Talking To Grief

Christmas Season and Memory

2005-12-05T15:20:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I should start with an apology because I know I said I would try to post something everyday. Indeed, I have thought of posting these past few days but have been unable. I am not a big crier, but I have been crying a lot. It is a double edged sword that I was so close to my grandparents. It means that I turn on the news and hear teachers in a certain district in Georgia are forbidden from wishing their students a Merry Christmas and I hear an exasperated expression, a ticking sound made with the tongue, then my grandma saying "Oh for God's sake." I can nearly laugh but I don't. If I could still pick up the phone and talk to her about how P.C. our world has become we'd be laughing.

This morning on "The Today Show" they featured a family that had their whole house and yard decked out in Christmas lights. My grandparents had nothing so extravagant and the decorating was courtesy of my uncle stringing the lights across the roof line and their front row of bushes, but the effect was welcoming and warm. as I'd drive up, especially after dark, knowing my uncle had wanted to do this for them in their later years to make the holiday special, knowing they'd turned on the lights for me, for the same reason.

The double edge is that although I have these memories and knew my grandparents so well they nearly speak from some place inside, they are not waiting for me. They do no wait for me to pick up the phone. They do not wait for me to accelerate down the long hill, even with foot on the brake, before turning up their drive to the little ranch with the large American flag in the yard and the Christmas lights glowing like gum drops. Often I could see their shadows through the blinds of the kitchen, sitting at the table, tv on, waiting near the door. For me.

Dorianne Laux's "How It Will Happen, When"

2005-12-01T15:11:00.000-08:00

After reading the wonderful interview with Dorianne Laux in the fall edition of Southern Hum, I sought out her work. I have been falling in love with it the past several weeks. Late last night while I was up, not feeling well, too many thoughts in my head, I read "How It Will Happen, When."

Meridith

How It Will Happen, When

There you are, exhausted from a night of crying, curled up on the couch,
the floor, at the foot of the bed, anywhere you fall you fall down crying,
half amazed at what the body is capable of, not believing you can cry
anymore. And there they are, his socks, his shirt, your underwear
and your winter gloves, all in a loose pile next to the bathroom door,
and you fall down again. Someday, years from now, things will be
different, the house clean for once, everything in its place, windows
shining, sun coming in easily now, sliding across the high shine of wax
on the wood floor. You'll be peeling an orange or watching a bird
spring from the edge of the rooftop next door, noticing how,
for an instant, its body is stopped on the air, only a moment before
gathering the will to fly into the ruff at its wings and then doing it:
flying. You'll be reading, and for a moment there will be a word
you don't understand, a simple word like now or what or is
and you'll ponder over it like a child discovering language.
Is you'll say over and over until it begins to make sense, and that's
when you'll say it, for the first time, out loud: He's dead. He's not
coming back. And it will be the first time you believe it.

This poem is from Dorianne Laux's book Smoke, (BOA, editions 2000). Please visit Blue Flower Arts for more information on Dorianne Laux and her work

About The Holiday Season

2005-11-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

This is a small note to say that I recognize the difficulty for the many grieving during this time of year. From this day forward, I will do my best to post daily to this blog: a poem, a quote, or a more personal entry of my own.

Peace and Blessing to You,

Meridith Gresher

"Remember" by Christina Rossetti

2005-11-30T15:52:00.000-08:00

Remember

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day.
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

For more information and to read more works visit this page with more links for Christina Rossetti

The Lake

2005-11-30T01:18:00.000-08:00

We're in daylight savings time. It gets dark early. I've come to the lake for the second time since you died. This time alone.

As I get out of my car, I approach the lake you loved, the lake where you wanted to live. There are teenagers clumped together, a dog tied up at the post, and another boy nearby an older model BMW. One man, middle-aged, feeds swans and ducks.

Yes, the swans. I am finally seeing them and I want to cry for the fact. But... there are too many people here. I take a seat on a large rock near the water's edge. You saw the swans, didn't you? Or did you only see one?

I remember you telling me about it as I stood at your desk the day after you'd been to the lake. We talked about why you only saw one swan, why it was without its mate. I believe this to be true. There are times I think I invent conversation. I remember standing at your desk. I am sure I stood at your desk talking about swans.

The man leaves with his dog once he empties the remnants of the bread bag. Ducks scatter as one swan swims toward me, expectant.

"Hello beautiful. I'm sorry, but I have nothing for you."

This swan looks at me, waits then back-peddles towards its mate, when I do not deliver any food. My eyes travel across the lake to the tree tops where the sun hangs so early in the evening sky. I hear what sounds like raspberries on a babies stomach and see the swans at play. Lovely and surprising. I've never thought of them as playful creatures.

Two teenage girls swing on the swingset, doing most of the talking, while a boy stands by as they try to impress him. You'd be shocked by their conversation. Or maybe you wouldn't.

Somewhere in the distance I hear Canada Geese. I miss you. It's getting cold now. It's getting close to your final days. It grows dark, but I think I can feel you here. I can hardly see my words on this page as I write. I will stop.

Grief For The Missing In Our Society And Project Jason

2005-11-27T19:40:00.000-08:00

What must it be like to leave with the loss of a family member or friend who is missing? I pray I will never have to find out the answer. I pray you will never find an answer either. Think for a moment. Ask yourself what it must be like to perpetually wonder, fall between hope and despair, walk what must feel an eternal walk wanting yet fearing an answer. It must feel incredibly isolating and foreign. This is a season for giving thanks. If those you love best are all accounted for tonight, I humbly request you continue reading.

A few nights ago Larry King aired a show on CNN the topic was the adult missing in our country, specifically those cases which have gone cold. The show featured family members of the missing and a woman by the name of Monica Caison who has an organization called C.U.E. to help aid family members in their search for answers; I immediately went online to search out more information on both.

Doing so led me to a fellow blogger named Kelly Jolkowski who has created a blog, Voice 4 The Missing, and most importantly a non-profit organization, Project Jason, that helps bring support and resources to families with missing loved ones. She has done so in honor of her son Jason who has been missing since June 13, 2001.
Links for her as well as CUE are provided below.

I believe we all have the opportunity in our lives to create change within and without. Most choices are inconsequential in the moment: what we eat for breakfast, whom we let in our traffic line, or which shampoo we buy. They do add up to form the cross section we weave, a pattern of who we are and how we are living. Some events swoop down upon us which we most assuredly do not choose and over which we have no sway. Kelly Jolkowski and her family could not possibly have affected the outcome of her son’s disappearance that day, but somehow she has taken her pain and worked to effect change in legislation and in the outcome of missing persons cases.

My choice, to request permission from Kelly to link to her blog on Talking To Grief was an easy one. We think of death and illness as great fears in this society, perhaps because we talk so little of them. We fear them visiting our loved ones and ourselves. Yet the sorrow of the missing we do not keep so present in our minds save the big news stories that fill cable, evening news magazines in nightly fashion. We do not think much of the missing in their staggering numbers. Kelly quotes a statistic on her site which I will borrow: in the US, there are over 97, 000 active missing persons cases. OVER 97, 000.

Please take time to visit Voice 4 The Missing, Project Jason and CUE. Please take time to really LOOK at the faces of the missing when you get those fliers in your mailbox. Exposure is the key to answers. Kelly’s site provides ways that every average citizen can help. If it feels right to you, please do so.

With Thanks,

Meridith Gresher

Please check out Kelly Jolkowski's web journal Voice 4 The Missing

Please visit Kelly Jolkowski's non-profit organization Project Jason

Please visit Monica Caison's non-profit CUE Center For Missing Persons

To The Table: About Thanksgiving

2005-11-25T15:21:00.000-08:00

I think holidays are almost always about the past. Maybe that’s because we are almost always about the past, a compendium of it: expectations, moments of connection, old wounds, fears, loves, hopes, and remembrances. All of these within us meet all of these within everyone we join with at the holidays. Is it any wonder there is so much navigating and negotiating to do?

This year we had two less places at the table. I could say three because my aunt and her nuclear family went to their in-laws, but this is not the same. They will be among us again, another year, another time. Permanently, we have two less places, my grandparents. Last night, Thanksgiving, we continue another year of ‘the firsts.’ We did them for my grandma. Now, we are doing them again. We are racing to the close, nearing the last days.

I could see us all negotiating, remembering, forgetting, struggling and finding the way through the day. All of us bumped up against the changes, listened to our internal dialogues while the external ones flew about us. I could see it when my aunt asked for too many chairs to be brought into the dining room, the way we could barely get the names out during the prayer, the way my uncle sat to my left at the head of the table, the place where my grandfather had been two year before as we sat through thanksgiving without my grandma. I was not in a good place that day and I remember him helping me through it with a look and a light touch of his hand on mine.

This year I found my grandma’s eyes looking back at me from my cousin. I was watching him while we were all busy with dessert. My friend and fellow writer, Liesl Jobson, wrote a poem called “Genetic Gift;” I suppose this is exactly what we have, gifts, signs of those who have come before us, genetic and otherwise. We carry them in the strands of our DNA. We carry them in our pasts and bring them with us to the table.

The Blog "As I Knew Her"

2005-11-15T17:54:00.000-08:00

I wanted to take a moment to say that I am taking down the link to the site "As I Knew Her." The name has been taken over by someone else, but the writer of this loving and beautiful grief tribute from one sister to another is no longer the owner. I've known this for awhile, but the removal of the link has been harder than expected. It, too, is a kind of passing. This time a fitting one.

Some of you who read my words, I believe, came to the site through "As I Knew Her." I can tell you that I have come to know this writer, miss her words, and wish to thank her publicly for the difference she has made by sharing her sorrow and her insights with all of us lucky enough to have read her words. And through her words, we've been lucky enough to know her sister.

If not for her, I don't think I would have had the courage to keep writing this blog once begun or to return to the writing as I recently have. There was comfort knowing she was one link away. For a time, the sisterhood of grief.

I could not remove the link without acknowledging "As I Knew Her" and the gift, meant from one sister to another, that impacted me so personally as well.

When Death Comes - Mary Oliver

2005-11-08T11:12:00.000-08:00

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut:
when death comes
like the measles - pox;

when death comes
like an iceburg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
as I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

~ Mary Oliver

To read much more of Mary Oliver you can click here Mary Oliver's Poems

On Angels And Men, and Papa's Handwritten Prayer

2005-11-07T03:01:00.000-08:00

Each of the "little families" within the one Gresher family received a volume of "The Liturgy of the Hours" the four text book of prayers, reflections, and readings that is obligatory reading and meditation as part of an ordained deacon's duties in the Catholic Church.

I had never seen the inside of one until Papa died. It wasn't that I couldn't. He always kept the book sitting on his desk in his bedroom. It's that I wouldn't have. Even when he would ask me to get it for him.

I went through the one we received with a strange kind of wonderment, happy not to have known what I would find until after he was gone. Something of him left for me to discover.

And I did, I found this prayer. Papa's own, written in his hand, between texts and prayers on angles and men. I'm including only one, very small prayer to accompany Papa's from that daily portion of "The Liturgy of the Hours."

It is worth noting that he probably wrote these words when he was full of cancer.

During his four times with cancer and three times facing cancer with chemotherapy, it was very difficult for him to have the energy each day to simply sit and read, to really focus on the readings, the prayers, the meditations, but he did.

I would be sitting on the sofa visiting with him when he'd get up from his recliner and head for the family room door.

"Where are you going?" I'd call out.

"I'm going to do my hours."

On the worse days, he broke it up into pieces because it was impossible to accomplish in one sitting.

So sometimes it was "I'm going to finish my hours."

On the worst days, he did not do the hours at all.

I am putting his words in bold then the formal prayer he merged with his words below. Humbling for me to read. And moving.

May the sick feel true companionship with the suffering Christ. And know that they will enjoy his eternal consolation.

Receive the souls of the dead, Lord. Grant them your favor and the gift of eternal life.

God, our Father,
in a wonderful way you guide the work of angels and men. May those who serve you constantly in heaven keep our lives safe from all harm on earth.

Amen.

Disaster Relief "Stories of Strength"

2005-11-05T17:23:00.000-08:00

I'm including this letter as I think it's both important and a wonderful project. ALL proceeds go to disaster relief.

Please take a moment to read.

Hi writers!

I think this is important enough for its own e-mail-- I hope you don't
mind (and I hope you pass it around like crazy!).

For anyone who didn't know what's been brewing around here these
past eight weeks, Absolute Write members have been working on a
book called Stories of Strength. Everyone involved is a volunteer, and
all the profits from this book will go to disaster relief charities such as
the Red Cross, Operation USA, and the Salvation Army.

More than 100 writers are included in this anthology, which features
true stories, fiction, and poetry on the theme of strength. We have
some big names in the book, like science fiction and fantasy author
Orson Scott Card (Ender's Game), actor/writer Wil Wheaton (Star
Trek, Stand By Me), and Christian novelist Robin Lee Hatcher
(Whispers from Yesterday), alongside new writers who've never had
anything published before.

Then one acquisitions editor, 11 manuscript editors, one copy editor,
and two proofreaders volunteered to help me work with the writers
one-on-one and produce this book on an unbelievably quick
deadline. A wonderful cover designer also volunteered his work, and
three writers donated money for us to pay for review copies and
mailings.

Because of the timeliness of this project, we took it to Lulu
(http://www.lulu.com), a print-on-demand publishing company. We
knew this would bring us some challenges with regard to distribution
and publicity (it's tough to get stores to stock POD books), but
because the book was conceived in response to Hurricane Katrina,
we thought it was more important to get it out quickly, while people
need help urgently. We're facing the challenges and hoping that
Stories of Strength will be stocked nationally by major bookstores.
But we didn't know that there would also be great benefits to our
relationship with Lulu. Now, if you know me, you know I'm not often
struck speechless. But I was, on the phone with one of the Lulu
coordinators the other day.

To give you an idea of what they've been like to work with, I e-mailed
them about this project to ask if they'd waive the ISBN fee. Not only
did they respond immediately with "Of course," but they volunteered
to donate their profits from the book to the cause, as well. Then they
offered to help with layout and formatting and storefront design. Then
they told me they'd donate 25 free copies to go to the media-- and
even mail them for us, wherever we wanted, overnight if needed.

Every time they offered more and more, I tried to think of how I would
pay them back for this. I thought about giving them some free
advertising, or writing articles about them, or writing testimonials...
something. While I was on the phone with this coordinator, she
thanked me about a hundred times for bringing them this great
project and told me what a pleasure it was to work on it.

"No, thank you," I said. "You guys have been amazing. Now tell me
what I can do for you."

She paused for a second, then said, "Nothing."

The crazy thing was, she meant it. She honestly wasn't asking
anything in return from me, and just wanted to be involved because
it's a terrific project, not because it's a great PR move. That's what
struck me speechless. That's something I find rare and beautiful, and
the glowing feeling stayed with me all night.

But it shouldn't surprise me-- that's what this project has been all
about from the start. People have happily pushed aside paying work
to help get this book ready. So many people volunteered to help in
various capacities that I don't think I ever even answered everyone.
People have offered to help us publicize the book, to review it, to
contact organizations on our behalf...

I've always known that Absolute Write members are generous and
caring people. This was just another reminder.

Before I go further, let me give you the link to the book's site and
ordering info:

http://www.storiesofstrength.com

The book was just released yesterday, November 1st. In less than
one day, we sold more than 100 books and raised more than $500
for disaster relief. One day! I didn't know how big to dare to dream
with this project. I tried to imagine a really huge goal for this book,
and I thought, "Wouldn't it be amazing to raise $100,000?" I could
never donate $100,000 on my own, and neither could most of the
other writers involved with this book, but together... maybe we could.
We talked about how this would be a great holiday gift. It's a super
way to give an uplifting present that also helps people rebuild their
lives. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that-- hey, I
would buy this book. A lot of people would buy this book, especially
because they know the money is going to an important cause and
they're helping to encourage their fellow writers in the process.

I think we're going to hit that $100,000 goal. But to do so, we need
help. We need everyone who has a blog to blog about this. Everyone
who has a newsletter or website to link to www.storiesofstrength.com.
Everyone who writes for a newspaper, magazine, or e-zine to pitch a
review or story about this to his or her editor. Everyone who can hand
out fliers in an office or school, everyone who can place a stack of
bookmarks in their local library... there are so many ways to help us
do something great here.

Take a look at http://www.storiesofstrength.com/how-you-can-help/ to
find our official buttons, banners, fliers, posters, bookmarks, and
press release. Forward this note to your friends and family. Whatever
you do, know that we appreciate it and that you will have a part in
helping hurricane survivors.

To quote a line from one of the poets in our book, "Pollinate the
garden that surrounds you." I believe in the strength of community. I
believe that we can each change the world, just by caring enough
about others to take action in small ways. I believe that the crimes we
read about in the news are the exceptions and not the rules in a world
that is made up of people who, by and large, desperately want to help
and comfort those in need.

It's an honor to get to use our talents to help others, and to know that I
can rely on the members here to pitch in wherever help is needed.
Thank you to everyone who's already been involved with this project. I
hope we can make you very proud!

To order the book, visit http://www.lulu.com/content/172091

Write on,
Jenna Glatzer
Editor-in-chief of http://www.absolutewrite.com

FRiGG's Fall Edition And My Poetry Are Both Live

2005-11-01T16:52:00.000-08:00

It's the debut of my poetry in publication. For cliff notes on FRiGG see a few posts back.

I tried to make a link on this blog, but the link kept adding blogspot.com. Don't know how to fix this.

So you'll have to go to it the old fashioned way = www.friggmagazine.com

If you know what today is, then you know it's more than one kind of offering. I think my grandparents would be proud.

White Sox - Game One

2005-10-29T13:35:00.000-07:00

Written evening, October 22

I am nearing the lead up to my grandfather’s final days. It’s ironic the White Sox are playing their first game in the World Series tonight. Papa grew up a huge fan. The last time they won a series was 1917, two years before his birth in 1919. I haven’t been able to watch a baseball game all year.

The only game my grandpa ever took my mom to see as a child was a White Sox game, the year the Sox one the Pennant. He then took her and my uncle to The Pump Room. No, not the legendary Pump Room of The Ambassador East Hotel, “The Polish Pump Room”, back of the yards, for cheeseburgers.

He’d be happy tonight. Maybe he’ll be watching.

Pumpkins, Pomegranates, and Quince

2005-10-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

Have had trouble with my computer so have been unable to post these series of thoughts till now.

My best

M.

Written October 22

I went grocery shopping this morning. We’ve been having Indian Summer here in Georgia. Weather in the seventies and eighties. No auspicious turning of the leaves.

Today feels like fall; it is cool and I am clothed in a pair of sweats. The days have been difficult this past week. The cool weather is a relief, a more fitting companion to the grief. Everywhere I look, see, thing I taste or touch, I am remembering.

My grandparents are everywhere.

I drive past the Methodist Church, on the way to Kroger, and try not to look at their huge, yearly pumpkin patch. I have to drive past it regularly. I keep my head straight and do not turn my head. I don’t want to see.

Many a year I went trodding through, row after row, in search of the perfect pumkin for Papa and I to carve. This was one of our traditions and we missed nary a year through all the years of my childhood, adolescent, teen-dom and adulthood. Not until he got sick.

I have this photo of us together, one of my most favorites. I see it in my mind clearly. Papa and I are standing in front of the kitchen sink, near the cook-top, arms around each other. My head tilts toward his. I’m clad in an enormous green Polo sweatshirt and Papa is wearing a turtleneck. Our eyes, not just our smiles, say we are happy.

We have just carved a pumpkin, or ‘punkin’ as Papa would say. I am twenty, almost twenty one. He is seventy eight. We are only a year away from his second cancer diagnosis: the cancer that would come again and again till it came and stayed for good. Came till it carried him away.

There were many years since that picture where are ritual was abandoned. There were years a pumpkin was purchased, just in case, but not brought to my grandparents’ house when it became obvious Papa could not carve. The years he was too sick, too weak to hold the large knife and cut through the thick, pumpkin flesh.

There were years I didn’t want to, didn’t want the burden of the last time. I am not sure of the last time as I write. I am sure this is not accidental.

So I walk into Kroger and the first thing I see is, of course, pumpkins. Lots: decorative pumpkins, cooking pumpkins, carving pumpkins, miniature pumpkins. Pumpkins everywhere.

I stop and look, touch a few, thinking of how I should look for one smooth on all sides, with a nice, flat bottom and a sturdy stem (needed when lifting and replacing the ‘lid’ once a pumpkin is transformed into a jack-o-lantern.) Hesitating, I pick up a few smaller ones, letting the heft of each resonate in my hands. I feel the ones with really smooth skin then check their bottoms and balance.

I don’t touch any of the ones large enough for carving. I don’t want to get that near. That could cause a full-on breakdown in the middle of the produce department. No, I will not buy one. I do not want one.

I make my way through the organics, compliment the produce manager on the improvement of the selection (they had organic bananas today!) and go about hunting through oranges, kiwis, and other various items. Past the organics, in the ‘exotic’ section small bowls are filled with extremely limited supplies of papaya, strawberry papaya, star-fruit, coconut, and plantains, I spot an item that gets my attention. Quince.

I have never eaten quince, but my grandma used to talk about her grandma’s home-made quince jelly in a way that makes me want them.

Quinces are a strange fruit. They require work; you must cook them before eating. No, they will not give up their pleasure easily: at least three hours in a slow oven of 250 degrees till the flesh turns clear and the fruit is soft – so says “The Settlement Cookbook” (which I will consult upon returning home.)

I turn a quince over in my hands. It looks like a deformed green apple, a perfect circle that decided to sprout a little neck. Their shape is close to a pomegranate. I buy three.
I almost leave the section when I see in a small bowl, pomegranates. Here we go again.

I tear up, so I take a few deep breaths, hoping the woman right in front of me with her hands full of potatoes will be done quickly. Looking past both her and the fruit, I concentrate on the wall of salad dressings and dangling packages of croutons above. There are plain, garlic, and seasoned croutons, many specialty flavors. Kroger must be expecting a run on croutons. I take a look around me: no one. The potato woman has gone and the coast is clear.

Exhaling and grateful I’d chosen to shop early this Saturday morning, I return to the pomegranates, a delicacy introduced to me by my grandma when I was somewhere shy of kindergarten. Every fall my grandma and I would wait for the pomegranates, each eating our first one together.

Unlike quince, they do not need to be cooked. Like the quince, they do not give up their pleasure easily. You must be patient as you pick your way through the honeycomb-like inside, plucking out each seed, swallowing the piquant sweet-sourness. You must either be very careful or wear something you do not care about when eating pomegranates: the juice stains. The risk is worth it.

It takes me a moment before I can make myself pick up one of them. The color is so beautiful, the fruit so plump that I force myself. They are not like the pomegranates last year, shriveled, small, the first crop after my grandma’s death.

I did not eat them early. Late in the season sitting alone at my grandparents’ kitchen table that had become ours, I ate one small, deep, ruby pomegranate. With care I plucked each seed, eating memories until there were none left. I don’t remember the taste. I didn’t eat it for the taste. The seeds were a legacy.

I don’t know if I will be able to eat the pomegranates this year, but I brought them home with me. I have set them, four in a bowl, carefully arranged with golden delicious apples. Somehow not buying them was worse than bringing them home.

I left the grocery store with three quince, four pomegranates and no pumpkin. I cannot explain the reasons. Grief is not reasonable.

His Face

2005-10-29T13:30:00.000-07:00

Written October 19

I see his face all the time and I can't stand it. I see his face all the time. I see him face and I see myself writing on my laptop while watching (or him watching tv at night) Fox News or The World Series.

And I think it can’t have been November - aren't World Series in October? But it must've been - and the playoffs - I remember it. I remember it with him while I half-wrote half-visited. I can't watch even a baseball game since he's gone. He's everywhere.

And then I was too sick to see him and he was too sick to come to me, so I missed Thanksgiving with him. My one aunt took him to her house after that, for awhile, before Christmas. She had to rush him to the hospital Christmas morning. I didn’t see him for those weeks till he was in the hospital. He was gone a few days later.

I remember his face when I 'finally' (in my memory it felt like I hadn’t seen him for months and months, but that isn’t true, though it was long enough) walked into his hospital room, the way his eyes lit up, the way they always did when he saw me. That was one of the gifts he gave to the people he loved.

He was sitting up on the edge of his bed. I couldn't say any of the things I wanted to. He was so strong, such a strong good man, but he couldn't have taken it. He could not have taken that burden from his family, not from me, not from any of us. He could not have gone the way he did, peacefully, worrying over his family.

I only said, "I've missed you SO much," sat down next to him, and
hugged him. He hugged me back and said, "I've missed you too."

And it was in his eyes. And I knew… or I feared, I was losing my father.

How can I write? The pain is so much worse.

My mom and I had been there through all the years and the caretaking of both my grandparents. Even though they were happier, and better, and alive longer, I believe, because of our family’s care, it doesn’t help at times like these. A lack of a guilty conscience is a poor companion.

I don’t know what to do. I still need him. And he doesn't come through like my grandma did. I don't know why. It seems to be hard for him. All I know sometimes is that he was there in a dream, sort of a cloudy knowing. That's all I can remember and it's not enough. I feel the closer I get to the anniversary the more I’m unraveling.

She was with me for so long in the dreams, I thought he would be too. Even now, even a few weeks ago --- she came for a moment. Sometimes she comes in the middle of my nightmares, still will come, and comfort me - break into them.

My mom had a dream, one night, over a month ago. She struggles with him not coming through, too. She had a dream he came into her room and he was all upset and he demanded she get up and open my bedroom door because he couldn't get in.

He came into my room and looked down at me and said, "I don't know what to do. I've been trying to get to her. She's not trying. She's not trying and you have to make her. You have to make her try. "

My mom promised she would and asked him, “Can you stay for awhile?” Then she saw his face and she said, "You can't can you?"

He shook his head no.

He kind of walked off into a corner of my bedroom and started to disappear but she could still see him, my grandma was waiting for him. And it was someplace beautiful and she could see a lake.

I cried when she told me because I hadn't really been
trying. Not in the way he'd want. So I started writing again.

Now, everyday when I wake up, I say to him, "I'm trying, I really am."

I don't know what to do about this. It's all too much.

There is a Post Script to this post. He did come through, very clearly, in a dream for me. The first time. I cannot write about it. I’m not sure I will ever do so here. I believe he heard me and came for me – twice. The first to my mom, then to me. The second dream was lovely and loving. I was wrecked ALL day the day it happened but it was worth it. I am doing better.

A Quote About Grief

2005-10-14T23:33:00.000-07:00

This beautiful quote was given to me by my beautiful mother this evening.

I hope you will find it as meaningful as I.

"To read the works of others who have gone through grief is another way of of keeping the process going and of finding another understanding friend. When a writer describes for me how I am feeling, she becomes my friend ~ I am not alone. Somehow that person has achieved some peace with the pain; enough to write it down. Maybe I too will find my way through this."

Martha Whitmore Hickman

You can check out here delightful website here Martha Whitmore Hickman

About My Writing

2005-10-14T12:49:00.000-07:00

Should any of you be interested to see what I write, beside this grief journal Talking to Grief, you can check out Frigg Magazine.

In a few days the new edition of Frigg will go live where my poetry will be debuting in publication. Just follow the link at the right of the page.

For those of you not in the know, Frigg is an excellent, edgy, and beautiful looking, literary journal. If you don't know it, you're missing out. A lot of love and care goes into each edition, and there is good reason for it's devoted following.

This is a really big deal to me and if you've read the earlier blogs, my Papa would be proud.

Meridith

It's Time Again

2005-10-13T23:48:00.000-07:00

This note started as a true note to a friend. It has taken shape and evolved, so I post it here as a way of announcing my return.

I started a private Grief Book that grew into certain public sharing in the Grief Blog. After a point it became painful rather than cathartic to write. But I'm feeling it's time again. Thank you all who have stopped in, who have asked me to continue to write, who have offered their words of sympathy or kindness, who have honored me by sharing a bit of their own pain.

I lost my grandma, then a few months later we had the house fire (mom and I) then a little over a year later my grandpa (and really truly MY father too) died. We're approaching his anniversary as this year ends - we'll be doing the first thanksgiving without him, the first Christmas, just as we had to do all the awful firsts without my grandma. In truth, the seconds aren’t much better, they’re just different.

Before all of this I couldn't imagine how people got through when they lost both parents. If you're close to yours, there is no other pain like it.

The one year rule is shit (all the first are the worst and once you get through the first year it all gets better) People have very short time tables on what they will 'allow' from your grieving. Be warned. The thing to do is seek out others who understand and who can advise you honestly through the process. You do begin to learn to live your life without them - but with them in a kind of way, too. I think of my grandparents everyday of my life,

Sometimes when I don't want to have them, the memories come.

The old man pharmacist who works nights, Charlie, at CVS - every damn time I see him I cry. The good thing is it takes him long enough from the first time he comes to the window to the time he brings the prescriptions that I usually get it together… enough. I can't ever go into a Costco again because it is too much about the Wednesday shopping my grandpa did.

A song plays on the radio from ten years ago and my "Papa" flashes into my mind, laughing at the lyrics, eyes twinkling (the kind of song he'd call 'red ass music' - yes very pc - actually he loved a lot of country music) on the trip my mom, my Papa and I took to Asheville, NC. It was the last WWII reunion he ever made. Then I think of all of his friends that are gone, men I knew only slightly but loved much. The list for Taps grows exceedingly long.

My grandma served, thinking she might end up close to my grandpa. Instead, she “fought the battle of Reno” training pilots on instruments to fly over the China Burma hump. I never saw her meddles till she had died.

I wonder who will be there this year at the 3rd Armored Division Reunion (Third Armored, First Army is the army of General Rose and General Omar Bradley NOT Patton. Patton was Third Army.) It always used to steam my grandpa when Patton, who he thought was an ass, would get credit for 3rd armored victories through the 60+ years since D-Day.

I can hear Papa over my shoulder telling me to make the point, NOW, to clear up the record, to say THEY were the boys on the beaches of Normandy, in Sainte Mere Eglise, in Caan, in Saint Lo, France in Vervier, Belgium where he got stranded with ten men during the Bulge, when the whole damn thing fell apart during Hitler’s last desperate attempt to wrestle victory from the jaws of defeat. It nearly cost my grandpa his life.

His youngest brother, Jim, died parachuting over the Rhine River. His cousin Emerson Kazinski died overseas, too. After the war was over, the family had their bodies sent home to receive final burial in the rich, flat loam of Southern Illinois. Minonk to be exact. Too many boys and too many bodies from that one small town. Too many gold star mothers.

In Vervier, nobody knew where the Nazi’s were (merely close) or how soon, how many, or when they would be back. Papa got lucky when a member of the underground approached him as he tried to ‘make contact’ in a little tavern. He trusted his instincts and the man who approached him.

He and his men hid for ten days in a small, cramped wine cellar. Hitler’s final victory didn’t happen anywhere, certainly not in Vervier. The townsfolk gave up their rations to keep the men alive. In return, my grandpa promised the couple, in whose wine cellar they hid, that he would do anything he could for them for the rest of his life. He kept his word.

A few years post war, he and my grandma sponsored the couple when they wanted to come to America. My grandparents brought them into their own small home. Thus Celine and Pascal Grosjean became “Aunt Sally and Uncle Pascal” to my mom who toddled about picking up bits of English, Polish and French from parents, grandparents, and Belgian “relatives.” All in one little house with one even smaller bathroom.

And I’m back in the present – wiping my eyes as I run in for my luncheon carry out. The reunion wasn’t that many years ago: seven to be exact. It was almost this same time of year. I was dubbed “the twenty one year old” by all the men (those I didn’t already know). I became everyone’s grand-daughter. I danced with them, laughed with them, heard some of the stories their own grandchildren might never have had the honor to hear.

I don’t mean to neglect the women, who were equally amazing, but that’s another story.

This is the way of grief: It has no time limit, but is it mutable. It does get easier. In many ways, it depends on where the day takes you, how it changes and evolves.

Cherish your parents for as long as you have them, your family. Don't even try to prepare for when they are gone: nobody's ever ready for the reality.

A lot of people won't understand you, but then a lot of people might not love as deeply as you either.

Cry. You will. Don’t be afraid of it. And sometimes you’ll cry for no reason just because you’ll miss and want the people who’ve gone the way I miss and want my grandparents.

Ultimately, I think I would've gone and stayed mad without my faith. Prayer helps and faith sustains through the madness of it all, through the darkness of it all. I hope I haven't said too much. It's not to scare you. You will bare through it.

Rent the movie, “Shadowlands.” Maybe that's a good preparation. I remember seeing it years ago and there is a line I repeated over and over to myself all these years later. The movie is based on CS Lewis’s own writing about his late-in-life marriage to Joy who had terminal cancer when they married. She stayed with him a few precious years and taught him how to love.

Paraphrased from C.S. Lewis and Shadowlands, “The depth of the love now, will be the depth of the sorrow later.” IF that is true, the mourning is a kind of a payment, a tribute to the one who has gone before. Let it be that. Grieve with all that is in you come the time.

Dream Visits From My Grandma

2005-02-21T11:18:00.000-08:00

Dream visits are what I call the dreams when my grandma comes. At first, I wasn't sure if I was creating them because I wanted and missed her. With more thought and time, I realized it could not be the case.

She comes like a special report breaking into a prime time T.V. show: Her dream visits always interrupt a current dream. I think this is a sign to separate what "she" creates from what my brain creates.

Little proofs have been shown. She has told me words to repeat, answers to questions, a balm to another's grief. She has revealed things about herself I never knew, small details, that have checked out from family recollection.

How can I expain this? I cannot. I can only bow down in thanks to God for allowing her to come, to let me feel her love when I am in my deepest hours of need.

That it should happen, to me, is a wonder. I who have struggled so with my faith. I, who believe, but often do not "feel" my faith, who wander in fear and darkness. I, who wander alone.

But she has known darkness too.

At times, the dreams are so multi-sensory that I cannot take in all. Every time she comes, she distills strength and hope. She lightens my burdens, she quiets my mind.

If you do not believe such things as these can happen, it is your right. But do not tell me. This is mine. I hold it dear.

Those who learned to know death, rather than to fear to fight it, become our teachers about life.

That quote is by Elisabeth Kubler Ross, noted psychiatrist and ground breaker. I realize how well it suits the dream visits. I believe my grandma is still teaching me.

Getting Through

2005-02-19T14:06:00.000-08:00

It was hard not to hear my grandparents’ voices on the sixteenth, my birthday, also their anniversary.

The days became a weight slung over my back, the weight heavier, the distance to travel farther, the pain greater each day... until the sixteenth. I collapsed, unable to take more pain.

I do not consider it an accident I awoke sick. Birthdays and grief are a firestorm. I wanted so much to hear my grandparents' voices.

I kept looking for meaning, considering the fragility of life, love under a blanket of flu. I will not tell you my deeper thoughts, they are only for myself, but not all were dark.

Five - I wanted a coconut cake with blue icing.

Thirteen – a girls luncheon, full out southern charm

Sixteen – first birthday without my grandparents physically present, a foreshadowing: They’d gone to Illinois to arrange my great-grandmother’s entombment. Yet, they were phone-able; one plane ride away. One more charm to my bracelet.

I will tell more. Later. It had been a long time since I'd dreamt of my grandma.

Hung-Over without the Headache

2005-02-15T19:07:00.000-08:00

Hung-over is the best way to describe the day - an emotional hangover. My body aches, my senses are dulled. I want to look through the rest of the day with half opened eyes and a cup of hot tea, chamomile preferably, with two bags, one for each eye.

I talked with my mom last night. She was having a terrible day, yesterday, too. She told me she got through it by repeating over and over...

They're together. They're together. They're together.

It helps. Prayer helps, too. We have been sharing in prayer through our grief.

Philippians 4:6 Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.

Would You Be My Valentine?

2005-02-14T22:59:00.000-08:00

I never bought in to Valentine's Day: a romantic holiday, manufactured and scheduled by big business is not romantic. To me, it is the antithesis of romance. So I've never been one of those women who weep into their Rocky Road ice-cream if they don't have roses delivered to them during the day and a "somebody" taking them out in the evening.

For the first year I am weeping, too. It has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with love. Every year of my life, since I was two years old, I have received a box of candy from Papa. For all intents and purposes, Papa was my father. I lost a grandfather and a father the day he died.

How can a small box of chocolate can cause me to ache and weep so much? Because I can picture Papa's face and the way he'd smile when he brought out the box. Even in the last several years when he got kind of cheap because he was getting older and worried about money and the medical bills and he stopped getting the pretty boxes and started by the Elmer's candy, which doesn't taste good at all. I still wanted the box.

Because I could hear his voice asking, "Would you be my valentine?" Because I would have his arms around me, the way they felt like nobody else's when I hugged him in thanks and love. Because it means he's really gone.

I can know and not completely believe it most days. He was still so strong. Until my grandma died, Papa's death seemed an impossibility. Not until I saw the change in his eyes could I conceive of his death, not until I saw the loneliness, the emptiness.

You must understand, Papa was a survivor. He had survived the depression, world war II, cancer three times, open heart surgery, and aortic aneurysm surgery. He was almost mythic in proportions, to me. I imagined him as a figure from the old testament, living hundreds of years, more than a man of modernity. He has something of the everlasting in his gait, his frame, those crystal clear eyes in that beautifully lined face.

But that face changed after my grandma died. I kept hearing the "five year rule" run through my head, (most spouses married over forty years follow their deceased mated, in death, within five years)and I prayed it wasn't true. He almost lasted two years: one year and nine months to be exact.

It is my grandparents wedding anniversary in two days: they would've been married fifty nine years. I was born on their wedding anniversary, their first grandchild. Last year, was... I still had Papa. But he is gone, he is really, truly gone. What an empty day.

Sunday Reflection

2005-02-13T11:03:00.000-08:00

Sunday, the start of a new week. I need its silence. It's strength. Before I leave you for prayer, I give you to this, Basket of Figs.

Basket of Figs

Bring me your pain, love. Spread
it out like fine rugs, silk sashes,
warm eggs, cinnamon
and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me

the detail, the intricate embroidery
on the collar, tiny shell buttons,
the hem stitched the way you were taught,
pricking just a thread, almost invisible.

Unclasp it like jewels, the gold
still hot from your body. Empty
your basket of figs. Spill your wine.

That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it,
cradling it on my tongue like the slick
seed of pomegranate. I would lift it

tenderly, as a great animal might
carry a small one in the private
cave of the mouth.

from Mules of Love by Ellen Bass

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To visit Ellen Bass' official site, click here Ellen Bass' website

Suffering is Only the Start

2005-02-12T07:02:00.000-08:00

Today I return to suffering. I have briefly asked and tried to answer (for myself) where God is in suffering. Today, I fall back upon this quote for my meditation

I do not believe that suffering alone teaches. If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness, and willingness to remain vulnerable.

-- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Pain, for all its crippling, doubled-over, drop me to my knees effects doesn't create depth or knowledge. We have only to look at self destructive impulses in ourselves or others to see that.

And yet, when I read this quote applied to my mourning, it was like having cold water thrown over me. You mean I have to actually do more than feel? This, living in and through this, must be enough!

But it is not. Bereavement is just the beginning. I realize the work, and it is incredibly hard, is up to me. It is up to all of us to keep ourselves open to love and vulnerability. Not easy.

No. I do not understand. I believe. I have my faith in God, in heaven, in my knowledge of where my loved ones are resting. I struggle. I want more.

I want peace. It is hard to face the fact that it is not owed to me, I must ask for it, I must seek it humbly. I must do the work.

*Deep Sigh* It is so early, there is so far to travel, and I am so very tired.

I wish all of you peace today.

To read a brief biograpaphy, click here Anne Morrow Lindbergh Biography

Two Book Reviews

2005-02-11T13:47:00.000-08:00

I have only read two books thus far on grief and loss. I have several more I intend to read.

The first two books I've read are Making Loss Matter by Rabbi David Wolpe and Giving a Voice to Sorrow - Personal Responses to Death and Mourning by Steve Zeitlin and Ilana Harlow.

I'd love to have your comments if you've also read these books.

Making Loss Matter is a slim volume divided into chapters focusing on a unique loss experience, ie. home, love, and death. The foreword is by Wolpe's childhood friend Mitch Albom, best known for "Tuesdays with Morrie." Rabbi Wolpe's language makes for easy reading, which was appreciated in the very early days of grief when I was overloaded with stimuli and emotion.

The pertinent chapter on death was helpful. I like his usage of parable and story, which is a familiar device to me as a Christian, taken from the Talmud, which is unfamiliar. The result is reading something comforting yet fresh, simple yet enlightening.

I have one warning: The Rabbi uses "suddenly" to a degree that sometimes makes me want to scream. Perhaps I was overly sensitive at the time, but I wonder why his editor didn't get ahold of the text and delete every blessed one.

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Giving a Voice to Sorrow - Personal Responses to Death and Mourning by Steve Zeitlin and Ilana Harlow is a beautiful book which details true stories of how people deal with grief through personal story and interviews.

This book may be valuable for anyone who's loved one is going through the dying process as several stories focus on the dying person: how they find ways to make peace with dying, and reach out to their loved ones. Focus is paid to "life review." The book encourages and explains projects like "memory books" the dying create for their family to help tell their story.

A few stories in Giving a Voice to Sorrow share moments of "connection" from the loved one from heaven. One is especially beautiful, detailing a sign a wife left for her husband through her garden roses.

The book also details stories of people who did not mourn, who locked their grief away, and the ensuing results.

What I will take away most are the many ideas for creating remembrance and ritual of the deceased, many in unusual and beautiful ways: everything from carving "name" stones and throwing them in local rivers, streams and lakes, to baking a favorite birthday feast and inviting guests, to creating an "altar," a small table top or shelf to collect treasures and symbols dear to the life of one who has passed.

I know, I too, can find ways that are right for me to honor my family, to carry them with me, while I attempt to move forward with the living.

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Death and My First Publication

2005-02-10T23:45:00.000-08:00

I remember a conversation I had with my Papa seated at my grandparents kitchen table. It was early morning; I'd spent the night with them.

Papa was having his breakfast: decaf coffee, cereal and a banana. I had a cup of tea, never one for early morning meals.

"How 'bout if I make you just a little bit of toast?"

"No, thank you."

"Cereal?"

"No."

"I can fry you some eggs?"

"Maybe later, Papa," I smiled.

He smiled back.

(This was our ritual. My grandparents never got over the fact that I didn't eat in the mornings.)

"I saw your light on when I got up in the middle of the night. Were you writing?"

"Yeah, I was. Did I disturb you?"

"Nah, not at all. Isn't there some kind of place you can send all the stuff you write? You spend so much time at it, or are you afraid they won't accept it?"

I looked up into his face that showed a gentleness and genuine interest.

"I'm afraid they will."

He laughed, surprised, at the answer.

"Well, then. Don't know what to say about that!"

Fast forward, a few years later and several more conversations about my writing.

A week before Christmas this past year, I had a small piece of satire accepted to the Journal of Modern Post. My grandma was not here to see it, but my grandpa was. His whole face lit up when I told him. He knew what it meant to me.

I wanted him to read it when it was published. I knew he was fighting lymphoma, but I could never imagine he'd be gone two weeks later.

I regret that now, but I'm grateful he knew of my first publication, that he saw me break through such a barrier of fear.

If you would like to read the piece, please visit the Journal of Modern Post to read An Imaginary E-mail Written Upon Imaginary Publication of My Imaginary Book of Poems.

And yes, the title is a mouthful!

Talking To Grief - Two Week Update

2005-02-10T07:12:00.000-08:00

I have many family and friends who have never read my writing until now: now, that I am willing to share my grief with anyone who happens by.

I have referred to myself as the most ambitious writer who never wanted her work to be seen: I fear I will be found a fraud, my work judged inferior, and others will disapprove. At times, I merely wish to keep my intimate expression from other eyes.

If it weren't for such a profound need in me to bring honor to my grandparents, to share some of their spirits, I know I would never have courage enough for this. Perhaps it is their final gift to me. Talking to Grief has been my comfort each day, a ritual, like slipping into my grandmother's gloves. As I sit in meditation and prepare my post, I ask them to stay near and assist me.

I want them to feel their stories are told well, with great love, and the greatest quality of consideration. In turn, I will continue to share poetry and words of theologians, dreamers and thinkers that inspire me hoping it will do likewise for you.

I welcome you to talk to grief by posting comments here.

Thank you for sharing my first steps on this journey.

Grief Cuts

2005-02-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

With grief, one day may be as a week, a month, emotions split off hour by hour minute by minute, changing direction and depth, never following the same path...

Flocks of Canada geese travel south, their flight path is just over my house. As a child, I would hear them calling to one another, their song lulled me to sleep as I bundled under heavier autumn blankets (feet sticking out) - a luxury of childhood and an early bedtime.

Every fall, I await their return and watch for their V formations, listen for their unmistakable call. If lucky, I catch the moment when one bird comes to “take point” for another, letting the leader have a rest within the shelter of the crowd.

If you’ve never seen these geese documented on PBS; it’s extraordinary. In extreme close-up, I could see the flex of muscle, the lash of wind against its body. With each flap of its wing, I was taken with the stoicism, enormity, and elegance of its motion, fighting the wind, leading its brood to safety.

Last week, I heard the unmistakable call of one Canada goose, a strange, mournful sound, as I walked toward the door, pelted by freezing rain and rush hour cars snorting exhaust. I scurried toward dry feet and a warm bed.

Tonight, as I started my post, this bird returns. Where is it, now? Had it been too young, too old, too frail to continue the journey? Had it been a lead bird, injured, unable to continue, perhaps laid low by someone’s target practice?

For whatever reason, it split from its path and its flock. I know what this is, this is grief.

Grief cuts: it separates us, it takes us places we had not scheduled, and opens us to the unknown, a world without protection.

Tell me, O Lord, what my term is, what is the measure of my days... Man walks about as a mere shadow: mere futility in his hustle and bustle... What, then, can I count on, O Lord?
~ Psalm 39

Happy Birthday, My Tanta

2005-02-08T18:44:00.000-08:00

It is my Great Aunt Dorothy's birthday today. She was my grandma's only sibling, the older sister. With affection and a nod to her German heritage, my mom called her "Tanta", aunt in German. When I was born, I followed suit. She became an additional grandmother to me as she never had grandchildren of her own. I felt adored and much loved by her. She died 16 years ago -- so hard to believe that.

I will write more about her tonight, but for now, a poem in her honor.

Of So Divine A Loss

Of so divine a loss
We enter but the Gain
Indemnity for Loneliness
That such a Bliss has been.

-- Emily Dickinson

For the complete poems of Dickinson along with an introduction from her neice Martha Dickinson Bianchi click here Emily Dickinson poetry

A Pair Of Vintage Gloves

2005-02-07T20:15:00.000-08:00

On my nightstand, between the bottled waters, jewelry box, and books, lies a pair of gloves. Each night, I slip my hands into the three-quarter-length, ecru with gathering at the wrist. I try and remember something I’ve never known: my grandma’s hands, youthful and delicate, her fingers slender and limber. Decades before the arthritis, the gloves are a perfect fit.

I picture her.

She slips her hands into the gloves. She gives her hair a final smoothing, careful not to disturb her hat. She places a slim, gloved hand inside my grandpa’s hand. They leave their tiny apartment, their first home together, for an evening out.

Decades later, I am just her size as my fingers settle into the pair, feeling the comfort, the sturdy stitching around each finger tip, the gathering at the wrist which makes my own appear most delicate.

One of her gloved hands reaches toward her matte, red lips. She inhales a cigarette, taking one last draw. She smiles before stubbing out her future killer.

But I don't want to think about that now.

Sleeping Together in Death

2005-02-06T23:09:00.000-08:00

This poem reminds me of my grandparents. They met when she was seventeen and he twenty. Papa was working on the South Side of Chicago and his buddies told him about a tavern that had a fish fry for the Catholics on Fridays: it was my great -grandpa's tavern and my grandma was waitressing.

If you asked Papa, he would tell you about the way my grandma looked that first night he met my grandma, her wavy chestnut hair falling down around her shoulders, her beautiful white, starched blouse, her shapely figure, her shy smile. Sixty years plus and he never forgot. She died one year and nine months, almost to the day, before him.

In the narrator, I hear the voice of Papa speaking to his beloved wife of nearly sixty years, my grandma.

Sleep Quietly Now

Sleep quietly now,
on this peaceful evening.
The neighbours are going to bed too.
The street pavers have gone.
Far and clear clanged the stone,
the hammer,
the street,
but all is quiet now.
It's been a long time since I last saw you.

Those busy arms of yours are cool now
like this river with its broad silence
winding soft and low.
By its banks the trees,
the fish,
the stars
all fall asleep.
I am all alone.

I have done my work. I am tired.
I too shall fall asleep.
Sleep quietly now.
If you are sad
I am sad too.

Silence.
The flowers forgive.

Attila József
trans. by John Bátki

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I found a wonderful storybook with words and pictures. Click here to see the website and read"Lullabye" by Attila Jozef
For more, click here biography, exerpts, and analysis of Attila Jozef's work

God in the Midst of Suffering

2005-02-05T18:44:00.000-08:00

For those of you who have read my last post, "The Regular People" or those of you who just may be puzzling out some of the great mysteries of life -- one of which is -- where is God amid suffering? How can I reconcile an all-knowing all-loving God with tragedy, both private and public. Where is God when I am in pain and suffering, or when the world is in pain and suffering?

I will avoid adding "at such a time as now" for I believe, unlike some, that the world has always been a place both of great suffering and great beauty, that it seemed its most tragic and its most triumpant to every human being, in every time who has lived.

"Now" is only as important as yesterday, and as important as "now" will be tomorrow. "Now" is a perception of self of perhaps selfishness, of small perspectives. There has always been suffering; there will always be suffering. That statement sounds so flat, so debase of emotion, of personal meaning. But let's take it for a moment into consideration.

If there has always been suffering; there has always been joy. If there will always be suffering; there will always be joy. And by extension, perhaps "I" - the great and personal I - can know joy again. Perhaps it has always been availabe to "me" and always will be.

Perhaps I only know suffering "now" because it is so close, so quick with the blade which presses against my skin that makes joy seem a distant and exotic flower in a garden whose doors are gated.

I am no theologian, no expert, but what I can do is ask you to consider words by the priest Henri Nouwen that come from the book, "Show me the Way: Readings for each day of Lent."

"We are often tempted to “explain” suffering in terms of “the will of God.” Not only can this evoke anger and frustration, but also it is false. “God's will” is not a label that can be put on unhappy situations. God wants to bring joy not pain, peace not war, healing not suffering. Therefore, instead of declaring anything and everything to be the will of God, we must be willing to ask ourselves where in the midst of our pains and sufferings we can discern the loving presence of God."

If we - the great and collective we - can remember Nouwen's words as we cope with suffering, it will help shift our perception of suffering, of God's place in our suffering and bring us closer to God's love and the joy He has wating for us.

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Perhaps you'd like to visit Henri Nouwen's official web site which provides links to his literary centre and archives and research at the University of St. Michael's College. Please follow the link Henri Nouwen's Official Site

The Regular People

2005-02-01T19:47:00.000-08:00

Papa was an ordained Deacon of the Roman Catholic Church. He studied for a period of, I believe, four years before his ordination. A Catholic Deacon is able to perform marriages, baptisms, and conduct funerals. Deacons attend the priest during mass, and on occasion give the homily (the sermon).

My grandfather did all this, and more. He made official visits to the sick and elderly at nursing homes and hospitals, bringing communion and comfort. He was very active in the St. Vincent de Paul society, which serves the poor and needy in the community (NOT just Catholics or Christians)

St. Vincent de Paul is a wonderful organization, totally volunteer run, so that every dollar donated goes to those in need, not someone's salary. I was many times on visits with him to a house in the rundown section of homes just minutes away from his home church.

An elderly woman comes to mind whose relatives would steal part of her social security check as their "take" for getting it cashed. Her family would steal food out of the refrigerator, so she never quite had enough. Papa and I would come, groceries in hand: we'd visit with her awhile. Her house was in need of certain large and small repairs. My grandpa would see that small maintenance like the repair of her screen door or trimming of bushes would be remedied by a student doing service hours. Small acts of kindness, we hoped the visits helped the loneliness, hoping the food would hold her 'til the next visit from her family and from us.

Another woman, a single mom with two kids, just trying to make ends meet had been fired then hired at a new job before she ever made the call to St. Vincent de Paul. The small gap in time when she was out of work plus the slight cut in pay meant she had not been able to keep up her bills. Papa and I came with groceries and the money for the monthly utilities. She didn't say much, but I could see the fear in her eyes abating just the slightest bit. I was raised in a single-mother home. I knew what it meant to have the lights shut off, or the heat, or the phone...

So Papa'd go on these trips, and I'd sometimes have the privilege of accompanying him. I'd get to watch his compassion, the natural, steady way he related to people, the way he'd look everyone straight on when they spoke, giving his full attention, letting people know they mattered by treating everyone with dignity. He did his best to bring assistance from himself and the greater community of St. Vincent de Paul. I knew that his prayer, one of so many prayers, was that people felt the love of God, always. He didn't make big fancy speeches. He just acted in his quiet and humble way.

At Papa's wake, an usher from his church, one I remember all my life, came up to my mom. He said, "You're dad loved the regular people." I can't think of a finer tribute.

To learn more, please click here Society of St. Vincent de Paul official web site

Nothing Gold Can Stay

2005-01-31T19:24:00.000-08:00

My grandpa wasn't too big on poetry, but he did enjoy Frost.
A lovely one for your evening reading.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

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Take a look at the Stone House Museum, sign up for the newsletter, read memoirs, essays, and poems atThe Friends of Robert Frost' website

Death As Homecoming

2005-01-30T23:42:00.000-08:00

I close this Sunday with a late evening post. I have spent the weekend's post focused on death and grieving; I think it fitting to start the new week with a meditation on life. We all have the commonality of searching for meaning in our lives and Abraham Heschel's essay, Death as Homecoming provides many clues.

If we live with purpose, with kindness, conviction, and faith, we are both creating a legacy and creating our future in the afterlife. We must only expect in the next life, that which we believe and declare now. As Heschel writes...

"The greatest problem is not how to continue but how to exalt our existence. The cry for a life beyond the grave is presumptuous, if there is no cry for external life prior to our descending to the grave. Eternity is not perpetual future but perpetual presence. He has planted in us the seed of eternal life. The world to come is not only a hereafter but a herenow."

As we begin the new week, let us focus on the "herenow" by focusing for a few moments each day on these words and receiving them in our hearts. Heschel goes on to detail our path to the daily exultation of our lives...

"This is the meaning of existence: to reconcile liberty with service, the passing with the lasting, to weave the threads of temporality into the fabric of eternity."

Perhaps if we each take a bit of time to concentrate on these words, to bring them into our hearts, we will honor ourselves, our loved ones, and the world we live in, creating small yet powerful changes.

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I did not find one amazing, official website for Abraham Heschel which was a bit surprising, however you can click here Abraham Heschel biogrpahy and full list of works

Papa's Hands

2005-01-29T19:52:00.000-08:00

It has been one month since my grandpa died, my Papa. I need to stop and honor this moment. I can close my eyes and I am with him. I sit beside his body, holding his hand, feeling it turn from warm to cool. I trace it in my mind so as not to forget how small my own is inside his hand, how ridged his fingernails, how large the knuckles, how pronounced the veins. The veins played across his hands not as an old man’s but a strong man’s; for he was strong, right to the end.

My mom found a small receipt in his jacket pocket from Kroger’s grocery market. He’d purchased yams and marshmallows just a few days before Christmas. He was well enough (not well, mind you, but well enough) to face the brisk air, drive, walk the long aisles and return home. He was rushed to the hospital Christmas morning, never having the dinner he helped to create, and died at home on the 29th.

He went so quickly as to be startling. But he went the way he wanted: At home, not lingering, peaceful, with his family and close friends around him.

I feel very much the Galway Kinnell poem, “Wait,” today. I am trying very hard to [b]e there to hear it… to hear, the flute of [my] whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion. Yes. I am exhausted. I close my eyes and I am with him, but I miss his hands.

Wait (a poem) Galway Kinnell

2005-01-28T15:34:00.000-08:00

Wait

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

--Galway Kinnell

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To learn more about Galway Kinnell inluding a listing of his online works please click here Galway Kinnell at Modern American Poetry

Human Unit of Time

2005-01-28T01:33:00.000-08:00

Many cultures embrace the concept that a person is are not really dead until the last person who remembers him or her is also dead.

Margaret Mead, in her memoir, Blackberry Winter, includes a chapter on her grandchildren. She muses about time stretching forward in the guise of her grandchild, "that same child as a grandparent, and with the eyes of another generation . . . see other children, just as light-footed and vivid, as eager to learn and know and embrace the world, who must be taken into account—now."

Her 'taking into account' included pondering the subject of time. It is how she came to conclude that one's life on earth is not so terribly finite as it would seem. She called "the human unit of time: The space between a grandfather's memory of his own childhood and a grandson's knowledge of those memories as he heard about them."

It is a way to look at life we can all embrace: Christian, Jew, Muslim, or Atheist. For most of us, this living memory is a way we hold close those who have gone before us. It comforts as we consider our own mortality. As time stretches in its vast continuum, we may see order, purpose, and warmth by regarding ourselves through this human unit of time.

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For more information on Margaret Mead's life and works, including a list of her authored books please click here Margaret Mead's Biography

Talking To Grief by Denise Levertov

2005-01-27T04:04:00.000-08:00

This poem by Denise Levertov, masterful in its simplicity, evokes the need we have to honor grief. I had begun a "grief book" a few days after my grandfather died as a way to honor my emotions. This is one of the poems I included in my private pages. In the days to come I will share more about my grief book.

Life has a strange kind of symbiosis. Over a year ago, a close friend took a photograph of me with his youngest dog. I have always loved it, but only now see how perfectly it fit for this site and poem. I have put it up in my bio as a companion for the grief journey.

Talking To Grief
Ah, grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.

I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.

You think I don't know you've been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.

-- Denise Levertov

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For more information of Denise Levertov's life and career, including links to her online poetry, and her final interview, please click here Denise Levertov's info at Modern American Poetry

Death Is Nothing At All - King of Terrors

2005-01-26T16:09:00.000-08:00

I begin this journey with a work, most beautiful, by Henry Scott Holland, Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral. It comes from a sermon entitled The King of Terrors which was delivered in 1910 upon the death of King Edward VII.

The words bring me great comfort.

"Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"