Ain't it Grand to Be Alive?

Ain't it Grand to Be Alive?

I am alive.

Not because I

breathe.
Not because I

steep my tea

while washing

up last night’s

dishes. I am

alive not

because I eat

a bowl of bran

flakes even

when I realize

I’m out of

bananas to

slice on top.

I am alive

because I hurt.

I ache from

the places I

cannot steep.

The places I

cannot feed.

There, under

the protective

skin of me, I hurt.

And with each

electric shock or

dull pulse of

discomfort, I

am reminded. I

am alive. I am.

Leaving Korea

Dear Gareth,

I started writing a poem about the after-effects; the good things and the not so good. I erased it. I started to write about birthdays and how they feel different now. I erased that, too. I feel the certain itch that only writing relieves, but I can't figure out where exactly I'm itching. I just know writing directly to you at least got my scratching fingernails on the right limb.

Here's what I want to write to you about.

I remember that terrible implosion across the internet- me in Thailand on the eve of my return to Korea from what had been a great vacation and you in your apartment in Gyeongju in a state of alcohol-fueled distress. I had wanted to talk about my concerns, but I had not wanted to do so until we could be face-to-face. "Are you leaving me?" you wrote. "Are you leaving me?"

Dear Gareth- Do you know I am leaving Korea in 18 days? Of course, you must. I am returning to St. Louis for a few weeks and then heading on to Portland, where I hope to make a new home. I am opening my heart for all types of new things and I have been making space for this in the past few months.

 I am leaving Korea after 3.5 years. I am returning home.

"Are you leaving me?" I couldn't hear your voice, but I could sense your panic. It was growing. It was bleeding through the screen.

"I am not leaving you," I wrote back. "I have to step aside from the relationship for a bit while you get help or not, and while I figure out what I'm willing to do."

I am not leaving Korea. I am stepping outside of its physical boundaries. I am taking it with me.

"I am not leaving you."

Korea will always be woven into the makeup of my being. How can I separate myself from where I met myself?

"Tell me you're leaving! Tell me! Is that what you're doing?! Are you leaving me?!" 

You were in full panic. You were not making sense. You were unintelligible. I was terrified. I was crushed. I was wanting you well. 

"No. I am not leaving you. I have to step away from this. This is not good for me. I am really wanting you to be well, and I don't know how to make that happen. I can't make that happen." 

Did I leave you?

I am leaving Korea in 18 days.

I don't know how I could have done it better. I'm not sure how I could have done it differently. I thought I was "detaching with love." You felt I had tossed you overboard and cut all ropes back to the boat.

I am detaching from Korea with love. This glass globe I lived in and shook and shook and watched things float and glitter and fall and never quite settle.

"Are you leaving me?"  

In the hospital I told you I would not leave you. That I was here now, and I would remain so. I brushed your brows with my thumb and I told you your family was coming. I kissed the tip of your nose and told you that you were not alone. I placed my hand on the side of your cheek and I promised you that I would not leave. Did you hear me make that promise?

I am leaving Korea in 18 days.

Did you leave me?

What is this- this slipping off of the map, this shifting from one country to another, or from a hospital bed in Gyeongu to a place I can no longer describe? What is left when neither of our footsteps are felt on Korean soil?

Did you know you were leaving?

You left when you knew it was time. Your family had arrived, save your loves back home looking after things while mum, dad, and one brother came to be with you. We had been back in the provided apartment but for a few hours when we got the call to return. You were leaving.

I'm leaving Korea in 18 days. I am selling my things. Throwing many things out. A kind man is moving into my apartment and buying much of what I have here. I am preparing to leave.

How did you prepare to leave?

We emptied your apartment of its contents. I was struck by your toothbrush and tube of toothpaste balancing behind the bathroom sink on a small ledge. I was struck by the dirty clothes in your laundry room. By the dirty dishes in the sink. By the things recently used, recently worn, and never returned to. You had no idea when you left just a few evenings before that you would not be coming back.

Did you have any idea? Maybe in some way you did.

I want you here with me as I touch everything I own in my apartment. I want you to help me say goodbye to books and little talismans, and people, and hills.

Can I be leaving you if you are not here?

"Are you leaving me? Tell me. I need to know."

I am leaving Korea.

I did not leave you. I type it again. I did not leave you.

I type it as many times as I need to see it.

I did not leave you. I am not leaving you. 

Until I believe it.

I am leaving Korea in 18 days. I am not leaving you. 

And forgive me if I am. Forgive me if I did.

Help me forgive myself.

Crossing the Finish Line

Crossing the Finish Line

I ran to cross the
finish line of 16
sprinted as fast 
as I could to 18
I scarcely looked 
behind when my
eyes were on 
the finish line of 21

I spent time
around the finish
line of 30 of 35
I wondered how 
I got to 40- that
finish line mixing 
metaphorical ones
with literal ones
a brutal run on a hilly
South Korean island

I think about the
races cut short-
about how I continue
to lace up every
morning while some
of the most brilliant
running companions
have left the course

I can hear the sound
of their rhythmic
steps. Of their breathing
still. I wonder who
will greet me when 
I cross the finish line.

 

This is the way to thread me

This is the way you
thread me while I'm in motion:
eye the eye of my needle and
will it to stop spinning
swirling passing by in a blur

Sing to it, if you will:
Slow down, my love! Slow
down! Watch me carefully
consider with perceivable pause
I slow I stir I where have you gone?

This is how I sleep: when
thread is slack and held by
nothing but gravity's pull
against the gleaming wooden
floor. Thread me! I whisper

to fingertips long resting. At
once I tire. I stop to admire
the all of me slender long
a curved space through which
I can view the rest of you.

Where is your thread now?
Look, I am still. I contemplate
the thrill of colors brightly chosen
looped through my lair and
pulling me guiding me trusting

my sharp point to meet the
rough pad of a waiting fingertip
when I emerge from the other
side. One cannot begin to imagine
the beauty of tapestries I've made.

A Message To Loss As I Enter The Next Chapter

Dear Loss,

There are some things
I need to say to you as
I embark on life's next
big shift. Listen well.

I am not afraid of you.
I am not afraid of your
past collections, your
swift blows to the ground.

I am not afraid of your
threats delivered through
the caring words of others
Be careful. I just don't 
want to see you get hurt.

It's true: I thought I may
dig a hole in the dirt.
Lie there. Live there. Line up
my stones to cast at anyone
who approaches. Loss knows 
you are here! Stay away.
Stay away from me.

But I was wrong. Who
was I to know what
would be left when you
turned your attention
elsewhere?

This is who is left, and
again I implore you to listen
and listen well:

I am not afraid of you
and your ability to take away.

I am astounded by what
rushes into the spaces you created.

I am not afraid of your certain
endings, your vast creativity in
making sure it is so.

I am, with the knowledge that
you eventually come for all things,
ready to loosely hold onto what
is given before you take.

I will not give the world
a duller, quieter, more fearful
version of myself in your shadow.

I will see you there, ready to
pounce in your own time, and
I am not afraid of you.

I will trace lines on the palms
of friends and trace lips on the
face of a lover and trace evolutions
on the stories of family and

I am not afraid of you or your
threats to take them from me.
From this world. From themselves.

I am not afraid of you.

My ability to love and tear
open and regenerate and love
again and open arms wide to
the recipients of my alljoy
is Greater than You.

I will not hide from wild
love it all its forms. I will
not hide from sudden and
prolonged bursts of joy.
They are of me and they
always return.
I am not afraid.

Instead, I will face the things
love light joy creative
and I will remind myself
You are not here yet. You are
not here yet. You are not here.
Yet.

My Best Fall

fall for
fall in love
fall short
fall down
fall apart

dip, dive, down, drop, fall, nosedive, plunge

my best fall
fell
fell short
fell down
fell apart

i prefer these days to climb

climb up
climb over
climb into
climb across
climb towards

arise, ascend, lift, mount, rise, soar

I will not fall in love
blindly
skipping across a hole
unseen

I will see it there
majestic and promising
and climb up to its peak

The Woman on the Beach

Wednesday 29 July, 2015
(This is a revision of something I posted to my online group last week.)

Today I was walking alone on Gwanganli beach here in Busan. An angry storm was approaching and the wind was whipping my unruly hair across my face. Not exactly ideal beach conditions, but I wanted to feel the sand under my bare feet, and something about the grey smoke of the clouds swallowing up the tall buildings struck me as beautiful.

Usually this beach is like a little sandy sardine can, packed with little sandy beach sardines; the Korean ones wrapped like mummies to keep the sun from damaging their skin and the foreign ones hopping about in skimpy pieces of cloth stretched together, welcoming any and all skin damage as long as it looks bronze in the meantime. For a bit of shade, umbrellas plastered with advertisements can be rented for $10. To bob about in the water, $5 will get you a raft shaped like a bright yellow doughnut. On any given sunny day, this beach is a sea of umbrellas and yellow doughnuts, mummies, and brown, near-naked foreigners.

Not today.

Today, with the clouds threatening rain, the temperature suddenly dropping, and the wild winds making the idea of staking an umbrella in the sand impossible, this beach was nearly empty. Here and there dark silhouettes of figures could be seen searching the water's edge for washed up things of fancy. An elderly couple could be seen staring across the water, almost wondering where it all came from. But for the most part, it was empty.

I tied the laces of my hiking boots together, tossed them over my shoulder, and walked from one end of the beach to the other. I let the sting of the cold water snap my thoughts back into now each time a wave crashed in. My mind followed the pulse of the ocean- back and forth. Before and after. When he was here, now that he's not. Things we did together in this city, on this beach, and things I'm doing alone now in the same place. There are always the waves.  Today's waves looked turbulent, but I was experiencing them as gentle thoughts.

It's ok. I miss him and it's ok. We were here and it's ok.

I was experiencing deep gratitude for this moment of acceptance, knowing it's not always so. But at this very moment, walking along the beach with a storm coming and my boots strung across my shoulders, I felt ok. I felt purely capable of doing this. All of it.

Then I heard her.

She was at first woven in with the sound of a wave crashing, and then as the sea silenced itself for a moment, I heard her clearly. It was the familiar sound of sobbing- no, wailing- no, of a world being smashed to pieces.

There, sitting alone in the sand, facing the water, was a woman in her late 40s, perhaps. Korean. And crying into the sky like only we know. This was the sound of great loss.

I passed by her, trying to give her the space I know I needed when I fell to my knees in a public space and out came the animal sounds. I knew these animal sounds.

I walked past and thought of how nice it is that in my little Tribe of After, my little online group of writers and mourners and beautiful people who have experienced great loss, we learn to be present without fixing. We bear witness without consoling. We are simply here.

I thought of how this sobbing woman, with arms stretched out to the sea, doesn't need to be told that it's ok. Because it's not. She doesn't need to have someone stop her from crying and make her feel better. Because she may not for a long, long time. I thought of how the best thing I can do is witness her pain.

I thought about how my lack of Korean would keep me from trying to talk over her grief, anyway, and what a blessing that is. Because suddenly there I was, crouched next to her in the sand, sliding a special bracelet of mine around her wrist. I was patting my chest and in simple Korean saying, "알아요." (Arayo. I know.) "이 아파요." (ee ahpahyo. It hurts.) "남자 친구 주겄어요." (Namja chingu jugeosseoyo. My boyfriend died.)

I know.
It hurts.
My boyfriend died.

She held my hand and looked at me in a way I also recognized. The "how the fuck did this happen when everything was ok?" way. It was the confused and grief-stricken face of somebody cast into the after. I knew that face.

I held her hand and closed my eyes, and I summoned the help of my Tribe. I guess I prayed. I prayed for this woman, touched by hurt so big that she'd set her reserved cultural ways aside and cry so publicly. I have never seen this before in Korea.

I knew that face.

I stayed that way for no more than a minute, touched the top of her hand, then her shoulder, then continued walking down the beach.

A storm was coming. The sky was ready to rip open and show this city what loss feels like. Wash over us, me and this woman, her knees to her chest, wailing like an injured animal. Drench us. Pelt our faces with liquid grey.

We can take it. In fact, we may not even notice.

I Am Here

For the month of July I am staying in the city of Busan, about 2 hours from where I live. It is a coastal city, and Korea's 2nd largest city (after Seoul). This is my first time back without Gareth. I've had first times back to other places. About a month after he died, I returned to Hadong for the first time. A first time to return to a place brings with it a whole flood of memories and then the grief that follows. All this gets unpacked or pushed aside while taking in and experiencing the actual events of here and now. It's a heavy load, really. Not impossible. Just heavy.

It's hard to return to places for the first time. Then it gets a bit easier. And a bit easier. And soon my own non-Gareth related experiences are painted right on top and over the ones I had with him. They're still there. But they're not what everybody sees anymore, including me.

Walking around Busan National University's area tonight, I was feeling the heaviness of my grief. It was a little hard to put my finger on what it was exactly, and then I saw this sign:

I am here.
The sign says so.
Here I am.
I am here.

I am in Busan.
We were here.
Four times.
I am driving past
the coffee shop near
Jalgachi Market where
you were impressed
with the sight of a single
tree below. You wrote
about it and how it
reminded you of
Christchurch. I am
driving past that
tree. I can see up into
the window where you sat.
I am here.

I am here.
I am walking along
the beach at night.
Weaving past couples
holding hands and
taking selfies. 
We were here.
I am sand in my toes.
We were sparklers
spinning and an old
man laughing while
we danced.

I am here where
Christmas lights
hung one December.
You photographed me
near a tree made of
bright white bulbs.
I was smiling, swinging
shopping bags full of
your presents. Your
presence. You were
here. I can see our
shadows where we stood.


I am here.
I am stepping on
and off subways.
I am climbing stairs
and turning corners.
I am city air and
swelling noise and
people pushing and
lights blinking and
ocean waves slapping.

I am still while
everything
else is moving past.
In this place,
I am still.

I am
still
here.

And you are not.

To Korea, in gratitude

For teetering on a small, unsteady
wall of dirt in the middle of a rice field.

For seeing an old man shuffle down a
country road in white wellingtons and

moments later seeing another old man
sitting outside his country house bathing

from a bucket in the late afternoon light.
For the moon reflecting on water so

still between rows of growing plants-
so still that I'm convinced I could lace

up a pair of ice skates and the water's
surface would hold me. For the hard-

wiring of frogs to croak into the night,
believing a mate will select their sound

over that of hundreds of others and
then go even further to find them in the

darkness. For hearing this John Cage-esque
piece of music when I walk home through

narrow paths tucked between farmlands.
For the perfectly tart, cold 매실 juice

served to me in a smooth piece of white
pottery by a woman in folded cottons

and a handkerchief that keeps her jet-black
hair from her face. For deciding to pull

off the wide road home instead to follow a
narrow one back and back into the thick

trees of a hill and for finding deep within
a path, a small waterfall, two traditional

structures, lifted straight from a folktale
about monks in the woods. For layers

of hills playing at India ink prints and for
large scooped valleys storing green for

the summer. For exploratory walks and
for allowing my curiosity to follow the

steps of an old man with a cart, down a
gravel road, and to a bush. For watching him

pluck several bright, red berries and, without
noticing me, watching him toss them into his

old-man mouth and walk away, cart and
all. For deciding to do the same after he

was out of eye-sight. For the tartness of
bright red berries never before tasted.

For pieces of once-white cotton tied to two
tall sticks pushed deeply into the mud of

someone's rice field. For driving past these
two sticks and noticing the wind whipping

the fabric wildly against the backdrop of
verdant green fields and achingly grey skies.

For an unexpected smile from an older
woman, snug in a wetsuit, fresh from the

sea, manhandling the shellfish and the
octopus she just yanked from their watery

homes. For all of this. And any of this.
Any of this that can for a moment, for

a brief and needed moment, allow me to
forget the heaviness on my chest, the

knot in my stomach, the missing in my bones.
For taking me out of this body, this mind, and

showing me the extraordinary in the ordinary.
A million gentle bows to you, Korea. In thanks.

To Date or Not To Date?

I joined an online dating site.

Wait.

Before you start cheering and calling me to congratulate me for "moving on" and telling me that "Gareth would want you to find someone else," let me say a few things.

This is an incredibly hard step.
Not a big step.
A hard step.
There's a difference.

A big step is when you want something but you're afraid to do it. Then you move an inch towards what you want and - oh! What a big step you've taken!

A hard step is doing something you don't want to do because you know it's probably the best thing for you in the long-run.

This? A dating site? Making a profile? Any of this?
I don't want it.

Anyone reading this blog knows exactly what I want since I've written about it until we're all exhausted, and what I want is not possible. He's not coming back. Period.

And I know that.

I also know that I won't find him anywhere out there on the internet. No matter how funny, how charming, how romantic, how poetic, how adventurous, how playful someone might be, they just aren't him.

So is it fair to go out there at all?
Fair to me?
Fair to someone I may chat with?

I have no idea. And that's the truth. No one gives out a little guidebook when you're hopelessly in love with someone explaining what to do if that someone suddenly dies and you're left with their absence and a life long enough to fit someone else (several someones, even) in it.

But I can't spend all of my time knelt down in the gristly dirt, staring at that gaping hole where he once was. Please. Don't congratulate me. Don't see this as a big accomplishment.

It's hard.
That's all it is.
Hard.

Here's how hard it is:
The first few profiles I wrote for myself talked about Gareth. This loss, his absence, is such a part of my everyday-ness that not writing it felt like I was hiding something big. Or like I was trying to pass myself off as something I'm not. I was not ready to venture into this alone. I wanted Gareth to come with me. 

It's not that I thought being in love with someone else is a selling point. In fact, I was probably secretly pleased if that kept people away. And it seemed to. Everyone but "junglepenetrator" and serial killer-esque "avioknight."

Turns out I was on the wrong site. What did I know? It literally took a bus-full of 20-somethings to clue me in to the better site for dating. I deleted my profile immediately. Goodbye, junglepenetrator.

I should also mention that it's probably not a coincidence that about 2 days after I made that first profile, I went to sleep crying until my bed was filled with snot rags and my pillowcase was like a Rorschach test. I woke up like a drunk person, dazed and barely able to get myself ready for work. I taught my classes, then promptly returned home to cry in bed some more. I canceled evening dinner plans with friends. I took one up on an offer to walk my dog, since I seemed unable to get out of bed.

I.
was.
for real.
hit.
with.
some.
serious.
grief.

It's not that I'm worried Gareth is angry. It's not I'm pushing myself and not ready.

It just became so clear what I already know: that I miss him. Not companionship.
Him.

I also had this wave of feeling incredibly flawed. Who- WHO- would want to go out with someone who not only is in love with someone else, but has periods of being completely incapacitated by sadness?

"But, it's not like you're like that all the time," my dog-walking buddy told me.

And that helped.

Because the (and I can hear my own sweet mother saying the words) "ANYONE would be CRAZY not to date you! You're SMART! And BEAUTIFUL! And FUN! And CREATIVE! AND! AND! AND!" words are just not helpful to hear. They're a nice gesture, made to make me feel hopeful, but all they do is remind me that all of those flattering adjectives are being wasted on someone who can't just get out there with that fun dating energy and play the game.

The game is not fun anymore.

So, post day-long cry and deletion of my account on the wrong site, I joined another one.

I edited my profile three times.
In the first, I talked about Gareth.
In the second, I alluded to him.
In the third, he was nowhere obvious to be found. But he was everywhere, of course.

And posting my profile on this new site was like the time I paid to dip my feet in a tank of little fish in Thailand. It will be good for you, they said. You won't believe how smooth your skin will be! Yes. Because 50 fish at a time climb all over you to get a tiny piece of your skin to nom on. It's gross. It's weird. And it kind of tickles.

Internet dating is exactly the same. It's gross. It's weird. It kind of tickles.

If anything, the distraction of judging people solely based on their selected profile photos or poor grammar was, dare I say, welcomed. I found myself scrolling through my "matches" and audibly saying, "Oh, NO! You can't say that..." or "Seriously. Ew. Come on, guy!" Once I yelped in disgust so loudly that my dog jumped from the couch. Usually this is from the pictures alone.

Photos with shirts off. No.
Photos with head on a pillow in bed. No.
Photos with camera phone reflected in mirror. No.
Photos with a face like a serial killer. No.
Photos with a face like, "Kill me now. I'm miserable." No.
Photos with flexing muscles. No.
Photos with self flanked by two ladies. No.

Then there come the messages, and there have been over 40 in less than 48 hours. These range from benign ones which garner no response from me like:

Hey.
Nope.
Hi.
Nope.
You there?
Nope.
Hi there.
Nope.
What's the weather like?
Nope.
How are you today?
Nope.
How was your weekend ?
Nope.

To too-intense ones, like: 

Meeting the person with whom you will wish to spend the rest of your life with is not so easy. And the only way to find out is to keep in touch by communication and spend time in learning more about each other. It needs to have mutual deep level attraction both physically, emotionally and intellectually. We need to feel the connection in many aspects. I know that you can't have high expectations from someone online, So, I just wait to be very pleasantly surprised by faith. I do believe everything can happen, as long as we have faith and focus our mind on things that we want to achieve.

Nope.

I have responded to very, very few. Most to say, "Sorry, I live in South Korea. Thank you for the kind words. Good luck."

I did just trade lyrics to "Good Times" back and forth with someone:

Me: Keepin' yo head above wa-taaaaaah
Him: Making a wave when you can
Me: Tem-PO-ra-RY lay offs!
Him: EASY credit RIP Offs
Me: my favorite part. gotta type it as it sounds when I sing it: skuh-ratchin' and suh-vie-vin'
Him: Lmao! You good..hangin in auh chow LINE!
Me: hahah Ain't we lucky we got 'em
Him: Good Times-eye-eye-eye imes...(deep voice) Yeaaaa!
Him: Whew!!!

and then

Him: Sexual chocolate!!

Nope.

Some messages sent to me were so off-putting that I had to make memes about them just to cope:

Then there was the moment that a co-worker popped up on there. A nice guy. But I squealed and nearly threw my laptop across the room. It was like walking around in your house with no clothes on and then looking out the window and seeing your nice but don't-want-to-do-it-with-him neighbor out there. *drop to the floor* Oh, sweet Jesus. Did he see me in here?

My other friend showed up as an 80% match. "Let's just get married and get it over with," I messaged him. I'll add that to the list of things I've said that have made him incredibly uncomfortable, no doubt.

This evening I had some very fun witty banter back and forth with a guy who is visiting Korea for a week on business. It's the kind of back-and-forth I really miss with Gareth.  This guy noted my reference of Steve Martin in "The Jerk" when I answered the prompt: list 6 things you can't do without. He was complimentary, but not creepy. And he was funny. That's enough to make me consider an evening out with someone- the humor.

I said I was not for any kind of visitor-coming-through-town hookup, and I told him about the elderly prostitutes selling vitamin drinks and carrying viagra in the park (true story). More banter and he said he'd still like to take me out because I seem like fun.

To which I reply:

I would go on a date, because I aim to try. But, I'll tell you, I am the suckiest choice possible if you want to get your doin' it groove on. Even your smoochin groove has no shot here. Hand holding is also out. Can't even brush my fingers when passing me some chopsticks. That's what I have to offer. Sound like fun?

A little more banter and then I do even more sexy talk:

I guess one could surmise that I'm not quite there yet. I'd suggest you don't test it, unless you want a show. And not a sexy sex show. The kind that makes you wish you were invisible. That said, if you want a completely sex-less in every way date, that's me. It will be like taking your mother out. 

Turns out that's not the way to accept a date offer.
Okay, you may have convinced me it's not the best idea, he wrote. Although my mom can be pretty funny, especially after a half glass of wine!

Mission accomplished? I convince someone not to take me out?
This could be how I start.
Slowly.
So, so very slowly.

And I'm sure, I'm absolutely sure of it, that Gareth is getting the biggest kick out of it all.

Aren't you, babe?

Fire-Starters

There's a fresh-faced boy
who works at the local Starbucks.
When I enter the store, he
bounces on his feet a bit.
His eyebrows go up in
recognition. It's been so
long, but I can identify it
as flirting. Gareth did that.

There's a new friend with
a wicked sense of humor
and an ability to mimic
accents. Sharp. Witty.
His subtle comments in
a group conversation
sometimes go unnoticed
but to me, bent over,
holding my side, and
laughing until tears
come out. Gareth did that.

I felt the smallest spark
of attraction while ordering
my coffee and later while trading
hilarious commentary with
my friend. I'm sorry, Gareth,
I found myself thinking.
I think I want to be kissed. 

I shared these things with
a girlfriend, my adopted
sister here in Korea. I felt
foolish. Taken aback. I don't
want a relationship. I'm not
even ready to date. But-ah!
To feel this part of me waking
up after a year-long sleep.
To look at someone and want
to step closer, into that space
where everything feels electric.

Of course!, my sister said.
These two are fire-starters.
You are a connector. Anyone
who knows you knows that.
And you are a sexual being.
You connect in many ways.
And for a long time you weren't
sure you'd ever feel that again.
These two- safe people- 
got the role of starting your 
fire. That may be all they do. 

And what good news that
was! What a relief! What a
cause for celebration! Not
only could I feel that "fire"
(as she put it) again, but I
wouldn't have to ruin a nice,
new friendship or creep on
the coffee boy who is almost
half my age. I could just
thank them (in my head)
for showing me there is
a spark in there to be flamed.

For a day or two a gate was
drawn back and I was allowed
to imagine things with someone
else. And they were such seemingly
benign things: being held,
late night talking in bed and
laughing, having my eyelid kissed,
being looked at as someone
desirable, someone who herself
lit a blazing fire in someone else,
reaching across the table and
touching fingers. A kiss to make
the legs unsteady and the heart
work hard for its right to beat.

And then. (And there seems to
always be an "and then") it hit me.

Gareth did that. All of those things.
I am imagining it with these
fire-starters because I miss it
so, so very much with him.

And, yes, the coffee boy is
ridiculously handsome with
a magazine-cover smile. And, yes,
my new friend's humor and
general easy companionship
work like a secret misting of
pheromones when I'm not looking.
The truth is the fire being started
is one that was already there.

It's Gareth's fire. It was lit
the moment we met and
exchanged the same type of
witty banter. It was fanned
each day that followed:
each walk, each movie watched,
each coffee sipped, each glance
exchanged. Each inside joke,
each finger stroked, each eyelid
kissed, each late-night talk.

This fire, our fire, my fire that
was started on that August
day while rounding the corner
and meeting this man- this
fire cannot be put out. Over
the past year I covered
it with ashes. His ashes. I
choked on the dust and the
embers of it each night when
I attempted to lay myself
down on top of it. I got it to a
bearable and almost unnoticeable
glow. And then came the fire-starters.

My guess is they each
unwittingly kicked across
the ash pile with no intention
whatsoever of checking for
sparks under that soot and
that ash. One kick. And two
kicks. And oops- whatdoyouknow
there's a tiny flame there.

And when the coffee is handed
to me with a flirtatious smile
and I exit the shop (*kick the ash!
up goes the flame!*) or the
friend makes me laugh once
more before turning to walk
home (*kick the ash! up goes
the flame!*) I am left looking
at the fire they both helped to
start, and I ask myself,

Who does this really burn for?

Experiencing and Accepting Joy

Note: Written originally as a post shared with my fierce, honest, passionate community of grievers whom I've gotten to know as a result of the 30-day writing course I did a while back. I posted this yesterday after reflecting on the absolutely wonderful day I had.

 

-------------------------------------------------

I'm writing this because I don't share a lot of joy on this page- seems a sacrilege in some way. Odd, I know. Also because, honestly, I haven't had a lot of joy to share. I recently blogged about the incessant desire to die post Gareth's death and I posted that with great trepidation. Because...it's true. And I'm trying to do this grief as truthfully as I possibly can.

But do you know what else is true? I woke up today with a feeling of lightness. I walked the dog. I hopped in the shower and ate breakfast. All of it. And it didn't taste like cardboard. Then I downloaded some new music, loaded up the ipod, and went on a 5-hour bike ride along the river and damned if I didn't feel actual joy. I mean the for real kind. Serenity, I'd even call it.

And here's what I decided. I'm not to panic and think the joy is temporary (because it is- everything is, really). I'm not to think of it as a failure when I wake up in heaviness again. I'm not to think I'm doing a disservice to Gareth or to my incredibly personal grief by feeling light today. I don't have to worry that others will see my joy and be relieved- "Finally! She's over it!" Because some will- and, oh, well. They can just feel that way. Because you and I know what it's really like.

Here's what I'm understanding, about my own grief business, anyway: Something happened today and I experienced multiple hours in a row of good feelings. And what I know now, what I could-not-would-not-didn't-imagine is that this could happen. I am not "cured" of grief. I have not moved on. I experienced some joy. Period. And I will experience that depth of sorrow and feeling of wanting to die again, too. That's my guess. And I'm wondering if I'm not developing some kind of agreement with myself that both are ok. That both serve some kind of purpose. That I may live out the rest of my days in a kind of fluid state- one not negating the other.

If I have a day of joy, I don't get my grief card revoked. I don't get kicked out of this group. Gareth doesn't slip into an unreachable place. And if I have a day of death-thoughts, a day of wanting release, a day of not being able to do the simple tasks, I am not in a permanent state of chronic depression. I am mourning. Because I loved deeply and I feel the loss deeply. That's how it is.

All of this is true.

Shameful Sharing: Everything I Don't Want You To Know About What I Think

Shameful Sharing Part 1:

Every time I hear about anything medically serious with someone, I am secretly jealous. When I read about any kind of disaster with fatalities in the news, I feel jilted, like someone else won the lottery and here I am, buying tickets everyday and never winning.

This makes me feel like an asshole. Because these are asshole-y thoughts. But they seem to be normal for someone who feels trapped in an exhausting dance with Grief as her partner. I want the dance to end.

I try to keep these thoughts to myself. I'm ashamed of them, and they're disturbing for others to hear. They can also be misinterpreted as suicidal thoughts, which pre-grief I would have thought, too. But they're not. They're something in their own category- one in which other grievers seem to understand completely, but the rest of us find incredibly unsettling. And I get that.

I've explained before that I'm not suicidal. When I follow that up by sharing detailed visions of all the ways in which I wish I would die- like RIGHT NOW die, it can send a bit of a mixed message.

And I get that, too.

I think if I were a drinker, I'd have a few on a regular basis to mellow out the discomfort of constant missing, revisiting guilt, and waking up each day with that same shock and devastation. But I don't. Smoking's out, too. I do binge watch the occasional show on tv or go down the rabbit hole of Youtube cat videos until the wee hours of the morning, but a real easing up of this incredibly intense sadness hasn't been experienced.

Yes, I can feel joy. Yes, I can laugh. And those were two things I couldn't do in the beginning. ("See! You're getting better! There it is! Evidence! Let's all just move on then!") Not so fast. It's like this- the joy is felt and then I get hit with a double-whammy of grief right afterwards. Or the laughter is there and what people don't see is I'm also about a millisecond away from crying, and I mean hard, because he would have found this funny, too, or because it reminds me of how much he made me laugh, or a myriad of other things in my head that serve as a constant push to the head underwater.

I can't breathe down here, people.

So...what does my brain do? It gives me moments of escape. Most of the scenarios have to be creative because the normal litany of suicidal thoughts are out of the question for me. I won't. I refuse. And I witness up close the unraveling of the ones left behind after the loss of my sweet cousin Jessica.

I'd have to be a double-asshole to even consider suicide as an option. It's just not. Not for me.

So...in that case, I'm fucked. I am to wait it out. To hope to have a wall collapse as I'm just walking down the sidewalk (like the clip I just saw on CNN- 2 dead), or a plane land on me while I'm walking on the beach (like the news story from Florida last year). I rode the new monorail in Daegu this weekend and as I looked down while we floated above the city, I hoped for a structural failure.

I drive down the street and will various pieces of steel to slide off trucks and crash through my windshield.

I try visualization as a tool to create a bubble in my veins which will travel to my heart and burst in the night while I'm sleeping.

I listen through my bedroom window to the night trains pass over the tracks and wonder what that would be like. How does one lay down on the tracks? How terrible for the conductor. It's hard to create a scenario where someone is not left reeling from trauma. I refuse to be a gifter of trauma. What a shitty gift.

I have little scenes that play out in my head- all of which work like a little sedative. My heart stills. My breathing slows. My muscles relax. For a moment, for one fucking moment I am not thinking about his death. Because I'm thinking of mine.

This is how it is different from being suicidal: none of these are plans. They're wishes. I don't plan to go into a rough neighborhood late at night and ask someone to shoot me. I do, however, picture walking down a dark street and getting caught in the crossfire of a long-standing feud.

I have zero plans of flinging myself from a tall building. I do, however, wish when I am on the roof of my apartment, that a freak gust of wind knocks me down or a deranged tenant pushes me off. This is what I'm thinking as I'm hanging my clean, white sheets up there on the roof to dry. This is what's playing in my head even as I'm smiling about something that happened earlier that day or singing a bit of "The Girl from Ipanema." I am thinking about dying. I am thinking about not being here.

I don't want it anymore, and I know that makes people sad. It makes me feel like I'm telling the truth. A truth that has zero effect on me being alive or dead, because I will not do anything to speed the process. I am not suicidal. I will not kill myself. Read and repeat those lines as many times as you need to let it sink in, because they are also words of truth.

"But Bridget, hang on...it gets better." And it has. It's downgraded from Hurricane Holy Fuck I Just Watched the Man I Love Quickly Lose It and Die a Tragic Death to Tropical Storm Worst Breakup You've Ever Known. Most of us have felt that- a terrible, terrible breakup with the crying and the trouble eating and the friends trying to cheer you up but sometimes you just need to watch three movies in a row and cry through all of them. We've all had that. And it lasts about, oh, 2 months for the worst part, and then we start to kind of come out of it. A year later, we often can't even remember what it was to feel such sadness for a person we're now kind of grateful we're no longer dating. We see how it was "a gift" and we're stronger for it.

I've progressed from 24-hour bursting of the vessels in the eye sobbing to just a constant state of feeling like I've just had a terrible breakup. That feeling. The one we've all had. But unlike an actual breakup, this state is going on. And on. And on. For months. "It gets better" is starting to feel like the biggest crock of shit I've ever been served.

And I'm sick at the thought that there may be a part of me who thinks I don't deserve for it to get better. That this is the penance of abandoning a love in need. I'm not conscious of this feeling- as it seems one I worked through and worked through and got to a place of understanding about. But it's possible. It's hard to say. It's just not. getting. better. And "it will" is little consolation when I wake up every morning wearing this wet, woolen coat of sadness.


--------------------------------------

Shameful Sharing, Part Two: Humor in the Ridiculousness of it All

The other night I was lying on my couch, staring at the ceiling. I had just binge-watched season 3 of "Girls" and was taking advantage of the fumes of someone else's creative thoughts put into television to keep me from going through my own.  This lasted about 5 minutes and, bam, swift descent into grief. I'm used to this. I usually experience it after I've held it off for hours or even (when I'm really skilled/busy) for days.

Now I'm on my couch, staring at the ceiling, and I'm wishing I were dead. Shameful scenarios play out again, and this time, almost out of desperation, I google "when will I die."

It was ridiculous.

Just as ridiculous is the fact I found plenty of links to sites claiming to determine an accurate number of years left one has on this earth depending on their lifestyle. I clicked on one, excited to get the news like the departure date for a long-awaited vacation.

Do I smoke? No.
Do I drink? No.
Do I eat healthy food? Yes.
Do I exercise? Yes.
Has anyone died of disease in my family. No.

I could see where this was going, and it wasn't looking good for me.

I clicked the submit button and....

"Congratulations! You will live to be 91 years old!"

And I began sobbing. Not just regular sobbing, but the kind where my hands cover my face and I roll back and forth to the right and the left and scream out, "I can't do it! I can't do it that long! Noooooo!"

And, that, my friends, is irony.

I tried another site after that, hoping for another number. Perhaps in the 40s. Or even 50s, if I had to. But the second one only shaved 5 years off, having me die at a ripe age of 86. The wails were audible to my neighbors, I'm sure.

Can anyone else see the humor in this? Some part of me, floating above this reality, could. This is fucking hilarious, Bridget. Give it up.

-------------------------------------

Shameful Sharing, Part Three: I Want Your Cancer

I was recently at a birthday party for the 2-year-old son of friends of mine. Several of us were chatting it up on the patio as the meat was grilling.

Friend 1 (to Friend 2): So, how's it going with the spot on your nose? I see a little patch there. Is it going to smooth over?

Old Me: Oh...I hadn't noticed that. What happened there?

Friend 2: Oh, I had a spot removed. It was cancerous, actually.

Grief Me: I want nose cancer.

Old Me: For FUCK'S SAKE, Bridget. That's a terrible thing to think. 

Grief Me: Well, I do. 

Old Me: That's scary. How did you find out about it?

Grief Me: Yeah, tell me how to get nose cancer.

Old Me: There's not even such a thing as NOSE cancer. It's SKIN cancer, you idiot. And I'm trying to have a serious conversation here.

Friend 2: Well, I had this thing...like a little scab...except it wasn't going away. And it would fall off but a new scab would just appear.

Old Me: And so you just went in and had them take a look at it?

Friend 2: Uh-huh.

Grief Me: That settles it. If I find a reappearing scab on my body, I'm not going in to have it checked out. I'll just leave it there.

Old Me: Knock it off. Seriously. I'm trying to be present to this guy. That's a scary thing for him.

Grief Me: But not for me. I'll take his nose cancer.
Old Me: Do you even hear what you're saying? You KNOW people with cancer.

Grief Me: Yeah, and I want it.

Old Me: That's disgusting. Seriously. Shameful. How do you think they would feel if they knew you thought this way? Maud? Who'd give anything to be promised the rest of her life will be cancer-free?

Grief Me: That's just the thing, though. I'm over here. Volunteering. My hand is up. Choose me, Universe. Choose me! Leave Maud and Chris and all those who had it and all those who will be diagnosed with it later alone. I want it. The big kind. The fast or slow kind. The one that kills you.

Old Me: You'd feel differently if it actually happened to you.
Grief Me: Maybe. Maybe not.

Old Me (to Friend 2): I'm glad you're ok.

----------------------------------------

Shameful Sharing, Part Four: Please, Let This Mole Be Trouble

So, I have this small mole on my right thigh. It gets covered with what seems like dry skin bordering on a scab, which is delightfully gratifying to scratch off. I came home from the birthday party (above) with a new sense of glee. Leg cancer. And, boy, did this make me feel like a super-asshole (see shameful sharing part 1). My double-cancer-fighting dear friend will revoke my friendship card. My newly-diagnosed friend in my grief group will block me from facebook so she doesn't have to be reminded that such an insensitive jerk is alive out here on the internet.

That's me. Insensitive jerk. And I really don't want to be. It's just the loud chatter of my head. The escape hatch constantly being pulled back and I'm invited to look inside. Sometimes a gun's in there. Sometimes it's a highrise building. Sometimes it's cancer. These thoughts, the please let me get cancer thoughts, are the most shameful of them all. That's like someone saying to me, "Man, my boyfriend's such an asshole. I wish he'd fall out of a window." Or saying to someone with an eating disorder, "Man, I wish I could have an eating disorder! I need to lose weight!" (I've actually heard this.)

People are assholes. And I'm afraid I'm no better.

I want leg cancer. I want this little mole to be currently marking the spot where bad cells are dividing and burrowing their way into my bone. I want advancement of this like no body's business and I don't want any "Oh, you're so lucky they caught that when they did!" I don't want it to get caught.

"But you don't mean that."

Oh, but I do. And I said it. Delete button and blinking cursor be damned. You love me? I'm glad. I love you, too. And the reality is by loving me, you love someone who doesn't want to be alive anymore. That's sucky. I know. It feels sucky to me, too.

And the fact that I just stared at that last paragraph and kept repeating "Don't delete it. Don't delete it. Don't delete it" means that at least- and this is kind of a huge thing- I want to live authentically if I'm meant to live here. Right now. With all of you.

This is exactly where I am. The uncomfortable reality of it. And I appreciate how uncomfortable it is for you. And for me. None of this is easy.

But, when I hit "publish" on this post, I will have not a single thing to hide. Somewhere, in the deepest part of me, I am putting myself before you and saying, "If this isn't horrible enough for you to dismiss me as a friend, a person, someone you love, then how about you and I stick this thing out? Together."

The Act of Deleting

I string together

the truth in short

little stanzas.  I

slash my words

across the page

like Pollock threw

paint.

And then I

delete what

I’ve written, one

letter at a time,

while the ink is

still fresh while

the press is still

hot while the

words still mean

something.

Back and back I go.

Grief in reverse.

Until there is nothing

left but a blinking

cursor and the unshared

writing of a woman who

appears to be just fine.



 

Dreams as Metaphors: No Big Stretch

May 14, 2015

skip past the first part
that I remember
bobbing in the water
was it a lake?
or an ocean?
skip past the part
where the water began
to swirl, to gain strength
skip past the fact that
I was floating there,
swirling there,
losing my point of reference
my entrance point on the sand
my way out

skip past the part where
I looked out and saw others
out there in the water
each in his or her own orange
inflatable raft. ignore the
part where I notice I, too, am
in a raft and how I know this
will not save me. how I know
it will not save us. we are all
being swirled and sucked under

skip past the second part
of the dream. the part where
I'm standing near a large
glass window perhaps providing
a view to the ocean. ignore the
part where my back is turned
when the glass shatters. skip
the part where I shield my face
from the sharp edges flying by.

go instead to the last part of
my dream. the one in which I
am a silent and unnoticed observer
in a hospital room. on the bed
is a young girl. 20s, maybe.
30s possibly. she is dark-skinned
and her head, what is left of her
head, is being cradled in her
mother's arms. the right side of
her face, left if you're looking at her,
has been severely burned. she is
deformed. she is in incredible pain
and she goes in and out of consciousness.

it was an accident.
a surprise. she didn't see it coming.
something about a burner.
something about an explosion.
something about no one expected it.

she is deformed. transformed.
she cannot go back.
she is in incredible pain.
she writhes and moans and
there is nothing her mother can
do to make anything better for her.

each time she comes to, she
sits up quickly and cries to
no one in particular: "I NEED
TO KILL MYSELF! I NEED
TO KILL MYSELF!" the
mother holds tighter, tightly, tight
and says, "I know, baby girl. I
know, baby girl." and once
again the girl falls back
head on the pillow. slips back
into temporary respite only
to be jolted awake again and
again.  I watch this. I watch
this as I sleep.

Dear Dream-Weaver, Dear
Sandman, dear Dream-Catcher,
dear Mind of my Mind,

I get it.

I've never not gotten it.

Must you remind me?

Tired

I'm tired.
Of this.
Of that.
Of all of it.

I'm tired of putting
the butter back in
the fridge. The cap
back on the toothpaste.

I'm tired of putting
on socks when my
feet are cold. I'm
tired of plugging
my phone in when
the battery weakens.

And, no. That wasn't
a metaphor. I'm tired
of the metaphors.

The mind does
funny things when
we feel trapped in
discomfort. Tonight,
I viewed images of
meteorites which had
fallen to the earth.

I've been hoping
a meteorite may
land on me. You
don't need to tell me
how ridiculous this
is. I already know.

It just seems like
if they have to land
somewhere...you know.

I'm tired.

I don't pray for
blood clots or
aneurysms like
I did in the beginning.
I've moved on.
To meteorites.

The mind. My mind.
It's trying to help
me out. Give me some
relief. It still pictures
jumping from high
places when I'm out
walking my dog.
The overpass. That
apartment over there.
That one. Or that one.

Maybe that disturbs
you. Maybe that causes
you to worry about my
well-being. I'm used to
it by now. Rest assured,
I am not suicidal.

I am simply tired.
And I feel trapped.

I've traded those
early days of grief
for something different.
And this new face of
is ugly. Bursts of energy
and lightness,
reassurances to everyone
(including myself) that
things are "getting better."

And then they're not.
They are.
And then they're not.
I can.
And then I can't.

And if I really tell you
of how hard it is, if
I really explain how
sometimes I'm stuck
in bed for hours at a time-
under the weight of
sadness- isn't there
just this little part of
you- this really little part
(and let's be honest) that
thinks perhaps I'm just not
"moving on"? Isn't there
a little voice in your head
that questions how I could
still be this sad? Still?

There must be.
Because I can hear it, too.

I'm tired of it.
Of this.
Of this grief.

I'm exhausted from
the longing.
From the missing.
From the self-
criticisms.
My ears are sore
from the sheer volume
of it all. My hands are
calloused from grabbing
at any and everything
on the way down.

I'm tired of writing
about this.

I'm tired.

The Tricky Thing

6 March, 2015

Here's the tricky thing:

I'm doing ok. Fine, really. More than fine.
And then I'm not.
I could use a little encouragement here.
No, not from you, my living ones.
I want to hear it from him.
And I can't.

And this, in my opinion, is ridiculous.

Sure, the signs are there,
and I have an abundance of love.
So, what does that make me-
not grateful? There's nothing worse,
in my opinion.

Last night I had a dream I made
love to a man. In the dream I hadn't
particularly wanted to, but I remember
thinking I should "get it over with"-
this physical act with a man who was
not Gareth. There was going to have
to be a first one after. After Gareth.
There was going to have to be a
someone after.

What a pity to be this someone.

He was a scrawny man in a dimly lit
hostel- on a twin bed tucked inside
of a small shop, really. A shop
that sold crystals and earrings
and had in the corner a bed wrapped
in a crisp white sheet for massages.
This was not the bed we used. Ours
(or "his" really, there was no "ours"-
there was no "us") was a twin cot
in the opposite corner.

The shop was closed for the evening.
Perhaps it was a shop by day,
hostel by night. Perhaps it was just
doing what places do in dreams:
morphing between ideas. Changing
without causing too much alarm to the
dream participants. I was not alarmed.

I was not attracted to him, this man.
I felt nothing for him. He was harmless
enough. He meant no harm.
Maybe he had a dead love-person, too.
It's hard to know. We didn't connect
over sadness. Or passion. Or emptiness.
Nothing was there to join us together-
"us" a word reserved for another time,
with another person. I felt nothing.

There was no connection. It just was.

His hair was long and in tangles. He
lacked any discernable scent. He may
or not have had a spattering of facial
hair. His arm muscles were taught and
he did not possess any of the softness
of the body I knew and longed to be with.
There was no belly. There was no vastness.

When my childhood friend Heather
walked in the room and found us there,
I was slightly ashamed. I covered myself
and explained that this- this did not mean
anything."No offense," I said to the man,
and he nodded. "I'm just getting it over
with." We all understood.
I was not defensive. I felt nothing.

How empty.

Here's the tricky thing:

Last Wednesday was the year
anniversary of Gareth's death.

The air had a holiday feeling,
like Christmas or Thanksgiving.
I was shrouded in gratitude, and
if not happiness, certainly contentment.
Everything seemed clear, including
this loss. I celebrated with his
family via short text messages
and long video clips. It was a
good day.

Here's the tricky thing:

Last night I wasn't sure how
I can continue under the weight
of this. This morning I wasn't
sure I could get out of bed.

Things are better. I am happier.
I go days and even the better part
of weeks without crying. I really,
truly, see the bigger picture, and
I am through the worst of it.

I can do it, and I am doing it.
And then I can't.

Here's the tricky thing:

I lost a family member in the
casualty of grief. I am not met
at the airport. I am not hugged
goodbye when I again leave.
I am avoided and I am resented.
I am an unwanted presence.
I am selfish. I brought this on.
I want to be angry and hurt,
but I haven't the energy for it.
I can't repair when I'm in disrepair.
Under the hurt is hurt. I'm too
tired to unravel it. To right the
furniture. To hold out the olive
branch. I lost and lost again.

Here's the tricky thing:

In year 2 the grief goes underground.
The shades get pulled down on it.
The dark clothes go to the
back of the closet. All of the
frozen lasagnes have been eaten.

In year 2 when you "just can't,"
you're lazy, instead of grieving.
You're selfish instead of heartbroken.
You're holding onto it instead of
in the throws of it. You're stuck
instead of but-of-course, didn't-you-
hear?, she-just-lost-someone-close-
to-her. In year 2, things are different.

It takes a serious gumption to
step up and admit that it's still hard
when the grass has long grown over
the once-fresh grave. It takes balls
to say that, yes, things get immeasurably
better and days are full of joy, and
then it comes back- the heaviness.
The feeling like it's a bit too much.

And the tricky thing is that
I'm not sure I have either.

To Shakespeare, on the Year Anniversary of Going to See My Love for the Last Time

To Shakespeare, on the Year Anniversary
of Going to See My Love for the Last Time

I searched tonight through your sonnets
as though you had written me the code years
before to crack the mystery of what-is-this-inside.
A Shakespearean horoscope in reverse.
I thought you could scratch this itch of loss.

Where are you when I need you, William, or
is it Will, or what did your lover call you when
kissing your eyelids at night when the moon
illuminated your lashes? You've always echoed
back to me experiences of love or wonder or
feelings of loss. Tonight your words ring empty.

Your well-metered lines of loss and love
impress me, no doubt. But no where in there
do you speak of what it's like to feel cured
of grief, setting fire to action again: teaching,
laughing, running, reading, connecting-
and then suddenly finding yourself unable
to comprehend a simple text message or
lift a cup of long-awaited tea to your lips.

You do not write of tea going cold and
friends' messages left unanswered. Damn
you and your beautiful words. I need you.

Where is your sonnet woven from your
thoughts on the anniversary of the death of
your love? I want to read about your despair,
your experience, softened by centuries between
us. I need something to soften the blow.

This past year I ripped open my loss and
spread its slime across my face, my hair,
my eyes, my mouth. I vomited and dry-heaved
words of loss and pushed them hard into my
computer screen. My mind has grown tired
from a full attack sensory replay of those days
from February 28th until March 4th and the
few days that followed. Today I hit stop.

Do you see now? I need to read your
words to keep me from writing my own.
I will not write about it today. I will not
so much as think about it today. Please.
Help me give myself a fucking break. Help
me keep in the words that want to come
out and are not welcome here. Not today.

beard                empty     bracelet
                   beeping       dry
      black plastic             green
crisp                tube          speakers
          warm             chest
    sound           waiting      hallway
 call            lips            torn
      backpack           wallet       sorry
holes           washing      blood
       embrace           bear
    hands         lights      elevator
           heels         today
not today

                 not today
                                    not today

My Next Calling

15 February, 2015

I used to be a great teacher.
A performer.
I used to weave effortlessly
between learning styles.
Between lessons.
I used to be a great teacher.

I used to be a great manager.
A diffuser of tricky situations.
I used to hire enthusiastically
and fire compassionately
and train carefully in between.

I used to get glowing
performance reviews.
I used to get promoted.
I used to get noticed.
I used to be great at my job.

I applied for and got a new
job last year. A university
job in a town near Gareth's
with a schedule like Gareth's
and with promise of giving
me a chance to do my thing-
do what I did best- teaching.

I left Gareth back in a hotel
room in Daegu the morning
I interviewed for my job. "I
don't need to wish you good
luck," he said as I gathered
my things and searched for
my purse. "Anybody who
wouldn't want you doesn't
deserve to have you. You're
an amazing teacher." And
he kissed me goodbye.

And I kind of was. I mean,
I seemed to have an infinite
passion for teaching. I
seemed to have an uptapped
energy supply for putting into
lessons. For coming up with
creative solutions to otherwise
boring learner objectives.

I used to be a great teacher.

My new employer was promised
this teacher in my interview. Why
wouldn't I deliver what I said I
would? It used to be effortless. I
used to feel gifted. My new employer
has never seen this teacher. Death
has pulled the old bait-n-switch.

I used to be good at what I did.

Maret teacher did not show up for
her first class. Phone calls were made.
Classes were canceled. Some were
covered by other teachers. Maret teacher
was not standing in front of her new
class, dazzling get-to-know-you
activities in place. Rosters ready to
be checked. English ready to be spoken.

I was instead waiting. Waiting for
visiting time again so I could cross
the threshold of those double steel
doors and lie with my love. Waiting
for his family to make the long flight
from New Zealand. Waiting to see
them walk down the hospital corridor.
Waiting for the news we already knew.
Waiting for signs that apologies were
heard. That reassurances were felt.
Waiting for my love's heart to stop.

I was not there in class for the days
that followed- the days of ash. The
days of dust. I returned on the Monday
of the second week of classes. I
returned an empty shell of what I was.

I used to be a good teacher.

This facsimile of myself, this
person who walked like me and
talked like me, got herself dressed
each day and put herself in front
of a classroom of students. She
smiled and bounced and whirled
and twirled. She hit "next" on
the powerpoint slide each and
every time. She was good at hitting
"next." She used to be a good teacher.

It took 100% of my energy to
appear 25% as engaged as I used
to be. Blinking hurt. Breathing
seemed no longer an involuntary
activity. For an 11:00 class, I was
often sobbing in my car until 10:58
and back at it at 11:05. I showed up.
And I did the absolute very best
I could, which may be adequate.

I used to be more than adequate.

I've completed 2 semesters in
this job and am returning soon
for a third. I've twice started
voluteering with our university's
special needs population and
twice dropped my intentions
because if energy went towards
volunteering, it seemed to be
taken away from somewhere else,
like having the ability to feed
myself or order a coffee without
bawling. I used to be able to
take on more. I used to be able
to give. And give. And give.

I think back to that interview
and imagine what they thought
they were getting. I can't tell
you how much I wish my boss,
my co-workers, my students
could have met that person.
The one I was before. Sometimes
I can picture what she'd be
doing now. Developing interesting
classes and testing them out.
Collaborating with other instructors.
Getting students involved in
learning in a way that makes
others stand up and take notice.

I am the teacher now who flies
under the radar. I am the one
who takes 3 hours to make a
lesson that should only take 1.
I am the teacher who finds chatting
with others at the staff holiday
party a real challenge. Stay present.
Nod. Smile. Ask questions. Nod
again. Sip your soda water. Don't
you dare cry. There's nothing 
remotely even grief-related 
happening now. Do. not. cry.
I am the girl who cries in the office.
I am the girl who cries in the car.
I'm afraid I have a reputation as
the crying girl. The grieving one.

I used to be the coworker people loved
being around. I used to make others laugh.
I used to walk with purpose and almost
in kind of a hurry. There was so much
to be done, always, and I loved doing it.

This new teacher makes mistakes.
Mis-reads emails and sends something
in too late. Or too early. Or not at all.
This new teacher confuses the old
schedule for the new one and misses
a language clinic. Just- doesn't show up.
This new teacher patted herself on the
back that morning for looking at the
schedule and realizing she didn't have
to be there. Except that she did.

Who is this person?

This new teacher recognizes
that old feeling of teaching passion
and shares a link with 80-odd members
of her staff. A lesson idea for a particular
class. This new teacher is reminded
that only 5 of those 80 teachers actually
teach the particular class. (subtext: what
are you doing sending that email to the
entire staff when only 5 people may
even be remotely interested in it?)

I used to share all types of ideas
and links. Good ones. Ones that
generated conversations and led
to creative practices in the classroom.
This new teacher can't even send an
email to the right people.

I recently sent an email to my director,
a kind man who has no trouble telling
it like it is- a quality needed for being
responsible for 80 staff members.

"Hi, Patrick-" I wrote, "just wanted
to let you know I've been in communication
with Patrick about the new course."
(subtext: I'm on top of things. Except
I wrote "Patrick" twice. The second guy's
name is "Paul.") "Do you mean Paul?" wrote
Patrick. (subtext: Do you even know the
names of the people you work with?")

I used to be somebody who clearly
knew the difference between Patrick
and Paul, and had nearly impeccable
rereading/correcting skills before hitting
"send" on emails. "Yes. I meant Paul."

I fear I'm giving the impression that
I'm someone who can't follow emails.
Someone who misses important things.
Someone who certainly isn't seen as
a star teacher. I'm afraid I'm not only
giving that impression, but that it's true.

And maybe it is.

There's something that seems
clear to me, and that is that as much
as I am a teacher through and through,
I am not the same person I was before
Gareth died. I never will be.

And that opens up some questions.
If I can't slip back into that role,
if I was passionately led to teach
for 14 years, then is it possible
that I'm being passionately led
away from teaching? Is this a cosmic
shake-up? Am I getting another calling,
and if so, will I hear it when it rings?

I know what I was.
And I know what I am not now.
And a bit of that is heartbreaking.

But I also know what I am and
what I have come to know about
myself as a result of seeing how
I navigate through such a great loss.

I am a connector.
I am a writer.
I am a gifted communicator.
I am not afraid to be right up close-
nose-to-nose with grief, death,
people in trauma, and those who
are suffering. I am not afraid.

I am drawn to populations
that others often find baffling-
teenagers, homeless, mentally ill,
elderly. I am drawn to those for
whom the veils are thin. I am
drawn to those who have a toe
dipped in another existence:
teen to adult, dying to dead,
losing to lost. I am drawn to these
people. I always have been.

I am comfortable speaking
in front of a crowd. I am shameless
in the good way. I am not against
using my own pain to help others
laugh and sometimes to help others
name their own discomfort. I am
good at putting it all out there.
I am good at saying what others
are sometimes afraid to say.

I am adventurous. I like to be out
of my comfort zone.

I am compassionate. I can listen
and even better than that, I can hear.
I can hear what people are saying,
and I care a great deal about them.

I may not have the same type
of energy left to teach like I
once did. That's a possibility.
And in the meantime, my best
efforts are good enough. I won't
win any teacher awards, but
I also won't be getting fired.
Students are learning and they
are happy. They don't know they're
getting shortchanged. Only I know
that. And I can't seem to do a damn
thing about it at the moment.

I will go back in a few weeks.
I will give it everything I possibly
have. And I will listen. I will listen
for what I think may be ringing in
the not so distant future: my next calling.