
What are we waiting for, in clouds of dust?
Or waiting for the past, particles of being
Settled and moist with life, then brittle again.
Extra cool thing: Robert Pinsky reads this poem aloud here:
“There’s a lovely Hasidic story of a rabbi who always told his people that if they studied the Torah, it would put Scripture on their hearts. One of them asked, “Why on our hearts, and not in them?” The rabbi answered, “Only God can put Scripture inside. But reading sacred text can put it on your heart, and then when your hearts break, the holy words will fall inside.” –Anne Lamott (from her book Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith)
I’ve never been the sort who closes doors on the past. Or, no, that’s not true. I close doors all the time–I just don’t keep them locked. My lifeworn family, ancient friends, antediluvian lovers–even the most distant and/or catastrophic of these relationships is like a bank account I still keep a little money in. (The minimum balance, sometimes: barely enough to warrant the paperwork.) And now and then—to my own surprise, usually—I’ll make a small deposit, or even, rarely, a withdrawal. I’ll look up a friend I haven’t talked to in many years and renew the correspondence for a little while before eventually, inevitably, I let it lapse again.
Late last summer I drove my daughter Becky to her freshman year at Eden College (as they might as well call it): a liberal-arts utopia blooming with marigolds, nasturtiums, and a left-wing agenda so unabashedly radical that it left me nostalgic for a world I’d thought had been eroded away–by time, by parody–years ago. To me the campus seemed a bubble, an oasis. At the very least, it was a clever and durable mirage, thriving, as it seemed, in the midst of a ramshackle, foreclosure-mottled Illinois town that had dried up when the Maytag plant closed–moved operations to Mexico–in 2004. Living as I did (and do) in a similarly dried-up Montana town (copper mine, Chile, 1983), I’d developed a bedouin’s gratitude for oases, not to mention a knack for finding them everywhere, whether they existed or not.
I was driving home from Eden now. For the first hour I cried and cried, because Becky is my beloved, my only child, and this would be my first year living far from her. Then for the ten or twelve hours of driving that followed the first, I listened to an audiobook of Lolita, as read–as insinuated–by Jeremy Irons, which slowly, inexorably, made me feel better.
I-90 took me through the heart of South Dakota, and, feeling so suddenly on the brim of a new life (it was too soon to tell, but already I felt myself tingling with my own genesis), I acted on an idea that had been simmering in my mind for a while—ever since I’d realized the college trip would take me through that part of the country. From my hotel in Rapid City I called up a boyfriend—a fiancé, to be more precise than need be, and my first real love—from thirty years ago.
We’d ended badly. No need to go into the how and why. I’m not even sure I need acknowledge that our break-up was entirely my fault–though it was, it was. Still, even without having seen him in all this time, that old bank account (to renew that yawnful metaphor) still felt open to me. I’d discovered his whereabouts and phone number via the internet, of course, though they’d been tougher than usual to find because his first and last name are both very common. But I’d always figured he’d eventually moved back to South Dakota, where his roots were. And so, it turned out, he had. I found him–the man I knew for sure was him–via a record of his $650 contribution to a (doomed) South Dakota senatorial campaign back in 2010.
So I called him–why not–and we ended up meeting for lunch the next day at the hotel/casino where he works as some sort of business manager. And it went fine—a bit lackluster, of course, since it’s almost always true that people I haven’t seen since we were younger turn out to have mellowed so much more than I have. Or maybe they’ve simply learned that useful skill of emotional caution that I’ve never been able—or, I guess, willing—to develop in myself. They see the past as having happened long ago, I think, whereas I seem, especially in contrast, to still be living it. It’s surely very easy for people to get the idea that I’ve never stopped thinking of them, even maybe that I’m obsessed, I don’t know. They must sense my yearning to re-engage them in moments we once shared—inside jokes, surprises, conflicts, turning points, endings.
I’m always on the threshold of asking—and sometimes I actually do ask: Remember that time when you said that thing? What did you mean when you said that? And how did you feel when I didn’t answer you right away, or later when I made a joke of it? Or how about that Thanksgiving at my house—remember how when you met my dad you were wearing your “Fuck Authority” (or something facsimilar) t-shirt? What was your impression of how that meeting went? And then, that night maybe a year later when–in the argument that ended us–I told you that I’d been sleeping with your best friend [trite but true], and you told me later that if you’d had a gun you would have killed yourself, did you mean that? Oh, honey, did you mean it literally, I mean, and does that distinction even matter, really? And how did you finally get past it all—by repression, forgetting, surrender? Or is there some other way I haven’t managed to learn yet?
Moreover (I want to ask but don’t, quite, which is why I’m asking now, I suppose), did you know that I spent a whole year mourning the end of us? That I would do my work, endure my social obligations, and then any time I had even a half-hour just to myself, I’d take that time to cry and cry? A whole year of that, almost to the day. You, in fact, were the impetus for my learning how to cry without making any noise. I was living with those people then, you may remember, and so I came to learn that skill, because of you. And it’s come in very handy in all the time that’s come and gone since, and I’m sincere when I say “thank you” for it.
I was twenty-one at the time. You were the first real loss I’d ever known, and you taught me how to be overwhelmed by grief and yet not—not what? Not die, for sure—but more important, not fold, not dry up: you taught me the art of going through life’s motions even when they feel completely meaningless. It was my first lesson—and there’ve been so many others along the way since, and surely many more on the road ahead—you taught me my first lesson in giving up while still going on, in surrendering without dying. You also taught me how time works—the ways it heals you, the scars it leaves. These were teachings that would come in so very handy in the thirty years that followed you, even to the point where I no longer need to tell you, or anyone, exactly when and how.
And here you are, sitting across from me now in your suit and tie, but your hair—which was graying even back then, I think—is still as bushy, as on the very brink of revolt, as ever. No beard, though. I miss the beard—you look a little empty without it. But of course you’re not empty. I saw your photographs on-line. I’d totally forgotten– or did I ever know?– how you loved photography, and also how in tune you were with nature, with all things wild, rustic, weathered, overgrown. (How did we end up together, honey, when I’m so obviously an “indoor” girl?) It turns out you’re in love with the way the mountains look at sunrise—and I suppose if I were to allow myself one resentment, it would be of the way you always let me sleep so late in the mornings. I wish you’d led the way more often. I wish I’d let you lead the way. But I know that whenever you tried to lead, I dragged my feet. So, no, that’s not your fault either, now that I think it through. And your political views are still so radical (this part of you remains as untamable as your hair)—that much is obvious just from your Facebook links. Still, for all that, my dad seemed to really like you—and I’m not sure whether that suggests something I never knew about him, or will never know about you, or, most likely, both never-knowings at once.
So here I am with you—with this guy, really, this middle-aged man whom I’d had to struggle to recognize through the bars of the cashier’s cage in the casino lobby, and who’d probably had to contain a certain visceral shock when he glanced out to find me there, the frowzy old me I’ve become, I mean. And it turns out, during the brief moments in our lunch-talk that aren’t, more or less, awkward, or, worse, pedestrian, that you’ve spent your life-since-me learning your own, completely separate lessons.
You talk, too briefly, about your own father, how it took you years to realize how rotten he’d been. And of course my first thought is to feel bad that I hadn’t seen this myself in those old days, that I couldn’t have studied the situation, then told you how things really were–not to brag, but I’m actually quite good at disillusioning people about their parents, just ask my husband—so you could get on sooner with the hard-labor process of letting him go. I never met your father, of course, and I don’t remember that you talked about him much back then. But still I must somehow have glimpsed him. I know this because when I think of him, and even when I think his name, “Emmett,” he appears (as if by lightning flash) as a tall slab of gray-black stone jutting upright out of dull mountain fog. He and Faulkner’s Abner Snopes are stored in the very same English-major memory cell; they share the same trope, form the same unyielding monolith in my mind, every time I remember them.
So he was why you finally got your law degree, and he was why you didn’t, even more finally, remain a lawyer. He was the reason you took all that time off from school to work for the railroad and the highway crew, two jobs that get mixed up in my mind, as if they were one single job, and all I really know about them is that you came home every night coated with tar. I’m sorry about that too—about not knowing more than that, I mean. I should have been paying attention, should have asked you why you took those jobs, and not only that, why they seemed to center you, make you feel worthy, make you feel at home, in ways that neither law school nor I myself ever could.
While I’m on a roll: I shouldn’t have felt so perpetually shamed by your general lack of shame, or by the way you never had money or a working car. I should have honored the way you kept trying to define yourself as yourself, and not merely as the opposite of someone else, which was the only way I myself knew how to do that sort of thing at the time. That frankness of yours—that grin you flashed as you watched me undress. The thin lines of asphalt that came to seem permanent, like tiny, curved tattoos beneath your fingernails. Instead I was embarrassed by your earthiness, embarrassed by you. How often I must have reddened, sighed, nagged, clenched my teeth, blurted it all out. I found you vulgar at a time when I was working hard–via the taintless, scentless breeze of “art”—to transcend my own inborn vulgarity. Still, however much I pretended otherwise, I’d come from the same hard world you did, which is probably why, from our very first conversation (on the landing between the second and third floors of our dormitory, and me very drunk on my twentieth birthday) you seemed so utterly familiar to me, so like home—and which, come to think of it, may be one among several remarkable reasons that my dad (who hardly ever liked anyone, by the way) liked you so very much.
And all this is occurring to me for the first time right now, honey, as I’m telling it to you.
acceptance, apophenia, autism, choice, comfort, family, grief, grokking, Hannah, illusion, journal, loss, love, memory, metaphor, motherhood, quote, robert heinlein, serendipity, slice of life, thinking out loud, zen
Journal entry, August 28, 2014
Cleaning house yesterday, on a forgotten shelf I found a shirt of Hannah’s. A stretchy Goodwill t-shirt, powder blue, with folksy flower-seed-packet art on the front. Minor stains, of course, plus a hole in the back collar where someone (I?) had clumsily lopped off the tag. [Shirt tags made Hannah itch.] I held the shirt to my face and breathed it in like an idiot seeking the flowers. But no, it was just that the shirtfront–and then the shirt’s inside–was the only part that hadn’t been exposed to nine years of dust.
And I believed the shirt still smelled like Hannah, believed that I could know–could grok*–her presence, her self, merely through these greedy inhalations of not-quite-random air. I sat on my bedroom floor and pulled the shirt onto my head (think of a blind bank-robber), and then, to a point far past absurdity and fast approaching asphyxia, I breathed in and out its ineffably Hannah smell. (Must, dust, detergent, every mundane staleness, but something of her there too–something.) I chose to feel myself awash in her essence. As in the many dreams I’d dreamed, hope-caught, throughout her life, I felt free once more to slip beneath the surface of Hannah’s embryonic, oceanic world, and to breathe, however feebly, underwater.
I chose to feel–and to believe–all this on such a primal level that the mind had no clue of the choice till it was made. But with a shrug, quite used by now to the heart’s vagaries, the mind humored us both. I nuzzled for one last deep second against the thread-worn seams that defined the shirt’s armpits. Then I pulled the shirt off and held it awhile. I dusted it, refolded it, and–ah, my darling girl, now what to do? Replace it on the forgotten shelf? Cleave it into rags? Throw it away? I couldn’t, can’t, decide this yet.
Ah yes, but still, how well I know: let go, let go, let go, let go.
Grok means to understand so thoroughly that the observer becomes a part of the observed—to merge, blend, intermarry, lose identity in group experience. It means almost everything that we mean by religion, philosophy, and science—and it means as little to us (because of our Earthling assumptions) as color means to a blind man.
acceptance, autism, black swan, both, compassion, death, empathy, grace, Hannah, happiness, illusion, imbalance, letting go, loss, motherhood, Nassim Nicholas Taleb, play, quotation, randomness, surrender, transience, tweet, union, yin yang, zen
“Love without sacrifice is like theft.” —Nassim Nicholas Taleb
July 7, 2004
When I say goodbye–when I try to say goodbye—they put their arms around me, one from one side, one from the other. And they cling there. Henry says, Okay Beck, here’s the plan—we don’t let go and she never gets away.
Becky had a dream–she and Henry were chasing me.
It takes such courage to let me go—I must have done something wrong. It should be easier than this. Their lives shouldn’t suspend themselves in midair when I’m out of sight. It all makes me very nervous—I hate the goodbyeing. The long drawn-out process, the hug I have to wrench myself away from, the sad faces, hurt faces as if I’m betraying them by wanting something separate. I can’t walk into a room without their watching my every move. Today Becky tells me her tale of woe. Then Henry walks in and says, “When she’s done complaining to you, I get to be next.”
Some days I don’t feel like searching [through clover] for [four-leaf] metaphors. I want to tell this story straight, for once–but I honestly don’t know how. As it is, can you glimpse it, love? Could it be hiding, maybe, in the spaces between my words?
Another letting go
“The one that got away.” The fish that broke free
of the hook. It’s a powerful cliché. It’s the perfect
crushed-into-scrap-metal metaphor for what we all
feel, deep down, how much we worship and long
for whatever we’ve lost. It’s seldom the one who
stayed whom we love most, but the one who, like
the prodigal son, escaped us. My husband got away.
He got away, perhaps, for good. He’s sitting five
feet to my left, reading a book about the Middle
East, but he’s lost to me, and I to him. Not that
I’ll ever tell him this. No, we’ll go on, and we’ll
be happy. Still, it’s a sad thing to give up on
someone, to leave him to drown. But it’s what
you have to do in the end. Henry and I had no
other choice. On his side: I’ve become crazy,
or at the very least, incomprehensible. On mine:
I had to let my husband go because I could see,
far too clearly, that he had already gone. (Yes,
yes, but how arrogant I am to assume he’ll
drown. Everyone knows that fish swim fine.)