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.

Joy! And Backlash. It Happens.

Dear Grief,

Fuck you.

No, really.

Fuck you and the window you flew out of.

Fuck you for causing me to use language that others may read and will ruin my reputation as a sweet girl.  I used to be a sweet girl.

Fuck you.

Yes, I'm angry. I'm angry because you are insatiable. You take and take and take and at some point, isn't it just enough?

Yesterday I put on my red boots and walked 6 blocks in the rain through the latter part of the alphabet to a neighborhood coffee shop:

Northrup.
Overton.
Pettygrove.
Quimbly.
Raleigh.
Savier.
Thurman.
turn right.

There. Dragonfly Coffee House. I ordered a latte and a breakfast bar and took an available seat in front of the sugar/water/cream counter, facing the door, and catching the rush of cold air each time someone new came in.

It was here I came to write. I came to write about the lightness felt while traveling to Gareth's home last month. I came to write about the many people I connected with while there. Family. Friends. Teachers. Writers. Flatmates. God-seekers. I came to write about what it was like to return to my "normal" self: to eat and want to do so, to go for long morning runs and have the energy to do it, to laugh until my belly ached, to dance in the kitchen while cleaning.

I wrote about setting grief down at the door of Gareth's home. I wrote about the absence of deep grief. I wrote about joy.

I sorted through photo albums to find pictorial evidence of what I remembered being so wonderful. And there they were; photos of me laughing, embracing people, smiling, enjoying. It's obvious. It really happened.

I ended the piece with an exclamation mark.

!

"No one can never accuse you of not making a difference!"

I published the post. I shared it with friends.

Look at me! I'm experiencing joy!

"I am ready for this life without you. With pieces of you woven in. And traces of you in things to come," I wrote.

I wrote those words. And I felt them.  I can do this. And everything is ok.

Hours later the shame began rolling in like an undetected and silent storm. Something felt strange. Something felt wrong.

By the time I tucked myself into the twin bed in the room I'm sharing with my friend's pre-teen daughter, I was mortified that I had shared this writing with others, let alone even written it at all.

Grief was back. It was dark and heavy and damp. And this time it had a voice:

You think you were connected? Connected? Ha! Ooooh. Look at you! Look at you with all of those people. What's so special about you? That you connect? That you had fun? You're pathetic. 

And I couldn't stop it.

What do you think you're going to do now, huh? Just travel around and "connect" with everyone?

It was mocking me.

You think that makes you happy? Do you think you're happy? Have you forgotten who you are? 

It was causing me to doubt myself.

And now look! Brilliant! You broadcasted it to the world, so now everyone thinks you're all better. You thought you were all better. They're celebrating now. They're celebrating a lie. 

And it came at me from every angle.

Gareth's dad said he hoped you could move on. Gareth's mum noted your joy. Everyone saw a different you. And you can't sustain it. Only now, you're coming up on the year mark and no one's going to want to hear your sob story anymore. You're time is up. Session is over. Compassion expired. 

Is that true? It can't be true. Why does it sound so convincing?

Everyone's going to see how weak you are. How you must like being miserable. Oh, and by the way, Gareth's gone and not coming back. He's dead. Integrate him into your life? Integrate him? Oh, how sickeningly sweet. You're misguided. You're naive. You're done for. 

By morning I'd wished I could have just gone back and erased it all. How jarring to have your genuine self questioned. I thought I was in deep joy, and Grief's backlash caused me to doubt that it was ever so.

Enter Megan Devine. And if you've been a frequent visitor to my blog, my story, my series of events, you'll know I happened upon her while searching the internet for support in those first few weeks after Gareth died. I found first her website, then her audiobook "When Everything is Not Okay." and finally ended up taking her 30-day writing course.

As a person who experienced the sudden drowning death of her partner, she got it. All of it. And her background as a therapist, a writer, and an artist made what she had to share incredibly accessible. She didn't have answers. She didn't tell me everything would be ok. She acknowledged the great abyss of loss and that's exactly what I needed.

As it turns out, she moved to Portland, where I currently am visiting my good friend Maud. When Megan learned of Maud's cancer re-diagnosis and need to go through chemo yet again, she was quick to made a food delivery in my name. Not much could be done from Korea, where I am living, and having Megan and Maud together in one space- these two women who have played incredibly pivotal roles in my life- was a great source of comfort.

Fast forward a few months to present day. After a friend's suggestion and a bit of financial support, I was encouraged to make a short trip out here to be with Maud and her family before I return to work at the end of the month. And it is here that Megan and I got to meet in person for the first time.

Today we met for lunch, and besides the fact that she's even more adorable in person than on the internet (I think I told her that she looked like a cute little warm muffin right from the oven), she was able to effortlessly flow through conversational topics as everyday as hair care and as deep as what it's like to feel attracted to someone years after her partner died.

We had lunch at a little mediterranean place and then walked in a random pattern on the grid of Portland's downtown streets. We sought out a sanctuary to send our good thoughts to a grieving member of the writing community and held cups of hot coffee in our hands. We waited at lights and crossed streets and stepped down curbsides and stepped back up again. We were asked for change twice, once while we stood still on the sidewalk pointing out where on our faces grief has aged us the most. We laughed some and each teared up once, both at different times.

with Megan Divine and a blurry lady walking by

"Love is not pink and fluffy and soft. Love is not Valentine's Day. Love is disconnecting someone you love from life support."

"Every time I have a good day, a good thought, a good experience, it's like I get kicked in the gut right after. Like I have to pay the price. How long does that last?"

And here's what I know now. Here's what Megan put out and here's what floated right beside us after I shared my experience. Here are her words that I tried on and found they fit.

Backlash happens.

"I almost hated having a good day, because I knew what was coming next."

Megan shared about her early days of grief. About those first few years. And again, I wasn't promised it would go away or get better. I was presented with someone else's experience which taught me that I am not defective. That I am not "grieving wrong." I am not a fake or a liar or someone who tried joy for a bit and found it wanting.

"If grief were a physical thing, if it could be understood like that, you'd still be in intensive care," she explained at one point. "I mean, you're out of the woods. Everyone knows you're going to survive. But you're not exactly ready to get discharged and go home."

This fits. This feels right. And I imagine if that doesn't make sense to you, you haven't yet experienced sudden loss.

I think I'll be in rehabilitation for a few years, at least.  And while that might not be clear to the outside world, those in this sacred inner-circle of grief, this Tribe of After, these Warriors of Now that I meet with regularly in a virtual sacred space understand this completely.

And sometimes it's nice to be reminded that even when everything does not feel ok, I'm going about it just fine.

I'm going about this just fine.

Returning Home/Finding Home

9 February, 2014

Home is

work in progress.

Mum’s piano stands
in the big front room
next to my brother’s drums

near the place where once
we put the Christmas tree
and probably will again.

Each room I’ve moved

into has taken on
the burden of my love,

stocking its walls
furnishing the floors
and dropping things to be
picked up, made Zen.

The flat on English street
had a wonderful big
tree on the lawn

outside my window,

indeterminate but green

and not going anywhere

as life fishtailed.

The Saudi hotel at last
has given me a kitchen
but the internet goes

on and off, and prayer gets

through the walls

in the gap where the aircon

was not properly installed.

I think of Joel and Dave

in Christchurch, living with

earthquakes – stocking
their walls and floors.
Good home does

for food, sleep, and love what
rain does for tomatoes.

21 January 2012

Gareth Lochhead

I suspect you were always searching for home. That was just your nature, and you were never quite settled in the places you temporarily called by that name.

And yet, when defenses were down and the mind was soothed by a nice cup of hot tea, your talk of home, of the farm, of your family, would leak out in expressed nostalgia and memory. The Rakaia riverbed. Your brother Jethro's keen sense of humor. Your mum's cooking. Loading sheep onto the back of a truck. Christchurch before and after the quakes. Flatmates from earlier years. The collection of things from your travels in the room that is yours, should you ever come back for a visit. 

I stored these things in my own memory, the place reserved for getting to know the one you love. I made images in my mind. Maps. I had little movie clips to go with each story you told. This is what we do when we drink in the life of another.

I know now that to have ever traveled to your home (or mine) with you and have it go smoothly, I'd have to distort facts in such a way that I'd end up inventing an alternate universe. One in which you take your girlfriend home to meet your family. One in which we sit at the dinner table together and polish off the Christmas cake your mum had been saving for you. One in which we hop in the car to have coffee with Dave or a visit with Lynne. Normal things. Easy things.

Being a part of your world was often (thankfully!) not normal, and it was also sometimes not very easy. A regular visit home was not in our cards. It couldn't have been.

So, some of these things I must do on my own. An ambassador of our love, in a way. A life out of order, and as my own parents recently reminded me, I've never been one to do things in the traditional, in-order sense.

This is why I find myself having in-laws acquired after you've gone. A reception of sorts months after we kissed goodbye. A semi-retirement in between jobs. You are providing all the things a girl could ever want, really. Just in a different order. And if I'm willing to accept it and see it in that way, it's pretty sweet.

I came to your home not for closure nor to immerse myself in you. I came not to slide into your place at the table or see things through your eyes. I came not to understand you more deeply or answer questions I didn't yet know I had.

I came home because you have given me another home.

Your last visit home- late 2011 into early 2012.

Home. Pulling off the road to your drive.

Lavington Farm.

Home. At the end of the drive.

 

Your room, when you were able to be home.

I had known you in this bubble of Korea- in an even smaller bubble of an isolated town in the countryside. That insulated way we met and fell in love did a few things, most of all allowed you to control what and who filtered in. As it turns out, you were a master of "zips"- placing people you knew and many you cared for into separate little pockets.

I have my ideas about why you did this and how you must have found it absolutely necessary, but what it means is that I had skyped with your parents once since you and I met in 2012, I'd met your friends Jono and Marshall on a skype call once, your friend Mike from Saudi once (also on skype) and spoke with your parents and brother on the phone once from my kitchen while washing dishes. 

I knew of the struggles in your school days, your time at uni and at College House, the satisfaction and connectedness you found with others in the Student Christian Movement, and some about each experience teaching abroad; Japan, Vietnam, Saudi, and Korea (twice). I knew about one dating relationship gone sour in Japan, and asked about another girlfriend only to have that met with pictures of her removed from your facebook without confirming she was in fact your previous girlfriend. You didn't like to talk about these things. You had an ability to write people off- such was your nature of feeling so deeply and being in (or out) of something 110%,

I knew when you felt accepted by others and who you felt accepted by. I knew to take stories of when you didn't feel accepted with a grain of salt, as I'd seen some differences in reality and your perceptions. Who is to argue with perceptions? My job was to love. But I secretly came to my own conclusions about those who came under your fire.

And this I was sure of: if someone loved you, if someone raised you, if someone grew up alongside you, if someone fell for you and broke your heart later, if someone worked with you and loved your ideas but ended up wronging you- then these someones were special people and always will be. There is a common thread in the people who have been woven into your life story, and it's one that makes me incredibly proud. We are people who let you in. And you were quite a force to be let in!

In some way I was still letting you in when I traveled your home soil and embraced time and time again those who know and love you. Your love was in those embraces. Your spirit was in the stories shared and the laughs had. You were celebrated, Gareth, and you were understood. I know that you must know this now.

In other ways I was not so much as letting go, but agreeing to move forward with each stop, each visit, each hug. And I could feel this lightness from the moment I got off the plane. Appetite? Back! Go for a run? Sure! Frequent singing? Yes! Dancing in the kitchen? But of course! At your home I laid down my bags of grief and I opened my now-free arms out to whatever the universe has in store for me.

I am ready.

I am ready for this life without you. With pieces of you woven in. And traces of you in things to come. I am not the me I was before we met. How could I expect to be? But this me- the one you touched- the one that bears the impressions of you- I am ready to carry that person forward.

with your mum and dad- Banks Pensinsula

You have gifted me another mum.

Your dad gave me a talkin' to about repaying my students loans. And I listened!

Your youngest brother- You mentioned more than once being proud of him.

Your brother Simon and sister-in-law Nats. Easy to be with.

Your nephew- Hudson Gareth Lochhead. I know you knew I'd love being with this baby!

Your good friend Dave. You spoke of Dave and Joel often.

Dogs! Dave's dogs.

Your friend Annora- introduced to you years ago by Dave. She was on your list of people to reconnect with.

Jono and Marshall. We had skyped once. Now meeting in person.

Lynne- your former teacher, trusted friend, and writer/life mentor.

With Fionnaigh and her daughter (ah! Partner Ellen not in the photo). You and Fionnaigh met at a time when you each really needed a friend. And you showed each other great kindness and understanding.

Another Fiona! And another SCM friend from years ago.

SCM provided solid friendships for you, including Tess, a flatmate from years ago.

With Grant- a friend from College House days, although you also went to the same school. You contacted Grant in 2011 when in a bit of a bind. You must have really trusted him.

With your mum's brother and his wife. You also spoke of them fondly.

With your dad's brother and his wife. You looked up to him.

With your cousin Katrina and her partner. No surprise that I delighted in her!

With some family friends at Purau.

With your mum's close friend and daughter.

How often I heard of the Tipples!

Another gift of this visit- the gift of joy. So much joy.

More joy.

Even more joy.

The zips have been opened, Gareth. And when we all spilled out of our respective containers, we realized not only the extent to which you tried to keep everything together, but also your ability to connect (however secretive these connections could be!)

Those of us who saw you struggle know now that we were not alone in witnessing that. Those of us who saw your joy get to share what we saw with everyone else. We bring to life Gareth the poet, the romantic, the passionate thinker, the seeker, the moody, the unpredictable, the expressive. We can conjure up Gareth the risk-taker, the humorist, the self-imposed outcast, and the caretaker.

The zips have been opened, the ones you created both internally and externally. We see the whole you and are coming to understand the complexity of who you were. Some would say you were meant to blow through this life with a bright flame trailing, causing us to look up and marvel at the light left behind. How beautiful I feel cast in that light, with the faces of others you know illuminated in the same.

Know that we are here. And we are not alone in our missing of you, nor are we alone in our shared joy of you. You have given us each other, and the gifts of connection with you as the thread keep presenting themselves. Over and over.

No one can ever accuse you of not making a difference!

2 Feb/Returning to Korea

I hate that you’re dead.

I hate it most here

in Korea where men

who are not you

sometimes wear your

trademark flat cap.

I hate that you’re dead.
I’d hate it anywhere. I

hated it in New Zealand

sitting between your

parents at the dinner table,

having just said grace.

I hate that you weren’t

there. But more than that,

I hate that you’re not here

in Korea upon my return. 

The brown grasses and

muted grey skies of

winters past didn’t used to

seem so bleak. I hate that

you’re not here.

There is a photograph of

you and I gently kissing.

Our arms are touching as

though we’d carefully

considered their placement.

Our lips had found each other

just before the camera winked.

The canvas behind us had

been stripped bare for winter;

green hills now the color of wheat,
tiny trees like upturned claws,

and all I remember is your arm

on my arm. The warmth of your

lips. The grey leather Converse

high-top shoes on your feet.

And the fact that just before

you kissed me, I had told you

that you smelled like Christmas.