Monday, August 25, 2014

Day 178: Constant Reminders

August 25, 2014

Dear Gareth,

I write this knowing you will never see it. You will never write back.

I write this knowing it will be read by friends we shared, friends of yours I have yet to meet, and friends of mine I wish I could have introduced you to. "I would have liked him," they tell me. "I know," I say.

I write this because countless times throughout the day I think, "Gareth would like that," or "That reminds me of when we..." and on and on these thoughts come. Sometimes they make me smile. The little green package of 2 chocolates with macadamia nuts on the counter of Yoger Presso did that last night. I remembered how you always, always showed up with one and a coffee for each of us when arriving at my door. I remembered how you'd buy one when we were in there together and how you'd smile at me and slide one across the table, hiding it under your hand. I remembered this last night and smiled when I saw them.

Other times a reminder comes with a kind of a slow motion kick in the gut. That's what's happened this morning. One right after another. Stepping out into a pouring rain reminds me of the time we tried to find a motel in Busan that night. And the time we ducked into a shoe shop in Daegu because my brown suede boots were getting ruined by the rain spitting sideways under our umbrellas. And the time we sat in the car in the parking lot, not prepared to run out into the weeping skies, and we kissed and kissed until the windows got steamy from the inside. I remember how the back of your neck felt warm under my cupped hand.

I can't pass a Nike store or Addidas store (and there are so many here in Korea) without thinking of how you had to go in and check shoes out each time we passed. "Do you think we have time to pop in here and have a look?" you'd say. Would I have ever said, "No"?

We had all the time in the world.

I passed both a Nike and an Addidas store (you said "Ah-dee-DAHS" and I said "Ah-DEE-diss") on my way to the bank today and the mannequins seemed to be mocking me. "Remember us? Don't you want to come in? What...you have no interest in us anymore?" I don't really. I don't think I could step foot inside one of those stores. Not without you.

The sight of a rainbow umbrella kicked me in the gut today. You could spend a good 15 minutes talking about how much you liked rainbow umbrellas. It was a "design that could not be improved upon." A Kia Sportage did the same thing- the car you wanted to buy in the future. In the future. How can we not imagine having such a thing as a future?

Yoger Presso was closed this morning. I had to go to Caffe Bene, where I am now. "I don't like that place," I hear you say. "It's too expensive." I agree, but go in and order a latte anyway. You don't even know that I don't get vanilla anymore. Remember when you greeted me at the train station in Daegu, vanilla latte in hand, and I took a sip and found it to be sickly sweet? I wanted to drink it anyway. You had gone to such trouble to get it for me. But if it wasn't right for "my girl" as you called me, it simply wouldn't do. You tossed it in the trash and got me another.

You loved when I'd say "No boyfriend of MINE is gonna [fill in blank with anything happening to you that you found displeasing and I could help make it better.] You don't have an umbrella and say you can go without one? "No boyfriend of MINE is gonna go without an umbrella when he needs one if I can help it!" and I'd rummage through my closet. Out of Earl Grey tea? "No boyfriend of MINE is gonna have to drink a different tea when he wants Earl Grey if I can help it!" and off to the store I'd go. This always made you laugh. You liked when I called you "mine." You were my babe. "Call me your babe," you'd say. You're my babe.

Your theater friends are putting on a production of "Rocky Horror Picture Show." You had never seen it and I was pretty certain "No boyfriend of mine should go without seeing Rocky Horror!" We downloaded it and curled up on the couch with hot tea and blankets and watched it together one night in Hadong. You heard stories of when I'd go to the midnight show at the Tivoli Theater and dress up as Magenta. You smiled at my inability to stay put on the couch when certain songs would appear. Up! I'd go. And WHEEEEE! I'm singing. And whoa! I'm dancing now. And you smiled and you laughed and you looked at me like you were watching something you really, really loved.

In the bottom drawer of my dresser is a black and white corset that I'll break out and wear to the theater show in November. I'll dress up as I did in my teens, covering myself on the way there. Feeling comraderie in costume once through the doors of the theater. I brought it back with a few other things when I went home to St. Louis last year. I called them my "fancy lady clothes," and you were adorably like a kid at Christmas. "I knew there were clothes like this, and I got it was a 'THING," I just didn't get why...until now." I can't throw out my "fancy lady clothes." And I can't wear them for another. They sit in my bottom drawer.

About an hour ago I left the coffee shop, had a bite to eat with a friend, and settled back into my room to continue writing. I'm on the 18th floor and have a nice view of rainy Jeonju.


After raising the blinds and sitting on the bed with my laptop and phone, I checked to see how much time I have before my next lecture.



And there you are again. 1:11.

Monday. August 25th. It was two years ago on the 28th when we met. I packed my bags at this very place and headed to Hadong, first by bus, then by a car driven by my painfully shy new coteacher. A typhoon was coming, she said. Stay indoors, she instructed.

A typhoon was coming.

We met the first day I stepped foot onto the streets of my new town.

The typhoon had come.

We each turned a corner and met, by accident, on the tiny streets of my new town.

The typhoon's minimal damage could be seen on the streets and felt in the air.

I felt you in the air the day after the typhoon came.

The egg on toast this morning for breakfast. Good morning, sweetheart, you had written in a poem about making me eggs. Good morning, you had written.

Mornings are not the best anymore. They are not slow to wake up in your arms or quiet to slide out of the sheets not to disturb you. They are not tea steeping in favorite mugs or eggs frying, over easy, in the pan. They are not setting the little breakfast table or standing on the patio overlooking the sun making its golden way above the hill just beyond the Samjin River. Mornings are not sharing a sink while we each brush our teeth, making faces at one another and trying to keep the toothpaste in our mouths as we laugh. Mornings are not full of possibility in the same way they were with you.

But they still arrive, the mornings, usually with a bit of confusion about what has happened. Still, I wake up confused and a bit shocked that you are not here.

Mornings come with a pit in my stomach.

Last night I sat with a group of people at a wooden picnic table on the patio of a GS24, a green umbrella doing its best to shield us from the rain. Last night I was introduced to three new people (one of whom is a Korean police officer here in Jeonju who goes by the name of "Superman") and I did not mention you. Last night I did not mention you.

Last night I listened to drunken stories and waved the smoke from my face and slid my purse towards the center of the table when the rain came down harder and I did not mention you. Last night I missed you and I didn't speak your name.

This morning, as I was getting ready, I looked at the rooftops from my perch 18 floors above. I can't look out of a window without imagining what it feels like to fall from it to the ground below. And what point did you know you were falling?

You always talked about climbing into love, as opposed to falling. Love isn't something you fall into, you said. You climb into it, you said. We climbed into love. You fell from a window. My love fell from a window. We climbed into love a year and a half before.

Chuseok is coming. It was during this holiday break that we traveled to the pension up north and saw "hearts around the moon" from our rooftop bath. The year before we had hiked.

Choseok is coming and people around me are making travel plans and you are not here.

Hearing the word "Chuseok" makes my stomach sink.

Do you see, love? I am here without you. The grief is softening, as promised it would, but the missing of you is quite raw. One day I will have lived in Korea for longer without you than I did with you.

And I am linking those days together with as much purpose as I can muster. I make plans to hike. To get together. To meet up. To enjoy good food. I'm considering doing the next 24-hour theater night because I imagine we would have ended up doing that together if things had worked out differently. I imagine we would have co-written and both acted. I imagine we would have laughed so hard that our sides would have hurt. That's what we did.

I have moved on from the Gareth who struggled. I have laid him to rest and let him go. I have released my grip of wanting to keep him here so that he can be fully healed. I truly believe I have.  This is the Gareth who suffered from what you and I called "mental migraines."

But the true you, the unaffected you (is there such a thing?), the Gareth who was prone to joy and held me in that sacred space- you, babe. I have trouble letting go of you. And I'm not even sure that I have to, to be honest. (There's no way to do it wrong, says Megan Divine, in regards to grieving.) But the ache in having an attachment which only exists in memories is a great one.

I have calculated. A long, healthy life means a good 45 years to come.

45 years.

Once we waited 2 weeks to see each other and it felt like an eternity. We whimpered when reunited. We hugged and we kissed and we each made little whimpering noises like distressed animals. It was ridiculous.

Two weeks.

45 years.

A daunting thought if I really sit with it. You've got this, babe, you would say to me now. You're a spiritual warrior. 

Yeah. We'll see about that.  









Sunday, August 17, 2014

Day 170: Playing Tricks



Sunday, August 17, 2014

Dear Gareth,

You were not there at the airport to greet me when I returned from the U.S. like you were last year.  I know because I looked. I scanned faces as I exited the secure area into the sea of expectant people waiting for those they knew. I looked for someone your height. I looked for your cap. Last year you were holding roses. I looked for roses.

They were not there. You were not there. And I don't understand how this could be.

What an unraveling that snatched you from the present that I'm in now. How is it that more than five months later I still have trouble believing it?

Do you remember last year? I flew into Busan. It was closer to Hadong- pre-move and pre-Philopena. Of course you knew I was coming. We had been chatting at each layover. In Chicago I described my sandwich to you- turkey, brie, and apple on a baguette. "A goddam sandwich without any bullshit!" you exclaimed happily. "I just want a goddam sandwich without any bullshit!" is what you'd say when eying the spam-layered, sweet sauce-dripping monstrosities in Korea. And here I was eating one. My sandwich with no bullshit.

I had the same kind of sandwich on my way home this time. I wanted to call and tell you about it. Were you waiting for me in Korea this time as I took the first bite? It felt like you could have been. My mind still plays tricks on me.

Even after not seeing you in the crowd, I was nearly convinced for a moment (and that's all it takes) that you were alive. I imagined my name on one of the signs being held up by various people waiting to connect with those they are responsible for picking up. "That's me," I'd say, pointing to "BRIDGET MARET" written out in all caps with that subtly different font that indicates a non-native English speaker wrote it. "That's me. I'm Bridget."

"Ah! Follow me!" the man would say. I'd roll my multiple suitcases to his van, load them in the back, and hop in the front seat.

"Where are we going?" I'd ask.

"It's a surprise," he'd say.

I'd buckle myself in and marvel at the fact that I was in no way thrown by an unexpected airport pickup taking me to a mystery destination.

Maybe I'd sleep a bit in the van. It's nighttime and it was a long flight here. Yes. I'd sleep. But just a bit.

I'd wake up when I feel the shift of speed as we exit the highway and go through the I.C. I'd recognize it as Gyeongju- the city where you last lived.

We'd wind our way past the scrap metal yard and approach SHOW MOTEL! with its impressive dripping neon lights.

We'd snake along the river. Mountains to our left. Buildings to our right.

We'd pass the turn for your old apartment and instead take a left across the bridge towards Dongguk University where you taught for the past year.

I'd try not to look too long or too hard at the university hospital where I last saw you. I wouldn't want to think about that and I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

The van, however, would park right at the entrance to the hospital, and instead of feeling sick about it, I'd begin to realize what the surprise could be. I'd run from the car, not bothering to close the door, and speed through the entrance.

My shoes would squeak on the shiny floor as I run past people and signs and posters and elevators and blur they're a blur I don't see anything else because I know where I'm headed.

I'd round the corner and take the back steps two at a time. I'd run past the bathroom where I washed the blood from your necklace before handing it over to your brother. I'd run past the chairs that I made into a bed for the several nights I stayed as close to your side as I could. I'd run below the speaker that played the prayers and the chants and the sound of the hollow wooden bell. I'd fling open the two doors separating me from you except for those brief 20-minute visits we were allowed.

I'd take a sharp right and stop just as I'd reach the foot of your hospital bed and you'd be there.

Sitting up.

Laughing.

An elaborate joke. A terrible joke. But my relief at you being here with me now would overtake my confusion and anger about what hell it's been for the past 5 months.

"But how did you-?"
"But what about the-?"
"Then how did you-?"
"So you're saying-?"

You'd have an answer for everything. So many people would have been in on it.

I'd be impressed that you went to such lengths to pull something like this off.  You'd momentarily feel terrible about causing such anxiety.

Remember when you threw back the shower curtain when I was taking a shower and yelled, "I GOT MY EYE ON YOU JAY-QUELLEN!" You were only repeating a line from Key and Peele that made both of us laugh and laugh each time we heard it, said it, or thought about it. You had no idea the surprise would put me in such an adrenaline state of panic that I'd continue screaming long after you brought your hand to your mouth and quietly said over and over, "Oh, babe! I'm so sorry! I didn't meant to startle you. I thought it would be funny. Oh, sweetie. Oh, babe. I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, babe," you'd say this time. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It was just a prank."

Pranking was never your thing. You didn't like any humor that could be construed as mean or hurtful. I love how sensitive you were. We didn't tease like this.

I'd have to suspend that part to continue the fantasy that you are still here. Waiting. Not at the airport, but several hours away in an intensive care unit at Dongguk University Hospital.

But I can't suspend it. By the time I've actually made my way to the bus outside of the airport, a mere 4 minute walk from where I'd first scanned the faces for you, my imaginary story would be over. They're never sustainable. Or if they are, I'm somehow making a choice time and time again to step back into reality. Into the present. It is where I live now, without you.

Dear Gareth, sweet Gareth, I'm beginning my third year in this country where we met. This place where we "met...by chance, deliberately," as you wrote. This place where we "...tripped into love/like little kids tripping into puddles of rain, getting messy/making worlds then running home to the rational brain." In some ways, I am here for the first time. I will not meet you on my second day in my new little town. I will not fill the months to come with adventures of Korea and trains and buses and you.

I will have experiences without you. And this will be different. (Different,  I'm told to say. Not difficult- though it will be. Not devastating, though sometimes it will be that, too. Different. It will be different.) And I am to remember that different can be good, too.

Different friends. Different experiences in the same places we went. Different adventures in new places where we hadn't gone. Chuseok will come and go and be different. Same for Halloween, Thanksgiving, my birthday, and Christmas. This will all be different.

And my choice in the matter- and I like to employ it where I can- is to turn towards this different-ness with my arms wide open. You would love this about me, Gareth. You would love that I'm choosing to go about it this way. I'm not particularly ready, but I will do it. I will open my arms out wide and I'm going to live this shit out of this life that I've been given, for as long as I'm given it.

And the trick, as it turns out, is just to be willing. Willing to be open to different when same is no longer an option.
















Friday, August 15, 2014

Day 167: Six Weeks of Goodness

August 14, 2014

To view your life as blessed does not require you to deny your pain. It simply demands a more complicated vision, one in which a condition or event is not either good or bad but is, rather, both good and bad, not sequentially, but simultaneously. --Nancy Mairs 


Let no man think lightly of good, saying in his heart, It will not benefit me. Even by the falling of waterdrops a water-pot is filled; the wise man becomes full of good, even if he gather it little by little. --Buddha.


Experience has convinced me that there is a thousand times more goodness, wisdom, and love in the world than men imagine. --Gehles


Goodness. Six weeks of ridiculous goodness happening around me, to me, for me, in spite of me, because of me. I have, for the past six weeks, been a scavenger of good. A receiver of love. Not unlike crowd surfing, I have been passed across the outstretched arms of delighted spirits. And here I heal. And here I heal. And here...and here...and here.

I tried to count the number of people I met with one-on-one since arriving six weeks ago, and I gave up after 45. That's 45 coffees, lunches, breakfasts, walks in the park, frozen yogurts, early morning runs, or late night chats on a bench long after everyone else has left the city otherwise empty. 45 hugs hello and embraces goodbye and often some in between.

Then there were times when I let the good wash over me in a wave- the good kind of wave. (Ah! I see...a wave can be gentle. A wave doesn't have to drag me under and choke my breath. I can, at times, be carried by one.) This happened when meeting with a group of good-givers: my old co-workers, my former employees, friends gathered to read Gareth's poems, high school classmates.

Good came in delightful jolts when I saw my favorite street performer in action, ran into a former student unexpectedly, or heard my name called from a car, only to see a sweet friend pulling over to run out and hug me.

Old and remembered goodness bubbled up in me when sitting across the table from my childhood friend whom I haven't really spent any significant time with in 30 years. The delight of being 8 years old and running through the woods looking for snakes! I felt it.

Old goodness of forged friendships. My closest female companions. A flight to Portland brought me to Maud, and Heather and Jennifer traveled from Boulder, Colorado and D.C., respectively, to each spend 2 glorious days with me. Late night talks from twin beds across a darkened room. Roller skating. Pushing on swings. Sitting in silent prayer in a chapel. Dancing on the steps of the cathedral with the parked car door open and music blaring. Delighting in the child my childhood friend created. Soaking in hot spring claw foot tubs with a white curtain between us.

And there was the goodness of bringing Gareth with me on this trip. Sharing stories about him. Hearing his words read aloud by people celebrating not only his gifted talent, but his undeniable love for me. He was here with me, and he was welcomed here.

In an oddly real-time episode of "BRIDGET HENGEN MARET...THIS IS YOUR LIFE!" people began showing up seemingly out of nowhere. Friendships/relationships set down years ago- ones that left residual discomfort, were suddenly being healed across a cup of coffee in a cafe or after agreeing to meet up for a walk. Old hurts were vanishing quicker than I could try to name them. And with these connections, some of which were to last only the length of our meeting and some of which are moving forward into current friendships, I am again reminded that I love and am loved. Even with people whom I'd never imagined seeing again, we stood with years of hurt between us and looked across the space to see only the goodness in each other.

I arrived here open to anything and everything that will propel me through this grief. My arms have been open, and I am showing up for it.

And here...can you see it? The healing?

I am showing up for the healing. And people showed up for me. I let them. I asked for them to gather with me, and they did. I arrived with grief cradled at my hip and Gareth wrapped around my frame and all three of us- me, grief, and Gareth- were welcomed over and over again. I held my face toward the bright possibility of connection and I let it warm my skin.

And when the waves hit, the less pleasant ones, the ones that passed as quickly as they arrived and the ones that brought me once again to the floor, I was held by the awareness that incredible goodness and heavy sadness can exist at the same time. Even more, I was held by the very thing that made my connection with Gareth so strong and so sweet- I loved and I was loved. I am held by the present awareness that I love and I am loved.

I love and I am loved.

I love.

And I am loved.

With OK Go in a "if Gareth could only see me now" moment.

With Ian, a former student, joining me at the OK Go concert.
I ran into Kristin whom I hadn't seen in 13 years.


With high school classmates, most of whom I hadn't seen since 1991!

With Gizmo! (Frank) and his new mom and dad, Doug and Erin.
Post tattoo (kakapo, kiwi, Korea's national flower, and line of G's poetry) with Amanda Pepper.
With friends from my days as a manager at Pier One Imports.
Ah-WOOOOO! Post-howl with my sister and Raven Wolf, one of my favorite local performers.

With my momma, the day after I arrived back in St. Louis.
Ju-JU-DAY, JU-DAY-JU-DAY-JU-DAY-JU-DAY, WAAAH! With Judy, a favorite waitress of my teen years.

A visit with Izzy, massage therapist in Portlant, OR.

With my niece, Rose. Beautiful.

With Dave and Barb. I was on their team the first year I taught middle school.

With childhood friend Billy. Now Will.
Like no time had passed. Good high school friend Stacey.

Charlotte stopped her car to say hello.

Maud and I had a throwback evening at the roller rink.

With Maud, Maud's friend, and my two friends whom I met in Seoul.
Oh, Heather. I love you. Friends since 1974.
Between two incredibly decent people, Jonathan and Beth.

Kathy! My sweet friend. Custodian at the middle school where I taught.

I can't say enough about my gratitude here. With my grief therapist, Lisa. We were connected with each other while I was still in Korea and we skyped each week. She gets it. She really does.

More former students! I am feeling joy right here with Luke, Ida, and Ben.

Goodness came often in the form dogs.
With my dear Aunt Mary. We are connected in a way now we don't wish to be, but are each profoundly grateful for the other.
Goodness here with Ray Douglass, a favorite local performer.

With Jen Fox and Maud. We met in 1987.

These people know me, get me, and love me. Triple blessed! Co-workers from Wydown Middle School.
Andy and I taught on the same team for years. Good people. (with his wife Jen.)

Another student sighting! This time with Anna.

And the love keeps coming. Here with my sister and our 4th grade teacher, Cheryl (Epstein) Martin.

Good golly I love this lady! Jennifer came from D.C. for a visit.

Ruby told me that "crying...is the best thing to do."

Laughing is also good, though. Here with my friend Phil in Portland.

Spending time with Teddy. One of my favorite humans on the planet. I taught him in 8th grade.

With cousins and sister and brother-in-law.

This amazing group gathered to read 34 of the 88 poems Gareth wrote for me in the time we were together. An amazing night!

With Ailce. Again, like no time has passed.

I was reunited with my old dog, Gizmo. (now Frank.)

One of my dearest, dearest friends. Aimee and I taught together.

Aimee's twin girls, who have been like nieces to me since I met them at age 2.
Goodness in the form of a goat!

I first met Amber and Liz in Seoul and we reconnected in Portland. Their love for each other makes my heart feel full.

Heather and I worked together. And now she lets me fling my leg up on her in photos.

With Lynn- another person who I feel "gets me." And how nice is that to feel?

With Kyle, who reminds me that our words are powerful.

Helena has a common love of play and gets the heavy stuff, too.
Next year Philopena will have someone to play with!
With 4 Clayton students and 2 moms. Lisa (mom of 2 of the girls) organized a dinner and rock-decorating party at her house.

On each side of each rock I wrote the name of someone I spend time with while here.

They all fit snugly in this jar which will travel back to Korea with me tomorrow.